SICK IN RICHMOND--CONCEALED BY A COLORED BOY AND UNABLE TO MOVE--AN
ORIGINAL CIPHER LETTER SENT THROUGH THE BLOCKADE TO WASHINGTON THAT
TELLS THE WHOLE STORY IN A FEW WORDS--MEETING WITH MARYLAND
REFUGEES--THE BOY SPY SERENADED--"MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND"--JEFF DAVIS'
OFFICE AND HOME--A VISIT TO UNION PRISONERS AT LIBBY PRISON, ETC.
Feeling my way along, to avoid guards that might be stationed in the
principal roads entering the city, I was soon on Main street, Richmond,
and I walked with an assumed familiarity in search of a boarding-house.
Finding a place that I thought would suit me, located on the south side
of Main street, not far from the market, kept by a widow lady, I applied
for lodging, proffering her the cash in advance. She accepted the cash
and me without question, and being tired, weak and anxious to get to
rest, I was at once shown to a room, and in a very few moments later I
was in bed, and, with a feeling of security, was soon sound enough
asleep in the Rebel Capital.
There were two beds in our room, as in most other cheap boarding-houses,
and waking early in the morning, I was surprised to see on the chair
alongside of one of them, the too familiar gray uniform of a Confederate
officer. I didn't take breakfast with the Madame, but hurried out into
the street, and, after a hasty meal in a restaurant, I hunted up a Jew
clothing shop on the Main street, where I invested a good deal of the
church contribution in a snug suit of clothes, a pair of soft gaiters
for my sore feet, a new hat, etc.
The next step was to a barber's, where I had most of my hair taken off,
and in their bath-room I donned my new clothes, and I flatter myself I
walked out of that barber shop so completely disguised that my recent
friends and enemies would not have known me. I was feeling just good
enough to have called on Jeff Davis that morning, and believing that, as
my visit would be short, it was well enough to have a good time, I
walked rather proudly up to a certain hotel office and astonished the
young clerk by registering myself O. K. Wilmore, Baltimore, Maryland. I
notified an attache of the hotel that I had but recently arrived via the
blockade, and desired a small room for a few days, until I could meet
with a lot more fellows who were coming over, you know, and was
courteously welcomed by the affable clerk. The room to which I was shown
overlooked the park, the Confederate Capitol building, the Governor's
mansion, etc., and there I remained an unwilling guest (after that day)
for three long, lonesome weeks, _sick in bed_.
Maybe it was a fortunate circumstance for me that I was thus taken off
my feet, as it served to effectually hide or exclude me from sight, and
frustrated any efforts that might have been put forward for my capture.
In the meantime the sensation that was, perhaps, caused by my escape had
died out and I had been forgotten.
As it was, that night I was taken sick and the next morning I was unable
to get out of my bed. The trouble was principally dysentery, such as was
epidemic in the Rebel Army at Manassas, and had probably been caused by
the bad water, or change of water, greatly aggravated in my case by the
nights of terror I had undergone. While in my weak condition, perhaps, I
had overloaded my suffering stomach too much the first day of my arrival
in Richmond. I can testify here to the fact that there was plenty to eat
in Richmond in 1861, and it was not so very much more expensive at that
time than in Washington.
The hotel people of Richmond were a little dubious about refugee
boarders from Baltimore, as I soon learned, and were inclined to be
rather disposed to refer their sick guest to a hospital. Fortunately, I
was able to prevent this by a prompt advance of a week's boarding from
my church-collection fund, which fully satisfied the Virginia Yankee
hotel-keeper. It happened, too, that there was some change due me from
the amount I had passed to him, which, in the princely style I had
assumed, I graciously told him to keep for a credit on the next week's
account. I still had some money left, but not enough to pay another
week's expenses at that hotel, but it was best to keep up a good
appearance.
The colored boy's name who served me with meals and who attended to all
my sick wants, I regret, I have forgotten. He was indeed a good
friend, and when my week was out and I was still so weak that it was
impossible for me to move, he continued to serve me with three light
meals a day in a room where I had been moved by him, which was located
in a block of buildings which served as an annex to the crowded hotel.
[Illustration: YOU ALWAYS SAY _DOWN_ HERE, AND THAT YOU'RE GOING TO GO
UP HOME.]
