Excerpt
Introduction: Secrets in Petticoats
It’s easy to think of spies as the trench coat-and-dark-glasses type, slipping through alleyways in the dead of night. But the most effective spies of the Civil War didn’t look anything like that. They looked like someone’s sister, someone’s mother, a well-dressed lady at a garden party or a servant cleaning a parlor. In a war full of rifles, generals, and battlefield glory, these women weren’t supposed to matter. But they did. A lot.
During the Civil War, women weren’t allowed to serve as soldiers. They weren’t commanding armies or signing treaties. Officially, their job was to stay home and support the war effort from the sidelines. Unofficially? They were sneaking across enemy lines, stealing government secrets, delivering coded messages, and building entire intelligence networks from behind lace curtains and church socials. And the most dangerous part? No one saw them coming.
That invisibility—being dismissed, ignored, underestimated—was a weapon. In the 1860s, society had very clear ideas about women. They were thought to be too delicate for politics, too emotional for war, and too innocent to be involved in anything as serious as espionage. That mindset created the perfect cover. Who would suspect a woman of being a threat if they didn’t even think she had the capacity to lie?
Women used this to their advantage, slipping into roles no man could have taken without drawing suspicion. Some were well-connected socialites with access to high-ranking officers and government gossip. Others were servants, enslaved people, or nurses—quiet presences in the background, watching everything, listening carefully, and remembering the details. Whether they were hiding messages in hair buns or eavesdropping behind curtains, their contribution was real. And powerful.
What’s wild is how much of their work went completely unnoticed at the time—and sometimes still is. After the war, very few women received public credit for their efforts. Some faded into history altogether, their names buried in dusty letters and forgotten court records. Others were remembered only in rumors and half-truths, their stories twisted into legend or overlooked as too “unladylike” to be honored. But without their efforts, battles might have turned out differently. Leaders might’ve made critical decisions based on false or missing information. Soldiers could’ve walked into traps that never should have happened.
The spy game wasn’t all glamour and mystery. These women were taking massive risks. Getting caught didn’t mean a slap on the wrist. It could mean prison. It could mean death. And for women, there was an extra layer of danger—reputation. Being labeled a traitor, or even just “unwomanly,” could ruin someone’s life, even if they survived. Their families might disown them. Communities might never forgive them. Still, they did it anyway. Because they believed in something—freedom, loyalty, justice, or revenge. Sometimes all of the above.
There’s something raw and real about that kind of courage. These weren’t perfect people. They made mistakes. They got scared. Some got caught. But they also showed that bravery doesn’t have to look like charging into battle with a bayonet. Sometimes, bravery is saying the right thing in a room full of the wrong people. Or passing a note when you know it could cost you everything. Or pretending not to know what’s going on when you know exactly what’s going on—and who needs to hear it.
Of course, not every woman was on the same side. Some spied for the Union. Some for the Confederacy. And that makes things complicated. It’s tempting to paint them as heroes or villains, but the truth isn’t always that simple. People chose sides for all kinds of reasons—where they lived, what they believed, who they loved, what they stood to gain or lose. That moral messiness? That’s part of what makes these stories matter. It reminds us that history isn’t just about who won or lost. It’s about the people stuck in the middle, trying to survive or change the outcome.
There were women who built entire spy networks from scratch. Some used codes based on quilting patterns. Others passed messages through laundry lines or baked them into loaves of bread. They worked as couriers, disguised themselves as men, and sometimes even bribed guards with sweet talk or cash. A few pretended to be mentally unstable just to avoid suspicion. That wasn’t just clever—it was dangerous. It took guts.
And yet, for decades, their contributions were barely mentioned in history books. Male generals got statues. Female spies got footnotes—if that. Part of the reason is how history was written. Most of the early Civil War histories were written by men, often focused on military strategy, politics, and battlefield tactics. Espionage, especially the kind that didn’t involve violence, didn’t seem “important enough” to include. And women? They were often written out entirely.
That silence speaks volumes. It tells us who had the power to shape the story—and who didn’t. But it also gives us a reason to look again, to dig deeper, to ask questions that weren’t asked the first time. What was that woman doing at that camp? Why did that message arrive just in time? Who was really behind that intercepted plan?
