The Spymistress (36 page)

Lizzie knew she had given General Butler wise council founded upon sound observations and facts, painstakingly gathered and scrupulously interpreted. The course of action he decided to set in response was entirely out of her hands.

Chapter Eighteen

FEBRUARY 1864

A
t a time when the Van Lew family was so preoccupied with other grave concerns that they had almost forgotten the danger, the day they had dreaded ever since the age limit for conscription was raised finally came.

John was drafted.

Over the previous year, he had received a series of medical deferments due to an old injury that made it painful for him to raise his left arm higher than his shoulder, but the Confederacy was running too low on vigorous young men to allow the slightly imperfect to be exempt any longer.

“I will not fight for a government I abhor,” John said, utterly resolute. “I cannot do it. Nor can I turn my rifle upon a Union soldier knowing that his cause is just, even at the cost of my own life.”

“What will you do?” asked Mother.

He spread his hands, a helpless gesture that told them he would resort to the best of the few options remaining to him. “I’ll desert.”

Lizzie nodded—she had expected as much—but Mother gasped. “Oh, John. Must you?”

“He must, and he will,” said Lizzie firmly. They could not waste a moment in debate, not when John had already decided and they had so little time to plan.

John would have to close the hardware store and, with his income sharply curtailed, give up the residence on Canal Street. Annie and little Eliza would stay on at the Church Hill mansion, but when Mother offered to take in Mary too, John flatly refused. Despite his best efforts, Mary had fallen back into her disgraceful habits, and he did not want her anywhere near their daughters. She had a widowed cousin in the city who had offered to take her in before and likely would again if John prevailed upon her. As for John, their network of Unionist friends included several farmers outside the city; he could stay with one of them until it was safe for him to flee to Union lines, and from there, to Anna’s home in Philadelphia.

Once resolved, they swiftly made the necessary arrangements, and after a tearful parting with his mother, sister, and daughters, John slipped away in the night to the farm of Jeb and Charlotte Hawkins about a mile northeast of the pickets guarding the road into the city. He carried with him gifts of gratitude for the Hawkins family, letters for Anna and her daughters, and all their hopes and prayers for his safety.

On the first Saturday of February, rumors circulated wildly throughout the city of a Union advance on Raccoon Ford and Morton’s Ford on the Rapidan. For the next two days, Lizzie gathered all the information she could, her anticipation mounting as one source after another confirmed the presence of Union brigades in the area. Did this mark the opening sorties of General Butler’s response to her dispatch? Was he, even now, mounting a raid upon Richmond to liberate its suffering prisoners?

On Monday morning, the
Examiner
weighed in: “How many of the startling stories circulated on yesterday, were mere Sunday rumors, and how much foundation of truth supported others, are questions not now to be completely answered,” the reporter admitted. “It is at least certain that the enemy have advanced up the Peninsula, and their pickets can be seen from the railroad bridge over the Chickahominy. So far as is known, this column consists of eight thousand men; but it may be the advance of a more considerable force.”

It had to be, Lizzie thought, dismay warring with hope in her heart. In her report to General Butler, she had been emphatically clear that Richmond could not be taken with fewer than tens of thousands of troops. Perhaps these eight thousand men the
Examiner
had counted were a diversionary body, and a more substantial force was even then stealing toward the city.

Within days, her suspicions were proven true, and her hopes for the success of the raid utterly dashed.

The Union demonstration along the Rapidan had indeed been a diversion, intended to distract the rebel army away from Bottom’s Bridge, twelve miles east of the capital. There, convinced that a powerful and sudden surge would allow him to breach the city’s defenses and liberate the prisons, Brigadier General Isaac J. Wistar sent forth a single cavalry brigade to capture and hold the bridge until he could send the infantry through. He did not realize that the excursion was doomed from the beginning. On the night before the attack, a private from New York, accused of murdering his lieutenant, escaped from his Union guards, fled to the rebel lines, and promptly divulged all he knew about the planned raid. Unaware of this betrayal, General Wistar’s forces reached Bottom’s Bridge only to find the road blocked by felled trees, the bridge destroyed, and Confederate artillery batteries and infantry regiments firmly entrenched within extensive earthworks and rifle pits. Though the Union brigade valiantly charged by the only passable route, the Confederates handily repulsed their assault, and since the element of surprise had obviously been lost, General Wistar broke off the attack and withdrew.

