Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini
“This is an outrage,” a captain from Michigan shouted, shaking his fist.
“You cannot choose who will live or die by drawing names from a hat,” another yelled.
“Would you prefer that I chose the men myself based upon who most provokes me?” countered General Winder, glaring in the direction of the voice. The din subsided a trifle, but the room crackled with ugly, violent energy, and Lizzie felt herself shrinking back until her hip banged painfully against a tobacco press. “Did you not hear what I just read? Those who are chosen will not be executed unless your Old Abe decides to murder one of the sailors. In other words, you should save your complaints for your letters home, and pray that your friends and families will have some influence over your president’s decision.” Scowling, General Winder looked challengingly around the room. “Now. Colonel Lee, front and center.”
After a pause, the white-haired commander of the Twentieth Massachusetts Infantry, a distant relation of Robert E., stepped forward. General Winder beckoned to one of his staff, who handed Colonel Lee six slips of paper. “The names of six federal colonels now held as prisoners of war are written upon these papers,” he said. “Open each one and verify that this is true.”
Colonel Lee held on to the papers, but he kept his arms by his side. “I decline to participate in this atrocity.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. “If you do not,” General Winder barked, “then instead of one colonel, you choose all six by default.”
Colonel Lee glared back, but after a moment, he unfolded each slip of paper and read the names of the six Union colonels. Then, following instructions, he folded them again and placed them in a tin case about a foot deep. General Winder closed the lid, gave the case a vigorous shake, and said, “Mr. Ely, if you please.”
The congressman, who had been standing at the front of the crowd, stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering. The general acknowledged him with a nod and lifted the lid. “You shall draw the name of the officer who will stand as a hostage for the Confederate prisoner of war Smith.”
Mr. Ely studied him darkly, a muscle working in his jaw. “I will not,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will not send one of our brave and gallant officers to a felon’s dungeon to suffer and stand as a pledge to die in case of the execution of a condemned pirate.”
“Then you send all six plus thirteen more.”
“Go ahead, Ely,” said one of the colonels, and other prisoners quietly chimed in their consent.
Pained, Ely nodded, thrust his hand into the tin, and withdrew a slip of paper. “Colonel Michael Corcoran,” he read aloud, and to the general, he added bitterly, “First you transfer him to Castle Pinckney in South Carolina, and now you force me to add to his misery.”
Lizzie’s breath caught in her throat. The Irish-born Colonel Corcoran had been one of Mr. Ely’s messmates and his intimate friend. She could only imagine the congressman’s anguish at having drawn his name.
More slips of paper were produced, the names of the remaining officers were placed into the tin, and Mr. Ely was again called upon to draw lots for the thirteen officers who would stand as hostages for the
Savannah
privateers. “J. W. Rockwood,” he read flatly, and withdrew a second slip of paper. “J. B. Ricketts.”
Without thinking, Lizzie called out, “Captain Ricketts presently resides at the general hospital. He was very badly wounded at Manassas.” Months before, his devoted wife, Fanny, had traveled from the North to nurse him and had remained with him faithfully ever since. Lizzie had befriended her and found her to be a most interesting and amiable lady, and she could not bear the thought that Fanny would be bereft of her husband again, or that his recovery would be cast into jeopardy.
General Winder shot Lizzie a dark look, silencing her, and he gestured for Mr. Ely to draw another lot. “Major Paul Joseph Revere.”
Lizzie’s heart sank. Major Revere of the Twentieth Massachusetts was not only the grandson of the famous midnight rider, the patriot Paul Revere, but was also an intelligent and agreeable man, one of her particular favorites among the prisoners.
Two more names were called, each greeted with a murmur of regret, and then H. W. McQuade was selected.
Lizzie pressed her lips together to restrain her protests. Captain McQuade too was languishing in a hospital cot, recovering from the amputation of his leg. Suddenly another soldier pushed to the front of the crowd and presented himself to General Winder. “Captain Thomas Cox, Ohio. General Winder, put my name upon your list in the place of Captain McQuade.”
“I have no authority to do so.”
