ADMIRAL PORTER SAVES THE BOY'S LIFE--INTERVIEW WITH THE REBEL
FLAG-OF-TRUCE OFFICERS, WHO CLAIM HIM FOR A VICTIM--SCENES ON BOARD A
MAN-OF-WAR--RETURN HOME BY SEA--RECEPTION IN NEW YORK--TELEGRAPH
ACQUAINTANCES--NEW YORK PAPERS RECORD THE ADVENTURE IN FULL PAGE.
It will be seen that the Admiral was willing that I should be
surrendered, and my life hung for several days in a balance, which,
thank God, was held by Captain Porter.
Perry, knowing of these negotiations, was himself convinced that I was a
Rebel Spy, whom they wanted to get back, and had kept a close watch on
my actions; and, I presume, had set half the ship's crew to pick me up
on any little circumstance which would serve to confirm his suspicions
that I was in the service of the rebellion.
One day I was sitting on the "back stairs," or on the platform of the
gangway aft the wheel-house, and, as the vessel had swung round, I
could, from my location, see right over the water to the rebel lines. My
position happened to be somewhat secluded, and I had in my hands a scrap
of an old New York _Ledger_, that one of the tars had loaned me. I saw
that I was being watched by Perry, who was in quiet consultation with
the officer of the deck. A marine with a loaded musket had been ordered
to look sharp that I did not fly over to the Rebs, I suppose.
While in this situation the thought burst upon me that I was a prisoner,
suspected by my own friends of being a spy in their camp.
The interview that I had had in the cabin, with Captain Porter and
Lieutenant Perry, the proposed trip to Mobile, with a dozen other little
incidents, rushed through my brain at once, but I was comforted by the
thought that the War Department would acknowledge my services. After
this feeling had passed away from my mind to some extent, I recalled
with bitterness some of Lieutenant Perry's actions and talks with me.
Carelessly glancing around to see that he was still on deck, I wrote on
the margin of that old paper some words that expressed, in language
more emphatic than politic, the opinion I entertained of a certain
officer, and whose conduct I should take care would be reported to the
ears of the Navy Department. Before I had finished, a hand was laid on
my shoulder; another reached down and snatched the paper from my hand;
the young officer, whom I had seen talking to Perry but a few moments
previously, said:
"Ah, sketching, are you?" as he took the paper and handed it to Mr.
Perry, who was at his back, and he read with a flushed face the ugly
comments on his brutality to a boy prisoner, who had done more for his
country in one night than he would accomplish in his life-time.
[Illustration: "AH! SKETCHING, ARE YOU?"]
For a boy, this was a pretty sharp trick, if it were not very discreet.
Mr. Perry roughly said, as I put my hands in my pockets and looked at
him defiantly:
"Take your hands out of your pockets when you talk to an officer, damn
you!" "Go forward, sir!" "Don't you come aft again!"
Mr. Perry, as the executive officer, had the control and management of
almost every detail aboard ship; and, of course, after his ridiculous
failure to catch me mapping, or sketching, which had become known all
over the ship, he entertained for me more positive and open dislike than
ever, so that I was henceforth, practically, his prisoner. I had enjoyed
full liberty to go about everywhere as I pleased, heretofore, and
lounged or lay about in the warm sun most of the time up by the
wheel-house; but now I understood that, by his arbitrary orders, I was
not to be allowed to go aft; which I interpreted to mean confinement to
the forecastle.
This was not so pleasant for me, as I could have no communication with
the officers, and lost the opportunity of seeing the marine drill, which
was a daily performance, that seemed to relieve the monotony of our
every-day life, which was indeed becoming quite tiresome to me.
However, I consoled myself with the reflection that I should soon be
able to get away to my home in the North. There had been a transport in
the squadron unloading supplies, which I had been given to understand
would take me off on her return to New York. I watched with eager
interest the unloading of this transport, which had to be tediously
and drudgingly performed by the use of lighters and pulleys over the
ship's side;--the rebs objected, you know, to our forces using the
Fort's piers, which was within range of their guns, though it will be
recalled that our Admiral did not prevent their ships going into the
harbor to unload their supplies.