The hotel clerks, or the people at the office, supposed when I left the
room that I had gone from the hotel; at least, they did not give me any
trouble, and I have always thought my presence in that room was
overlooked or forgotten by them in the great rush of their business of
those days. This colored boy was one of the regular waiters employed at
the hotel, who had for the week or ten days previous to my change served
me regularly, and had told me several times, in explanation or in
self-justification, that he was told to serve me every day, and he was
going to do it until he was told to stop. Though I had not dared to
breath to the poor colored boy even a whisper of my true character, yet
it was instinctively understood between us that I was a Yankee. I knew
this from his manner, and I could see in every move he made that he was
so carrying on his little game to aid me that he might not be detected
in it, yet it was so shrewdly managed that, if he had been picked up, he
would have readily cleared himself of all collusion by merely referring
to his orders.
In talking with him one day, he remarked, with a significant grin: "You
always say _down_ here, and that your going to go up home; I thought you
was going to stay in Dixie?" I took the ignorant boy's teachings
thankfully, and was more careful in the use of the words after that
lesson.
I might fill a chapter with interesting stories of Richmond life which
the boy gave me that were a pleasant relief for me, and served to while
away, in my solitary sick bed, my first weeks in Richmond.
I took the opportunity the leisure afforded me of putting in operation a
plan for secretly attempting to communicate with my friends in the
North. I realized that I should not be able soon to undertake any
adventuresome travels, and I could not reach home by any easy stages.
While yet a school boy I had practiced with my playmates a simple system
of a cipher; with this, which was the easiest form that I then knew for
a basis, I worked out in the form of a letter, that I could pass
through to Baltimore on the blockade runners, a secret communication
reciting my discoveries at Manassas, etc.
It is an easy matter to arrange a system of cipher communication between
any two persons, which will be readily and perfectly understood by them
alone, or only by those who have been furnished with a key. In my
particular circumstances, however, it was necessary that my letter
should be a blind cipher, and so worded as not to excite suspicion, or
distrust, and it must, besides, carry the key along with it, concealed
of course, as I had not had an opportunity of making a preconcerted
arrangement. I had intended to propose this to General Banks at the
interview at Harper's Ferry, which, unluckily, did not take place, as I
have explained.
The letter that was sent through the blockade is given herewith, as
_copied from the original_, and I shall be glad to have the reader look
for the secret information it contains before referring to the key,
which follows:
"CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA,
POWHATTAN HOTEL,
RICHMOND, VA., August, - - - - - 1861.
"_My Dear Father:_
- - - . - -
"For three weeks I've been quite sick, but am all-right now,
and hope, through the kind attention of Southern friends of
ours in army, to soon be out again. - - - I will be greatly
obliged if you will arrange to have money sent without delay,
to pay my bills here, which were incurred on account of this
most unfortunate sickness. . - - I am satisfied it's impossible
to secure from our Confederate Maryland friends any cash
advance, because I know they are all rather short, (having
exhausted in getting here about half their money before joining
Army. Since I have been absent from my regiment here sick, I
have consumed what balance I had along. We are not at-all
discouraged, or demoralized; on the contrary, we look forward
to great things under Beauregard, who is in front of
Washington. - -
"A greater portion of Marylanders stop at Blank's, where I am
- - - the house is large and pleasantly situated on a street up on
top of quite a hill, that overlooks the Railroad that runs out
to Manassas Junction. We hope soon to march right on to
Washington, and drive out the black abolition rascals, and will
roll them back through Baltimore. Of course, all the Yankee
papers give lying accounts, but official statements will give
the proofs of our success. I wish some of the Northern
Congressmen could see Ely or Covode, who are locked up secure
in Libby prison; with them are a great lot, officers and
prominent men who are looking quite disconsolate through their
bars.
"I met, Sunday night, a couple of young students lately arrived
from the Georgetown College, who expect to signalize their
devotion to the South in some heroic way. From their talk would
think the boys fresh from their dormitory dreams of war. I will
write again soon; will be glad to hear from home often, please
send money soon as possible same way as before, so that I can
pay up."
The preparation of this letter had given me interesting employment while
I was confined to my sick room. Though it is quite crude, and would
hardly pass the scrutiny of the sharp censorship that was inaugurated
later on, but considering the times, and the fact that letters of
similar purport were being daily passed through the lines from Richmond
by Baltimore refugees, it was worded so as to perfectly blind those who
might see it, and it answered its purpose very well. I had calculated to
submit it openly to certain Richmond authorities, at a risk of being
picked up on their casual inspection. I had been careful to select a
blank, headed Richmond. No real names were given except Covode and Ely.
