The Spy on the Tennessee Walker (12 page)

CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 26

MAGGIE
MAGGIE

OXFORD

When Beau and I returned from our walk, Michael and Phoebe were still dawdling over breakfast. The day's papers — the Memphis
Commercial Appeal, The Wall Street Journal,
and
The New York Times
— had been dismantled and distributed. Michael had possession of all the sports news, and Phoebe was completing the crossword puzzle in ink, as is the tradition in our family. Michael always points out that it's not because we get everything right, it's just because we're an arrogant bunch.

“What news from town?” asked Phoebe.

“Not much,” said Beau. “Oh, I'd say that Missy Weaver's trip to Memphis was cosmetic in nature.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows, “Really? I thought she had given all that up after the case of the misaligned ears during her last disappearing act to Memphis.”

I was puzzled. “Beau, did I miss something? I don't remember speaking to anyone named Missy Weaver this morning.”

Beau shook his head. “It's all the art of observation, honey. You're not the only detective in the family.”

“Merciful God,” said Michael. “I cannot deal with
another sleuth.”

“I've got it!” I said. “Tall, skinny blonde in leopard leggings? Sunglasses and a big hat.”

“That's Missy,” said Phoebe tartly. “I think she's spending every last penny of her late husband's estate on foolishness and vanity.”

“Easy for you to sound so superior, Mrs. Cardworthy,” said Beau. “You were beautiful the day I met you, and you're even more beautiful today.”

“Foolishness,” said Phoebe. “We are all as God made us and that should be the end of it.” She considered for a moment. “Well, except for finding an extremely skilled colorist, of course. The Bible says a woman's hair is her crowning glory.” I reached for the orange juice pitcher. Where had I just heard that expression? And then I remembered…Victoria's journal.

Michael put down the local sports page and made a frowny face. “I've always thought we could live in your town, Beau. But there's not enough sports coverage in any of these papers. How do you live with that kind of deprivation?”

“Good thing there's twenty-four-seven ESPN,” I retorted. “I'm sure there's some compelling track and field event in Perth or East Jesus, Texas, and I'm sure ESPN is covering it.” I saw Michael ready to protest and segue into his longstanding, ever-expanding soliloquy on why all news should be sports news; when last I heard that particular speech it had something to do with stock market movement, the consumer price index, hemlines, and tattoos. Or wait, was it waistlines and wigs and the perennial favorite, wardrobe malfunctions? I decided to cut him off before a stem-winder took wing.

“Beau, I have one big question. Now, we know that Victoria was a spy, but here's what I don't understand. Was it for the Confederacy? Or for the Union? I'm still not sure. I know Rose Greenhow taught her all those spycraft skills, and Rose was an unrepentant Confederate booster. But somehow it seems that Victoria must have worked for the Union side, given her relationship with Gabriel. Doesn't that make sense?”

“Well, Gabriel was a free man by the time the war got under way, so aside from fellow feeling for those of his people who were enslaved — and I'm sure he felt that — you have to remember, he didn't have a personal dog in that fight. But what you ask is an interesting question. The reality was that many of the medical staff members — whether they were in a Confederate or Union hospital — treated whatever soldiers came their way. I don't know what created that culture — maybe the Hippocratic Oath or just the decency of people who were willing to care for others. From the staff lists I've been able to locate from the hospitals, Victoria certainly started in a Confederate hospital.”

“Chimborazo in Richmond, right?”

“Exactly.”

“So if she did switch to the Union side — for her work in Armory Square and maybe other hospitals and, perhaps, in espionage as well — when did she do that? And why? And wouldn't she have been a figure of suspicion? And what about Eli Mays? I still don't know why Victoria married him.”

“Those are all reasonable questions, Maggie,” said Beau. “And I can suggest ways you might be able to find answers, but this is why genealogical research is so
slow. Every question can take you in many directions. It is slow, taxing, meticulous work, honey.”

I thought of how we'd made fun of Uncle Beau over the years for clipping and keeping all those brittle, pee-colored newspaper articles, and for his room-size wall charts that chronicled the Cardworthy births, deaths, marriages, divorces, and, of course, our favorite, the footnoted scandals.

“I know how hard you've worked on all this, Beau. I'm just a spoiled brat wanting to learn everything right away — but you've always been the gentleman with the answers.”

Beau shook his head. “Well, sometimes I think I was answering questions nobody had asked.”

“Okay, now I'm asking,” I said. “Project one: Is there some kind of online record about the staff in the Union hospitals?”

“Better than that. There's a record, all right, and it is online, so I downloaded it and printed it out for the years we know from the journals that Victoria was working as a battlefield nurse and then a hospital nurse — so from mid-1861 to about 1864.”

“She stopped before the war ended?”

“Indeed she did. She went to prison in 1864, though as it turned out, she continued working as a nurse, caring for fellow prisoners. She actually had a fair amount of latitude to move around the Old Capitol Prison.”

