The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

The Dahlias, their Rook game forgotten, watched Mr. Dickens intently. “What is he trying to do?” Beulah whispered, and Bessie said, “Just wait, dear, you’ll see.”


When he was finished, Charlie Dickens opened the seam with his fingers and began fishing around inside the pillow, gently and carefully. And then he found something. As the Dahlias watched, holding their collective breaths, he drew out several folded papers.

“Why, what on earth!” Miss Rogers exclaimed in great surprise. “I’ve had that pillow since I was a child and I had no idea there was anything in it—except for the stuffing, of course. What is it, Mr. Dickens? What have you found?”

Charlie Dickens had unfolded one of the papers and was scanning it quickly, his expression changing from curiosity to amazement and then to exultation.

“I was right!” he exclaimed. “I knew it—I was right!” He tossed the paper down in front of Miss Rogers. “Take a gander at that, Miss Rogers. Just take a gander at that!”

Miss Rogers gave it a fearful glance, as if it held some bad news, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she looked up and asked, in a strained, breathless voice, “What’s all this about, Mr. Dickens? Please explain.” She took out a white lace-edged hanky and touched her lips. “Does it . . . does it have to do with my grandmother?”

“I do believe it does.” Charlie Dickens drew himself up and looked around the table. “Has anyone here ever heard of the Confederate Rose?”

There was a babble of voices, all speaking eagerly and at once.

“The Confederate rose?” Bessie asked, puzzled. “Why, certainly. We know that flower. But I don’t know what that has to do with—”

At the same time, Beulah said, “I have one growing beside my back fence. It’s just gorgeous. But what—”

And Fannie said, “The Confederate rose is a favorite of mine, as well. However, I don’t quite see—”

Miss Rogers raised her hand and the others stopped speaking, in deference.

“The Confederate rose? We’re all familiar with it, Mr. Dickens—a beautiful shrub, with blossoms that are white when they first open. Then they turn pink, then red, and then a deep, bloodred. Confederate ladies planted it in honor of their brave fallen soldiers, who shed their blood for the Cause. But it isn’t a rose at all, you know,” she added in a reproving tone. “It’s an hibiscus, and we should pay it the honor of using its real name. Hibiscus mutabilis.”

“And that’s not all,” Bessie put in. “Tell him, Miss Rogers. Tell him about your project.”

Miss Rogers smiled proudly. “Of course. I am happy to tell you, Mr. Dickens, that our Darling Dahlias have propagated and raised fourteen new Hibiscus mutabilii, one for each Dahlia. We intend to plant them in the cemetery before Confederate Day, so everyone can see them when they come for the celebration. We’ll be glad to give you all the details, if you’d like to print a story in the paper.”

But while everyone was speaking, Charlie Dickens had been shaking his head and frowning, trying to get a word in edgewise. When Miss Rogers finally finished, he spoke up.

“I am sure your flowers will be very beautiful, but that’s not what I am talking about.” He picked up the paper that lay on the table in front of Miss Rogers. “This is a letter from the woman that people in the South, in Richmond, particularly, called the Confederate Rose—Rose Greenhow. She spied for the Confederacy during the first months of the War Between the States, until President Lincoln had her locked up.”

“The Confederate Rose, a spy?” the Dahlias exclaimed, their voices rising in a babble of astonishment. “A spy!”

“A spy,” Charlie Dickens confirmed. “A very valuable spy who was responsible for the South’s success at the First Manassas.”

“Manassas!” An awed murmur went around the table. “Manassas!” As daughters of the Confederacy, each of the Dahlias understood the sacred significance of what the North called the Battle of Bull Run, the South’s first and most memorable victory.

“Yes, Manassas,” Charlie Dickens repeated. He unfolded the other papers he held in his hand. “These are letters to President Jefferson Davis and General P. G. T. Beauregard and to Rose Greenhow’s daughter. And these”—he held up several pages covered with indecipherable symbols and letters—“appear to be coded materials, perhaps copies of reports she managed to smuggle to Confederate officials during the months that she was imprisoned.”

“Astonishing,” Bessie exclaimed.

“Incredible,” Fannie said, and Beulah murmured, “Imagine that. A woman spy!”

“But . . . but what does it all mean, Mr. Dickens?” Miss Rogers whispered, fanning herself with her white hanky.