The Spymistress (12 page)

“At the very least,” she muttered, “the prisoners should be permitted to raise the sashes and allow a breath of air to stir inside.”

“They might climb out and make their escape,” her mother replied.

“The sick and injured wouldn’t, and neither would those on the third floor.” Lizzie sighed as they trudged wearily up the hill toward home, the empty dishes rattling in their baskets. “Oh, Mother, their suffering was even worse than I expected—and we saw only one room!”

“But in all likelihood, it was the worst room.” Mother paused to catch her breath in the shade of a walnut tree growing close to the street. “Tomorrow, we’ll ask to be introduced to the officers. We’ll bring books and bread and writing materials.”

“And another pair of hands,” said Lizzie as they continued on their way. “Eliza will help us, I’m sure.”

The next morning, when they stopped by the Carrington residence on their way to the prison with their refilled baskets, Eliza grew pale as they described the conditions within the infirmary and how desperately more help was needed. “I believe we have some fresh bread I could bring,” Eliza said faintly when they finished. “And some preserves. And a bottle of cherry cordial.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mother. “We can offer that to the lieutenant.”

He accepted it most appreciatively, and upon their arrival in the infirmary, they discovered a handful of new patients, one who had broken his arm in a scuffle with a guard and three suffering from the flux. Mother kept the latter as far away from the others as she could in such close quarters, and while she and Eliza began changing dressings and feeding soup, cornmeal gruel, and bread to those who could eat, Lizzie returned to the lieutenant’s office and presented him with a list of requests for the prisoners that she had worked out the night before—cots, of course, and sheets and blankets to dress them. Bandages, as many rolls as they could get. The liberty to open the windows. Permission for the walking wounded to take their exercise in the courtyard. Ample supplies of fresh, clean water. Chamber pots and necessaries. Regular visits from qualified physicians.

“Doctors’ visits will be few and far between,” Lieutenant Todd said, scanning the list. “There are hundreds of patients throughout the city requiring their attention. Water and exercise will be granted. As to the rest of it—” He tossed the list on his desk, folded his arms, and shrugged. “I have no objection if you wish to provide such supplies as you believe the Yankees require. I only hope you are giving as generously to our side.”

“Of course,” she said, hiding her surprise. She had not expected him to agree to half of her requests, so she had asked for twice as much as she thought she could squeeze out of him. “When we’ve finished tending to the men in the infirmary, we’d like to visit some of the other prisoners and inquire as to their needs.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to object. She had General Winder’s letter in her pocket, but she hoped Lieutenant Todd would not force her to produce it. To her relief, he frowned, but nodded.

At midday, Eliza remained behind in the infirmary while a guard escorted Lizzie and her mother to the officers’ quarters on the first floor. Upon entering the room, Lizzie’s first impression was of a dark, cramped, and dusty space, oppressive with the smells of old tobacco and unwashed bodies and the sounds of low voices rumbling and throats clearing. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw that the room was more than twice as long as it was wide, about thirty feet by seventy-five, although half that space was taken up by tobacco presses. At least forty men sat or stood or walked aimlessly about, glancing curiously at the visitors, but they had no beds or blankets that Lizzie could discern.

As Lizzie and her mother stepped into the room, gazing about and nodding politely to the prisoners, one man in a civilian suit broke away from the crowd and approached. “Welcome to our humble abode, ladies,” he said, inclining his head solicitously. “I’m Congressman Alfred Ely, the senior prisoner here. How may I be of service?”

“We rather hope that we could be of service to you.” Lizzie opened her basket to reveal two dozen round buns, their golden tops crisp and marked with crosses. “I fear that we underestimated your numbers.”

“Thank you very much. The men will be happy to share.” Turning, he beckoned two men, a lieutenant and a captain, and instructed them to distribute the bread to the others, who seemed to be exercising great restraint in not rushing forward to snatch the food from the baskets. “Half a loaf is better than none, especially here.”

“
Congressman
Ely, you say?” queried Mother. “Then you are not a soldier?”