I knew very well Covode was not at Libby, but Ely was, and I could see
no other way of getting Covode's name in, except to mix it with Ely's
and assume ignorance, if corrected. This letter was not sent to my
father's name and address, of course, but was directed to a certain
telegraph operator who had been an office associate, and who was at the
time in the employ of the military telegraph at Annapolis, Md.
There was a little risk in using his address, but I knew that the fact
of the party named on the envelope being in the Government service would
not be detected in Richmond, and the understanding with regard to these
letters was, that for a consideration they had been taken into the
United States and mailed at Baltimore. An additional reason for sending
it to this telegraph friend was, that he would be sure to discover the
key to the cipher, and would then translate and properly deliver it. If
the reader will look at an apparent flourish under the words, "My dear
Father," as if underscored, he will observe three little dashes like
this, - - - and a little further on a careless looking scratch of the
pen, resembling . - - This forms the key to the simple cipher, and the
same characters are indifferently scattered about the sheet so as to
attract only the eye of an operator. The three little dashes represent
the Morse character for the figure five - - - (5), while the other
signal, a dot and two dashes, is a W, which, when placed alone, is
always understood to stand for word. Now the operator will be sure to
see that 5, W, while the chances are that no one else but an operator
would. The young friend to whom I had addressed this I knew would
understand, from the tone of the letter, that it was a blind, and he
would search for a different interpretation, and would soon discover the
5, W, which he would see referred to the fifth word. If the reader will
read _only_ every fifth word of this letter he will have the true
meaning.
_Translation._--Been all through Southern Army, again obliged to
delay here account sickness Impossible Confederate advance are
exhausted half army absent sick balance are demoralized look under
front portion Blank's house situated on hill road Manassas to
Washington black roll of papers official proofs wish Friend Covode
secure them officers are there night students Georgetown signal
South from the dormitory will be home soon as can.
The carefully studied phraseology of this crude letter, so that every
fifth word which I would insert should properly read both ways had given
me considerable trouble, because I was especially desirous that, as a
whole, it should at the first glance impress any person to whom I might
find necessary to submit it that it undoubtedly emanated from a Rebel
and a Maryland refugee. This thought once established in the minds of
those who I anticipated had the censorship of mail matter from
strangers, I was satisfied would result in forejudgement, or at least
serve the purpose of allaying any suspicion as to it being anything in
the nature of a secret communication to the enemy.
What to do with my letter was the next important consideration. While
yet so weak and thinned, as I was by the three weeks' illness and close
confinement, I realized that I must yet continue to live in some such a
quiet way as I had during my sickness. It would be folly for me to
attempt to travel through the armies in the rough manner that would be
necessary if I should try to reach our lines by the underground or by
running the blockade.
The colored boy who had served me so kindly and so faithfully in the
hotel annex, during these three weeks of sickness was partly taken into
my confidence. When I began to feel like getting out, and my appetite
had improved so as to make increased demands for his service to my room,
I suggested to him one day that I hadn't enough money left to pay the
bill at the office, and was especially sorry that I could not give him
something handsome for his kindness to me.
"Don't you never mind me, as I don't want no money." It was then that I
explained to him that I should like to be furnished a pencil and some
paper so that I might write home for some money, etc. The stationery was
at once supplied, and, as I had while lying on the cot bed during the
long August days blanked out my proposed letter, I proceeded to work my
cipher out on paper.
My faithful colored boy felt encouraged by my talk with him to offer me
some good advice:
"You don need to give no money to me, an if I was you I'd not give no
money to dem clerks, either. I'd jis tell de ole man, if I was you, and
he wont let dem take all you money, and you sick hyar."
This advice, offered in his most friendly way, was none the less
accepted thankfully, because it came from a slave boy and a waiter, in
his own words, as near as I can give it. I learned that the "ole man"
was the proprietor of the hotel, and from his further description I
gathered that I had not seen him since I had been in the house. The man
who had talked about sending me to a hospital, the first days of my
illness, was only a clerk, though I had assumed him to be the owner,
because he was quite old and had so much to say to me. He was easily
"placated," anyway, by the cash I had tendered him, in payment for a
week's board in advance. I have wondered often if I were indebted to his
pocketing that money, for the fact that my presence was so completely
overlooked. I would prefer, however, to give the colored boy the credit
for having quietly "done as he was tole, and axed no questions."
