PRISONERS OF THE UNITED STATES
The officer who had examined our trunks the previous day took the
trunks to the depot in a wagon, mother and I going in a hack. After
we got on the train, our officer, Lieutenant Martin, joined us, and
made himself very agreeable. The beginning of that journey was most
pleasant. The scenery along the road to Harper’s Ferry is at all times
beautiful, and as we drew nearer to the ferry our car ran by the side
of the Potomac, so that from one window we looked across the river to
the Virginia Heights, and from the other to the Heights of Maryland. It
was afternoon and growing dark when we reached Harper’s Ferry.
There we found something like a riot going on, shouting and noises of
all sorts, and the town full of drunken soldiers. We were told that
there had been fighting in the valley, that the Federals had won,
and that the men had just been paid off, and were celebrating victory
and enjoying pay and booty in regular soldier fashion. Through this
shouting, rowdy mob mother and I passed under our Federal escort to the
tavern.
When we reached the tavern, a miserable little place full of drunken
soldiers, our kind escort told us that his duty was at an end, and that
he must take the return train to Baltimore. I think he hated to leave
us under such unsafe circumstances, but he scarcely had time to settle
us in the reception-room, shake hands, and catch his train. Here mother
and I sat, debating what we should do. Of course, we were extremely
anxious to get out of the place. We called a waiter and asked him if he
could tell us where we could hire a vehicle to take us a part of our
journey, or the whole of it. He knew of nothing that we could get. Then
we went out on the porch, disagreeable as this was, and made inquiries
of everybody who seemed sober enough to answer, but to no purpose. We
could find no way of getting out of Harper’s Ferry that night.
Thoroughly frightened, we asked to be shown to the commanding officer
of the place, and were ushered into General Kelly’s office, which,
fortunately, was attached to the tavern--really a part of it.
General Kelly rose when we entered, saw us seated, and was as courteous
as possible, while we stated the case and asked his advice. He heard us
patiently, and was very sympathetic.
“I don’t know what to say, ladies. I have no authority to send you on.”
“Then what _will_ we do, general?”
“I can not say. I can, of course, give you passes, but you will find it
impossible to hire anything here to travel in just now. The best you
could get would be an ox-cart or a broken-down wagon, and the roads are
almost impassable for good strong vehicles. And, besides, it is not
safe for you to travel except under military escort, which, as I have
said, I have no authority to furnish. There has been a great deal of
fighting in the valley, and the roads are lined with stragglers. If you
were prisoners now I could put you under escort and send you through
our lines easy enough, but as it is I don’t see what I can do.”
We felt inclined to cry.
“And this is not a fit place for you to spend the night in, as you can
see for yourselves,” he pursued, very much in the manner of a Job’s
comforter. “The tavern is thronged with drunken men, and the whole town
is overrun with them.”
“Would it not be best for us to return to Baltimore?” we asked humbly.
We had almost made up our minds to going back.
“That would be best, certainly--if you _can_.”
“Why, can’t we go back? We had no idea that we wouldn’t be allowed to
go back if we wanted to.”
“Well, you see, ladies, you are in the position of Southerners sent
south. The policy of the Government encourages the sending of all
Southerners in Maryland south to stay. I am only explaining, that you
may understand that it may be difficult for me to assist you, in spite
of my willingness to do so. I can not send you back without authority
from General Fish. I will telegraph to him at once, and do my best for
you. My orderly will see you back to the tavern. And I will notify you
when I hear from General Fish.”
So we returned to the reception-room of the tavern. Among the groups
thronging the tavern were a few graycoats who had been captured the day
before. One of these prisoners, a tall, handsome man, walked restlessly
up and down the room where we sat, his guard keeping watch on him. As
he passed back and forth I looked at him sorrowfully, putting into my
eyes all the sympathy and encouragement I dared.
There was something in his look when he returned mine that made me
think he wanted to speak to me. Every time he passed I thought I saw
his eyes growing more and more wistful under their drooping lids.
Without seeming to notice him I moved about the room until I got to
a window which was in the line of his restless beat. I stood there,
my back turned to him, apparently looking out of the window, until I
disarmed the suspicion of the guard. Then I settled down into a seat,
my side to the window, my back to the guard, my face to the prisoner
when the turn in his beat brought him toward me. A swift glance showed
him that I was on the alert. Not a muscle of his face changed--he was
facing the guard--but when he turned and came back, as he passed me he
dropped these words.
“Going south?”
He walked to the end of the room and turned. Coming back, he faced me
and the guard. As he passed I said:
“Yes.”
When he came back, he said--always with his head drooped and speaking
below his breath and so that his lips could hardly be seen to move:
“Take a message?”
When he passed back I said:
“Yes.”
