Most of the survivors of Gen. Morgan’s command remember that brave and
gallant soldier, Col. George St. Leger Grenfell, who came to us and was
on Gen. Morgan’s staff, after long and faithful service in the British
army. He did me a kindness during the war, which I have remembered
with gratitude ever since. By an accident my horse’s back had become
so sore he could not be ridden, and in the fall of 1862, while leading
him and wearily walking in the column over a mountain road in East
Tennessee, Col. Grenfell came riding by, accompanied by a subordinate,
who had in charge a led horse. Observing my plight, he stopped, and
asked me the cause; and when told, requested me to mount his led horse,
and when mine got well to return his to him, which offer I gladly
accepted.
Afterward, Col. Grenfell, for alleged complicity in the plot to release
the Confederate prisoners from Camp Douglas, was arrested by the
Federal authorities and sentenced to imprisonment at Fort Jefferson,
Tortugas Island. In April, 1867, my brother, Maj. Valentine H. Stone,
of the 5th United States Regular Artillery, who had been stationed at
Fortress Monroe for eighteen months, was assigned to take command at
Fort Jefferson. He was two years older than I, and he was the brother
who, as one of the “Hoosier Boys,” advocated the cause of Bell and
Everett in 1860. He afterward went into the Army, the 5th Regular U.
S. Artillery. I will have more to say of him directly. On learning
where he had been assigned, I wrote to him, giving an account of Col.
Grenfell’s kindness to me on the occasion referred to, and requesting
him to do all in his power, consistent with his duty, to alleviate the
prison life of my old army friend, who was, as a true soldier and
gentleman, worthy of such consideration. With this request there was
a faithful compliance on the part of my brother, which Col. Grenfell
gratefully appreciated. I was permitted to correspond with Col.
Grenfell, and several letters passed between us.
In September, 1867, yellow fever broke out at Fort Jefferson. Col.
Grenfell, having had large experience with this dreadful disease,
faithfully nursed all who were stricken down among the garrison as
well as other prisoners. My brother’s wife was one of the first
victims. After her death, my brother started North with his little
three-year-old boy, but, was taken ill of yellow fever while aboard
the vessel, and died at Key West. In a letter written by Col. Grenfell
the next day, in which he gave me an account of my brother’s death, he
stated:
I deeply regret that his leaving this place prevented
my nursing him throughout the malady. Care does more
than doctors, and he had great confidence in my
nursing. * * * I am tired and grieved, having been now
twenty-one days and nights by the bedsides of the sick
(last night was my first night passed in bed)—grieved
on account of the death of your brother, who was the
only officer that ever showed me any kindness since I
first came here. I wish I could say that they had not
been positively inimical and cruel. But your brother’s
arrival put an end to all that. I am much afraid that
the old system will soon again be in force.
From this grand old soldier I received a few months later the following
interesting letter:
Fort Jefferson, January 15, 1868.
H. L. Stone, Esq.—Dear Sir: Your always welcome letter
of the 22nd of December was duly received, and, believe
me, I appreciate and reciprocate your kind expressions
of regard. I owe to your friendship the knowledge
imparted to Gen. Basil Duke that the heavy restrictions
placed on me for no fault of mine by former commanders
had been removed by the humanity of your poor brother,
and I am happy to say that the present commander, Maj.
Andrews, walks in Maj. Stone’s steps. As long as our
conduct is good, we need fear no punishment. I was
rather afraid when I read in your letter that you had
published mine to you. I do not know what I wrote, but
believe that you would not have done so if I had said
anything unguardedly which might get me into trouble.
This is not to be wondered at when I tell you that I
was shut up in a close dungeon for ten months, every
orifice carefully stopped up except one for air, denied
speech with any one, light, books, or papers. I could
neither write nor receive letters. I was gagged twice,
tied up by the thumbs twice, three times drowned (I am
not exaggerating), and all this for having written an
account to a friend of some punishment inflicted on
soldiers and prisoners here, and the bare truth only,
which statement he (Gen. Johnson) published in the New
York World. I fear, therefore, giving publicity to
anything; not that I am afraid of Maj. Andrews (I have
really not a fault to find with him), but tigers have
claws and sometimes use them.
It was gratifying to hear that your poor little orphan
nephew arrived safely at his maternal grandfather’s. I
knew little of the child, but from what I heard he was
a very shrewd one. He was too young to feel his loss
deeply. I have two cypresses which I am taking care
of (they came from Havana) and mean to place on Mrs.
Stone’s grave, which is on an island about a mile from
this.
Maj. Stoner’s bridal trip was nearly turned into a
funeral. (I forget that instance. I wrote him something
about it. Perhaps some of you remember Maj. Stoner’s
bridal trip when he married Miss Rogers. He had some
trouble with the conductor. I forget now what it was.)
What a savage the conductor must have been! The Major
wanted two or three of his command to be near him at
the time of the assault.
Basil Duke and Charlton Morgan write that they are
busy enlisting in my favor all the influence that they
can command—Mr. G. Pendleton and others. I have also a
very good letter from a Mrs. Bell, of Garrettsville,
Ky., wife of Capt. Darwin Bell, who promises that
Garrett Smith and some other friends of hers will
interest themselves to procure my release. She read
in some local paper an extract from, I suppose, my
letter to you, and she says: “My husband, who bears a
kindly remembrance of you in the war, and myself, felt
ashamed to sit over our happy fireside whilst his old
comrade was wearing out his life in captivity, and we
determined to work until we obtained your liberty.” I
have also a letter from Mr. S. M. Barlow, of New York,
a prominent Democrat and friend of Mr. Johnson’s. He
had written to the President and to Gen. Grant, but had
received no direct answer; but Montgomery Blair, whom
he had commissioned to see the President, says: “I have
seen the President for Grenfell. He has promised to
try to pardon him, although he says there are several
hard points in his case.” Yes, the case is full of hard
points, but they all run into me. The hardship is mine.
I do not build much on all this, and yet if a regular
system of petition was gotten up by many influential
parties at once the President might yield. I wish that
my friends by a concerted movement, combined with the
Archbishops of Ohio and Missouri, R. C., would petition
His Excellency. Bishop Quintard, of Tennessee, would, I
am convinced, willingly help an old friend and comrade.
But, alas! I am in prison and can combine nothing.
I shall be happy to receive your scrawls, as you call
them, whenever you have time to indite one, although
I can offer you nothing but wails and lamentations in
return.
Whilst you are blowing your fingers’ ends from cold,
I keep close to an open window with one blanket only,
and that oftener off than on. I have tomatoes, peppers,
and melons in full bloom. Salad, radishes, and peas
and beans at maturity in the open air, of course. In
fact, I am obliged to use sun shades from ten to three
all through the garden, for be it known to you they
have turned my sword into a shovel and a rake, and I
am at the head of my profession here. What I say or do
(horticulturally) is law. Other changes than this are
made here. A learned physician, Dr. Mudd, has descended
to playing the fiddle for drunken soldiers to dance to
or form part of a very miserable orchestra at a still
more miserable theatrical performance. Wonders never
cease, but my paper does; so I will simply wish you a
happy New Year and subscribe myself your sincere friend,
G. St. L. Grenfell.
Some time after this letter was written, how long I do not remember,
Col. Grenfell undertook to make his escape from the Dry Tortugas in
a small boat on a stormy night, hoping to be able to reach the Cuban
coast, but was never heard of afterward.