The "ole man" was an invalid at the time of which I am writing, being
confined to his room most of the day. I made some anxious inquiries
also about the "ole woman," and was glad to hear that she was "So big an
fat she doan go roun much."
I was solicitous about the proprietor and his wife, because, you know, a
great deal depended upon how he was going to jump after he had found out
that I had been in the house two weeks, apparently without the knowledge
of the office, and certainly without having paid any board for the time.
One nice morning, while feeling pretty fair and bright, I decided to
make the break, knowing that I had to do something soon. I gave my
letter to the boy to deliver to the "ole man," first, for his
information as to the prospects of his getting paid, and, secondly,
asking his advice as to the best means to have it sent North. You will
observe the apparent burden of my letter is for a remittance of money,
and, in the second place, I wanted to get it suitably endorsed or vised
by some one well known in Richmond, so that I would not have to show up
personally in it.
With a good deal of anxiety and heartache I waited in my back room for
the boy's return, which would bring me this verdict. I dreaded being
suspected as an enemy in concealment more than to be sent out on the
streets of Richmond, though I was so poor that I should soon starve,
because too weak to attempt any kind of work. In anticipation of at
least the latter treatment, I had dressed myself up carefully in my new
suit of clothes, which I had bought the day before I took sick. They had
become ever so much too large for me. A severe dysentery can waste a
frail human frame considerably in three weeks. When I heard the
footsteps of two persons down the long corridors--they had no carpet on
that annex--my heart sank within me as they stopped before my door. In
another moment my trusted colored boy had thrown open the door; and, as
he stood aside to let the other person in, he said: "Dar he."
I felt sure for the moment that all was lost--that the boy had given me
away. When the "ole man" got up close enough I am sure he was struck by
my very pale face. I was trembling from the effect of the suspense and
tension to my nerves, and could scarcely hold my head up. The "ole man"
was not old at all, but a rather thin, benevolent-looking, middle-aged
gentleman; he was lame and had apparently been very sick himself; his
kindly manner reassured me in part, and when he bade me, "Lie right
down and keep perfectly composed; we will take care of you, my boy," I
did as he directed. I had to drop, and I turned my face into the pillow
and sobbed like a big baby for a moment or two, so overcome was I in my
weak condition by the breaking strain after and the reversal of feeling,
it was so entirely different from anything I had expected.
The "ole man" had a few words more of comfort, and, turning to the
colored boy, said, rather savagely:
"Sam, you damn black rascal, why didn't you tell me before that this
young man was sick?"
Sam began to explain by saying: "I done thought you know'd dat."
But the "ole man" stopped him abruptly, with: "Get out; go and bring
some brandy and water up here, quick!"
Sam was glad enough to get out; and when he came back, in a few minutes,
with a couple of glasses on a tray, he was grinning all over as his eye
caught mine, as much as to say, "I done tole you so."
The "ole man" administered the dose and, after a few more encouraging
words, got up to leave, first giving orders to Sam:
"See that you attend to this young man right after this, you ugly
nigger."
Sam seemed to be immensely enjoying the "ole man's" abuse.
I was assured that I should be made easy until such time as I should
hear from my friends.
"Do you know Colonel Blank, of Baltimore?"
"No, I didn't, not by that name"--and I had to admit ignorance of quite
a number of others that he mentioned to me, saying that his house was a
sort of refugee headquarters; he would have some of the Maryland boys
look in and see me. I didn't like that part of the visit, but there was
no way now but to put a bold face on to anything that turned up. I felt
that I was so thinned out and pale, my hair closely cut, and otherwise
altered, especially by my new clothes, that I should not be recognized
by anybody who had recently seen me so ragged in the Rebel Army at
Manassas.
"In regard to your letter," he said, handing it back to me, "I will have
some one see you who understands about getting mail to Baltimore. I only
know that they do send them, and that answers come here to my house
almost every day."
In another moment I was again alone, and so overjoyed by the agreeable
turn affairs had taken--or by the dose of brandy and water--that I felt
almost able to dance a jig. I was free again; that is, I was not
burdened every moment by a fear that some one might drop in and discover
my presence and begin to ask questions about my past history.
