The Spy on the Tennessee Walker (11 page)

CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 23

ALMA, 1941
ALMA, 1941

Dearest Granny Vic,

I can hardly write you without weeping. And then I am ashamed of myself, because I am weeping over something that happened to you — and it is not my right to feel as strongly as I feel. I cannot even begin to imagine the terror you must have felt about being discovered, but still you went on, loving Mr. Gabriel, being…well, I guess you would say, a double agent? And through it all, caring for the wounded, whether they wore blue or gray or polka dots! You were a hero, Granny Vic, and I have never known a real live hero who didn't just exist in a book. There should be a book about you!

Now I am wandering around the mulberry bush when I want to say a few important things to you. I wrote myself a list last night so I wouldn't forget anything that I wanted to say. Here is my list:

       
1.
  
Thank you for allowing me to visit Mr. Eli and Mr. Gabriel with you at the cemetery. I wish I had known both of them. I'm afraid I might have liked Mr. Eli best — you know I always fall easily
for those smart, sardonic young men. I like their banter, even though I sometimes think that is a very superficial reason to choose a beau.

       
2.
  
I was shocked when I saw the date of Mr. Gabriel's death. He died so soon after you had wed. And when you told me that he had “fallen from the sky,” when the surveillance balloon crashed, I could only think of you. You told me you were frightened every time he went up in the air, and then you had the courage to go up with him. In disguise! And what cruel irony that you received the news by telegram. And I know that Mr. Eli made you angry, wheedling and cajoling you into so many dangerous initiatives. But how wonderful to be with a man who has such confidence in you! (PS. I wish I had known Great-Grandfather Jules as well, but at least I have heard about him and have seen photographs. I am glad you two had a long and happy marriage, and I think kindly of him because you told him your truths and he married you. He measured your character with love and generosity.)

       
3.
  
I think you are the most courageous person I know. This is a strange thing to say, because you have kept so many secrets for so many years, but you are also the most honest person I have known.

                 
I confess to you that I am both excited and a
little scared about my own next adventure, serving in the Army. Though I have pooh-poohed all of mama and daddy's concerns about leaving home, crossing an ocean, and caring for people whose wounds are likely to be more terrible than what I have been trained for — you know my heart and my mind, and they are full of bravado. That is a very different thing than being really, truly brave. But now I know that there must be some of your courage and persistence running in my veins, and I feel…better. I will not disappoint you.

       
4.
  
I realize that I don't know much about love, real love. Until now, I have judged young men on three criteria. Could they dance? Could they kiss? Could they make me laugh? Actually, come to think of it, I've not yet met a man who was good at all three. I hope I will someday! I will be guided by your story. If you don't have the courage to love the right person, then you don't deserve love at all.

And now, Granny Vic, I am going to take my frivolous, frightened-but-willing self to bed. But I could not sleep without telling you what you inspired in me.

All my love,

Alma

CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 24

VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1862
VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1862

What is the measure of a good man? I have known good men: my brother, my father, kind doctors I have met in my work, those who did not care whether they cut away gray or blue uniforms, caring only for the man and his suffering. But I have been puzzled by what constitutes true goodness, true greatness of spirit in time of war, where winning is all and men seem like nothing but cannon fodder. But today, as the terrible battles of Fredericksburg ravaged people and place, word came to us of heroism and courage, exemplified in one modest Confederate sergeant, Richard Rowland Kirkland.

We have been overwhelmed with wounded at Chimborazo, and yet we know that the numbers of dead and wounded among the Union troops were far greater. As the Confederate wounded came to us, what I call “peacock-talk,” the little-boy excitement of prevailing against great odds, ran around the hospital. But that talk quieted as the realities of wounds and a long, uncertain path to recovery took center stage. And then a quieter story, a glorious story, began to make the rounds on the ward about
Sergeant Kirkland. As I cared for one young man, cleaning and bandaging and trying to distract him from his pain, I asked him to tell me about the place he came from. He looked at me and then did exactly what I wanted, turning away from the sight of the inflamed and oozing site I was cleaning. “I come from the town where the Angel of Marye's Heights was born,” he said proudly. “Flat Rock, South Carolina.”

