RESCUED BY THE FOE
_Milicent’s arrest in Washington as related by herself._
I passed May and a part of the summer of 1863 in fruitless efforts to
get a pass to Virginia. This was when the Civil War was at its whitest
heat, and I was in the city of Baltimore, where a word was construed
into treason, and messages and letters were contrived to and from the
South only by means of strategy. One by one my plans failed. Then
came the battle of Gettysburg, and as I heard of our reverses I felt
an almost helpless lethargy stealing over me--as if I should never
see Nell or mother again. How long the war would last, and what would
be the end of it none could tell. Nell and mother were in a besieged
country, and the blockade between us seemed an impassable wall. The
long silence was becoming unbearable as I slowly realized that it might
become the silence of death and I not know.
At last came news which I thought affected them, and which startled me
into instant energy.
One morning my friend, Miss Barnett, a beautiful girl, rushed into my
room, and, throwing herself on the floor beside me, began telling me
with sobs and tears that my brother-in-law, Major Grey, or his brother
Dick, was a prisoner in the Old Capitol at Washington. She begged me
to go at once and see what I could do. If I could not find some way of
helping the prisoner to freedom, I could at least add to his comfort in
prison.
“You could at least show him that he was remembered,” she said.
“You could take some little delicacies which would be grateful to a
prisoner. I will help you to get them up.”
Poor Isabelle! It was one of the tragedies of the war. She was too
wretched to attempt any concealment.
“You see, if I had any right to go myself I would not ask you to go for
me. If I were even engaged to him--but I am not. You see, it couldn’t
be. But, O Millie! I wish there wasn’t any war that I might be my
love’s betrothed and go to him!”
For a minute her proposition daunted me. To rush into Washington, a
Southern woman, alone and unprotected; to be surrounded on all sides
by the Government officials and spies whose business it was to watch
and report every careless word and act of any one who was known to
be interested in the South or in Southerners--the undertaking seemed
desperate. But there were Isabelle’s tearful eyes, and there was the
fear that Nell’s husband might be the prisoner. I determined to make
the trip at all hazards.
Together we made purchases of what we considered the most tempting
delicacies to take to an invalid or prisoner. There were cheeses,
crackers, oranges, lemons, jellies; and we did not forget to add to our
stock wine, whisky, pipes, and tobacco. Isabelle herself sent a box
of fine cigars, a costly gift, for the war with the Southern States
affected the price of tobacco.
The next morning I started off by myself to Washington in fear and
trembling. Taking a hack there, and trusting to a kind Providence for
guidance and protection, I drove first to the office of the provost
marshal for a permit. On entering his office, to my consternation I
recognized in him the judge-advocate under whose protection our truce
boat had gone to Richmond not many months before with the distinct
understanding that her passengers were not to return from Dixie while
the war lasted. But it was too late to retreat. Rallying all my courage
and self-control I greeted him as a stranger, asking whether or not I
was addressing Judge Turner. Answered in the affirmative, I requested
permission to visit the prisoners in the Old Capitol.
While I was talking he looked up and a glance almost of recognition
lighted his face. It was succeeded by a more scrutinizing regard as I
stood in perfectly assumed unconsciousness before him. Bowing, he asked
me to be seated, and to repeat my petition. Others were waiting their
turn, and his answer was prompt:
“Certainly, madam. You can see the two prisoners mentioned, or any one
you wish, and take with you what you please.”
An easy job certainly!
My heart grew light; I arose to go, thanking the judge cordially.
He said: “One moment, madam.”
I went back, and he handed me a pen, ink, and slip of paper, saying:
“Just sign this, please. It is of no consequence at all--a mere matter
of form--only you can not see your friends without it.”
There spread out before me was the ironclad oath!
Without a moment’s hesitation I replied:
“The oath, Judge Turner! Am I to sign that? I can not! and never will!”
He smiled apologetically and said:
“It is of no consequence--only a little form that we have to insist on.
Sign it, and you can go to your friends.”
“If it is of no consequence to your side, provost, why should it be of
so much to mine that I can not see my friends without it?”
He smiled, and still held the pen out to me.
“No! never!” I said.
“Then I can not help you. I am sorry. You must apply at military
headquarters.”
He kindly directed me to the same. I hurried down the steps, jumped
into my hack, and drove quickly to the War Department. Here I made my
request again and again met with the same polite consent backed with
the oath. Again I refused and turned to go, when one of the officers
kindly suggested:
“Make application to the officer at the Old Capitol. He may permit you
to see the prisoners without oath, though I fear not.”
