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Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini
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accused “entertained dangerous sentiments” was sufficient grounds for arrest.
“If I am to be prosecuted,” Lizzie said defiantly, pacing the length of the parlor while her mother knitted in her chair by the window, “may it be for something I do—some bold, brave action in defense of the Union—and not merely for what I feel .”
“I would prefer that you not be prosecuted at all,” said Mother, shuddering. “Remember Mr. Botts’s wise council and be cautious.”
“How could I forget?” Lizzie went to the window and peered outside, glowering at the bunting and banners proudly adorning nearly every window and door frame and flagpole up and down the street. A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned just in time to glimpse a tall figure disappearing behind the broad trunk of an oak tree in a neighbor’s garden. She waited for him to emerge on the other side, but he did not reappear. Unsettled, she watched awhile longer before concluding that her anxious mind was playing tricks on her, and as she turned away from the window, she silently berated herself for imagining phantoms and villains where none existed. She must be strong, clear-eyed, and skeptical, and must never allow her nerves to get the better of her. She would need every scrap of her wits about her in the days to come.
Lizzie wondered if General Lee and Colonel Jackson, men who had seen battle, were half as bloodthirsty as the ladies of Richmond had become. Young women spent their days sewing and knitting, and when they delivered the gifts of socks and shirts to the camps, they exacted promises from the soldiers to kill as many Yankees as they could for them, or to bring back Mr. Lincoln’s head in a box, or at least a piece of his ear.
No man wanted to seem a coward, and no woman wanted to seem indifferent, which made the Van Lews’ absence from sewing bees and dress parades all the more conspicuous. Lizzie could not mistake the sidelong glances and whispers that followed her whenever she strolled around Church Hill.
One morning, Lizzie was crossing the street to call on Eliza Carrington when she spotted a thin man halfway down the block, leaning up against a lamppost and carving a stub of wood. He did not so much as glance her way, but when he spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the street, she noticed that his scruffy blond beard was stained brown around the mouth. Her heart thumped, and without thinking that she might arouse his suspicions, she quickly turned and hurried back inside.
She watched him from the parlor window through the lace curtain, gnawing on the inside of her lower lip, wondering what to do. The man fit Mr. Botts’s description of one of his observers too perfectly for him to be anyone else, and she knew he was no resident of Church Hill, nor did he seem to have any proper business there. When he seemed perfectly content to remain there all day, idly carving and utterly unconcerned that he did not belong, Lizzie found Mother in the gardens and invited her to the parlor on the pretext of discussing poetry, a subject that did not interest Mary in the least and would ensure she stayed away. Drawing the curtain aside, Mother studied the man gravely for a long moment, then sighed. “I suppose we must make some token gesture to dispel suspicions.”
“I cannot sit and sew with Mary and her insipid friends,” Lizzie declared. “I could not bear it. Not for a single day, nor a single hour, not even to save my life.”
“I suspect that if it were indeed to save your life, you would find the strength to sew a shirt or two,” Mother replied, amused. “We don’t have to join in Mary’s efforts, dear. We can contrive some innocent service of our own.”
After pondering their options, they decided that gifts of books, fresh flowers, and paper and pencils to write letters home would do no harm, so Lizzie perused the family’s substantial library for volumes she could bear to part with while Mother took cuttings
“If I am to be prosecuted,” Lizzie said defiantly, pacing the length of the parlor while her mother knitted in her chair by the window, “may it be for something I do—some bold, brave action in defense of the Union—and not merely for what I feel .”
“I would prefer that you not be prosecuted at all,” said Mother, shuddering. “Remember Mr. Botts’s wise council and be cautious.”
“How could I forget?” Lizzie went to the window and peered outside, glowering at the bunting and banners proudly adorning nearly every window and door frame and flagpole up and down the street. A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned just in time to glimpse a tall figure disappearing behind the broad trunk of an oak tree in a neighbor’s garden. She waited for him to emerge on the other side, but he did not reappear. Unsettled, she watched awhile longer before concluding that her anxious mind was playing tricks on her, and as she turned away from the window, she silently berated herself for imagining phantoms and villains where none existed. She must be strong, clear-eyed, and skeptical, and must never allow her nerves to get the better of her. She would need every scrap of her wits about her in the days to come.
Lizzie wondered if General Lee and Colonel Jackson, men who had seen battle, were half as bloodthirsty as the ladies of Richmond had become. Young women spent their days sewing and knitting, and when they delivered the gifts of socks and shirts to the camps, they exacted promises from the soldiers to kill as many Yankees as they could for them, or to bring back Mr. Lincoln’s head in a box, or at least a piece of his ear.
No man wanted to seem a coward, and no woman wanted to seem indifferent, which made the Van Lews’ absence from sewing bees and dress parades all the more conspicuous. Lizzie could not mistake the sidelong glances and whispers that followed her whenever she strolled around Church Hill.
One morning, Lizzie was crossing the street to call on Eliza Carrington when she spotted a thin man halfway down the block, leaning up against a lamppost and carving a stub of wood. He did not so much as glance her way, but when he spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the street, she noticed that his scruffy blond beard was stained brown around the mouth. Her heart thumped, and without thinking that she might arouse his suspicions, she quickly turned and hurried back inside.
She watched him from the parlor window through the lace curtain, gnawing on the inside of her lower lip, wondering what to do. The man fit Mr. Botts’s description of one of his observers too perfectly for him to be anyone else, and she knew he was no resident of Church Hill, nor did he seem to have any proper business there. When he seemed perfectly content to remain there all day, idly carving and utterly unconcerned that he did not belong, Lizzie found Mother in the gardens and invited her to the parlor on the pretext of discussing poetry, a subject that did not interest Mary in the least and would ensure she stayed away. Drawing the curtain aside, Mother studied the man gravely for a long moment, then sighed. “I suppose we must make some token gesture to dispel suspicions.”
“I cannot sit and sew with Mary and her insipid friends,” Lizzie declared. “I could not bear it. Not for a single day, nor a single hour, not even to save my life.”
“I suspect that if it were indeed to save your life, you would find the strength to sew a shirt or two,” Mother replied, amused. “We don’t have to join in Mary’s efforts, dear. We can contrive some innocent service of our own.”
After pondering their options, they decided that gifts of books, fresh flowers, and paper and pencils to write letters home would do no harm, so Lizzie perused the family’s substantial library for volumes she could bear to part with while Mother took cuttings
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