I think it must have been some of Billy Wilson's Zouaves, or their
supplies, that were being unloaded. You will remember that about this
time that regiment of the roughs and toughs of New York City had been
sent down there, where they were permitted to encamp on the Island,
between the fires of the two forces; being natural enemies of both,
communication with them was necessarily limited.
Early one morning, one of the petty officers shook me out of the
hammock, saying:
"Bundle up quickly, to go aboard the transport."
If I didn't get out of the hammock that morning very gracefully, it was
because it was done suddenly. The man who called me stood by, as he
said, to help me get ready, as the ship was to sail at daylight. I had
no bag for my luggage, which consisted only of the gifts of the fine
sailor suit, mentioned heretofore, and what I wore on my person, so we
were not long in getting ready.
Hurrying up on deck, I went to the gangway aft, where the little gig, as
they call the little boat, was bobbing up and down on the swell, as the
waves beat against the ship's side. The sailor standing in the bow,
holding on to the steps, or rope balustrade, helped me to make the
little jump into the boat, which I felt was dancing with delight because
it was to take me off that old ship.
As I passed to the rear seat, each old tar had a kind word of good-by
for me, and I believe that I promised every one of them to go and see
their friends and sweethearts when I should get home. We waited awhile
for an officer who was getting the captain's mail ready. Soon Lieutenant
Queen came down the steps and scrambled to a seat beside me, saying,
pleasantly:
"Well, my boy, I wish I were going with you this morning."
He gave the order to let go and soon we were bouncing over the water
toward the transport, which was smoking and hissing away at a great rate
some distance from our ship but nearer the shore. When we pulled
alongside I braced myself for the climb up her side, when Lieutenant
Queen should give the signal. He had gone aboard ahead and delayed
sometime; presently he appeared at the ship's side and began to descend
to our boat again; I thought his manner a little queer, as I watched him
with astonishment; once in the boat, he was about to give the order to
pull off, when the captain of the transport hailed him and said:
"I'm sorry, but don't you forget to tell Porter it's not my fault."
After a little further talk in an undertone, Mr. Queen told the coxswain
to go ahead, and then turning to me said:
"There's some mistake, they say they can't take you, they have no room."
My feelings may be imagined--they can not be described. I was so
disappointed that I was literally struck dumb, and could not speak a
word on our return to the ship, and was led aboard by the good-hearted
old sailors as if I had just been rescued from a watery grave.
Going to our ship's side, I looked over the water in the early grey of
the morning and saw the transport, on which I had built my every hope of
home, slowly but surely steaming away toward home, and I still on the
ship _and a prisoner_. How long I stood there I do not know; probably
until the fast-sailing transport had almost gotten out of my dimmed
sight. I cried, of course I did, like a big baby, and on board a
man-of-war, too; and being too proud to show it, I kept my face
resolutely set toward the receding ship that was going home without me.
I didn't even have such a thing as a handkerchief to dry those tears,
bitter tears, which _would_ run down my cheeks and drop into the sea
below me.
Mr. Queen, who had reported his trip to Captain Porter, hunted me up to
say that "the captain would see that I was taken care of and sent home
all right."
Speaking in his kindly, sympathetic manner, seemed to renew my emotion,
and turning my wet cheeks to him I said, I fear somewhat harshly, "I'll
never again undertake anything that would get me aboard a naval
officer's ship."
He laughed good-naturedly, while he told me of his many disappointments
in not getting home from foreign countries, as he had planned, while in
the naval service. He said also that Captain Porter was mad about it,
because some one seemed determined to interfere with everything or
anything he wanted to accomplish, but he would fix me all right next
time, and, pointing to another transport, he said:
"You will go on that ship in a few days."
