The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose Read online

  Early on one frosty mornin’,

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land

  And then, to the very same tune and at the very top of their lungs, everyone sang “The Confederate States of America War Song,” which they all knew by heart:

  Southern men the thunders mutter!

  Northern flags in South winds flutter!

  To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!

  Send them back your fierce defiance!

  Stamp upon the cursed alliance!

  To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!

  After all four verses of that rousing battle hymn, the crowd quieted and George Timson played “Taps” on his bugle and the Confederate flag was lowered to half-staff, where it would fly for the rest of the day. Reverend Trivette gave the benediction (he was much too long-winded, as usual), and the beautiful ceremony was over.

  The members of the Daughters of the Confederacy went through the cemetery, placing beautiful wreaths of spring flowers on the graves of Darling’s Confederate dead. While they were doing that, everyone else took their picnic baskets and jugs of tea and lemonade and adjourned to the neighboring picnic ground for a huge potluck and musical jamboree, featuring all the local fiddlers and guitar players and accordion players playing old-time music.

  The Dahlias, with their families, had commandeered several picnic tables in the shade of a pair of large sycamore trees. They spread tablecloths on the tables and put out platters heaped high with fried chicken and barbecued spareribs, covered with tea towels to keep away the flies. With the platters, there were big earthenware crocks filled with green beans cooked with fatback, creamy potato salad, Mildred Kilgore’s coleslaw with pecans, and Aunt Hetty Little’s stewed okra with bacon, tomatoes, and corn. There were dozens of deviled eggs and pints of pickles and gallons of iced tea and lemonade, and far more chocolate cakes and sweet potato pies than everybody could eat, along with Mildred Kilgore’s homemade strawberry ice cream, made with fresh berries in the Kilgores’ hand-crank ice cream maker. It was a picnic potluck to remember, especially because Miss Rogers couldn’t help bursting into tears every time she looked at the certificate honoring the Confederate Rose.

  After the meal was over and the leftover food (there wasn’t much) put back in the picnic baskets, the men went to play horseshoes and talk politics while the women sat at the tables, chatting and listening to the music and watching the boys playing baseball in a nearby field while the girls played jacks and jumped rope.

  Lizzy and Verna had just sat down together when they were joined by Myra May and Violet, who was carrying Cupcake on her hip. Cupcake and Violet wore matching yellow ribbons in their hair.

  “Well, hey, Verna,” Myra May said, “I heard from Buddy Norris yesterday that there is no longer a warrant out for your arrest. Congratulations.” Buddy Norris was Sheriff Roy Burns’ deputy. He was sweet on Violet, so he hung around the diner whenever he wasn’t riding around on his Indian Ace motorcycle, keeping the peace. The sheriff liked to brag that Buddy was the only mounted deputy in all of Alabama.

  “Word travels fast,” Verna said. “But, yes, Buddy got it right. The warrant’s been canceled.”

  Violet perched Cupcake on her knee, fluffed up the baby’s strawberry curls, and retied her yellow ribbon. “Just out of curiosity, Verna,” she said, “how did you manage that?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Verna replied in a mysterious tone.

  “She discussed the whole thing with Mr. Tombull,” Lizzy said. “It didn’t take much to convince him that Earle Scroggins had trumped up the ‘evidence’ against her. Scroggins wanted to shovel the problem under the rug so he wouldn’t look bad to the voters, so he jumped at the first explanation, which was definitely not the right one. What’s more, the way he went about it meant that his so-called ‘evidence’ would never have been admissible in court.” At least, that’s what Mr. Moseley had said when Lizzy told him about it by telephone. (Actually, what he said would have earned the ire of old Judge Parker, who never allowed swearwords in his courtroom.)

  “That’s right,” Verna confirmed. “After Mr. Tombull thought about it, he said he’d have Scroggins cancel the warrant.” She grinned. “Scroggins wasn’t very happy about that, but he did it.”

