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fastened with a cameo brooch. She walked slowly into the alley, stopping just a few feet away from me. I pressed myself to the wall so I’d be hidden from her view.
    She pulled a small pistol from a pearl-studded purse that hung on her waist. I crouched down low in a space just between the woodpile and the wall and watched her as she paced this way and that, looking, watching, waiting.
    In moments, a mustachioed man walked toward her. He was slim and elegantly dressed in a tan-colored linen suit and spotless brown boots. He strode up to the girl. He, too, had a weapon, a bright silver long-barreled gun. I crouched lower, folding myself further into the space.
    “The way is clear, Colonel Jordan,” said the girl, her voice was like a purr, soft and Southern-accented. He turned in a full circle, his hand on the gun.
    “I said we’re alone, didn’t I?” Then slowly, carefully, she unpinned her chignon. Coils of hair, a shower of bright gold fell to her waist. The man pocketed his gun and moved closer to her. Before I looked away, thinking I might see something no young girl should be privy to, he ran his hands through her tresses, caressing each strand, finally, closing his fingers around something, flat and tiny—a flat packet. He unrolled a paper inside and smiled.
    “Miss Duvall, we thank you,” he said, kissing her hand. “Our brave Betty Duvall.” They stood very close together. He touched her face.
    The girl took his hand. “It is the least I can do, sir.”
    “Mrs. Greenhow will have another dispatch for you presently,” he said. “The Yankees are ready to move. At her command, ride east at sunset. I’ll meet you at Centreville. I’m on my way now.”
    She nodded. “God save the South.”
    “God save the South,” he answered, like he was saying a prayer. He slipped the packet into his left pocket, pulled his gun from the right one, and walked quickly through the alley in the opposite direction from where I was hidden. I had no choice but to stay put as the girl he called Betty Duvall quickly pinned up her hair, patting the whole of it smooth. With a blazing smile on her face, she flounced back to the street.
    When Colonel Jordan was far enough away, his back still to me, I crawled from the woodpile, out of the alley and into the street, nearly colliding with a man in a long black coat and a white collar—clerical garb. A squat black hat was pulled down low on his head.
    “Beg pardon, my dear,” he said, in a heavily accented foreign voice. A group of ragged Negroes, struggling with huge wooden timbers low on their backs, blocked my way as I tried to cross to the other side. The clergyman stood at the street corner. He waved a Bible at soldiers as they passed.
    “Save your souls before battle! Read your holy book! It doesn’t take sides,” he yelled. There was something odd, something familiar about him that held my eye, but I was so intent on following the girl called Betty I kept moving.
    Finally I got to the other side of the street. As I craned my neck to see if I could catch another glimpse of her, a butcher with lamb and pig carcasses slung over his shoulders elbowed me aside.
    Then I saw Betty Duvall approaching one of the houses I’d just passed, a three-story brick townhouse at 1625 K Street, to be exact. She sashayed through a line of soldiers standing guard outside, climbed the stairs, and rapped on the door. It opened quickly. In the entryway stood another woman, regal of stance. Her upswept hair was copper-bright. I moved closer to hear what they were saying.
    I noticed that nearly hidden by the volume of the woman’s full skirts was a small girl-child twirling a doll. As the child lifted the doll, I saw it had on a blue petticoat with lace trim.
    “My dear Amanda,” I heard the woman speak loudly to the girl I’d just heard called Betty, “My little Rose and I have waited a long while for you. My darling daughter adores the new doll clothes you sent!”
    After the door closed,