Some of the talks and hints which the old sailors had been firing at me
for days about a Rebel Spy, sent aboard to fire their magazine, or to
signal to the Rebels any attempt to run inside, and which I had taken at
the time as sailors' yarns, were now vividly recalled to my mind. These
things, coupled with the recent interview between Porter, Perry and
myself, in which I had been entrapped into an agreement to return
through their lines to spike some guns, all came upon me with a
sickening sensation.
I had been led by the talk of Perry, against my own judgment, and
doubting the feasibility of his plans, to agree that I should put ashore
alone, in a dismal swamp in Florida, ten miles from everything living
but alligators and snakes, in the dark of midnight, to find my way
across to Mobile to spike some guns.
Because I was willing to _do anything_ for the benefit of the Union
cause, not having a single thought of fear or danger to myself, this
disposition had been twisted and tortured by Mr. Perry, a United States
officer, into a virtual acknowledgment on my part that I was a Rebel and
was anxious to return to their camps.
I do not believe that Captain Porter agreed with Perry in this
conclusion.
If the object of these Rebels in their negotiation was to throw
discredit on my reports of their operations and plans--which they knew I
could correctly give--they succeeded only in the sense that I was
personally discredited. The officers at the Fort were grateful and glad
to receive my information. I know they were benefited by and acted upon
it; but the poor spy who enabled them to save their Fort, or at least
prevent disaster, was ignored. The officers, no doubt, took great credit
to themselves in their official reports.
I may be allowed to say right here that the spy's work, though often
most dangerous and important, is always thankless. That was my
experience at the outset of my career, but (unfortunately for me
perhaps) did not deter me from continuing in the same service.
I made up my mind to one thing, however; I stuck to it, and I was never
caught on board a man-of-war again, but confined my operations to solid
ground, where I could have more room and freedom, and be my own
executive officer.
The next day on board the ship was Sunday, and an eventful one to me. As
is customary aboard a man-of-war, it was inspection day. All soldiers
and sailors know what a Sunday inspection is, so I need not describe it.
At a certain hour I was invited aft, with the drove of a crew--to
"Meetin'," as the sailor said. All hands were congregated about the deck
according to a drill, which all understood, at a certain moment the
officer of the deck stepped to the captain's door and, after saluting in
the proper manner, invited the parson to the pulpit.
Captain Porter in full regimentals marched out in grand style, taking up
his position, and gravely opened a book from which he read some prayers
as effectively as a clergyman, after which there were orders read, and a
dismissal for a general holiday--relief from drill and routine work for
the balance of the day.
This was the first time I had been permitted to look at the captain
since my disappointment, and I most eagerly scanned his face for some
indication of his feeling toward me; once or twice I caught his eye, but
I found little comfort there. He was a fierce-looking fellow, and
particularly so when fixed up in his Sunday toggery.
The other ships of the squadron, as well as the fort and the Rebels,
seemed to be putting on their best attire and were feeling comfortable
in their Sunday dress.
Inside the harbor, the Rebels seemed to be enjoying Sunday excursions
with their little boats; the officers on the ships and the fort were
exchanging friendly visits.
I had, as a special Sunday privilege, I suppose, been told to resume the
freedom of the ship as at first, and was lounging in my haunt above,
where I could see all about us.
Along some time in the afternoon I noticed a little steam-tug steam out
past Fort Pickens, puffing and dancing along in the direction of the
admiral's flag-ship. The striking peculiarity about the little boat was,
that at her bow she floated a white flag, not larger than a bathing
towel, while on the rear staff were flaunted the Rebel colors.
My curiosity having been greatly excited by the sailors' talks of
flags-of-truce to the fort, in which I was in some unknown way connected
by them, I watched with intense interest every movement this little
craft made; she came on, dancing along between the shore and the
squadron until the flag-ship was almost abreast of her, then suddenly
turning, the fluttering white flag pointed directly to the admiral's
ship, and was lost to my sight behind her great sides.
Others on board were watching this also, and I could see that the
glances of the men would turn significantly from the little truce boat
to me.
Mr. Queen had gone off visiting, but Mr. Perry was on hand, sullen and
disagreeable.