As Lizzie gathered scraps of information and pieced together the story of what had unfolded, she felt profoundly sorry for the Union prisoners, who might have been liberated that day if not for the betrayal of one of their own. If any good came of the failed raid, perhaps it would be that General Butler surely now understood that when Lizzie reported that an attack would require a substantial force, she meant it, and no half measures would suffice.

General Wistar’s failed raid added to the urgency of John’s predicament, and Lizzie knew he would have to attempt to escape to Union lines soon. After he made it to the North—or God forbid, if he was captured on the way—none of them knew when they might be reunited. Determined to see him one last time before he departed and well aware that she might not have another chance, Lizzie decided to visit him at the Hawkins farm. Rather than lead the authorities right to her brother, she donned a disguise she had employed successfully before—a coarse, ill-fitting dress; a heavy shawl; a deep, sun-bleached calico bonnet; and a battered market basket to carry on her arm—and as she walked, she adopted a stooping posture and a shuffling gait. Whether anyone recognized her she could not say, but no one stopped her except the pickets guarding the road at the city limits, and they took one look at her, gave her forged pass a single bored glance, and waved her through.

Jeb and Charlotte Hawkins were poor but industrious, the proud owners of ten rocky acres from which they reliably eked out enough corn and oats each year to feed themselves, their four children, and their livestock—a plow horse, a cow, and Charlotte’s pride and joy, a flock of chickens reputed to be the most prolific layers in the county. John remained inside out of sight as Lizzie shuffled up the dirt path to the cottage, but Mrs. Hawkins spied her from the window and hurried outside to greet her, a wool wrap thrown over her faded calico dress, her long blond braid coiled around her head with only a few wisps out of place. She was five years younger than Lizzie but looked ten years older, toil in the sunshine and the cares of poverty having cruelly aged her beyond her years. And yet she had a beautiful smile, Jeb adored her, and her children admired and obeyed her, and she seemed to consider herself blessed.

“How glad I am to see you,” she cried, beaming as she hurried to meet Lizzie halfway down the path. Charlotte was clever too, Lizzie noted; she had not called out Lizzie’s name in greeting just in case an enemy was lurking nearby.

“And I you,” said Lizzie, taking her hands and smiling back.

“My goodness, you’re half-frozen,” Charlotte exclaimed. She linked her arm through Lizzie’s and escorted her to the cottage. “Come warm yourself.”

“Oh, I’m fine. The walk kept me warm. How is my brother?”

“He is well.” Charlotte hesitated. “You’ve come just in time. He hopes to set out tomorrow night.”

“So soon?”

“We told him he’s welcome to stay here as long as he likes, but the rebel patrols pass by too often these days, and he says he can’t endanger us any longer. I think it’s far riskier for him to take to the road. Maybe you can persuade him to delay.”

“I won’t even try, because I agree with him. Every day he spends beneath your roof puts you at risk.” Lizzie paused at the door of the cottage and lifted the towel she had draped over the basket to keep out the snow flurries. “I brought some bread and cheese and apples, and Caroline made some little cakes for the children. It’s not much, but I had to walk since our carriage is well known, and this was all I could fit in the basket.” The dress she planned to wear the next day took up room in her basket too, but she’d had to bring it, since couldn’t wear her disguise home lest she give herself away.

Charlotte’s face lit up as she peered into the basket. “Thank you. What a welcome addition to our supper this will be. You’re too generous.”

“Me? Nonsense. This little basket can’t even begin to repay you and Mr. Hawkins for your bravery and kindness in offering my beloved brother a safe haven.” She decided not to mention that Peter would be bringing the wagon in the morning with more supplies; let it be a delightful surprise. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“We Unionists have to look out for one another,” Charlotte said stoutly as she led Lizzie indoors.

They stepped into a front room that ran the length of the cottage, a cookstove and table at one end, a fireplace with two chairs drawn up to it at the other. A braided rag rug lay on the floor, and on the back wall Lizzie spied a doorway leading to a bedroom. The cottage smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool, and frying lard—a humble, homey smell.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, John bounded out of the back room and swooped Lizzie up in a hug. “John, your shoulder,” Lizzie exclaimed, laughing as she flung her arms around him.