Returning: “Get word to Governor Vance of North Carolina----”
To the end of his beat, turning and passing again in silence, then as
he walked with his back to the guard:
“You saw Charlie Vance here----”
To the end of beat one way, to the end another, and back again:
“Prisoner--captured in fight yesterday----”
Several beats back and forth in silence, then:
“Carried north----”
Again:
“Don’t know where.”
This was the last he had opportunity to say. I saw the orderly coming
in. Before Lieutenant Vance was near enough to catch another word from
me, the orderly stood before me, a telegram in his hand. It was from
General Fish to General Kelly:
“The ladies were sent south at their own request. I decline
further connection with the matter.”
“Why--why,” I cried in desperation, “we can’t go south, we can’t go
north, and we can’t stay here!”
There was a pert little Yankee in the room who had been watching us for
some time. He, like everybody else around us, understood by this time
our dilemma.
“I’ll tell you how to get sent on, if you will listen,” he said.
“I will,” I said clearly and firmly, and looking straight into the eyes
of Lieutenant Vance, who was then passing close by me.
The little Yankee was staggered by the unnecessary amount of resolution
expressed in my reply. I kept my eyes focused on the spot where Mr.
Vance had been for some seconds after he had passed. Then I turned to
my little Yankee. I had snubbed him severely heretofore, but I was
humbled by extremity, and willing enough now to listen if he could tell
us how to get away from this place.
“Tell us how we can get sent on,” I asked.
“Just step out there in the street and holler for Jeff Davis, and
you’ll get sent on quick enough!”
We withered him with a stare, and then turned our backs on him, and at
the same moment two ladies entered the room whom we recognized. They
were Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby, whose acquaintance we had made in
Baltimore, and they, too, were going south. They explained that they
had been in this wretched place since yesterday, and that they were not
allowed to return to Baltimore and were unable to go home. They had
been out trying to find a conveyance of some sort, but had been able to
secure only the promise of an ox-cart, and hearing that we were here
had come in to consult with us. During all this time the orderly, whom
I had detained, was waiting impatiently. We decided to go with him and
make another appeal to General Kelly. Accordingly the whole party filed
into General Kelly’s office again.
“What _are_ we to do, general?” I cried out in desperation. “We can’t
go back, we can’t go on, and we can’t stay here!”
The kindly general did honor to the stars he wore--he was a gentleman,
every inch of him. It happened later that he was captured and held in
Libby Prison in Richmond, and I was in Richmond and didn’t know it. I
have held a grudge against fate ever since. If I had only known, he
would have been reminded by every courtesy that a Southern woman could
render of how gratefully his kindness was remembered.
“I hardly hoped for a different answer from General Fish, ladies. The
regulations on this point are very stringent. And I can not return you
to Baltimore unless you take the oath of allegiance.”
“What?” we asked eagerly.
“If you take the oath of allegiance, I can send you back.”
We decided to do this.
We didn’t know exactly what the oath was, but we thought we could
take anything to get us out of our scrape. We told General Kelly we
would take it, and we were conducted into another room, which I can
only remember as being full of Federal soldiers. We were marched up
to a desk where a man began reading the oath to us. It was the famous
“ironclad.” We did not wait for him to get through. Without a word each
of us turned and marched back into General Kelly’s office, as indignant
a set of women as could be found.
He was looking for us--doubtless he knew by previous experience the
effect the reading of that oath produced upon Southern women--and he
burst out laughing as our procession filed back into his room.
“Why, general,” we began, “we couldn’t take that horrid thing! We are
Southerners, and our kinsmen and friends are Southern soldiers.”
“I almost knew you wouldn’t take that oath, ladies, when I sent you
there.”
“General,” I said, “this is the most remarkable position I ever knew
people to be in--where you can’t go back, and can’t go forward, and
can’t stay where you are. I don’t know what you are to do with us,
general, unless you hang us to get us out of the way.”
He laughed heartily.
“I must do something a little better than that for you. My orderly will
take you back to the tavern, and you will hear from me in an hour.”
We went with Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby to their room. Before the
hour was up we were escorted to another interview with General Kelly.
The general beamed on us.
“Here is a telegram I received in your absence,” he said, handing it to
us:
“Mrs. and Miss Duncan are dear friends of mine. Can you see
them through? If not, tell them I will be in Harper’s Ferry
to-night. Answer.
“HOSMER.”
“Here is my answer,” said the general:
“Stay where you are. Will see them through all right.
“KELLY.”
“How could he have found out the trouble we were in?” we asked in
wonder.
“I don’t know. News of the fighting in the valley and the condition of
things here reached Baltimore soon after you left there. Hosmer perhaps
got an idea of your situation through General Fish. He may have gone to
Fish’s office to inquire. Hosmer is a capital fellow and an old friend
of mine. I had about determined on what to do for you before I heard
from him, but I thought it would please you to know of his message. I
will ask you to return to the tavern, ladies, and exercise a little
further patience. You will hear from me soon.”
