"The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo:
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few;
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead."
After a short period of reunion with friends in Baltimore, I resolved,
notwithstanding the agitated condition of the country, to wend my way
southward, for I restlessly yearned for an active continuation of duty.
Miss Weaver having other engagements, it became necessary for me to seek
another traveling companion. Trusting to the good fortune which had
hitherto favored me in that regard, I engaged the services of Miss Mary
Chase, who proved a valuable attendant, combining in her character so many
graces and endowments, possessing, among her numerous attractions, a
voice of rare, rich and mellow flexibility.
My uncle, Mr. Heald, having an interest in the Bay Line of steamers, his
son, my cousin, Howard Heald, attended me to the steamer Belvidere,
introduced me to the captain, and took every precautionary measure to
enhance the pleasure of my trip. Subsequent events proved how salutary
were these efforts. The captain did all that polite attention and study of
my comfort could suggest, attended us to the table, pointed out the
workings of the engine, the complications of the machinery and propelling
power of the steamer, which so airily and so gracefully "walked the
waters," directed attention to every object of note on the route and their
charm of historic interest, thus making the trip one replete with
instruction. Miss Chase, with the melody of a song-bird, drew around us a
circle of charmed listeners, and her voice became a source of constant and
soothing solace to me.
Arriving at the city of Richmond at the untimely hour of four o'clock in
the morning, at the solicitation of the captain we remained on board until
a later and more convenient time, when we found the streets of the city
alive with soldiers and filled with sad sounds of sword and musketry, the
first low reverberation of the din of war, the opening of the battle-song,
whose weird refrain has been echoed by so many sorrowing ones, its mad
music adapted to the thousands of crushed and broken hearts!
The little war-cloud, at first "no larger than a man's hand," was growing
deeper and darker, and the stern rumble of the conflict becoming
irrepressible. Every avenue in the way of business was closed, and being
told that if I desired remaining north of Mason and Dixon's line I must go
at once, I retraced my steps, and returned by the James river, since so
memorable in the history of our civil conflict, and sought shelter in
Baltimore, where I remained for the winter; and while so many relatives
and friends would have welcomed me to their homes, I felt impelled to
accept an invitation to the institution in which I had been educated, and
could enjoy the association of those who had first directed my tottering
steps, and my schoolmates, who were friends and co-workers.