As there was not much time left before my train would start for
Baltimore, I urged my driver to do his best, and we sped on in haste
until we stopped before the gloomy, formidable-looking prison of the
Old Capitol. With the permission of the guard I entered. The officer in
command received me with kindness and courtesy, and with his consent I
was about to ascend the stairs when he extended his hand, saying:
“The oath, if you please. I presume you took it at the War Department,
and have your pass.”
Again I was foiled. This was my last chance. There was no use
pleading, and I was in despair. I leaned on a chair to rest a moment
before leaving the room, defeated. I had not a word to say, and I did
not say a word. I suppose my deep dejection touched him. I was about to
go when he said with great kindness:
“Wait here near these steps. I will send up an order, and if he is
there, he can come to the railing and you can speak to him, and send
him anything you wish. But you can not go up.”
An orderly ascended with the message, and I waited at the steps,
watching anxiously for Dan or Dick to appear at the railing. I did not
have many minutes to wait. The orderly returned with the reply that
Lieutenant--not Major--Grey had been exchanged that very morning, and
was now on his way home. Happy for Nell and Isabelle and myself, I
poured out my thanks to the officer in command for helping me to such
good news, and asked his permission to send the large basket of good
things I had brought to the other prisoners. He gave it, and I saw the
orderly again mount the stairs, burdened this time with good wishes
and my still more substantial and acceptable offering. As I went out,
passing again through the prison gates, my driver whispered in the most
excited manner:
“Lady! lady! do take care! The prisoners are all at the windows, and if
you look up or speak to them we will both be arrested instantly.”
I seated myself quickly, and then, in spite of all fears and warnings,
glanced up, to see the windows filled with faces, and hands and
handkerchiefs waving to me inside the bars. As we dashed forward, I
leaned out of the window waving my handkerchief in vigorous response.
In the excitement, the enthusiasm of the moment, I lost all sense
of fear or danger--my whole heart was with those desolate, homesick
Confederates behind the bars. Fortunately the driver was frightened out
of his wits and drove like mad, or we should never have gotten to the
train in time.
I had been fortunate enough to find in my driver a strong, if secret,
sympathizer with the South. As I bade him good-by, and thanked him for
the care and promptness with which he had carried me about, and for
his unheeded warning as well, he said:
“Oh, lady, lady, you ran a great risk when you waved that handkerchief!
I saw it and drove as fast as I could to get you away from there. It is
a wonder we were not arrested.”
I stepped on the car, and was taking my seat, when a hand lightly
touched my shoulder from behind, and I heard myself arrested by a name
that was not mine. Behind me stood a sergeant in the United States
uniform, who informed me that I was his prisoner.
I tried to shrink away from him.
“That is not my name,” I said.
Still he kept that light grip on my shoulder. I felt sick. The day
had been a long one of exercise and excitement. I had eaten nothing
since my early breakfast of a cracker and a cup of coffee, and I was
physically weak. The terror of the situation, the full foolhardiness
of my undertaking flashed upon me. Alone in Washington, not a friend
near, and under arrest! For an instant everything whirled around me,
and I fell back against the breast of the sergeant; but as instantly I
pulled myself together and stood erect.
“You are mistaken,” I said quietly, “I am not the person you have
mentioned.”
And I threw back my heavy mourning veil and looked my captor full in
the face.
“Ain’t you? It’s widow’s weeds this time!”
These words were spoken sarcastically by a man in civilian dress who
was with the sergeant--a detective, I suppose.
“I am Mrs. Milicent Duncan Norman, of Baltimore,” I said firmly. “You
can telegraph to No. -- Charles Street and see. You will please remove
your hand,” I continued. “If necessary I will go with you, but I am not
the person you wish to arrest. You are making a mistake.”
I turned my face full to the light, and stood, calm and composed,
though my knees were trembling under me, and I felt as if I should
faint. I saw Bobby at home waiting for me!
“I must stay over if you insist,” I repeated, “but I hope you will
permit me to convince you of your mistake. It would be extremely
inconvenient to me to be detained here. I left Baltimore this morning,
and my little boy has been without me all day. He will cry himself sick
if I don’t get home to-night.”
In spite of all I could do my lips quivered.
“I am sorry, madam,” said my sergeant, more respectfully than he had
hitherto spoken, “but you will have to come with me. If it is as you
say, you can telegraph and satisfy the authorities very quickly.”
My arrest had attracted some attention. I saw that people in the car
were gathering around me, and I saw curiosity in some faces, sympathy
in some, but among all those faces none that I knew. This was my first
visit to Washington, and there was not a soul to identify me. There was
nothing to do but to go and telegraph--if they would let me. I would
have to miss my train. Bobby was watching from the window for me this
very minute--Bobby would cry all night. I told the sergeant that I
would go, and tried to follow him, and then everything grew dark around
me, my head whirled, and I dropped across the seat nearest me.