This time we waited only a little while before an orderly rapped at
the door to say that an ambulance was in waiting for us below. We
hurried down with him, and in ten minutes were inside the ambulance,
and prisoners of the United States.
Behind us into the ambulance stepped a dashing young officer, all brass
buttons and gold lace.
“I am Captain Goldsborough,” he said, saluting, “commissioned by
General Kelly to attend you.”
Our escort consisted of five soldiers who followed us, sitting in a
wagon on our baggage. That afternoon we passed through Charleston, and
Captain Goldsborough pointed out to us the house in which John Brown
had lived--an ordinary two-story frame house.
As well as I can remember we reached Berryville about nine o’clock. Our
ambulance drew up in front of the tavern, and Captain Goldsborough went
in to see about getting accommodations for us. He came out quickly and
said, “This is no fit place to-night for you, ladies. I am informed
that there is an old couple on the hill who may take us in. I hear,
too, that they are good Confederates,” he added mischievously. Of
course lights were out and everybody asleep when we drove up, but our
driver went in and beat on the door until he waked the old people up.
They received us kindly, and the old lady got a supper for us of cold
meats and slices of loaf bread, butter, milk, preserves, and hot coffee
which she must have made herself as no servants were in the house at
that hour; and we had a comfortable room with two beds in it. The old
lady came in and chatted with us awhile, telling us all she knew about
our army’s movements, and listening eagerly to what people in Maryland
had to say about the war. We were very tired, but I am sure it must
have been one o’clock when we went to sleep. At daybreak there came a
great banging at the front door. Mother put her head out of the front
window and inquired who was trying to break the door down.
It was our driver, and there at the gate stood our ambulance. The
driver hurried us desperately, saying we had not a moment to lose. The
noise had aroused our hosts, and when we got down the old lady had
spread us a cold lunch and made us a cup of coffee.
“I was hoping to have you a nice hot breakfast,” she said, “but since
you must go in such a hurry this is the best I can do. If I had known
you were going to make such an early start I would have got you a hot
breakfast somehow.”
We swallowed our food hurriedly, but this did not satisfy our driver.
Every few minutes he came down on the door with the butt end of his
whip. Finally we left off eating, ran up-stairs, and gathered up our
bags. As we hurried down, almost falling over each other in our haste,
we saw a magnificent-looking soldier standing in the hall. He was in
the full uniform of a colonel of cavalry, glittering with gold lace,
with gauntlets reaching his elbows, and high military boots.
“Mrs. Duncan and Miss Duncan, I suppose,” he said with a sweeping bow,
“and----”
“Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby,” we said of the ladies who came behind
us.
“I am Colonel McReynolds, commandant at this place, and at your
service, ladies,” he continued. “I have to apologize for not paying
my respects to you last night upon receipt of General Kelly’s letter
asking me to take charge of you. The lateness of the hour must be my
excuse. At the time Captain Goldsborough presented it I had a number of
important despatches to attend to, and I supposed you were tired out
and in need of rest.”
We expressed our appreciation of his courtesy and General Kelly’s
thoughtfulness.
“What is all this?” he asked, pointing to our ambulance, baggage wagon,
and impatient driver.
We explained that they were the conveniences furnished us by General
Kelly.
“But you surely do not propose starting off in such weather as this,
ladies?”
I have neglected to say that it had been storming since daybreak.
“The driver has been beating on the doors since before day,” somebody
said.
“He has, has he? Then he has exceeded his instructions. He had no right
whatever to disturb you, ladies. I will see that he is reported.”
He called the driver and reprimanded him sharply.
“Pray don’t feel that you must leave us in such weather as this,
ladies,” he continued with the utmost kindness. “Stay here a week if
you like. That ambulance and wagon and those men and horses are at your
service as long as you choose to keep them here, and we will be glad to
do whatever we may for your comfort or pleasure until it suits your own
convenience to leave us.”
We hardly knew how to thank this princely young enemy, but we insisted
that the driver should not be punished, and that we should be allowed
to proceed on our journey, as we were anxious to reach our friends and
kindred.
He rode in our ambulance with us to his headquarters, where we were
joined by our other charming enemy, and, making our adieux to the
gallant and handsome colonel, continued our journey.
During the day something happened to Captain Goldsborough’s watch, and
it stopped running, much to his annoyance.
“I should like to know what time it is,” he said.
I pulled my watch out and held it open for him to see the time. I
could have told him what hour it was. I don’t know what made me such a
reckless little creature in those days. The watch I held to him had a
tiny Confederate flag pasted inside. My companions had either secreted
their watches or were not traveling with them. I had been urged to do
the same, but had openly worn my watch ever since leaving Baltimore.