Why women made great spies
If you were a man during the Civil War, and you lingered too long outside an army camp, someone would probably stop you. Maybe search you. Maybe even arrest you. But if you were a woman in a bonnet carrying a basket of eggs? Most of the time, you'd be waved right through. That wasn't just a lucky break—it was the weapon. The fact that no one expected women to be spies made them perfect for the job.
People in the 1860s had very specific ideas about what women were like—and what they weren’t. They were seen as harmless, emotional, soft-spoken. They were supposed to be focused on home, family, and church, not politics or war. These stereotypes were everywhere, shaping how women were treated and what they were allowed to do. It was unfair, absolutely. But some women saw that twisted view as something they could use. If people assumed they were weak or clueless, it gave them a chance to hide things in plain sight—and get away with it.
It’s kind of wild to think about. The very same beliefs that limited women’s lives also gave them power in espionage. They weren’t seen as threatening, so they weren’t watched closely. That meant they could move between towns, visit military hospitals, and attend social events where officers let information slip without thinking twice. And when those women walked away with secrets tucked into a shoe or memorized word-for-word, nobody even realized what had happened.
Some of the most successful spies of the Civil War barely had to sneak—they just had to exist in spaces no one else was looking at. Servants, laundry women, nurses, and society wives could all overhear conversations that mattered. And they did. But what made them good wasn’t just where they were. It was how they used where they were.
Being underestimated gave them access. But keeping that access took brains and nerve. You couldn’t just waltz into a military camp with a fake story and hope for the best. You had to be quick on your feet. One wrong look, one shaky answer, one pause too long—and your whole cover could collapse. These women had to play roles. Constantly. One day they were grieving widows, the next they were flirtatious guests at a party. They needed to read people fast, guess who they could trust, and lie without blinking. That takes serious emotional intelligence and control—way more than people usually give credit for.
There was another layer to all this, though, and it had nothing to do with tricks or disguises. It was the raw guts it took to keep going. Espionage was terrifying. If someone caught you, it wasn’t a slap on the wrist. You could be locked up indefinitely, labeled a traitor, or worse. And still, women kept stepping up to the line. Again and again.
Think about how much pressure that is. You're surrounded by people who think you're not even capable of understanding politics—and you're secretly helping to shape the outcome of the war. That’s courage. Not loud, showy courage with a flag and a speech. The quiet, intense kind that shows up when you walk into a room full of enemies pretending to be one of them. Or when you're staring down a soldier who's demanding to search your bag, and your heartbeat is thundering because you know exactly what's hidden at the bottom.
What’s more, many of these women didn’t have backup. They weren’t getting medals or promises of protection. Some were working alone. Others were part of small networks that relied completely on trust and secrecy. If anything went wrong, they couldn’t just call for help. They had to save themselves. That meant knowing when to run, when to stay, when to lie, and when to tell just enough truth to get by.
And they did all of this while being judged constantly. Any sign of rebellion or independence could destroy their reputation—even if they were helping their side win. They were balancing on a razor-thin edge between patriotism and social ruin. A man captured while spying might be respected, even martyred. A woman? She could be dismissed as hysterical, immoral, or mentally unstable. She might be locked up not because of the danger she posed, but because people couldn’t deal with the fact that she stepped outside the box they put her in.
But that’s exactly what makes their stories so powerful. These weren’t people who had everything handed to them. They weren’t even allowed to be there in the first place. Yet they found ways to change the course of events anyway. They used what they had—sharp minds, social savvy, and nerves of steel—to outwit systems built to exclude them.
They also had to be endlessly creative. Hiding messages in the seams of dresses. Using laundry lines to signal troop movements. Burying notes in bags of flour. Turning everyday objects into tools of war. It wasn’t just bravery; it was strategy. And it wasn’t a one-time thing. They had to get away with it over and over again. One slip-up, and it was over.
It’s easy to admire that kind of fearlessness when you see it from a distance, but up close, it must’ve been exhausting. Some women cracked under pressure. Others got caught and spent the rest of the war in prison. A few were nearly executed. And yet, their stories rarely made the headlines. They weren’t celebrated. They weren’t given power afterward. Most just faded back into “normal” life, their contributions erased or reduced to whispers.
