The Spymistress (18 page)

It was a regrettable but necessary deception, and it seemed to work. In the aftermath of the party, the threats came less frequently, the hostility at church services diminished, and several neighbors who had rejected their invitations seemed heartily sorry when they heard the glowing accounts of the delicious food, beautiful music, spirited dancing, and fine company. Captain Gibbs was especially effusive in his thanks, for his wife, Julia, had longed for an evening away from the cramped hotel rooms they shared with their four children. He was especially solicitous to Lizzie in the days following the party, which granted her the unexpected boon of more time with the prisoners and more leeway in what she brought them.

Lizzie wished that Captain Gibbs’s leniency would set an example for his underlings to follow, but often, the guards and sergeants proved more cruel than their officers. When she queried enlisted men about fresh scrapes and new bruises, they reluctantly admitted that they had been beaten by their guards for offenses both real and invented. Lizzie knew too well that some guards enjoyed trying to intimidate her, leisurely examining her baskets and boldly helping themselves to the choicest delicacies. One guard in particular, a corporal by the name of Mickey Cook—a short, pale, thin-haired blond, with flat lips and a faint smudge of a mustache—took particular pleasure in cornering her against the wall, forcing her to stand and hold the basket while he pawed through it, and then standing boldly in her way while he leisurely munched whatever foodstuffs he had confiscated, his impertinent gaze never leaving her face. Corporal Cook was also the most persistently annoying of the guards who inspected her baskets and dishes upon her departure. Most guards simply peered inside and, finding nothing, nodded and sent her on her way, but the corporal made her stand and wait, barely concealing her impatience—or terror, if she carried a secret message—as he painstakingly examined every nook and cranny.

More frustrating than Corporal Cook’s insolence was the loss of the secret crevice between the two sections of her favorite serving dish. For weeks the guards had unwittingly allowed her to smuggle papers back and forth, unaware that the dish she used to carry soup and gruel had a double bottom, but one day Corporal Cook discovered it as he used his fingers to wipe up the last delicious drops of a custard. “What have we here?” he drawled, separating the double bowls.

“The bottom piece is filled with boiling water,” Lizzie explained, “to keep the food hot during transport.”

“There’s no water in it now.”

“There’s no food to keep warm any longer, so I poured out the water. Why should I carry the extra weight home?”

“Right,” he said skeptically, handing her the pieces and grinning as he watched her fumble to reassemble them.

From that day forward, he made a special point of examining the dish, rendering it useless as a hiding place. Lizzie silently fumed whenever she arrived at the prison to find Corporal Cook on duty, knowing that she could not dare to accept any papers to carry out for Mr. Ely. Every day her frustration grew until she could not bear Corporal Cook’s insolent smirks any longer, and she resolved to win back the use of her favorite smuggling place.

One day, after spending many long hours caring for the sick and injured in the makeshift infirmary, Lizzie emptied the cooled water from the double bottom into a pot, stoked the fire, and put the pot on to boil. When the water roiled and steamed, she refilled the double bottom of the serving dish, fitted the top piece securely in place, and carefully returned the dish to her basket.

She immediately made to leave the prison, and as she expected, Corporal Cook detained her at the door. “Awful heavy for an empty bowl,” he remarked, lifting the dish from the basket.

“Careful,” Lizzie warned. “It isn’t empty. The bottom is full of water.”

“Yeah, water and what else?”

“Nothing else. Simply water.” As he made to separate the dishes, she quickly added, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It’s very hot.”

He silenced her with a glare, staring her down as he pulled the sections apart—and then he bellowed in pain as scalding water cascaded from the dish.

“Oh, corporal,” Lizzie exclaimed as the pieces of the dish clattered to the floor. She bent over him as he collapsed to his knees, moaning. “Your uniform!”

“My uniform?” he yelped. “Good Christ, woman, my hands. My hands!”