  Myra May propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “This is not to be repeated,” she said in a low voice, “but I hear that the commissioners are going to tell Mr. Scroggins that he has to step down as acting treasurer. He’ll keep his job as probate clerk, because that’s an elected office. But he’s finished as treasurer.”

  Lizzy and Verna exchanged startled glances. “You’re kidding,” Verna said incredulously. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Just never you mind,” Myra May said loftily, and Violet busied herself playing pat-a-cake with Cupcake. Lizzy knew that it had been overheard on the switchboard.

  “Well, I guess I’m not surprised,” Verna said after a moment. “I had to tell Mr. Tombull the whole thing, which included that business with Coretta Cole. It was obvious that Scroggins was using her to set a trap for me. I don’t blame Coretta—her family needed money and she did what she had to in order to get it. And she signaled her ulterior motive strongly enough to raise our suspicions—Liz’s and mine, I mean.”

  “That’s true,” Lizzy said. “The way Coretta acted, neither of us felt we were able to trust her. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think it was deliberate. She was letting us see that she couldn’t be straight with us.”

  Verna nodded, agreeing. “Anyway, Scroggins was way out of line, doing what he did at the bank, and with Coretta. If he got away with pushing the blame onto me, there was no telling what else he might try the next time he had a chance. Mr. Tombull is a straight shooter. I guess he figured that now was a good time to clean house in the treasurer’s office, since he had the auditor’s report in his hands.” She grinned. “And especially after Charlie Dickens interviewed him for that article he’s planning. I think Mr. Tombull saw the writing on the wall, so to speak.”

  “I suppose the next question is who the county commissioners are going to appoint to fill the treasurer’s job,” Lizzy said. “If Scroggins is out, who’s in? One of the commissioners, maybe?”

  “Uh-uh.” Myra May shook her head, her eyes alight. “Guess again.” Violet giggled.

  “You know?” Verna asked in surprise, looking from Myra May to Violet.

  Lizzy elbowed her. “There’s precious little these gals don’t know,” she said. “Even when a meeting is held behind closed doors, they’re bound to get wind of it, sooner or later.”

  “Well, who, then?” Verna demanded.

  Myra May and Violet looked at one another. Violet raised her eyebrows. Myra May nodded. Then they both leaned forward and said, together and in a loud whisper, “Verna Tidwell!”

  Lizzy gasped. “Verna?”

  “Me?” Verna exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. That bunch of old rascals would never in the world appoint a woman as county treasurer—not even on an acting basis.”

  “Maybe they’ve decided to appoint somebody who knows what she’s doing,” Violet suggested. “After all, you were the only one who knew how to track down that missing money. Scroggins didn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Right,” Myra May said. “So appointing you would seem to be a smart move, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe.” Verna’s tone was acid. “But nobody ever accused the Cypress County commissioners of being smart. Mostly, they just do as little as possible and hope for the best. They wouldn’t appoint me—they know I would actually do the job.”

  “Well, no skin off our nose if you don’t believe us,” Myra May replied with a shrug. “You’ll hear about it soon enough. The commissioners are meeting tomorrow night. If I were you, Verna, I’d expect a telephone call and an invitation to the m
eeting. You should go.”

  “And be prepared to act surprised when they announce their decision,” Violet put in. “You don’t want them to know that you were tipped off ahead of time.”

  Lizzy looked from Myra May to Violet. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you? You’re not making it up?”

  “Of course we’re not making it up,” Violet said, and smiled at Verna. “Congratulations, Verna. We’re all very proud of you. Why, I’ll bet that you’re the only female county treasurer in the whole state of Alabama.”

  “I never count my chickens before they’re hatched,” Verna muttered. “I’ll believe this when it happens. If it happens.”

  “When what happens?” Ophelia asked, coming to the table with a pitcher of lemonade.

  “Nothing,” Verna said hastily, and held up her glass. “Are you offering refills on that lemonade?”

  “Gif me a vhisky,” Myra May said huskily. “Ginger ale on the side, and don’t be stingy, baby.”