They stopped so long aboard the Admiral's ship that one of the younger
officers ventured to say to me in a side whisper, feeling perhaps that I
needed some comfort: "Oh, they are just over for a Sunday visit to the
Admiral," and then walked briskly away from me as if afraid of being
seen by Perry talking to the Rebel Spy.
He had scarcely turned away from me when, on looking in the direction of
the flag-ship, I saw the white flag come bobbing out from under the
stern of the big ship. Were they going back to their Rebel camps? _No!_
they were bearing straight down on us, while they were waving adieus to
the officers, who were looking over the bulwarks of the ship they had
just quitted.
_Great God!_ my heart sank within me at the thought that they were after
me again, and the old Admiral had sent them to Captain Porter, with
orders to give me up.
I reckon I turned pale. I know that I felt that I would die in the water
beneath me before I would return with them to the Rebel lines. I was a
boy of strong impulse, and, if I must say it myself, I was not afraid of
death; but I determined in the instant I stood there watching that boat
come toward us so saucily that I would die rather than return with them.
The slightest provocation at that time would have made me leap
overboard. Luckily for me, the young officer who had spoken to me but a
few moments previously, ran rapidly up the few steps and called me
quickly to him, saying:
"Captain wants you in his cabin, right away."
I nervously followed him, and as he opened the cabin door I stepped
inside and saw Captain Porter in the act of buckling on his sword belt;
his face was strangely flushed, and, as he adjusted his sword into its
proper position at his side, and buttoned up his coat, turned sharply on
me, saying, as he shook his head significantly:
"Young fellow, that boat is coming after you; do you know that?"
I don't know just what I did reply, I was so stunned for a moment, but
the gallant, glorious old loyal son of the navy put the answer into my
head.
"You claim our protection, don't you."
"Yes, I do. I'll go overboard Captain, but I'll not return to the Rebel
lines."
"You don't need to. You have claimed my protection; you are a boy away
from home and among enemies; you are in my charge."
I tried to thank him, but he stopped me abruptly, saying:
"Never mind; you claim our protection, and, by God, you shall have it."
With this he glared out of his little window like a wild beast in a
cage, and I backed out of his presence with a heart overflowing with
thankfulness and gratitude, rejoiced that I had found one officer who
would use his authority to protect American citizens; who sought the
good of the country and the protection of our flag.
I went back to my perch just in time to see the white flag run under our
bow, and, looking down over the ship's side, I could see the tug was
filled with Rebel officers.
The officer of the deck received them courteously, and, after reporting
to Mr. Perry, they were invited aboard. Mr. Perry was most affable and
pleasant with them, as were, in fact, all the officers, and the Rebels
themselves seemed to be as jolly as if they were out for a frolic. There
was nothing in their manner or bearing toward each other that would lead
anyone to infer there was any prospect of a war.
After the preliminary courtesies had been exchanged, a couple of them
went into the captain's Cabin; what occurred there I never learned; the
interview, however, was a mighty short one; the Rebel emissaries came
out and without any further parley got aboard their flag-of-truce boat
and steered for their sand-banks.
I have a recollection of reading in our school histories an account of
one of our naval officers, while in an Austrian port, giving some such
protection to a naturalized citizen of the United States, and great
credit attached to this act; perhaps, I am prejudiced, but I doubt very
much if that officer did as grand and heroic an act as that of Captain
Porter in protecting a boy from the shabby, cowardly attempt of traitors
in arms against his flag, aided by the more contemptible conduct of our
own officers who were his superiors.
It required the nerve which subsequent events showed Captain Porter to
possess, and his name and deeds are everywhere recognized while that of
his superior, the Admiral, has been lost.
During the ten days I was anchored off Fort Pickens on board the
man-of-war Powhattan my enforced sojourn may be likened to that of a
"fish out of water."
In compelling an ignorant slave boatman to row me over the bay in the
cover of the night to Fort Pickens with this valuable information, I
was, according to law, as it was interpreted technically, guilty of a
threat or attempt to kill. This, with the fact that the slave, like the
boat and oar, was "property," added robbery to the indictment prepared
against me.