Feeling so much relieved in mind, I could not resist the temptation to
go out of the room to have just one look at the sunshine outdoors. My
boy provided me with a stick for a cane, and, with his aid, I walked out
the long corridor and stepped boldly into the office. The first person I
met was the old clerk who had collected my first week's boarding.
"You have treated me very badly, sir."
I began to ask an explanation, really not knowing what he meant by
making it such a personal matter, when he interrupted me and hurriedly
walked off as he saw the "ole man," who was pointing me out to his wife
at the moment. I walked along without further interruption, except to
attract the attention of people whom we met by my weak, sickly
appearance, and, reaching the park, I sat down under the shadow of the
Virginia State House, which was then the Capitol of the Confederacy. In
one corner of the same grounds the Governor's mansion was pointed out,
then occupied by Governor Letcher, while below, or on the lower side of
the square, I was shown the building occupied by President Davis for an
executive office.
I was within sight of it all at last, and for two hours I sat there
taking everything in, only regretting that my legs wouldn't carry me
around more lively, so that I might investigate more closely.
When I stumbled back to my hotel I was met at the office by a young
clerk, who said he had been directed to introduce me to Colonel ----,
and would I be seated a moment.
I had a right to believe, of course, that I was to meet the Maryland
people of whom the proprietor had spoken, but I dreaded the interview
nevertheless. However, when I saw the Colonel was quite an ordinary
looking man, with a jolly, round face and pleasant manner, my fears
subsided, and I was able to feel easy in his presence. I was introduced
to several others as a Maryland boy who was unfortunately sick among
strangers, and I didn't have to "make up" for the character of a sick
youth. My appearance, probably, did have the effect of creating some
sympathy, which was kindly expressed to me. The Colonel said: "You have
a letter to send home I am told?"
"Yes, sir. I want to get some money very much. I don't want to go home,
but would like to send for some money."
"Ah! yes, of course; that can easily be fixed. All you have to do is to
put a United States stamp on your letter."
"But don't I have to pay something for the delivery?"
"Well, no; you don't have to; but, as it goes to a foreign country, you
know, we generally pay the messengers a little for the risk."
Thanking the Colonel, I took my letter out of the envelope and begged
that he would read it, so that the envelope would have the benefit of
his endorsement. He did not think that necessary at all, but I insisted
that he should learn of my affairs and my address, so that if anything
should happen to me some Maryland people would know who I was. That was
a good shot, and it took effect, too. He felt that I had given him my
entire confidence as a brother exile from home and in distress, and he
read my letter hastily--that is, he glanced at the address and the last
paragraph, wherein I had especially asked for money. No doubt he was
impressed with the truth of the statement I had made--that all Maryland
refugees were hard up. Sealing the letter in his presence, I handed it
to him with a tender of a fraction of the money which I had left, to pay
the "foreign postage."
"Oh no," he said. "I will not take your money for this; it's not
necessary. Where shall your answer be delivered?" This was something I
had not thought about, and for the moment I was embarrassed. I
remembered that I had referred to my regiment in my letter, and was
about to say that the letter could be sent there; then the thought
suddenly came over me, "What if I should be questioned on this
regiment?" I did not want any talk of this sort, because it would be
getting me into rather too close quarters. The Colonel, noticing my
hesitancy as these thoughts passed through my brain and no doubt
mistaking its true import, relieved me by saying:
"You had better go along over to Colonel Jones and be registered, if you
have not already done so."
I had not attended to this matter of registering my name and address
among the refugees from Baltimore, and, without knowing exactly what
would come of it, I consented to have it done at once, as he had
suggested. Pointing to a building on the opposite side of the square a
little below where St. Paul's Church is located, he said:
"That's Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and if you can go with me I will
introduce you to him, and you can have all your Maryland mail come to
his care."