That erasure tells you everything about how women were seen at the time. They were expected to be invisible—and not just in war. In life. Speak quietly. Dress modestly. Support others, but don’t lead. Spycraft gave some of them a strange kind of freedom. Behind enemy lines, they could become someone else: someone clever, commanding, dangerous. Someone the world didn’t expect—but desperately needed.
The stakes
There’s a point in every spy’s story where the danger stops being theoretical and becomes terrifyingly real. It’s one thing to pass a note or sneak a glance at a map. It’s another to do it while knowing that getting caught could mean being dragged off in chains, thrown into a filthy prison cell, or even hanged in front of a crowd. This wasn’t a game. The consequences were brutal, especially for women—because once they were caught, the rules changed fast.
When a woman spied during the Civil War, she wasn’t just risking her freedom—she was risking everything. In the eyes of the law, espionage was treason. It didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or whether you thought you were doing the right thing. If you were caught helping the enemy, you could be tried for betraying your country. And treason wasn’t taken lightly. Courts didn’t give out slaps on the wrist or second chances. They gave out sentences that ruined lives—or ended them.
Even being suspected could destroy someone’s reputation. Once the rumors started, it didn’t take much for a woman to be labeled dangerous, dishonest, or unfit for society. A man could be admired for cleverness or daring. A woman, caught doing the same thing, was often treated as though she’d done something shameful. People didn’t see her as brave. They saw her as disloyal, deceitful, or worse—“unfeminine.” That meant she wasn’t just risking prison. She was risking everything that made life livable back then—her family, her name, her future.
Some women were locked up without trial. They were thrown into makeshift prisons that were overcrowded, unsanitary, and crawling with disease. Others were watched constantly by guards or sent into exile. A few were sentenced to death. Yes, death. That wasn’t just a distant possibility—it actually happened. The government didn’t always care whether a spy was young, old, rich, poor, male, or female. They cared about stopping leaks. And if that meant making an example out of someone, they would.
In a way, being a woman made things even more unpredictable. The law didn’t quite know what to do with female spies. Were they political enemies? Misguided girls? Were they criminal masterminds or just pawns in someone else’s game? The confusion could work in a spy’s favor—but it could also backfire. One minute, they might be treated like a joke. The next, they were being paraded through town in handcuffs or locked away without trial, with no idea how long they’d be there.
Some women were interrogated for hours. Others were threatened or bribed. A few were offered deals—give up your contacts, and we’ll go easy on you. But telling the truth meant betraying the people you worked with. Lying meant holding your ground while every minute felt like a countdown. No easy choices. No guaranteed outcomes.
And not everyone who got caught made it to trial. Sometimes the punishment came before the paperwork. A suspicious glance. A raid. A violent arrest. If someone in power decided you were guilty, it might not matter what kind of evidence they had—or didn’t have.
There was also the risk of retaliation from the public. Crowds could be brutal. Being dragged out in front of your neighbors, accused of being a traitor, spat on, jeered at—this wasn’t just humiliating. It was dangerous. People wanted someone to blame for their losses in the war, and a female spy made an easy target. She wasn’t seen as a soldier following orders. She was seen as sneaky, manipulative, and immoral. That kind of label could follow someone forever.
Even after release, if that ever came, life wasn’t the same. A former spy couldn’t just go home and pretend nothing happened. People whispered. Some refused to do business with her family. Others saw her as either a traitor or a symbol of everything wrong with the country. That kind of pressure could crush someone. And yet, many spies went back to living as if they’d never been caught, keeping their secrets for decades. Some never told anyone what they’d done.
Why would anyone take that kind of risk? Not for fame—most didn’t get any. Not for money—most were never paid. The stakes were sky-high, but something drove them forward. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was belief in a cause. Maybe it was revenge. But the courage it took to keep going, knowing what could happen if they slipped up, was staggering.
And they slipped up more often than you'd think. Some got caught by accident—a lost glove, a suspicious letter, a guard who noticed too much. Others were betrayed. One minute you trust someone with your life. The next, they're handing you over to the military police. That betrayal didn’t just hurt. It killed.