Captain Goldsborough saw the hour, and he saw the flag also. He stared
at me in utter amazement.
“You are brave--or reckless,” he said.
“I know this is contraband goods, and, according to your ideas,
treasonable. Will you confiscate it?” quietly holding it out again.
His face flushed.
“Not I! but some one else might. You are not prudent to wear that
openly.”
And I was so ashamed of myself for hurting his feelings that I made
amends in rather too warm terms, I am afraid, considering that he
didn’t know I was married and a privileged character.
“You are traveling in the wrong direction, _I_ think, Miss Duncan,” he
ventured to say after awhile. “You shouldn’t leave the North and go
south now.”
“Why?”
“I--I shouldn’t think you would receive the attention there just
now that is your due. You are young and fond of society, I imagine.
And--there are so few beaux in the South now--I shouldn’t think you
would like that.”
“Really?”
“I mean that I wish you would stay up North where it is pleasanter.
It’s so--uncomfortable down South. You are so young, you see, you
ought to have a chance to enjoy life a little. I--I wish you were up
here--and I could add a little to your happiness. I--I mean,” catching
a glance which warned him, “it is must be dull for you in the South--no
beaux--no nothing.”
“All the beaux are in the field,” I retorted, “where they ought to
be. I wouldn’t have a beau who wasn’t, and if I were a Northern girl
I wouldn’t have a man who didn’t wear a uniform--though, I think, it
ought to be gray.”
“I expect you have a sweetheart down South whom you expect to see when
you get home. That is why your heart has been so set on getting back.”
“If I had a sweetheart down South I couldn’t see him when I got back
home, for he would be in the field.”
“So, your sweetheart is a Southern soldier?” wistfully.
“I wouldn’t have a sweetheart who wasn’t a soldier--a Southern soldier.”
In the other side of my watch I had pasted a small picture of Dan in
uniform. I opened this side and held it out to my companion.
“That’s my sweetheart’s picture.”
He looked at it long and hard. “A good-looking fellow,” he said, “and I
have no doubt a gallant soldier. If I ever meet him in battle--he will
be safe from _my_ bullet.”
Behind our wagon all the way from Harper’s Ferry had come a party
equipped like ourselves. They were Jews, and, as we were informed,
were prisoners of the United States. They had an ambulance like ours, a
baggage wagon like ours, and a similar escort of five infantry perched
on trunks. Their escort who rode inside, however, was not so attractive
as ours. We felt and expressed much commiseration for them because they
were prisoners--“those poor Jews,” we called them.
We were all suffering the consequences of late and early hours, and
of the worry and excitement at Harper’s Ferry. I felt almost ill, and
when Miss Oglesby, whose home was in Winchester, invited us to spend a
week with her, we concluded that we would accept her hospitality until
better able to continue our journey.
Winchester was the most difficult of all places for Southerners to pass
through at this time, and we could not possibly have gotten through
if we had been left to our own resources. Milroy was commandant, and
his name was a terror. He belonged to the Ben Butler of New Orleans
type. Some time near the middle of the day we drew up in front of
Milroy’s headquarters. Immediately behind us came the Jews and their
belongings. They did not go in with us, and I supposed they were
awaiting their turn. General Milroy was absent, off on a fight, and we
fell into the hands of his adjutant, a dapper little fellow. We heard
him talking to Goldsborough of the recent fight and victory, and heard
him making arrangements for our transportation.
Here we thought it proper to inform him that we were going to remain a
week in Winchester.
“You can not remain here,” he said. “You go on immediately.”
“Oh, no!” we said, “we’re not going on now. We are going to stop here
for a visit and until we are rested.”
“You are prisoners and under orders. You go at once--” he began bruskly.
“Oh, no!” we interrupted, eager to enlighten him, for we saw he had
made a very natural mistake. “_We_ are not prisoners. Those poor Jews
out there, _they_ are prisoners. We are going to stop here on a little
visit.”
“You don’t stop here an hour. This is Miss Oglesby’s destination, and
she stops, but the rest of you go on--now.”
He looked as if he thought us demented. Goldsborough kept making faces
at us, but we were so anxious to correct the adjutant’s mistake that we
had no attention to bestow elsewhere. We thought we had never seen so
stupid a man as that adjutant.
“_We_ are not the prisoners,” we insisted. “Those Jews out there----”
Here he told Captain Goldsborough to conduct “these prisoners”
down-stairs and into the ambulance provided for them. “You will not
go far before you meet a detachment of cavalry on their way to this
place,” he informed Captain Goldsborough, and then instructed him to
turn back of these a sufficient escort for our party.
We were in a perfect rage as Captain Goldsborough led us down-stairs.
We thought Milroy’s adjutant the very rudest and stupidest person we
had ever seen.