But as the slave had been so heartlessly and almost cruelly sent back to
his little boat, there was in fact no robbery, and all that could have
been claimed was the intention or intent to kill, etc. I did not
understand then, and have not since been able to learn, sufficient law
to properly satisfy myself on this question, but the facts are as has
been stated here.
On his return to the Rebels, the colored boy, no doubt, gave these
officials an exaggerated story of his experience with the bold
highwayman, or freebooter, in his boat on the bay, thinking in this way
to obtain for himself some immunity from the terrible punishment that
awaited all slaves who were caught out at night, which would be more
especially severe at such a time and under such circumstances as had
just happened to him.
The Rebel officers, of course, when they heard the dreadful story from
the lips of my boatman, at once began looking up the details of the
recent visit of the Texan among them, and readily gathered sufficient
data from my week's companionship and intercourse in their midst to
justify the conviction that I was a dangerous fellow, and had gone over
to the Yankees, knowing their hand and game too well.
It is probable that the object of the flags-of-truce was, primarily, to
create in the minds of our officers an impression that I was unworthy
and undeserving of belief. Before leaving Washington I had, while in
consultation with an official of the War Department, been given to
understand that, as a matter of policy, it would be more to my credit to
obtain information and report directly to the War Department; and I was
cautioned _not to acknowledge to any person_--friend or foe--that I was
on a secret errand. I had not, during my brief stay at the fort,
mentioned to any of the officers the fact that I was visiting in the
service of the War Department, and had only informed Captain Porter of
my hasty interview with the Secretary, admitting to him that the present
service was purely voluntary, but that I expected to be regularly
engaged on my return home. I had no papers of any kind in my possession,
and even if I had brought along with me the Secretary of War's
endorsement on my application, no person would have been able to have
read the Secretary's peculiar chirography.
Some of our officers, in April, 1861, were inclined to accept the
Rebels' interpretation of the laws, and those at Pickens were, I fear,
disposed, as a matter of mere courtesy to surrender on their demand my
person a victim of their unholy vengeance. At that time Ben Butler,
Fremont, or General Banks, had not had the opportunity to lay down the
law of the nation to the Rebels in arms against its authority; but,
luckily for me, I was aboard the ship commanded by Captain D. D. Porter,
and though I had in my uncertainty of mind for several days "been like
Mahomet's coffin, suspended between the earth and sky," I did not at the
time these negotiations were pending know that my life was hanging by so
slender a thread, or, more properly speaking, that I was liable to be
suspended by numerous threads woven together in the more substantial
form of a rope.
Captain Porter's interview, however, satisfied me at the time, but when
I witnessed with what cordiality and heartiness the Rebel officers were
being received aboard our ship, my mind was puzzled, and I recall now a
feeling of uncertainty or misgiving.
In a day or so after Captain Porter's reception and emphatic rejection
of whatever propositions the Rebel officers accompanying the truce boat
had made to him, in regard to giving into their hands for trial the
Yankee Spy, I bid Captain Porter and his ship a hearty and thankful
farewell, and the curtain was rung down on my Pinafore experiences.
The side-wheel transport steamer Philadelphia being ready to return to
the North, a day preceding her sailing I was placed aboard of her as a
dead-head passenger for New York.
There were quite a number of passengers aboard, among them Lieutenant
Slemmer and one other artillery officer, whose name I have forgotten,
who were going home for the benefit of their health; also a number of
mechanics who had been employed about some repairs on the Fort.
As seen from the deck of the transport, as we weighed anchor and pointed
her prow homeward-bound, I thought the sloop-of-war Powhattan, with her
companion ship, the Brooklyn, with their port-holes and big guns and men
aloft, to give us a parting salute, was one of the most beautiful sights
imaginable. How much better pleased I was with the view from this
standpoint than I had been with the sailing and saluting of the
transport which had sailed a few days previous, under just such
circumstances (except that I wasn't aboard of her on my way home).