  “Congratulations on your new job, Opie,” Lizzy said warmly, as Ophelia filled the glasses. “Charlie Dickens says you’re a whiz on that Linotype machine.”

  “New job?” Bessie slid onto the seat next to Lizzy. “Ophelia has a job?”

  “At the Dispatch,” Ophelia said proudly. “Mr. Haydon is teaching me the Linotype machine. And Mr. Dickens says that if things work out, maybe I can take a crack at being advertising manager. He hates to sell ads,” she went on in a confiding tone. “But the newspaper needs more income. And I know all the store owners, so I don’t think I’d have any problem talking to them about taking out ads in the paper.”

  Myra May gave her a sharp look. “If I’d known you were looking for a job, Ophelia, I would have asked if you wanted to work on the switchboard. I’ve had it up to here”—she put her hand to her forehead, above her eyebrows—“with sweet young things. I need someone mature.”

  “Well, I’m mature, but I couldn’t,” Ophelia said apologetically, pushing her hair back behind her ear. “Jed wouldn’t want me to work nights or weekends. Mr. Dickens told me I could set my own hours at the Dispatch. Of course, it doesn’t pay much,” she added. “But it pays enough.”

  Lizzy looked curiously at Ophelia. Enough for what? she wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Ophelia probably had a special project in mind. Maybe some more new furniture for her house, like that pretty living room suite she’d bought from Sears a while back. Lizzy admired that little walnut coffee table.

  “I always heard that the Linotype was too big a machine for a woman,” Violet said, frowning. “Isn’t it hard to operate?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Ophelia replied. “I think men just say that because they’re afraid that women will take their jobs.” She tilted her head to one side. “You have to have patience, yes, and it helps if you already know how to type. And I can’t lift a full case of type—not yet, anyway.” She lifted her arm and flexed her bicep. “But that may change. And I’m here to tell you that anybody who can operate a sewing machine and run up a dress pattern can certainly learn the Linotype.”

  “That’s wonderful, Ophelia,” Bessie said. “Now, when I read the newspaper, I’ll know that you were the one who put all those words on paper.” She paused, looking around the table, as if to make sure that she had everyone’s attention. “Speaking of jobs, have you heard about Miss Rogers?”

  “Uh-oh,” Verna said ominously. “Has the town council closed the library?”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Ophelia put in. “Not for a while. That’s what Jed says, anyway. Somewhere, the council has found some money to keep it open.” She paused, frowning. “He didn’t tell me any of the details. I guess it’s not definite yet.”

  Bessie dropped her voice. “The money your husband was talking about,” she said quietly, “is coming from the sale of Miss Rogers’ family heirlooms—the pillow and the documents that were hidden inside it.”

  “She’s sold them?” Lizzy cried, alarmed. “Oh, no! They were really important to her!”

  Bessie held up her hand. “It’s okay, truly, Liz. Now that she knows who her family was, she feels a lot less anxious about hanging on to a piece of the past. She decided to put the pillow and the documents to good use, so she sold them to a collector in Wilmington. He apparently has a few other things, including an autographed copy of Rose Greenhow’s memoir. He plans to donate everything to a local museum, where people can see them and understand what a courageous woman Miss Rogers’ grandmother was.”

  Myra May clapped her hands. “Good for Miss Rogers,” she said. “I knew she had it in her—she just had to find it, that’s all.” On Violet’s lap, Cupcake clapped her hands and crowed happily, and they all laughed.

  “And here’s the best part,” Bessie said. “Once the items are installed in the museum, she’ll be invited to Wilmington to see them. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “It really is,” Violet agreed. “Miss Rogers will love it.” She shook her head. “But I don’t see how any of that is going to help the library.”

  “The money isn’t coming to Miss Rogers,” Bessie explained. “She’s giving it to the town council, with the stipulation that they use it to keep the library open—and let her use some of it for more books.”

  “What a wonderful idea!” Lizzy exclaimed.

  “More books,” Verna said. “I’m for that.”

  “You bet,” Myra May replied emphatically.

