Free The Spymistress by Jennifer Chiaverini Page A

insisted was illegal. Lizzie feared for him, especially after Peter brought word from his friends serving in other households that the few brave Unionists who had voted nay were pursued from the Capitol Square by jeering, stone-throwing mobs.
    The day after the vote, word that Union general-in-chief Winfield Scott had sent troops from Washington City across the Potomac into Virginia did nothing to dispel the prevailing euphoria. President Jefferson Davis was on his way, greeted as a conquering hero by cheering crowds that lined the railroad tracks and packed the stations at every stop along his route. Though suffering from a bout of poor health, he nevertheless acquiesced to demands for speeches along the way, and at one town after another, he promised his ardent listeners that the Northern invaders would suffer terrible consequences for their aggression. His words, transcribed in the newspapers by approving editors, preceded him to Richmond, so he had already become a great favorite with the people by the time his train approached the city on the morning of May 29, more than two days overdue.
    When word came that Jefferson Davis’s train was crossing the bridge from Manchester, cannon thundered a fifteen-gun salute to herald his arrival. As he and his entourage of friends and dignitaries emerged from the train, eager civilians and soldiers crowded the platform and the grounds all around, cheering and applauding. A band struck up a rousing serenade as Governor Letcher and Mayor Joseph Mayo escorted the visibly exhausted president to an open carriage pulled by four magnificent bay horses. Thousands of cheering onlookers lined the four-block uphill route to the Spotswood Hotel, the men shouting and throwing their hats in the air, the women waving handkerchiefs and tossing flowers. Visibly moved, Mr. Davis set aside his weariness and rewarded the citizens for their patience by smiling, waving, and offering firm handshakes as he graciously accepted their ebullient welcome.
    Lizzie stood silently among them, her arm linked through Eliza’s. Rather than wait for the next day’s papers and rely upon what were certain to be absurdly rapturous descriptions of Mr. Davis’s arrival, she had been determined to see him for herself and take her own measure of him. She knew that he was fifty-two, and that he had been a soldier and a planter, that he had served in the United States House and Senate, and that he had been secretary of war to President Franklin Pierce. What she saw as he stepped down from the carriage at Eighth and Main was a tall, thin, dignified gentleman with a prominent nose and brow, high cheekbones above sunken cheeks, a thin mouth, and neatly trimmed chin whiskers. He was pale, and his left eye looked filmed over with some infection, and he seemed less eager for the office to which he had been chosen than resigned and determined to do his duty.
    After one last wave to the adoring crowd, Mr. Davis disappeared inside the Spotswood, but when the people’s cries for a speech did not diminish, he appeared at a flag-draped window. “This is not the time for talk, but for action,” he began, and continued to address them for ten minutes more, praising the Old Dominion as the cradle that had rocked Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, and a whole host of other noble patriots. These great statesmen had bequeathed to them a perfect model of government that had become twisted and perverted by an administration determined to deprive them of their constitutional rights, but the new heroes of the South would not let that stand. When at last Mr. Davis bade his avid listeners good morning and withdrew to sit down to breakfast, the throng roared its approval.
    “They adore him,” Eliza said, bending close to Lizzie’s ear and nearly shouting to be heard over the din.
    “They adore him today,” Lizzie retorted grimly, and having had quite enough, she linked arms with Eliza and together they pushed their way through the