A chorus of disapproval for the general’s response soon gave way to applause for Captain Cox, who stepped back into the crowd of prisoners, scowling in disappointment.
The remaining lots were drawn, the names called out, and when it was done, the general announced that the chosen officers would be removed to the Henrico County Jail as soon as possible.
Silently fuming, Lizzie resolved to provide the best possible welcome she could for them.
Chapter Ten
NOVEMBER 1861-APRIL 1862
T
he next day, General Winder returned to the officers’ quarters to announce that Secretary Benjamin had exempted wounded officers from acting as hostages, and so two more names were drawn to replace Captains Ricketts and McQuade. When, hours later, the unlucky men were scheduled to be transferred to the Henrico County Jail, Lizzie and Eliza went ahead of them, employing General Winder’s old pass to gain access to the hostages’ quarters. They were appalled to discover that the men would be held in a cramped cell about twelve-by-sixteen feet, with thick walls and a double-barred window through which only a sad, dim light penetrated. Sobered by her powerlessness to improve the conditions, Lizzie left behind a basket full of hot rolls and a stack of books, as well as a note promising more.
Jefferson Davis declared November 15 a day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer for the success of Confederate arms, and in order to maintain their façade of loyalty for the Gibbs family, the Van Lews were obliged to perform the perfunctory duties of the occasion. Ignoring her own annoying hunger pangs, Lizzie secretly gave the servants permission to eat as much as they usually did as long as they kept out of sight, and she encouraged them to pray for the Union instead, as she herself did, silently, with head bowed.
On December 6, all of Richmond celebrated the news that Varina Davis had given birth to a son, William. Although the child was reported to be perfectly healthy and robust, Mrs. Davis was confined to her sickbed for weeks thereafter, and so her sister Margaret temporarily took over her role as official hostess.
A few days later, Captain Gibbs and his family—who had underestimated the duration of their stay by two weeks—at last moved into their own dwelling a few blocks from the Capitol. “I will miss the children,” Mother admitted. “It is almost too quiet without them.”
Lizzie would too, but the sweet, piping voices she most longed to hear ringing through the halls again were those of her nieces, and no one else.
On December 18, Captain J. B. Ricketts was released from the prison hospital and sent north on the
Norfolk
in the company of his devoted wife, Fanny. “Captain and Mrs. Ricketts have been the recipients of kind attentions from our most distinguished citizens, during their stay in Richmond,” the
Enquirer
noted. “It is supposed they leave the Confederacy with a better opinion than seems to be entertained of us among their people. If so, we trust they will enlighten the ignorance of their friends in the North.” A Confederate captain detained in Washington was returned to Richmond in exchange, and Lizzie dared to hope it would be the first of many such trades.
Christmas came to Richmond, the first Christmas of the war. Warfare, blockades, and disorder sent prices soaring—coffee sold for a dollar fifty a pound, salt at a dollar forty a sack, apples twenty dollars a barrel, ice cream nine dollars a quart, turkeys for the astonishing price of four dollars each, and French candy at one dollar a pound. Thanks to Caroline’s genius in the kitchen, Mother managed to put together a splendid Christmas feast nonetheless, and Lizzie and Mary set aside their discord so the family could celebrate together at the Church Hill mansion. By the raucous sounds outside their windows—rockets bursting, firecrackers snapping, drums resounding, horns tootling, voices caroling—the people of Richmond enjoyed the holiday as much as any Christmas past, despite the absence of loved ones and the deprivations of wartime.
On Christmas Day, Mr. Ely received a welcome gift: He was released and sent north, exchanged for a Southern civilian, the former United States minister to France, a secessionist Virginian who had been detained at Fort Warren since the outbreak of war. Although negotiations for Mr. Ely’s release had been ongoing for weeks, when the decision was finally made, the exchange happened so swiftly that Lizzie had no opportunity to bid him farewell. He left behind a kind letter expressing his gratitude, but although she was elated for him and thought his release long overdue, she felt strangely bereft after he was gone.