It’s easy to think of spies as the trench coat-and-dark-glasses type, slipping through alleyways in the dead of night. But the most effective spies of the Civil War didn’t look anything like that. They looked like someone’s sister, someone’s mother, a well-dressed lady at a garden party or a servant cleaning a parlor. In a war full of rifles, generals, and battlefield glory, these women weren’t supposed to matter. But they did. A lot.
During the Civil War, women weren’t allowed to serve as soldiers. They weren’t commanding armies or signing treaties. Officially, their job was to stay home and support the war effort from the sidelines. Unofficially? They were sneaking across enemy lines, stealing government secrets, delivering coded messages, and building entire intelligence networks from behind lace curtains and church socials. And the most dangerous part? No one saw them coming.
That invisibility—being dismissed, ignored, underestimated—was a weapon. In the 1860s, society had very clear ideas about women. They were thought to be too delicate for politics, too emotional for war, and too innocent to be involved in anything as serious as espionage. That mindset created the perfect cover. Who would suspect a woman of being a threat if they didn’t even think she had the capacity to lie?
Women used this to their advantage, slipping into roles no man could have taken without drawing suspicion. Some were well-connected socialites with access to high-ranking officers and government gossip. Others were servants, enslaved people, or nurses—quiet presences in the background, watching everything, listening carefully, and remembering the details. Whether they were hiding messages in hair buns or eavesdropping behind curtains, their contribution was real. And powerful.
What’s wild is how much of their work went completely unnoticed at the time—and sometimes still is. After the war, very few women received public credit for their efforts. Some faded into history altogether, their names buried in dusty letters and forgotten court records. Others were remembered only in rumors and half-truths, their stories twisted into legend or overlooked as too “unladylike” to be honored. But without their efforts, battles might have turned out differently. Leaders might’ve made critical decisions based on false or missing information. Soldiers could’ve walked into traps that never should have happened.
The spy game wasn’t all glamour and mystery. These women were taking massive risks. Getting caught didn’t mean a slap on the wrist. It could mean prison. It could mean death. And for women, there was an extra layer of danger—reputation. Being labeled a traitor, or even just “unwomanly,” could ruin someone’s life, even if they survived. Their families might disown them. Communities might never forgive them. Still, they did it anyway. Because they believed in something—freedom, loyalty, justice, or revenge. Sometimes all of the above.
There’s something raw and real about that kind of courage. These weren’t perfect people. They made mistakes. They got scared. Some got caught. But they also showed that bravery doesn’t have to look like charging into battle with a bayonet. Sometimes, bravery is saying the right thing in a room full of the wrong people. Or passing a note when you know it could cost you everything. Or pretending not to know what’s going on when you know exactly what’s going on—and who needs to hear it.
Of course, not every woman was on the same side. Some spied for the Union. Some for the Confederacy. And that makes things complicated. It’s tempting to paint them as heroes or villains, but the truth isn’t always that simple. People chose sides for all kinds of reasons—where they lived, what they believed, who they loved, what they stood to gain or lose. That moral messiness? That’s part of what makes these stories matter. It reminds us that history isn’t just about who won or lost. It’s about the people stuck in the middle, trying to survive or change the outcome.
There were women who built entire spy networks from scratch. Some used codes based on quilting patterns. Others passed messages through laundry lines or baked them into loaves of bread. They worked as couriers, disguised themselves as men, and sometimes even bribed guards with sweet talk or cash. A few pretended to be mentally unstable just to avoid suspicion. That wasn’t just clever—it was dangerous. It took guts.
And yet, for decades, their contributions were barely mentioned in history books. Male generals got statues. Female spies got footnotes—if that. Part of the reason is how history was written. Most of the early Civil War histories were written by men, often focused on military strategy, politics, and battlefield tactics. Espionage, especially the kind that didn’t involve violence, didn’t seem “important enough” to include. And women? They were often written out entirely.
That silence speaks volumes. It tells us who had the power to shape the story—and who didn’t. But it also gives us a reason to look again, to dig deeper, to ask questions that weren’t asked the first time. What was that woman doing at that camp? Why did that message arrive just in time? Who was really behind that intercepted plan?