I could not have been unconscious more than a second. The kind
gentleman over whose seat I had fallen had caught me, and was slapping
my face with a wet handkerchief, and assuring the sergeant that he knew
by my face that I was perfectly harmless and ought not to be arrested,
that he would bet anything on it, when a new passenger hurriedly
entered the car and brushed squarely up against us.
The sergeant was saying: “We must hurry,” and offering me his arm very
courteously. “You will feel better when you get out in the air. And you
will perhaps come out all right, and be able to go on to-morrow.”
The newcomer looked over the sergeant’s shoulder and saw me.
“Milicent!” he said, and clasped my hands.
It was a dear friend whom I had known in my girlhood days as Captain
Warren.
“What is all this?” he asked quickly of the sergeant.
The sergeant was staggered, the little man in civilian’s clothes
cringed, the old man who had offered to bet on me was in the majority.
“We must get out of this, commodore,” said the sergeant quickly, “the
car is moving.”
The commodore got out with us, lifted me bodily off the train, and
then, as we stood together, while the sergeant explained, supported me
with his arm. I was too weak and ill to hear their talk. I think I was
very nearly in a faint while I stood, or tried to stand upright beside
him.
He told me afterward that I had been arrested by mistake for some
famous political spy in petticoats. He answered for me, made himself
responsible in every way, lifted me into a carriage, and told the
driver where to take us. I was too nearly dead to listen to what he
said. As the carriage whirled along I tried to sit up, to lift my head,
but every time I attempted it I grew blind and sick.
“I would not try to sit up just yet, Mrs. Norman,” he said very kindly.
“In a few minutes, perhaps, you can do so without risk, but I’d be very
quiet now. In a little while I will hand you over to my wife--she is a
wonderful nurse.”
“My little boy is looking out of the window for me, waiting for me; he
has been by himself all day,” I sobbed.
“Ah! I am so sorry you have had this annoyance and detention. I wish I
had boarded the car earlier; you should have gone on if I had. I was
outside talking with some friends, and I did not jump on the train
until she was about to move off, but I can telegraph to your friends,
and you can go on to-morrow.”
The ride in the open air had revived me, and I found now that I could
sit up without fainting.
“_You_ were going to Baltimore to-night,” I said. “I am putting you to
so much trouble.”
“None at all. And if you were”--with a tremor in his voice--“I should
be glad of it. _Can_ you sit up? Ah! I am so glad you are better. When
I first took you into this carriage I was afraid I would have to stop
with you at the first doctor’s office. We are nearly home now.”
“You are very good,” I said, still too weak not to speak with tears in
my voice.
“I am fortunate--but too much at your expense, I am afraid. You forget
how large my debt is. I shall never forget the old days in Norfolk and
the kindness that was shown me by you and yours. I owe you a great
deal, Mrs. Norman, as yourself and as your father’s daughter. I shall
never forget his charming hospitality. I am sorry you can’t go on to
Baltimore, but I am glad of my opportunity.”
“That is a nice way to put it, commodore.”
“A true way to put it, Mrs. Norman. Please don’t be too sorry. Where is
Nell?--Mrs. Grey, I suppose I should say. I can’t think of the saucy
little fairy who used to sit on my knee as a madam.”
“I don’t know just where Nell is, or how. The fortunes of war have
separated me from her, and mother as well.”
“And you are alone, without kindred, in Baltimore?”
“Yes, except my baby. I wish you could see Bobby--he is so sweet!”
“He must be.”
“He has Nell’s eyes and her golden curls--you remember?”
“Too well!”
“And her saucy sweet ways--wilful and almost bad--if he were not so
sweet and true. But I tire you. Mothers who talk about their babies
bore people. I make many good resolves not to talk Bobby, and, break
every one.”
“You could never tire me. I am charmed to hear about your boy. Maybe
you can find him a little sweetheart in my house. Here we are.”
He lifted me out of the carriage and led me into the house.
“This is an old friend of mine, dear,” he said to his wife. “She is
sick and in trouble, and I have brought her to you. Her father’s home
used to be my home in Norfolk. Mrs. Norman is Miss Duncan that was.”
She had heard of me. He began to explain how he had met me, but she
interrupted.
“I will come back and hear,” she said, “when I have made Mrs. Norman
comfortable. She looks worn-out. I must take her to her room and see
what I can do to make her more at ease.” While she was talking she had
me in a chair, holding my hand, and giving me a glass of wine.
Commodore Warren took my Baltimore address, and went out saying he
would send the telegrams at once--a special one to Bobby all by himself.
