Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini
“In that case, Lizzie, you could play them against each other,” said Mother.
Lizzie thought of the times the general had been reluctant to follow the doctor’s recommendations, and she vowed to trust her own powers of observation—and to act on them. “Judy, you are wonderful,” she said, and startled the older woman by kissing her on the cheek, as she had done when she was a small child. “This knowledge will help tremendously.”
And so when she called upon General Winder the following day, she brought him a generous portion of the custard and asked him if he could please explain Dr. Higginbotham’s decision to her.
The general’s expression grew stonier with every word she spoke. “Such insubordination will not stand.”
“You don’t mean—” Lizzie furrowed her brow and feigned bewilderment. “Surely he didn’t issue this decree without consulting you.”
“Unthinkable, isn’t it?” Abruptly he pushed back his chair and rose from his desk. “Do you still retain the pass I issued you?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said, rising. It was creased and smudged, and her most valuable possession.
“Don’t be afraid to brandish it. Consider your privileges restored, although truly they were never rescinded.” He scowled as he escorted her to the door. “I will see to Dr. Higginbotham.”
True to his word, General Winder ordered Dr. Higginbotham arrested for taking precedence in rank. Although the doctor was soon released with no lasting harm done except to his pride, Lizzie did not doubt that she had made a powerful enemy.
On the dreary, rainy Saturday morning of February 22, Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as president of the Confederate States of America. The downpour did not discourage the people of Richmond from attending the grand event; ladies filled the galleries, which were reserved exclusively for them, while gentlemen packed the rotunda. Shortly before noon, Mr. Davis—pale, tense, and dressed in black—and his vice-president, Alexander Stephens, were conducted into the hall to be received by the assembly, who gave them a standing ovation.
At half past noon, the procession moved outside, where Mr. Davis ascended a bunting-draped platform at the base of the Washington Monument on the Capitol Square before a crowd of two thousand citizens, who huddled beneath umbrellas on the muddy grounds and nearby streets. Standing in the rain, Mr. Davis waited several minutes for the cheering to subside before he took the oath of office, lifted and kissed the Bible, and addressed his ardent listeners. He reminded them that it was the birthday of the man most linked in memory with the foundation of American independence, George Washington, and likened their own revolution to his and his compatriots’. He denounced Union aggression and, especially, what he called Mr. Lincoln’s blatant disregard for the Constitution and “all the time-honored bulwarks of civil and religious liberty”—the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, the unlawful arrests, the abandonment of the right to due process. Although he acknowledged recent setbacks on the field of war, he predicted that the tide would soon turn their way again, and that the Union would soon collapse under the mountain of debt it had incurred to fund its unlawful invasion of the South. In a closing prayer, he thanked the Almighty for His divine protection and invoked His blessing upon their country and its cause.
Two days before his inauguration, Mr. Davis had declared Friday, February 28, another day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer to appeal to the Lord for His protection and favor, that they might be saved from their enemies and from the hands of all who hated them. Official fast days were observed more scrupulously than the Sabbath because they were considered a test of loyalty, and when the Gibbs family had resided with them, the Van Lews had diligently done what was expected. This time when the appointed day came, Lizzie and Mother refrained from joining the public prayers and instead invited Eliza’s family over, drew the curtains, and enjoyed the most sumptuous meal Caroline could put together with the markets closed. “We should always resolve to have a better meal than usual on Mr. Davis’s fast days,” Lizzie declared, and the merry company raised their glasses and chimed in their agreement. It was a rare comfort to be able to speak freely with sympathetic friends.
It was the last lighthearted moment they would know for quite some time.
At midnight on March 1, one week after condemning the suppression of civil liberties in the North, President Davis placed Richmond and the surrounding countryside within a ten-mile radius under martial law.
The measure had not been announced beforehand, but Lizzie and her mother learned of it early, and discovered just how swiftly, suddenly, and mercilessly it would be implemented. They had just sat down to breakfast when they heard a distant pounding on the back door, and moments later, Mary Jane Bowser dashed into the room. They scarcely had time to greet her before she blurted, “Mr. Botts has been arrested.”
Lizzie bolted to her feet. “What? Why? On what grounds?”