“I don't know about this Angel,” I said. “You must tell me more.”

And off he went, young Ezra from Flat Rock, telling me quite a tale. “Oh, it was a terrible, awful thing. I didn't know this part about soldiering, about listening to the moans and the cries of those men we had near-to slaughtered.” He shuddered. “I used to help my daddy slaughter pigs, and you'd hear those pitiful grunts and squeals, as if they knew what was coming. Well, this,” he swallowed hard, “was so much worse.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep a bitter note out of my voice, “I understand the system General Lee's lieutenants set up was near-perfect. Inescapable, even.”

“You know, we had ourselves all lined up behind the stone wall that squats right at the bottom of Marye's Heights. There we all were, a wall ourselves: artillery, cavalry, everybody. One by one, we stretched for miles. Those dumb Yankees made their way across the canal, and then they set out toward us across a wide-open field. At first I was scared to death. But then I saw what was going to
happen. As they came close to us, we mowed ‘em down like tin soldiers. There was nowhere to hide! You would think that being dead was the worst thing that could happen.” He gulped. “But it is not. Not a bit of it. The worst was laying in wait behind the stone fence, and listening to the sound of all those Union blues who were hit, but not dead. They were crying out for water, for their mamas, asking God to take them.”

“Hold still one more minute,” I said as I wrapped the last bandage and tucked the ends inside. He looked in amazement at the clean white strips obscuring his wound. “You're done?”

I nodded. He struggled up to a sitting posture, and I tucked a coarse pillow behind his back. “Finish telling me about the Angel,” I said, “and then I have to see who else needs help.”

He grabbed my hand. “You won't believe this. Sergeant Kirkland just couldn't listen to those Union boys crying out anymore. He marched right up to General Kershaw and asked if he could offer them some comfort. At first, I heard that Kershaw said no. But Kirkland just kept asking, and I guess because they come from the same county, General Kershaw finally gave in and told him he could go over the wall and see what he could do.”

I perched on the edge of young Ezra's cot and took his hand. His face was white with exertion, trying to tell his story and do his fellow soldier justice. “Kershaw told him he might be shot, but I guess Kirkland said he would take
his chances. So he filled up a bunch of canteens with water and stepped out onto the battlefield. He went from man to man with water, and then he came back to our line and took some clothing and blankets.” Ezra shook his head. “For a long time, he went back and forth, back and forth.”

“And no one fired a shot?” I asked.

“Not a one.”

“How old is Sergeant Kirkland?”

“Year older than me. Nineteen.”

That night, when I finally fell into bed, too tired to remove anything but my boots, I could not stop thinking about the “slaughterhouse” imagery young Ezra had conjured. I thought of my long days and nights, cleaning, bandaging, coaxing dying men to have a little lukewarm broth, cleaning up from one amputation after another. That night I made my decision. Nursing alone was like being on a waterwheel. We just kept coming back to the same wretched place, a place of dying men, ruined families, sometimes brother against brother, and the wheel would turn and we would start all over again.

I fell asleep and dreamed of Courage. In my dream, the Angel of Marye's Heights was riding my horse. Horse and rider cantered up to the split-rail fence outside the hospital where Courage was usually tied up. The Angel dismounted and held out his hand to me. I reached out to take his hand and he began to fade away, a little bit at a time. But I heard him say, “You and Courage, you should be getting yourselves into some trouble, my friend. It is time.”

CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 25

VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1862
VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1862

She is a fearsome and fearless teacher, Mrs. Greenhow. On each visit after Eli's introduction, ostensibly paying her a call out of compassion and concern for her young daughter, I learn something new.

I would bring ribbons with me to braid in Little Rose's hair. She would stand at my side, and I would brush the tangles out of her tresses, and then Mrs. Greenhow and I would visit, trading tales, as women do, about our families, our favorite foods, no longer available in time of war, and even our thoughts on women's fashion.