He smiled ruefully, but even then his dark eyes, piercing gaze, and strong, intelligent features gave him an air of command. “No, Madam, merely an unfortunate politician, punished for his curiosity. When the fighting began at Bull Run, I rode out from Washington City like thousands of others to witness the glorious spectacle. But I drove my carriage too far, and in the chaos of McDowell’s retreat, I was captured.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Mother exclaimed, shaking her head.

“We have it better here than the poor enlisted men on the third floor. We’re treated to three meals a day, though the portions are small and not particularly appetizing.” He glanced at the guard, who had taken up a position just inside the doorway, and lowered his voice. “Those of us who managed to smuggle in a bit of coin can usually convince the guards to purchase additional food for us. The enlisted men—” He shook his head. “They usually get but one meal, on a good day, two. But we keep our spirits up.” A few disheveled soldiers who overheard chimed in their agreement stoutly.

As the prisoners eagerly dug into their half portions of bread, Lizzie introduced herself and her mother to Mr. Ely, the usual formalities having been forgotten in their grim surroundings. As Mother strolled through the room, greeting each soldier kindly, offering gentle words, and distributing books, Lizzie chatted with the congressman, who seemed remarkably sanguine given his circumstances. The civilian officers had not expected to be shut up in a prison at all, he explained, shaking his head at their naïveté. They had assumed they would surrender their swords and then be paroled, with the freedom to mingle with their captors and go about the city as they pleased until they could be transported to the North. “We learned quite early on that this will be a very different sort of war,” Mr. Ely said matter-of-factly. “We’re not certain if Washington even knows where we are and who are among us.”

“Your families must be frantic,” said Lizzie. “Have you written to them?”

“We would have, if we’d had pen and paper, and if Lieutenant Todd had not expressly forbidden it.”

“But simple human decency obliges him to permit it.”

“Miss Van Lew,” he said steadily, “make no mistake, this is not a place where the rules of human decency are in force.”

Indignant, Lizzie thought for a moment, then strode across the room to take one of the last volumes from her mother’s basket. “This book is a favorite of mine,” she said as she placed it into Mr. Ely’s hands, though she had not even glanced at the spine for the title. “I think you will find it quite illuminating.”

A slight furrow appeared on his brow. “Thank you, Madam.”

“I adore it so much that I can allow you to borrow it only until my next visit.” Mindful of the guard observing them from the doorway, she wagged a finger playfully at the congressman and added, “I trust you will take excellent care of it. I’ll notice if you leave a single smudge or mark, no matter how small.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said, inclining his head and tucking the book beneath his arm. “I am grateful to you.”

“Tomorrow we’ll bring more bread,” Mother promised as she joined them, her empty baskets hanging from the crook of her arm. “You must let us know what else we can do for you.”

He promised to do so.

After bidding the officers good-bye, Lizzie and her mother asked the guard to escort them back to the infirmary, where they found Eliza bathing the brow of a feverish soldier. He had suffered a blow to the head on the battlefield, a fellow captive from his brigade had told them, and he had not awakened since falling unconscious on the train to Richmond.

“Tomorrow I will bring a mustard plaster,” she said, her voice faint from exhaustion. “And the boy in the bed by the corner needs a poultice for that dreadful cough, and they all need fresh bandages. I have some old sheets I can tear up, and—” She broke off, her eyes wide and tearful. “Oh, there is so much to do, and the war has only just begun.”

Without a word, Lizzie folded Eliza in her arms and held her while she trembled and fought back tears. “Be brave,” Mother murmured. “The men will see you and think you weep because they’re going to die. You must be cheerful and calm so they believe they’re going to be perfectly fine.”

Eliza nodded, took a deep breath, and offered a tremulous smile.

“That’s a good girl,” said Mother quietly. “Today was the worst day because it is so new. Tomorrow will be better.”

The next morning when they called for Eliza at home, they found her pale but determined, with two heaping baskets full of bandages, remedies, and nutritious broths and porridges. Lizzie and her mother had packed rich custards for the officers and several loaves of bread for the enlisted men, whom Lizzie was determined to visit. She had also brought a satchel full of more books, to supplement the few she had left the previous day and to exchange for the one she had given to Mr. Ely.