Why women made great spies
If you were a man during the Civil War, and you lingered too long outside an army camp, someone would probably stop you. Maybe search you. Maybe even arrest you. But if you were a woman in a bonnet carrying a basket of eggs? Most of the time, you'd be waved right through. That wasn't just a lucky break—it was the weapon. The fact that no one expected women to be spies made them perfect for the job.
People in the 1860s had very specific ideas about what women were like—and what they weren’t. They were seen as harmless, emotional, soft-spoken. They were supposed to be focused on home, family, and church, not politics or war. These stereotypes were everywhere, shaping how women were treated and what they were allowed to do. It was unfair, absolutely. But some women saw that twisted view as something they could use. If people assumed they were weak or clueless, it gave them a chance to hide things in plain sight—and get away with it.
It’s kind of wild to think about. The very same beliefs that limited women’s lives also gave them power in espionage. They weren’t seen as threatening, so they weren’t watched closely. That meant they could move between towns, visit military hospitals, and attend social events where officers let information slip without thinking twice. And when those women walked away with secrets tucked into a shoe or memorized word-for-word, nobody even realized what had happened.
Some of the most successful spies of the Civil War barely had to sneak—they just had to exist in spaces no one else was looking at. Servants, laundry women, nurses, and society wives could all overhear conversations that mattered. And they did. But what made them good wasn’t just where they were. It was how they used where they were.
Being underestimated gave them access. But keeping that access took brains and nerve. You couldn’t just waltz into a military camp with a fake story and hope for the best. You had to be quick on your feet. One wrong look, one shaky answer, one pause too long—and your whole cover could collapse. These women had to play roles. Constantly. One day they were grieving widows, the next they were flirtatious guests at a party. They needed to read people fast, guess who they could trust, and lie without blinking. That takes serious emotional intelligence and control—way more than people usually give credit for.
There was another layer to all this, though, and it had nothing to do with tricks or disguises. It was the raw guts it took to keep going. Espionage was terrifying. If someone caught you, it wasn’t a slap on the wrist. You could be locked up indefinitely, labeled a traitor, or worse. And still, women kept stepping up to the line. Again and again.
Think about how much pressure that is. You're surrounded by people who think you're not even capable of understanding politics—and you're secretly helping to shape the outcome of the war. That’s courage. Not loud, showy courage with a flag and a speech. The quiet, intense kind that shows up when you walk into a room full of enemies pretending to be one of them. Or when you're staring down a soldier who's demanding to search your bag, and your heartbeat is thundering because you know exactly what's hidden at the bottom.
What’s more, many of these women didn’t have backup. They weren’t getting medals or promises of protection. Some were working alone. Others were part of small networks that relied completely on trust and secrecy. If anything went wrong, they couldn’t just call for help. They had to save themselves. That meant knowing when to run, when to stay, when to lie, and when to tell just enough truth to get by.
And they did all of this while being judged constantly. Any sign of rebellion or independence could destroy their reputation—even if they were helping their side win. They were balancing on a razor-thin edge between patriotism and social ruin. A man captured while spying might be respected, even martyred. A woman? She could be dismissed as hysterical, immoral, or mentally unstable. She might be locked up not because of the danger she posed, but because people couldn’t deal with the fact that she stepped outside the box they put her in.
But that’s exactly what makes their stories so powerful. These weren’t people who had everything handed to them. They weren’t even allowed to be there in the first place. Yet they found ways to change the course of events anyway. They used what they had—sharp minds, social savvy, and nerves of steel—to outwit systems built to exclude them.
They also had to be endlessly creative. Hiding messages in the seams of dresses. Using laundry lines to signal troop movements. Burying notes in bags of flour. Turning everyday objects into tools of war. It wasn’t just bravery; it was strategy. And it wasn’t a one-time thing. They had to get away with it over and over again. One slip-up, and it was over.
It’s easy to admire that kind of fearlessness when you see it from a distance, but up close, it must’ve been exhausting. Some women cracked under pressure. Others got caught and spent the rest of the war in prison. A few were nearly executed. And yet, their stories rarely made the headlines. They weren’t celebrated. They weren’t given power afterward. Most just faded back into “normal” life, their contributions erased or reduced to whispers.