Hairstyles were of particular interest. The guard who was always standing nearby, barely listening to our highly unexciting female chatter, found our conversations mystifying.

“I don't know how you ladies can find so much to discuss about hairdressing,” he would say. We would turn our blank countenances to him, smile distractedly, and return to our work.

Of course, it was work indeed, disguised by our seemingly empty-headed trading of local gossip and fashion.
Rose's access to paper and pen was very limited, since the guards felt sure she was writing coded secrets and looking for ways to smuggle what they considered traitorous information out of the Old Capitol Prison. Indeed she was, as her many conquests in the Union government worshipped at her altar. So skillfully did Rose share information she'd gleaned that Union security became as leaky as a sieve. One day Rose asked the pink-faced young guard if she could try a new hairdo on me. He narrowed his eyes at her, swept his gaze to me, then back to Rose. She tilted her head, whisked her fan once or twice, and said, “Oh, Sergeant, it is so sultry out here in the yard. I think that Miss Cardworthy would be so much more comfortable if we could get her beautiful hair rolled right up on top of her head.”

The young sergeant stammered another objection or two. Rose beckoned him closer. “Now, Sergeant, you know that the Bible says a woman's hair is her crowning glory. All I want to do is take very good care of Miss Cardworthy's crowning glory. And you,” she said, with a conspiratorial tap of her fan on his hand, “will have first look at the beautiful nape of her neck that will be revealed.” She leaned closer to Sergeant Pink Cheeks and whispered, “You know, she is renowned for the beauty of her neck. She is a…” She hesitated, seemingly searching for the right word, and then she lit up. “She has a neck like a swan, and I think you are going to enjoy that sight like no other today.” She turned to me. “Miss Cardworthy, if Sergeant Ames allows us the
privilege of carrying out my vision for your elegant hairstyle, will you allow him to admire your neck?”

I pretended to think the matter over. “I believe I will. But no touching.”

He blushed. “You ladies talk circles around me, Mrs. Greenhow.”

She laughed. “Now Sergeant, will you be kind enough to bring me my scissors? I am going to show Miss Cardworthy a wonderful trick with some ribbons, but I need to make a few snips here and there.”

Poor Sergeant Ames. He was lost before the battle had begun.

And after delivering the scissors, with what was surely meant to be a stern admonishment that he would be collecting them as soon as Mrs. Greenhow was done, he settled himself on a bench to watch the proceedings.

For the next hour, Mrs. Greenhow gave me a brisk lesson in concealing notes in the carefully rolled and twisted coils of hair. As we sat in plain view of poor, addled Sergeant Ames, she used ribbons as stand-ins for notes and showed me how to conceal anything — a note, a map — in my hair.

Ames, however, was not quite as dim as he appeared. “Mrs. Greenhow,” he called out, when asked to admire my completed coiffure, “I don't understand. You can't see the ribbons at all, they're completely hidden. What's the point of ribbons no one can see?”

But of course, Rose had an answer. “Oh, dear Sergeant,
that is the mystery and the pleasure of this hairstyle. The only one who sees Miss Cardworthy's…ribbons will be her lover. He will unfurl each coil, gently, gently, and find the gift of a ribbon in each one. A secret gift — just for him. Along, of course, with any other…surprises Miss Cardworthy chooses to share.”

Ames's pink cheeks turned scarlet. “Oh…oh,” he stammered. “Of course.” He looked down at the ground, anywhere not to meet our eyes.

Rose stood and laid her hand on his cheek. “Dear Sergeant, I fear you might have a fever. Your face is burning hot.”

“I'm fine, just fine, ma'am. But perhaps I will fetch a jug of cold water for us all.”

“Oh, that is a marvelous idea,” said Rose. “You want to be cool and refreshed while you admire Miss Cardworthy's beautiful swan neck.”

And off he went, leaving just enough time for Rose to pluck a knitting needle from her sewing bag and scratch the beginning of her cipher key in the dirt.

“Next month,” she whispered, “my sources tell me the commander wants to send me away. You must come again each week so that we can finish the cipher before I am gone.”