  “Let’s drink to Miss Rogers,” Ophelia said, lifting her lemonade glass.

  “And to the Confederate Rose,” Bessie said.

  “To the Confederate Rose,” they all said, in unison.

  Historical Note

  Rose Greenhow, Civil War Spy

  The characters who appear in The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose are entirely fictional—that is, except for the Confederate Rose herself: Rose O’Neal (sometimes spelled O’Neale) Greenhow, who was born in 1813 or 1814 and died by drowning on October 1, 1864. I have taken the story of her life, as it is related by Charlie Dickens in Chapter Sixteen, from a variety of sources, including Wild Rose, the excellent biography by Ann Blackman that appeared in 2005. If you’d like to learn more about Rose Greenhow, look for Blackman’s book.

  Historians have debated the value of Rose’s spy craft and the importance of her espionage. Her coded dispatches were not the only secret information that General Beauregard received about the movement of Northern troops before the First Battle of Bull Run (as it was called by the North), but it is clear that the Confederate command placed a great deal of confidence in the intelligence she provided, which she obtained by listening to and asking questions of the government officials and military officers she entertained in her Washington home, on West Sixteenth Street, within sight of the White House.

  Using a simple substitution cipher created by Colonel Thomas Jordan (whom espionage novelists would call her “spymaster”), Greenhow encrypted messages and concealed them in the clothing and other objects that her female friends wore or carried as they traveled from Washington to Manassas and Richmond. According to Blackman, Rose’s encrypted reports were “generally accurate and contained useful notes about the numbers and movements of Union forces around Washington.” Coded replies and requests for further information were carried back to Rose by Confederate couriers, usually Southern sympathizers, civilians who made their homes in Washington and were allowed to travel freely. This back-and-forth went on for months throughout 1861. Finally, the assistant secretary of war assigned Allan Pinkerton to establish a twenty-four-hour watch over her home, and, in early 1862, to place her under house arrest. When that did not stop her activities, she was imprisoned in the Old Capitol building, where she was held until her release and deportation to the South.

  Rose bore eight children, including Little Rose, who had only one daughter, and it appears that there are n
o living Greenhow descendants. Miss Rogers’ relationship to Rose and Little Rose is entirely fictional, as is the embroidered pillow and the documents hidden within it. But such a thing is possible, don’t you think? And it makes a good story.

  Rose Greenhow could not change the outcome of the War Between the States. But she did what she could to serve the Confederacy. And in the end, she died for it.

  ROSE GREENHOW’S CIPHER

  Credit: This cipher was redrawn by Peggy Turchette from the version reprinted on p. 176 in Fred Wrixon’s book, Codes, Ciphers, Secrets, and Cryptic Communication, Black Dog & Leventhal, 1998. The original is held by the North Carolina Office of Archives and History, Raleigh, North Carolina.

  Recipes

  If there were no other reason to live in the South, Southern cookin’ would be enough.

  —MICHAEL ANDREW GRISSOM, SOUTHERN BY THE GRACE OF GOD

  I have chosen recipes for this book that not only illustrate the wide range of foods that appeared on Southern tables during the early 1930s, but also have some historical interest, in terms of ingredients and preparation.

  Dr. Carver’s Peanut Cookies #3

  George Washington Carver was the most famous African American scientist and teacher of his era. He spent most of his professional life as a faculty member at Tuskegee Institute and was widely respected for his assistance to small farmers in improving their farming methods and his research into new uses for peanuts, sweet potatoes, pecans, and other Southern crops. He included recipes in his agricultural bulletins in order to demonstrate a variety of uses for the crops. This popular recipe is from How to Grow the Peanut and 105 Ways of Preparing it for Human Consumption, Tuskegee Institute Press, Bulletin Number 31, June 1925.

  1⁄3 cup butter

  2 eggs, well beaten

  1⁄2 cup sugar

  1⁄2 cup flour

  1⁄2 teaspoon baking powder

  1⁄2 cup finely chopped peanuts