“They treated her like a ‘trusty,'” I said.

“A trustee? Like a member of the board?” asked Phoebe.

Beau patted her check. “You are such an innocent, darlin'. T R U S T Y,” he spelled. “That's what inmates
are called if they are considered trustworthy. And they get special privileges and responsibilities.”

“And,” I pointed out, “you know where the term was first used? Right here in Mississippi in the early 1900s, at Parchman Farm, because the prison was supposed to be self-supporting and even generate some profits. So instead of a full staff, they used inmates they could trust. The most privileged were the ‘trusty shooters,' equipped with shotguns to keep guard on the other inmates.”

I was just getting warmed up, but the room had grown silent.

“Let me answer the question you're all wondering about,” said Michael. “I have no idea how a woman who cannot understand the most basic geometry of properly loading a dishwasher can learn and retain all this arcane stuff.”

“Women defenders,” I said. “You know, those gals I worked with during the Limousine Lothario case? They taught me all sorts of interesting…history.”

“Well done, Maggie,” said Beau. “I like a girl who knows a lot. That's why I married your Aunt Phoebe.”

“Yes,” muttered Michael. “But Phoebe can load a dishwasher, too.”

CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 27

MAGGIE
MAGGIE

OXFORD

It was 10 a.m., Beau and I were well fortified with coffee, and we managed to persuade Phoebe and Michael that we needed all hands on deck. The four of us climbed two flights of stairs in Phoebe and Beau's house to the attic, which had been converted to a combination girls' dormitory and playroom. “Five granddaughters,” I said as we opened the door. “I can't imagine what the giggle factor must be in this room when they're all in town visiting.”

“You know, I miss a lot of that,” said Phoebe. She perched on the window sill and straightened a few stray teacups on the kid-size table. “I miss all the tea parties and oh, my, how those girls could talk, talk, talk, and probably tell me things I had no right to know.”

“Really?” I said. “Those little granddaughters would reveal their secrets to you?”

“Theirs, and sometimes I'd hear things I probably shouldn't have heard about their mamas and daddies. But they knew I could keep a secret.” Phoebe made the universal zip-the-lip gesture to seal the deal.

“Speaking of secrets,” said Michael, “is that what brought us to the inner sanctorum of little-princess-land
up here?”

“You bet,” said Beau. “Where better to hide family secrets than in the attic?”

Beau sat on the edge of one of the beruffled twin beds and pulled off his shoes. Then he stood on the bed, stretched up, and pulled on a rope. A set of wooden stairs came down, landing neatly right next to the bed.

“Okay,” said Michael. “Just tell me what I'm looking for, I'll go up and get it. I'd just as soon not see you climb up that little stairway to heaven.”

Beau protested, but Michael prevailed.

“Big red boxes,” said Beau, “the kind that have those little nooks for storing ornaments after Christmas.” Michael docilely accepted Beau's offer of a head strap equipped with a miner's light.

“You look exactly like an extra in
How Green Was My Valley
,” I volunteered. “Very Welsh miner in the dark.”

Michael ignored me and disappeared into the dark. We stood underneath the entrance to the attic, looking up as if we were watching for meteor showers — or expecting the roof to fall in. Several thumps and a few expostulations later, he reappeared in the opening.

“Lots of those red boxes,” he said. “Which ones do you want?”

“We're looking for the one that says ‘Hospitals, 1861 to 1865,'” said Beau. “And be careful. Once in a while a critter gets in there and makes a nest. You don't want to step on something, dead or alive.”

Michael mumbled something unintelligible. “Couldn't hear ya!” called Beau. In a few moments, I heard a cheerier sound. Michael thumped his way back
to the opening, and slowly his body re-emerged, feet, legs, torso, and arms — holding a dusty red box.

We had a few minutes of drama while Phoebe spread an old sheet on one of the beds to protect the ruffles from the dust. Then Beau lifted the lid and we all peered inside and saw yellowing folders, stacked in two rows, each holding equally yellowed, brittle papers.

One row was labeled Confederate Hospitals; the other Union.

“Here we go,” said Beau, cheerfully. “I knew there was a reason to save all these documents.”

“And exactly what are they?” asked Michael.

“What we were talking about — staff lists from the most important hospitals.”

“Can I look inside the folders?” I asked Beau.

“Of course, of course, honey — that's why we got 'em down. We're going to do a little primary-source research project — well, these are copies of primary documents, but still, they've been in the attic long enough to be historic themselves!”

Phoebe did the long-suffering-spouse daily double: an eye roll, followed by a sigh. “Let's take all this mess outside. It's a beautiful day, and we can shake that dust into the yard.”

Thanks to Victoria's journal, we knew exactly when she left Chimborazo. With the Union lists, we'd be able to figure out when she began her work at Armory Square Hospital. A great theory, but the reality was a little daunting: pages and pages of names written in an endless variety of faded, spidery handwriting.