Then Mrs. Warren saw me to my room. As we passed through hallways and
up the stairs, our feet sank into soft, thick carpets that gave back no
sound. Through an open doorway I caught a glimpse of her own exquisite
chamber and of a cozy nursery where children’s gowns were laid out for
the night. Everywhere around me were evidences of wealth, luxury, and
refinement.
After a little rest I felt better.
As I went down to dinner I heard the street door open, and Commodore
Warren’s voice in the hall.
Then children’s voices:
“Papa! papa!”
He was taking his children in his arms and kissing them, and I heard
the glad murmur of his wife’s welcome.
Together they took me in to their table, and showered upon me
courtesies and loving-kindness. Such a delightful dining-room it
was--such lovely appointments and such perfect serving! and such
charming hosts they made! The children are beautiful and well trained.
They were brought into the parlor after dinner, and made great friends
with me. You know children always like me, Nell. This trio took
possession of me. They hovered around me, leaned against me, climbed
into my lap, and the youngest went to sleep in my arms, her soft golden
head nestled under my chin. We decided that she is to be Bobby’s
sweetheart. Their parents were afraid that I was not strong enough for
such demonstrations, but I begged that they would not interrupt the
little people, whose caresses really did me a world of good. But the
commodore called the nurse when the baby dropped to sleep, and she took
it to the nursery, the other children following her. By this time I was
quite myself. A telegram had come from Isabelle, saying she was with
Bobby and that Bobby was comforted.
Commodore and Mrs. Warren suggested that we should go to the opera.
It was rather late to start, but the carriage would take us in a few
minutes, and we should not miss more than the first act. A great singer
was to be heard, and the commodore remembered that I was fond of music.
When I objected on the score that I was not in opera dress and that my
wardrobe was in Baltimore, they explained that they kept a private box,
and that I could hear without being distinctly visible--if I was not
too fatigued to think of going.
“Oh, no!” I said. “You know I love opera, and, thanks to you both, I am
entirely rested and comfortable about Bobby.”
Mrs. Warren ran up-stairs to dress while the carriage was being made
ready. As for me, there was nothing to do but to put on my bonnet and
cloak, so I sat still, and Commodore Warren drew up a chair in front of
the sofa where I sat.
“This is like old times,” he said.
I tried to keep them back, but somehow I felt the tears starting to my
eyes.
He got up and walked to the other end of the room, and brought a book
of drawings of queer places and people he had seen in his journeys
around the world. While he was showing them to me he remarked:
“I’ve a box somewhere of curious toys picked up in various parts of the
world at different times, and I think Master Bobby would be interested
in them. We’ll get Mrs. Warren to look it up, and I’ll ask you to
be kind enough to take it to him with my compliments. It may--in a
measure--recompense him for his mother’s absence to-night.”
“Bobby will be delighted--if he is not robbing your children.”
“My children,” he laughed, “have a surfeit of toys from the four
corners of the earth. They have almost lost appreciation of such
things. By the way, has Nell”--he caught himself with a laugh--“Mrs.
Grey, I should say, any little ones of her own?”
“Bobby is the only baby in the family; but he is enough to go around.”
“I remember with profound gratitude the many expressions I used to
receive of Nell’s regard in those old days, and seeing you brings them
back. Oh, forgive me--I know there have been many changes.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, smiling; “I am always glad to have old days
and old friends recalled. Usually it does not shake me even to talk
about father--it’s a pleasure to think people remember him. In the
first part of this evening I had not quite recovered from my arrest.
But Richard is himself again now. I haven’t forgotten how to be happy,
and I’m going to enjoy this opera.” And I did enjoy it.
Mrs. Warren took me to my train in her carriage; and there he met us to
say good-by to me, and to tell me that he would see that I had a pass
to Norfolk in a day or two. They both saw me comfortably seated, and
after farewells were said and he had seen his wife to her carriage he
stepped back on the cars with a handful of flowers for me.
“Is there nothing,” he asked, “nothing that I can do for you? If you
are ever in any trouble when I can help you, won’t you let me know?”
I bowed my head.
“And Bobby--if there is ever anything I can do for your child, you will
let me know?”
“Good-by,” he said, “it is good to meet old friends and find that
neither time nor war changes them. Good-by--we shall see you again some
day.”
Isabelle was very happy when I told her that Dick was safe, and now
that it was over she regretted having sent me into such dangers and
tribulations.
“I ought to have gone,” she said. “I could have taken the oath, you
see, if they had asked me. And then, well, papa is known there, but--I
couldn’t ask papa to help Dick. He wouldn’t have done anything for
him.”