A quick glance revealed red and blistering flesh. The corporal’s shouts had brought another guard running, and Lizzie quickly sent him to fetch a doctor while she helped the corporal to his feet and eased him into a chair. The guard soon returned not with the prison doctor, for none had called that day, but one of the imprisoned officers, an assistant surgeon with the First Maine Cavalry. “I warned him the water was hot,” Lizzie told the Yankee surgeon as he tended the corporal’s burns. There was no need to feign distress, for the corporal’s moans and the sight of his raw, scalded skin made her queasy. She had seen far worse in the infirmary, but she had not caused any of it.

She had warned him, she reminded herself as she made her way home. She had warned him, and he had ignored her, and he had burned himself. He had only himself to blame, and far better men had suffered far worse in that war, some of them at Corporal Cook’s behest.

But the satisfaction she felt at teaching him a lesson and having the full use of the dish’s hidden chamber restored to her was diminished whenever the memory of his blistered skin and shrieks of pain sprang unbidden to her mind.

Shame kept her away from the prison for the rest of the week, but duty soon called her back. Corporal Cook was nowhere to be found, and when she inquired with Captain Gibbs, he told her that the guard was on medical leave.

Lizzie felt a pang of guilt, but then she remembered his insolent stares and the many times he had stood too close and had backed her up against a wall, and anger drove away any sympathy she might have felt for him. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, leaving him to the plum tart Caroline had made for him.

“No, thank
you
,” he said, breaking off a piece of crust and savoring it. “If I were a better man, I would save this to take back to the hotel for my family, but the temptation will prove too great, I’m sure.”

“Next time I’ll bring two,” Lizzie said. “One for you, and one for your wife and children.” She had met Mrs. Gibbs at the party for the Richmond Howitzers and had rather liked her. Some of her comments and candid expressions had made Lizzie wonder if she were not something of a secret Union sympathizer too.

“They would be most grateful to you.” The captain shook his head, frowning. “They are so tired of eating at the hotel. Home-cooked food has become a luxury. Mrs. Gibbs can’t wait until she is mistress of her own kitchen again.”

“Is there any chance she may have that pleasure soon?”

“Thankfully, yes. I’ve found a dwelling for us, but it won’t be ours until the officer currently residing there moves out. His transfer won’t come for another month.” Captain Gibbs sighed, rueful. “We’ll make do until then.”

Lizzie thought quickly. “Since you find the Spotswood so odious, why don’t you board with my family in the meantime?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Dare I hope you are in earnest?”

“I’ll have to check with my mother first, of course, but I’m certain she’d be delighted to welcome you into our home.”

“My wife would be so very pleased,” he said fervently. “If you only knew how she has praised your beautiful home since the evening of your party, and your cook—why, she is a marvel.” Suddenly he looked pained. “You do recall that we have four young and very lively children?”

“Of course I remember,” Lizzie assured him, smiling. “I insist that you bring them too. We’ve missed having children around the house. They will be a most charming distraction.”

Captain Gibbs rubbed his hands together, beaming. “As soon as your mother agrees, I’ll ask my wife, but I’m certain she’ll accept your invitation as gratefully as I do.”

Lizzie inclined her head graciously, but as soon as she turned away, her thoughts began to race. Inviting the Gibbs family into their home would surely convince their suspicious neighbors that the Van Lews were not Union sympathizers, but first she would have to convince her mother that this was an inspired plan and not a disaster in the making.

Mother listened soberly as Lizzie explained her scheme, and after taking several hours to consider, she agreed that they should take in Captain Gibbs’s family. “If this does not dispel suspicion, I can think of nothing else that will,” she said. “But, Daughter, you must be vigilant. Neither he nor his wife nor even his little children can ever overhear you speak a single word against the Confederacy. You have never excelled at keeping your opinions to yourself. Are you certain you can now?”

“I must,” Lizzie said, spreading her hands. “Everything depends upon it. I didn’t burst into ‘Hail, Columbia’ when our house was full of Confederates at the party, and I’m sure I can demonstrate the same restraint after the Gibbs family moves in.”