“Didn't anyone ever print?” I whined.

Michael fixed me with a glance. “Let's remember you're the jefe of this little project. The rest of us are just unpaid labor.”

“Now, now,” said Phoebe. “This is kinda fun. I love seeing all these beautiful, Spencerian hands.”

We'd divided the Union records into four equal stacks, concentrating on those with dates that overlapped the period after Victoria left Chimborazo for good, and when — we assumed — she'd begun her espionage career, passing information about Confederate troop movements, the condition of the troops, and whatever she could glean about future plans. And on we went, painstakingly going through the lists of names. We found Victorias, all right, plenty of them, and even a few Almas, Victoria's middle name — but no Victoria Alma Cardworthy or Victoria Alma Mays, assuming that she changed her name when she married Eli Mays in 1863.

By 1 p.m., we'd gone through all the lists and all the names. Nothing. “Well,” said Phoebe, “what about lunch at Lamar Lounge? That'll perk us all up.”

I think of Lamar Lounge as a bar — with food. Good food, mind you, but bar food. There's a giant
The Good, The Bad and the Ugly
movie poster next to the bar, inexplicably in French. And there's a patio out back, with experts tending what is claimed to be the “only pit-smoked, whole-hog barbecue in Mississippi.”

And so there we were in a twinkling, and Phoebe was correct — we were greatly cheered a half hour into ribs and some sides. The Mississippi caviar was good, but not quite as good as Phoebe's. I told her so. “Oh, thank you, darlin'. I think so, too, but.…” She looked around
and lowered her voice, “I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.” Still, we managed to polish off every last bite of the caviar and everything else. It's a quixotic operation, Lamar Lounge, because all the profits get distributed to Mississippi nonprofit groups. So the more you eat, the more good karma you generate. At least, that's the theory.

On the way back home, I asked Phoebe and Beau to drop me off at the Square. “I'll walk back. I have eaten myself into a stupor
again
.”

“Want company?” asked Michael. I saw him sneak a look at his watch, and he saw me catch him.

“What's on?”

“Oh, you know, just a little Sunday football.”

“I'm good. I might wander through Square Books again and find something for the boys.”

The autumn sun was already cooling, but after generating all that heat with all that food, I was glad to take a brisk walk around the square. Mr. Faulkner's bench called me once again, and I settled in to watch as everyone who'd had a late, post-church lunch came out of restaurants around and off the square. Families, college students with their visiting parents, grandparents holding hands.
Is life really this idyllic here?
I wondered.

Something about those hours of going through names, looking for the Victoria needle in the haystack, was bothering me. I kept thinking we had missed something — where was Victoria? We knew she'd been at the Armory — she mentioned it several times in her journal. But why wasn't her name there?

And then, filled with lunch and seduced by the late afternoon sun, I feel asleep on Mr. Faulkner's bench.

I woke with a start when someone touched my shoulder. Disoriented and embarrassed, I shook the hand off and began spluttering. “Oh, I'm fine, I…I —”

Michael stood there, grinning at me. “And you make fun of me for falling asleep in the third quarter of football?”

“Go away,” I said. “I'm thinking.”

Michael sat down next to me and pulled me to him. “
Cara
, what's wrong? I was only teasing you.”

“I just keep thinking about Victoria — about how lonely she must have been. Leading all sorts of hidden lives — married to Eli Mays, but loving Gabriel — and how dangerous that was! And spying? Didn't people hang for that?”

Michael took my hands in his and faced me. “Maggie, whatever happened is done and gone, more than a century ago. There is nothing you can do right now, whatever happened to Victoria. And we know there was a happy ending to this story. Victoria fell in love — again — and married Jules. They're right there.…” He turned and gestured up the hill at the cemetery. “They're together, and they had a wonderful life together, even if Jules did die young by today's standards. From all evidence and family stories, he and Victoria enjoyed very good lives. Without,” he smoothed my hair, “direct interference from that troublesome great-great-great-granddaughter who surely would have wanted to meddle, if only she'd been born a few generations earlier.”

I sat up indignantly. “I am not troublesome.”

“Oh, you are. You've raised troublesome to an art form — but most of us enjoy it.”

He stood up and held out his hand. “We're going to
have to head to the airport soon; we have little ruffians waiting for us. I'm sure they've already tortured Anya, and we need to rescue her. And if we stay here any longer, I'm going to have throw out all my clothes and start hanging out at the Big and Wide shop.”

With the last of the sun in the western sky, we headed back to Phoebe and Beau's. “You know,” said Michael, “Phoebe refers to us as her VIP guests. How often do you get called that?”

I laughed, and then I stopped. “That's it! That's what is bothering me.”

“Being a VIP?”

“Better,” I said. “Being a VAC — just like Victoria Alma Cardworthy's maiden initials.”