New Year’s Day dawned blessedly springlike and sunny, but the soft breezes whispered forebodingly that fair weather would herald the resumption of furious battle, which had fallen into a lull with the onset of winter. President Davis and his sister-in-law hosted a New Year’s Day levee modeled after those that Jefferson and Varina Davis had attended at the White House when Mr. Davis served as a senator and secretary of war. For more than three hours, Mr. Davis cordially welcomed hundreds of visitors to the Executive Mansion, shaking hands and chatting amiably. Former president John Tyler was in attendance, as were John and Mary.
The very next day, Lizzie discovered that her own prayers for the new year would be answered to some extent. Two hundred and forty Union prisoners were exchanged, sent north to Fort Monroe for an equal number of Confederate soldiers held at Fort Warren on Georges Island in Boston Harbor. A week later, 160 more captives were exchanged under flag of truce. Only two days later, Captain Gibbs was promoted to major and transferred to Salisbury, North Carolina. Lizzie would not miss him, but she was dismayed all the same, for she would have to cultivate a relationship with his replacement, and the devil she knew was in many ways preferable to the one she had not met.
First, she would have to match wits with a familiar adversary, the War Department. Acting assistant surgeon in charge of prisons, Dr. Owen B. Hill, had informed Lizzie of Dr. Higginbotham’s latest orders: no food or drink could be brought into the prisons except what was furnished by the commissary of the post. “I have not forgotten the taste of your delicious custard, which you were so kind to offer me,” Dr. Hill closed his note, “and I know it to be very good and beneficial to the prisoners. Acting as his assistant, however, I cannot violate any order he may give or I would cheerfully oblige you.”
Lizzie refused to accept the decree without a fight. As soon as Caroline made another custard, she and Eliza rode downtown to the office of Colonel Albert T. Bledsoe, the assistant secretary of war. “When you taste it, you will wonder how Dr. Higginbotham could possibly forbid it,” Lizzie promised as she and Eliza were shown into his office still wearing their wraps. “What harm could an innocent custard possibly do?”
“It is difficult to see why anyone would object to custard,” he acknowledged, looking as if he were making a great effort not to laugh. “Especially an innocent one.”
His amusement irritated Lizzie. “Colonel Bledsoe,” she said, sharply imperious, “I do hope you take our petition seriously.”
“I do, Madam,” he replied. “In fact, I confess that I am on your side. This is quite an assumption of power on Dr. Higginbotham’s part. I assure you I will take the matter up with Secretary Benjamin as soon as possible.”
The next day, in hopes of prompting a quick reply from the colonel, Lizzie sent a servant back to the War Department to retrieve her favorite serving dish. It was returned to her safely, along with a disappointing note:
Richmond, Jany. 24, 1862
My dear Miss Van Lew,
The Secretary of War declined to act on your application and referred it to Genl. Winder. If I can see Genl. Winder, I will try to get him to grant your request.
The custard was very nice, and many thanks to you. I borrowed some cups from an eating house nearby, and brought some crackers. So it was eaten in fine style.
Truly Yours,
T. Bledsoe
“What a waste of custard,” Lizzie fumed, crumpling the letter and pacing the length of the parlor while Mother wound a skein of yarn with the help of her maid, Judy. “It has all circled around to General Winder.”
“Is that not in your favor?” Mother inquired. “He likes you. He grants every request you make whenever it is in his power to do so.”
“That is why I must appeal to him sparingly.” She knew too that the general was frequently criticized in the press for his clemency to the Yankee prisoners—an accusation she could easily refute—and that someday he would feel compelled to prove just how strict a warden he could be.
“Miss Lizzie,” said Judy, but then she hesitated.
“Go on, Judy,” Mother encouraged. “Do you know something that could help?”
“I might and I might not.” Judy’s lined face furrowed even more in her uncertainty. “My niece is courting with that doctor’s valet. She says that her fellow says that the doctor and your General Winder hate each other.”
Lizzie and her mother exchanged a look. “Is that so?” mused Lizzie.
Judy nodded. “I don’t know why, exactly, but my niece says they got some feud going.”