The young soldier with the head injury had died during the night, but two new prisoners were stretched out upon the straw where he had lain, and two more had been left on the bare floor across the room. The ladies set themselves to work, but as soon as Lizzie could tear herself away, she carried the basketful of bread upstairs—under careful watch of the ubiquitous guards—where she was appalled to discover hundreds of disheveled, filthy, ravenous men crammed into a room the same size as the one below shared by forty officers and civilians. They too had no beds, nor straw, and their fervent thanks as they devoured their bread convinced her they had next to nothing to eat as well. It was the most heart-wrenching scene she had ever witnessed, and she grew indignant as she thought of the fine residence being refurbished for the Jefferson Davis family while the poor prisoners were kept in squalor.

She had scarcely finished distributing the last of the bread when the guard brusquely ordered her from the room. Rather than raise his ire by brandishing General Winder’s pass, she bowed graciously and asked him to take her to the officers’ quarters. There Congressman Ely greeted her as courteously as before, though he looked wan and tired behind his good cheer.

“Is it my imagination,” she asked, looking about the room, which seemed smaller than the day before, “or have your numbers increased?”

“Yes, we’ve welcomed more good fellows into our company,” he said. “The rumor is that the commandant is going to throw together a few more prisons and distribute us among them, but although this place is quite as miserable as it could be, we don’t know whether to hope for a transfer or pray to remain.”

“You don’t know whether you’re in the frying pan or the fire.”

He managed a laugh. “Yes, Miss Van Lew. You understand perfectly.”

“I hope the book I lent you yesterday offered you some distraction.” She studied his face, where exhaustion and determination were plainly written. “I hope you didn’t stay up late to finish it. I could have waited another day.”

“I would have been awake anyway.” He winced and rubbed his shoulder. “Our generous guards overstuffed my featherbed, so it was impossible to get comfortable. I was also determined to return the book to you today, knowing how it is your favorite.”

He limped slightly as he made his way through the crowd of prisoners to an orderly pile of belongings placed against the wall—a jacket, a newspaper, a tin cup, and Lizzie’s book. Stooping, he picked it up and brought it to her.

“What did you think of it?” Lizzie asked, aware of the guard’s eyes upon them.

“It was a pleasant enough diversion, but I found the underlying message...” He paused to consider. “Somewhat odd.”

“Yes, I thought the same.” Lizzie placed the book in her satchel and took out another. “Would you prefer a collection of Shakespeare’s comedies?”

“That sounds like just the thing.” Mr. Ely managed a smile. “I must thank you again, Miss Van Lew, for your gifts and for your visits. The men and I think of you as a ministering angel.”

“Thank you, Congressman,” she replied, “but if you had spent any time in Richmond at all, you’d realize that is not an opinion commonly held.”

For the rest of the afternoon, the book remained tucked away in the satchel on the floor of the infirmary, where Lizzie needed all her strength of will to refrain from glancing at it. She was eager to see if Mr. Ely had hidden a letter within its pages, but she dared not check while under the watchful eye of the guard. Instead she waited until she was safely home and Mary had retired for the night before hurrying off to the library with the satchel, John and Mother at her heels.

Once there, she shut the door and quickly flipped through the book for a scrap of folded paper, but found nothing. She turned the pages more slowly, but there no letter to be found, nor had Mr. Ely written anything faintly in the margins or between the lines. She held the book by the spine, the pages facing downward, and gave it a few vigorous shakes, but nothing fluttered to the floor. Perplexed, she handed the book to her mother and sat down. “Apparently he misunderstood me,” she said. “Or I misunderstood him.”

Mother sat in her own chair, examining the book and running her fingertips over the printed lines. “Or Mr. Ely is more clever than you thought.”

“An encoded message?” asked John, leaning over the back of her chair for a better look.

“I believe so, or something like it. Here.” Mother held up the open book to him. “Touch the paper, gently.”

John ran his fingers lightly over the page. “I feel bumps of some sort—no, indentations.”