A friend who knew of their mutual ties had witnessed everything, Mary Jane explained breathlessly, slipping out of her wraps and dropping into a chair. Shortly before dawn, one hundred armed deputies had surrounded the Botts residence at Elba Park while others burst into the home and dragged Mr. Botts from bed. While he fumed and protested in his nightclothes, the assistant provost marshal read the charges and placed him under arrest as other detectives collected his private papers and letters. His wife and children were frantic; one son fainted dead away from fear. Mr. Botts was allowed to dress before he was taken away in a buggy to the filthy McDaniel’s Negro Jail, a holding pen for slave dealers on Lumpkin’s Alley off Franklin Street.
“What are the charges?” asked Lizzie shakily, pacing.
“I don’t know,” Mary Jane said, “but I can find out.”
Lizzie stopped short, instinctively shrinking away from the window, half expecting to see a stranger’s ugly visage glaring menacingly back at her. “Who else?”
“Who else has been arrested?” Mary Jane shook her head and shrugged. “No one that I know of.”
“We must learn if Mr. Botts has been singled out because of his prominence or if they’re rounding up all suspected Unionists.” Her heart pounded with dread and fear, knowing it was likely the latter. There was no need to declare martial law to arrest a single man, but if the authorities wanted to cast a net and drag in many—
Lizzie took a deep, shaky breath, forced herself to draw back the curtain, and peered outside. It was a lovely morning, cool and dewy, fresh with the promise of the coming spring. She saw no one lurking outside, watching the house—no armed deputies, no soldiers, not even the lanky man with the tobacco-stained beard, who had been absent for many weeks.
“Do you suppose—” Mother hesitated. “I wonder if they are coming for us.”
Shuddering, Lizzie wrapped her arms around herself as if caught in a sudden chill wind. “Not for you, Mother.” She had done what she could to ensure that.
With the aid of Mary Jane’s grapevine telegraph, by the end of the day, they had assembled a rough picture of the morning’s alarming events. The prosperous distiller Franklin Stearns, who had never made a secret of his Union sympathies and was said to have done more with his whiskey to contribute to illness and absenteeism within the army camps than any weapon the enemy had yet produced, was arrested at his Tree Hill estate southeast of Richmond shortly after dawn. A butcher named Valentine Heckler and a grocer named John M. Higgins were also arrested on charges of uttering incendiary sentiments. A slave named Allen was arrested too, charged with treasonous language for allegedly declaring, “Jeff Davis is a rebel,” and “I acknowledge no man as my master.” Also caught up in the sweep were an ice dealer, a city night watchman, a lieutenant in the Wise Legion, and many others, but except for a carpenter who did business with the Van Lews’ hardware store, Lizzie knew none of them. They were tradesmen and laborers, outside her usual social circle.
In the days that followed, the roundups continued and more arrests were made, men snatched from every neighborhood in Richmond and each outlying district. A shipbuilder, a merchant, a barkeeper, a Maine-born Universalist pastor who had refused to open his church on an official day of thanksgiving marking the Confederate victory at Manassas— the newspapers printed every name, every accusation. Lizzie and her mother and their entire household waited in terror for a pounding upon their own door. They slept little and went out not at all, sending Peter and William to collect whatever news they could, awaiting messages from Mary Jane. Once, Lizzie sent Peter to carry a letter to Mr. Botts to encourage him in his confinement, but just as he was leaving, she frantically called him back, realizing almost too late that the letter would lead the authorities right back to her.
Days passed, but the dreaded knock on their door never came.
A week after martial law was imposed, Lizzie became too restless and agitated to skulk behind closed curtains any longer. She packed a basket with two dozen rolls and half as many ginger cakes for bribes and ventured out into the streets, which seemed strange in their ordinariness. The city she knew in her heart and mind had been shaken so violently that she had expected to find it reduced to rubble. But with every unimpeded step her courage returned to her, so that by the time she was within a few blocks of the prison complex, she was striding along as briskly as ever, head held high, a cordial smile upon her face should anyone dare to greet her.
But a block away from the prison entrance, she stopped short at the sight of a double cordon of sentinels stationed around the tobacco warehouses. She held perfectly still for a moment, pondering her next step, but then she took a deep breath to steel herself and approached the nearest guard with a smile.
“I beg your pardon,” she greeted him pleasantly, taking care to remain a respectful distance away, “but I couldn’t help noticing how the guard has been increased lately. Was there an escape attempt?”
“There’s always one or two Yankees tryin’ to run off,” the guard replied. “But General Winder ordered the double guard on account of the recent mischief of the Unionists. Nothin’ and no one goes in or out. No visitors, no letters, no newspapers. Them Yankees are none too happy about it.”