That erasure tells you everything about how women were seen at the time. They were expected to be invisible—and not just in war. In life. Speak quietly. Dress modestly. Support others, but don’t lead. Spycraft gave some of them a strange kind of freedom. Behind enemy lines, they could become someone else: someone clever, commanding, dangerous. Someone the world didn’t expect—but desperately needed.
The stakes
There’s a point in every spy’s story where the danger stops being theoretical and becomes terrifyingly real. It’s one thing to pass a note or sneak a glance at a map. It’s another to do it while knowing that getting caught could mean being dragged off in chains, thrown into a filthy prison cell, or even hanged in front of a crowd. This wasn’t a game. The consequences were brutal, especially for women—because once they were caught, the rules changed fast.
When a woman spied during the Civil War, she wasn’t just risking her freedom—she was risking everything. In the eyes of the law, espionage was treason. It didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or whether you thought you were doing the right thing. If you were caught helping the enemy, you could be tried for betraying your country. And treason wasn’t taken lightly. Courts didn’t give out slaps on the wrist or second chances. They gave out sentences that ruined lives—or ended them.
Even being suspected could destroy someone’s reputation. Once the rumors started, it didn’t take much for a woman to be labeled dangerous, dishonest, or unfit for society. A man could be admired for cleverness or daring. A woman, caught doing the same thing, was often treated as though she’d done something shameful. People didn’t see her as brave. They saw her as disloyal, deceitful, or worse—“unfeminine.” That meant she wasn’t just risking prison. She was risking everything that made life livable back then—her family, her name, her future.
Some women were locked up without trial. They were thrown into makeshift prisons that were overcrowded, unsanitary, and crawling with disease. Others were watched constantly by guards or sent into exile. A few were sentenced to death. Yes, death. That wasn’t just a distant possibility—it actually happened. The government didn’t always care whether a spy was young, old, rich, poor, male, or female. They cared about stopping leaks. And if that meant making an example out of someone, they would.
In a way, being a woman made things even more unpredictable. The law didn’t quite know what to do with female spies. Were they political enemies? Misguided girls? Were they criminal masterminds or just pawns in someone else’s game? The confusion could work in a spy’s favor—but it could also backfire. One minute, they might be treated like a joke. The next, they were being paraded through town in handcuffs or locked away without trial, with no idea how long they’d be there.
Some women were interrogated for hours. Others were threatened or bribed. A few were offered deals—give up your contacts, and we’ll go easy on you. But telling the truth meant betraying the people you worked with. Lying meant holding your ground while every minute felt like a countdown. No easy choices. No guaranteed outcomes.
And not everyone who got caught made it to trial. Sometimes the punishment came before the paperwork. A suspicious glance. A raid. A violent arrest. If someone in power decided you were guilty, it might not matter what kind of evidence they had—or didn’t have.
There was also the risk of retaliation from the public. Crowds could be brutal. Being dragged out in front of your neighbors, accused of being a traitor, spat on, jeered at—this wasn’t just humiliating. It was dangerous. People wanted someone to blame for their losses in the war, and a female spy made an easy target. She wasn’t seen as a soldier following orders. She was seen as sneaky, manipulative, and immoral. That kind of label could follow someone forever.
Even after release, if that ever came, life wasn’t the same. A former spy couldn’t just go home and pretend nothing happened. People whispered. Some refused to do business with her family. Others saw her as either a traitor or a symbol of everything wrong with the country. That kind of pressure could crush someone. And yet, many spies went back to living as if they’d never been caught, keeping their secrets for decades. Some never told anyone what they’d done.
Why would anyone take that kind of risk? Not for fame—most didn’t get any. Not for money—most were never paid. The stakes were sky-high, but something drove them forward. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was belief in a cause. Maybe it was revenge. But the courage it took to keep going, knowing what could happen if they slipped up, was staggering.
And they slipped up more often than you'd think. Some got caught by accident—a lost glove, a suspicious letter, a guard who noticed too much. Others were betrayed. One minute you trust someone with your life. The next, they're handing you over to the military police. That betrayal didn’t just hurt. It killed.