Charlotte immediately set about preparing dinner, and over her protests Lizzie tied on an apron and joined in. While they worked, John queried Lizzie about Annie and little Eliza, his expression sad and full of longing. “You’ll see them again soon,” Lizzie promised cheerfully, although she had no way of knowing whether this was true and did not really believe it herself.

Supper was a simple but nourishing affair, and the children were sweet and charming, their parents kind and sympathetic. When the children finished eating and ran off to do their evening chores, the adults lingered at the table and spoke in hushed voices of the progress of the war and the recent activities of the underground, instinctively glancing at the windows for eavesdroppers from time to time, although the dogs would have barked a furious alarm had any strangers trespassed upon their secluded land.

Night fell. Charlotte tucked the children into bed in an upstairs room, while Jeb and John shared the room beside it, and Charlotte and Lizzie settled into the back room below. The sheets were freshly washed and smelled of the winter air, and someone had arranged a pretty bouquet of dried wildflowers in a glass at Lizzie’s bedside. The Hawkins’ courteous attention touched her deeply, and she felt anew the urgency for John to be on his way. It would go very badly for the family if they were discovered sheltering a deserter.

Lizzie lay down, pulled the pretty patchwork quilt up to her chin, and bade Charlotte good night. She expected Charlotte to climb in beside her, but instead she settled into a rocking chair in the corner. “Do you mind if I read a bit before turning in?” she asked, taking a worn black leather-bound Bible from a little shelf on the wall. “Or will the lamp keep you up?”

“Of course not. Read as long as you like. I’m so tired I won’t even notice the light.”

Charlotte thanked her and dimmed the lamp slightly. Lizzie rolled over onto her other side to put her back to the light and closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears too. She was used to the noise of the city—horses’ hooves and church bells and carriage wheels on cobblestones—but on the farm the silence was somehow deafening. In any other season, insects would have been raising a terrible racket, but all Lizzie heard as she drifted off to sleep was the wind buffeting the walls, the rattle of a loose shutter, the runners of Charlotte’s chair softly creaking on the floorboards, and something else, a strange puffing, and there was an odd odor too, something familiar yet acrid—

Blinking, Lizzie propped herself up on her elbows and glanced about, only to find Charlotte rocking gently, studying a page in her Bible, and puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. “Charlotte,” Lizzie blurted. “Are you smoking?”

Charlotte looked abashed. “Oh, I know. Tobacco’s a terrible extravagance if you don’t grow it yourself, but in my defense I didn’t buy it. A neighbor traded it to me for some eggs.”

“Oh,” said Lizzie for lack of anything else to say. Her astonishment had nothing to do with the expense.

Charlotte held out the pipe. “Would you like a puff?”

“Absolutely not,” Lizzie declared, but then she hesitated. “Are you truly fond of it? It smells so—so dreadful, I beg your pardon but it’s true.”

Charlotte smiled and settled back into her chair. “You get used to it.” She studied her pipe, rueful, before putting the stem between her teeth again. “It’s better that you don’t try it. You might decide that you like it very much, and tobacco’s too hard to come by these days.”

“Then I shall endeavor to resist temptation,” Lizzie said, lying down again and closing her eyes.

She tried to sleep, but her astonishment as well as the lingering smell of tobacco smoke and the peculiarities of the unfamiliar room kept her awake long after Charlotte finally put away her pipe, doused the lamp, and came to bed. Although Lizzie eventually did drift off, she was startled awake several times by anxious dreams and a strange presentiment of danger. When dawn finally broke, she felt tired and drawn, and her head ached, although at breakfast she smiled and assured her hosts that she had passed the night in peaceful slumber.

Not long after she and Charlotte had tidied the kitchen and she was preparing herself for a sorrowful parting from her brother, she heard a wagon rumbling up the slope to the cottage. “Peter has come,” she said, brightening somewhat as she rose from her chair, threw on her shawl, and went to meet him. The Hawkins’s enjoyment of their gifts would fend off her sadness for a little while.