“Nor would any reasonable person be in their place.” Smiling, Lizzie took a ginger cake from the basket and gave it to him. “This is for your time and your charming conversation. I do hope you’re allowed to eat on duty.”
He grinned and thanked her, and as she went down the row of sentinels handing out the ginger cakes and the rolls she had intended to give the prisoners, she made pleasant small talk, though her thoughts were churning. She dared not use General Winder’s pass to bluster her way into the prison, not in defiance of the extraordinary restrictions he himself had set in place. The pace of the Unionist roundups had already slowed. When the crisis passed, if the new rules were not lifted, she would call on the general and ask him if she might continue her work.
When the basket was empty, she apologized to the remaining guards for not having enough for everyone, for she had not expected so many. With the empty basket on her arm, she walked next to the Henrico County Jail, where the fourteen Union hostages were confined, and there too she found that the guard had been doubled. Disheartened, she turned toward home.
By the middle of March, the former slave pen on Lumpkin’s Alley, which had acquired the nickname “Castle Godwin” after its commander, held twenty-eight men accused of disloyalty, including Mr. Botts. The suspects denied that they were involved in any conspiracy, and those who could afford decent lawyers petitioned the government for their immediate release. Through Mary Jane’s channels, Lizzie managed to get a letter to Mr. Botts expressing her profound sympathies and offering to help him any way she could, and when he managed to smuggle out a reply, she learned that since his arrest, he had been kept in solitary confinement, forbidden visits from his family and his lawyers. “Can any true Virginian witness such scenes as these,” he wrote, “men detained without benefit of hearing or counsel, and not feel the blood curdle in his veins?” He added that General Winder was pressuring the men, whose numbers increased daily, to betray one another, but although he and Mr. Stearns were very good friends, most of the accused had never met before their arrests, so they had nothing to confess.
Lizzie’s heart sank at the mention of General Winder. Even as the widespread seizure of Unionists had earned him accolades in the press and on the streets, he had grown hard and brittle, and his responsibilities had only increased. At the end of March, so that fewer guards would be needed to prevent escapes, the prison complex at Twenty-Fifth and Main was closed down and all five hundred or so prisoners were marched to the large, connected structure of Libby & Sons’ old warehouses on Cary Street, below Twentieth near the dock. Lizzie dared not approach him across such uncertain ground as this new venture. But perhaps if she were patient, and allowed time for his inexplicable, sudden fury to pass, she might find a way to persuade him to parole Mr. Botts.
Every morning when Lizzie read the papers, she took note of the arrests and learned by heart the names of those who were accused of harboring Union sympathies.
Without ever meaning to do so, the Confederate government had introduced Lizzie to her allies.
Chapter Eleven
APRIL 1862
R
ichmond’s Unionists were not the only enemies of the Confederacy swept up in the arrests that followed the imposition of martial law. A handful of agents from Mr. Pinkerton’s detective bureau in Washington had infiltrated some of the most sensitive departments in the Southern capital, but even in a city full of strangers, they had stood out enough to raise suspicions. Most were brought to the attention of the authorities by alert citizens, but one was turned in by his fellow spies.
Timothy Webster, a Pinkerton with years of undercover experience, had managed to earn the confidence of important officials in the War Department, including General Winder and Secretary of War Benjamin, who trusted him enough to employ him as a dispatch courier. He carried many secrets from Richmond to Washington City, but he was undone when two other Union agents, John Scully and Pryce Lewis, were sent to check on him after illness kept him bedridden and unable to contact Mr. Pinkerton for two weeks. Soon after their arrival in Richmond, Mr. Scully and Mr. Lewis were recognized on the street by a civilian whose family home in Washington they had once searched for evidence of Southern collusion, and they unwittingly led Confederate agents to the boardinghouse rooms Mr. Webster shared with his wife and colored servant. Mr. Scully and Mr. Lewis were arrested, convicted, and sent to Castle Godwin, where, under orders from General Winder, they were alternately threatened with death and offered mercy if they cooperated. Eventually they were broken, and they confessed not only their own missions as spies but also Timothy Webster’s. He and his wife were immediately arrested and sent to join the others at Castle Godwin, where Mr. Botts and all the men taken in the early days of martial law still languished. Mr. Scully and Mr. Lewis were scheduled to hang within a week, and Mr. Webster, gravely ill from rheumatism, was sentenced to die at the end of the month.