as if the meeting had gone exactly as she had wanted. Then she turned and walked briskly away, her anger smoldering. How dare Lieutenant Todd turn her away! It would cost him nothing in time, money, or inconvenience to let her nurse the poor injured men, and yet he would prefer to let them suffer.
She would have to go over his head—but to whom?
She pondered her options as she walked the mile between the prison and the Custom House on the corner of Tenth and Main, where the Confederate government kept its offices. Gazing up at the five round arches that formed the arcade marking the entrance to the grand Italianate structure, she quickly ran through a mental list of the men who toiled within its granite and limestone walls. To whom could she appeal? She knew no one in the president’s innermost circle; there were no Virginians in the Cabinet, as the Confederate government had formed before Virginia seceded. Who, among these people who did not know her, would listen?
And then she remembered Mr. Memminger.
Christopher G. Memminger, the secretary of the treasury, was a native of Germany but had immigrated to the United States with his mother when he was a very young child. He was a South Carolinian to the core—and also a devout Christian. Although he had no direct authority over the prisons, he had influence with those who did.
Lizzie gathered up her skirts and climbed the stairs, passing beneath an enormous Confederate flag as she entered the stronghold of the rebel government.
Perhaps curiosity inspired Secretary Memminger to make time to speak with her, because she waited in his outer office scarcely a quarter of an hour before an aide ushered her inside. The room was about the size of Lieutenant Todd’s, but much tidier and brighter, with a window that looked out upon Bank Street and the pleasant smell of lemon oil and fresh sawdust in the air, the latter a remnant of the partitions hastily constructed to divide a large room into several smaller, private chambers.
Secretary Memminger rose and bowed when she entered. “Miss Van Lew, welcome,” he greeted her, offering her a comfortable chair by the window, though he remained standing. He was a gentlemen not yet sixty years of age, with fair hair, dark-blue eyes, and chiseled features. “What request would you make of the Department of the Treasury?”
“My request is not for your department, Mr. Secretary, but for you.”
His eyebrows rose, and he clasped his hands behind his back as he regarded her from above. “How may I be of service, Madam?”
“I realize that you are an exceptionally busy man, and I believe I can express my gratitude best by getting right to the point.” Lizzie paused to take a breath and smile up at him, hopeful. “I would like to nurse the sick and wounded Union prisoners being held in the tobacco factories. They’re only a few blocks away from my own neighborhood, so you can understand why I would feel a special responsibility to extend the hand of charity to them.”
“Are you a trained nurse?”
“No, no more than any other woman who has cared for ailing members of her own family.”
He allowed a rueful smile. “In other words, as qualified as most of the ladies serving as nurses throughout Richmond at this very moment.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. We women are well practiced in caring for the sick, and we all want to be useful.”
Suddenly his smile disappeared. “Your good intentions are woefully misdirected,” he said sternly. “The prisoners are a very different class of men than a lady such as yourself is accustomed to, and they are wholly undeserving of your ministrations.”
“Deserving or not, they need care, and no one else seems eager to take on the task.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and tried not to show how desperately she wanted him to agree. “I beg you, sir, please consider my offer. I am a woman of independent means, and I assure you I will bear every expense myself.”
“That does
She would have to go over his head—but to whom?
She pondered her options as she walked the mile between the prison and the Custom House on the corner of Tenth and Main, where the Confederate government kept its offices. Gazing up at the five round arches that formed the arcade marking the entrance to the grand Italianate structure, she quickly ran through a mental list of the men who toiled within its granite and limestone walls. To whom could she appeal? She knew no one in the president’s innermost circle; there were no Virginians in the Cabinet, as the Confederate government had formed before Virginia seceded. Who, among these people who did not know her, would listen?
And then she remembered Mr. Memminger.
Christopher G. Memminger, the secretary of the treasury, was a native of Germany but had immigrated to the United States with his mother when he was a very young child. He was a South Carolinian to the core—and also a devout Christian. Although he had no direct authority over the prisons, he had influence with those who did.
Lizzie gathered up her skirts and climbed the stairs, passing beneath an enormous Confederate flag as she entered the stronghold of the rebel government.
Perhaps curiosity inspired Secretary Memminger to make time to speak with her, because she waited in his outer office scarcely a quarter of an hour before an aide ushered her inside. The room was about the size of Lieutenant Todd’s, but much tidier and brighter, with a window that looked out upon Bank Street and the pleasant smell of lemon oil and fresh sawdust in the air, the latter a remnant of the partitions hastily constructed to divide a large room into several smaller, private chambers.
Secretary Memminger rose and bowed when she entered. “Miss Van Lew, welcome,” he greeted her, offering her a comfortable chair by the window, though he remained standing. He was a gentlemen not yet sixty years of age, with fair hair, dark-blue eyes, and chiseled features. “What request would you make of the Department of the Treasury?”
“My request is not for your department, Mr. Secretary, but for you.”
His eyebrows rose, and he clasped his hands behind his back as he regarded her from above. “How may I be of service, Madam?”
“I realize that you are an exceptionally busy man, and I believe I can express my gratitude best by getting right to the point.” Lizzie paused to take a breath and smile up at him, hopeful. “I would like to nurse the sick and wounded Union prisoners being held in the tobacco factories. They’re only a few blocks away from my own neighborhood, so you can understand why I would feel a special responsibility to extend the hand of charity to them.”
“Are you a trained nurse?”
“No, no more than any other woman who has cared for ailing members of her own family.”
He allowed a rueful smile. “In other words, as qualified as most of the ladies serving as nurses throughout Richmond at this very moment.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. We women are well practiced in caring for the sick, and we all want to be useful.”
Suddenly his smile disappeared. “Your good intentions are woefully misdirected,” he said sternly. “The prisoners are a very different class of men than a lady such as yourself is accustomed to, and they are wholly undeserving of your ministrations.”
“Deserving or not, they need care, and no one else seems eager to take on the task.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and tried not to show how desperately she wanted him to agree. “I beg you, sir, please consider my offer. I am a woman of independent means, and I assure you I will bear every expense myself.”
“That does
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