A few days later, Captain Gibbs, his wife, and their four children moved into the Van Lew mansion. At first it was all a friendly bustle of settling in and unpacking and getting to know one another, but before long, Lizzie began counting the days until their departure. Yet the angry glares and whispers of the citizens of Richmond declined considerably after word of the Van Lews’ new boarders spread, and threats of violence ceased altogether. Moreover, Captain Gibbs was so pleased with his comfortable quarters and fine meals that he promised Lizzie liberal access to the prisoners at her discretion, although sometimes his subordinates imposed their own restrictions in his absence.

And, not insignificantly, Captain Gibbs’s presence in the house also compelled Lizzie to practice her role of devoted Confederate lady, day and night, until she knew the part perfectly. She did not doubt that someday, those intense rehearsals might save her life.

Warfare and politics dominated the Richmond gossip mills throughout autumn. On October 24, the counties of western Virginia voted to split off from the rest of the state and join the Union. Privately Lizzie applauded their courage and loyalty, but she also mourned the fracturing of her beloved Virginia, and felt the pain and grief of secession anew. By private courier, she sent Mr. Lewis a letter of congratulations, but she did not entertain hopes of a reply.

On November 6, eligible voters across the South turned out to elect Jefferson Davis as president and Alexander Stephens as vice-president, confirming their approval of the provisional appointments made by the Confederate Congress shortly after secession. Both men ran unopposed, so even though nearly fifteen hundred citizens wrote in the names of other candidates for president on their ballots, afterward Lizzie concluded that it had been the least suspenseful election in the history of democracy.

Four days later, Lizzie was at the prison distributing hot rolls and fresh apple cider to the officers when General Winder suddenly appeared at the door, a stiff piece of paper in his hand, his military staff as escort. Instinctively Lizzie stepped back into the shadows of one of the tobacco presses, but her movements only brought her to the general’s attention. He held her gaze for a moment, his face grim but otherwise unreadable. He had not come for her, Lizzie realized when he tore his gaze away, but her relief soon gave way to apprehension.

“Gentlemen, your attention,” he began, frowning as he turned a look of warning upon the men. Some of them drew closer; all fell silent. “I have been ordered to read to you a proclamation from Secretary of War Judah P. Benjamin.” A murmur of surprise went up from the men as the general held up the paper and began to read. “‘To Brigadier General John Winder, Richmond, Virginia. Sir: You are hereby instructed to choose, by lot, from among the prisoners of war of highest rank, one who is to be confined in a cell appropriated to convicted felons, and who is to be treated in all respects as if such convict, and to be held for execution in the same manner as may be adopted by the enemy for the execution of the prisoner of war Smith, recently condemned to death in Philadelphia.’”

The murmur surged and turned ugly, and Lizzie heard a scattering of muttered curses and echoes of the word
execution
. She did not know who the prisoner of war Smith was, or why Mr. Benjamin would decree that a Union hostage should be held on his account. She stepped out from the shadows to peer questioningly at the general, but he did not glance her way.

“‘You will also select thirteen other prisoners of war—’” A roar of discontent drowned him out, so he raised his voice and began again. “‘You will also select thirteen other prisoners of war, the highest in rank of those captured by our forces, to be confined in the cells reserved for prisoners accused of infamous crimes, and will treat them as such so long as the enemy shall continue so to treat the like number of prisoners of war captured by them at sea, and now held for trial in New York as pirates.’”

The roar of discontent swelled, joined by a chorus of shrill whistles and jeers. This reference Lizzie did understand; in June and July, the Union navy had seized two rebel privateers, the
Savannah
and the
Jefferson Davis
, but since the Lincoln administration did not recognize the Confederacy as a sovereign nation, the captured officers and seamen had not been treated as prisoners of war but as civilian criminals. They had been charged with piracy, a capital offense, and confined within civilian jails. They were tried in New York in October, but when the jury deadlocked, a retrial was set for Philadelphia. There the jury found the men guilty and sentenced them to death.

“‘As these measures are intended to repress the infamous attempt now made by the enemy to commit judicial murder on prisoners of war,’” the general continued, almost shouting to be heard above the din, “‘you will execute them strictly, as the mode best calculated to prevent the commission of so heinous a crime.’” His arms fell to his sides and he recited the rest from memory. “‘Your obedient servant, J. P. Benjamin, Acting Secretary of War.’”