Our captain had taken aboard some field-pieces of heavy artillery which
had not yet been stowed below. While we were yet in that portion of the
gulf where the water was comparatively so smooth, and the weather so
fine, our civilian captain amused himself by calling on all hands to
assist in mounting one of these guns on its field carriage, in the bow
of his old transport, while he entertained himself and the ship's
company with great stories of the danger from the newly-fledged
privateers that Jeff Davis so promptly issued his letters of reprisal
for.
We steamed along smoothly and slowly enough for a day or two without any
adventure. I have often wondered since what would have been the effect
on the old ship if that captain had taken a crazy notion to have fired
one of those big field-pieces.
When we reached Tortugas, or Fort Jefferson--which I believe is the name
of the immense affair which seems to rise straight out of the
water--there was considerable saluting and signaling with the flags on
the Fort as we approached the anchorage.
We stayed at Tortugas part of two days, storing away the guns, and I do
think they were two of the most intolerably hot days that I have ever
felt. As we lay at anchor, and when the sun was highest, it was
necessary to spread over the ship's deck the large canvas awning, which
the sailors said was to prevent the pitch calking from melting out and
to avoid "warping the ship."
Here I went ashore, if going inside an immense Fort can be called
shore--there certainly was no freedom about it--but it was a great
relief to one's legs to be able to stand and walk about on the ground
once more, even though it was inside of great walls, and the only
persons to be seen were the men of the garrison, their officers and a
few families.
During our voyage--after leaving Key West--our Fort Pickens officers,
Lieutenant Slemmer and his companion, had kept close to their
rooms--probably they were too sick to make an appearance--but when the
ship got into the bay, and as we ran up the river to the anchorage, Mr.
Slemmer's sick companion made his appearance dressed up in full
regimentals. As he sat on top of the pilot-house with our captain, with
his mantle thrown back over his shoulder, and showing the brilliant red
lining of the artillery uniform, he looked to me then as if he were
expecting to be received as a hero.
Lieutenant Slemmer, on the other hand, modest and retiring, did not show
himself at all; and, as soon as he got ashore, he scurried off to
Pennsylvania to meet his wife, who had previously been highly honored
and entertained after her return North through the rebel lines.
Your humble servant was not long in getting on solid ground, and, in
company with a Spanish exile from Cuba, we drove at once to the Astor
House. Here was lying in state, in their heavily draped parlor, the body
of Colonel Ellsworth, the funeral cortege being on the way from
Washington City to the burial place, somewhere east of New York.
It is not for me, in this narrative, to attempt anything like a
description of the exciting times I was permitted to witness in New York
City that Sunday. Those who have followed me in this effort to picture
my solitary and lonely adventures, away off in Florida, when my
attempts, voluntarily, to do something for my country, and for the
people who were then so terribly in earnest at home, will appreciate my
feelings of joy and happiness, over being once more among friends--and
such great, hearty, fighting friends, too, as everybody seemed to be at
that time.
The first thing I did was to go to a telegraph office; and, climbing up
four or five flights of stairs, I found Mr. Porter in charge of the
operating room, as chief operator and manager; and although I had never
met him personally, I was well acquainted by wire, having often worked
with him at the other end of a 300 mile wire.
Introducing myself, and briefly explaining my arrival from Florida, and
a desire to announce myself to friends at the other end of his wire, he
astonished me by at once saying:
"Why, bless me, is this _you_? There's been lots of talking over this
wire about you lately."
Then he related at length all he had seen and heard of my career through
the newspapers during all the time I was a helpless prisoner aboard the
Powhattan.
He had, as you may imagine, a great deal of news for me about myself, as
reported by the Southern press and extensively copied in the North.
I was soon put in communication over the wire with a brother operator
near my own home; and, strange as it may appear to those who are not
familiar with the humors of the telegraph, an operator's "touch," even
though a thousand miles distant, like the sound of a familiar voice, is
recognized by some peculiarity that attaches to the operator's style.
My old friend at the other end of the wire, on hearing my "sending" at
the New York end, told me afterward, that on that quiet Sunday morning,
when all alone in his office, he had been reading at that very moment a
newspaper account of my adventures, in which it was made to appear that
our officers had, in reply to the demand of the rebels, informed them,
that they--the Union officers--were going to hang this spy themselves;
and while he was yet thinking that as between the two, there was no hope
of my escape, his attention was called to the signal for his office to
receive a message. Hastily answering to "G. A.," or the telegrapher's go
ahead, he pulled out a pencil to note down the message. The first words
the brass tongue of the instrument sounded to his startled ears were:
"I am O. K."--this was my telegraphic signal--"Who are you?"
He said he knew as quickly as the words "I am," were sounded, that it
was me at the key; but, in his present state of mind, could not resist
the feeling that he was about to communicate with a spirit, or the
ghost of his friend, but, as the sounder became silent, or paused for a
reply, he recovered himself, and answered nervously that he was my old
friend Gilson.
Then we had a long, confidential talk in whispers, as it were, over the
long wire, in which much that I have tried to relate in these pages was
briefly gone over, while I was, in turn, informed of all that had been
done and said during my absence.
Word was sent to my father and to my sweethearts and all my friends. As
I rose to leave the office, and turned to thank my old fraternal
companion for his kindness and courtesy, in giving me this opportunity
to at once converse with my home, he suggested to me that, as I had been
so grossly misrepresented, I ought to see the New York papers and have
my story properly given to the world.
At his request, I agreed to meet him at the office in the evening, when
he would take me to the different offices of newspapers with which he,
as manager of the Associated Press, had friendly relations, and
introduce me to the editors.
Leaving Mr. Porter, I found my way next to Rev. Henry Ward Beecher's
Church, in Brooklyn, as being one of the necessary things to do in New
York on a Sunday morning. Here I got a back seat, in a crowded gallery,
and, as I had not yet gotten over the tumbling and rolling sensations
experienced aboard our old tub of a ship, as I sat there and tried to
ogle the pretty girls in the choir over Mr. Beecher's pulpit, the whole
church persisted in rocking and rolling, precisely as the ship had been
doing for a week.
The rest of the day I put in sending notes and messages to Washington,
and to friends whom I had left at home, but many of whom, I now learned,
were out in the army, at different points.
In the evening, I met my friend according to appointment, and together
we called at the New York _Herald_ office, where I was pleasantly
welcomed as a "fruitful subject," and the shrewd city editor pumped me
thoroughly dry before he let me out of that chair by his desk.
From there we went to the New York _Tribune_, where the same procedure
was gone through but at somewhat greater length. The next morning,
which, if I remember rightly, was May 28th, 1861, these two New York
papers printed with bold head-lines a full account of my recent
adventure.
The _Tribune_, I think, published one of their war maps, in which was
located the different Rebel batteries, but in such a mixed-up way that I
was unable to understand it myself.
However, it satisfied the people, and for a single day I was a greater
hero in New York than Lieutenant Slemmer.
Luckily for me, perhaps, I was anxious to get back home to see my number
one girl, and got out of the city before I could be wholly spoiled.
When I got over to Philadelphia, where I had some old railroad friends,
upon whom I called for passes home, I was also quite a big fellow among
my former railroad associates, and the passes were furnished without a
question as to my claims or rights. Fortunately, I survived it all.
I reckon I should have first reported to the War Department, at
Washington, but at that particular time I was much more concerned about
what No. 1 would think of it all, than I was for the opinion of the War
Department, so I first reported to her, and the first words I heard
were:
"Why, I thought you were hung!"
What a deadener that was! The word _hung_ fell from her lips into my
heart like the dull, sickening thud of the dropping victim from the
scaffold. But this isn't to be a love story, so I must pass over some of
the most interesting little events in the career I am trying to
describe, although they supply the motive for many of the acts and
incidents which to all my friends seemed queer.