I walked across the square on his arm, and was formally introduced to
Colonel Jones as a worthy Maryland refugee, sick and in distress. I am
giving the correct name here, because he became a well-known character
in Richmond during the war. He impressed me as an agreeable, rather
jolly, gray-haired gentleman of the old school, at the time. On the
rather tedious and slow walk for me over the square, my companion had
explained to me that Colonel Jones was himself a refugee, having been
fired out of Philadelphia, where, if I remember aright, he had been
printing a weekly paper which had been rather too outspoken in its
sympathy for the South, and, as a consequence, it was, perhaps,
violently suppressed. The Colonel informed me, as we walked along, that
President Davis had organized the temporary bureau for the registration
and general information of refugees and others who might, by the
necessities of war, be driven from their homes. It was also understood
that any persons desiring information in regard to Maryland refugees
should apply at this bureau. This was not exactly the sort of a place
that I had been hankering to register myself in, but I was in for it now
and had to go through with it. Colonel Jones gave me his courteous
attention for awhile, and apparently became interested in the little bit
of my "history" that I dealt out to him. It is likely that my sickly,
innocent-looking appearance had operated somewhat upon the generous
sympathies of Colonel Jones. He assured me in his most agreeable manner
that any time at all that I had a letter for my home to just drop it
into his postoffice, and he would see that it went out on the "First
Mail." This was quite satisfactory to myself and my companion, who had
placed the letter in the Colonel's hands. I happened to recall that I
had read a book over and over again, written by a J. B. Jones, that had
made a great impression upon my youthful mind, and I had worshiped the
name in consequence--the title of the book was "Wild Western Scenes."
The Colonel laughed heartily, and taking my hand gave me a second jolly
shake as he said: "He had met another of his boys--they were turning up
every place--wherever he had been some one who had read his book had
asked him that question."
I had accomplished one very important step--in this, that I had opened
communication with Washington from my location in Richmond.
There was danger that my letters _might_ fall into the wrong hands up
North; but, as the person who carried them must, for his own protection,
keep quiet, it was probable that no effort would be made to look after
their destruction, once they were safely placed in Uncle Sam's
postoffice somewhere. I was also liable to be picked up in Richmond
almost any day by those who had known me at Montgomery, Pensacola, or,
more recently, at Manassas, and in Beauregard's camp. Knowing that I
could not travel in the rough manner as indicated, I felt wonderfully
relieved to know that the letter just mailed would most surely go
through more speedily than I could expect to travel at my best, and it
contained in substance all that I could report by a personal trip, which
was in effect that:
_First_--The Confederate Army _could not advance_, because thirty per
cent. were sick, a great many absent on leave, and the rest as much
demoralized after their victory as by our defeat.
_Second_--That the official documents of the Rebel Surgeon-General,
addressed to Richmond, would be found under a certain house as
described, where it will be remembered that I had placed them.
_Third_--That signals were being made from the dormitory of Georgetown
College to Rebel outposts, or pickets who had been students at the
College.
When this letter would reach my telegraph friend, he would, most
assuredly, find the key to the cipher and properly communicate with Mr.
Covode, and through him the information, and I hoped the papers I had
deposited would be recovered. I could not have done more than this
myself, and, feeling that it was enough for one day's work, I retraced
my steps to the top of the hill, on which the hotel was situated, and
finding my cot bed again I was glad enough to drop myself into it for a
rest without the formality of undressing.
Soon after Sam found me half asleep, when he came up to my room with
some supper; his face was covered all over with the happy grin, peculiar
to a colored boy, who has only this means of expressing his pleasure. If
he knew that I had made a successful explanation of myself, which had
relieved us both of the fear of detection, he was too cunning to express
himself in words. My Maryland Colonel, who had so kindly endorsed me to
the refugee bureau and franked my contraband mail matter to Washington,
came to see me in the room late in the evening, bringing with him
another refugee whom he introduced as Mr. Blank, a lawyer from Elkton,
Maryland. I have really forgotten his name, but remember distinctly that
he was from Elkton, from this circumstance. When I had subsequently
returned North, while traveling from Philadelphia to Baltimore one day,
I heard the name Elkton called out by the trainman, as we stopped at a
country station. I rushed out on the platform on hearing the words and,
while the train stopped, inquired of the agent and expressman about this
gentleman. They both at once assured me: "Oh, yes; he's a great Rebel,
and had to leave town."
The train began to move off, as I was hurriedly telling them about my
meeting him in Richmond, and the agent became quite interested,
following the train along side as long as he could, to get some
information of him for his friends, who were living in the town. I heard
from them afterward, and, as this Elkton lawyer and I became associated
somewhat intimately for a month or two in Rebeldom, I have mentioned
this circumstance by way of an introduction, and so that we will know
him hereafter as "Elkton."
The Colonel, I learned, had been a store-keeper in one of the "lower
counties," and the twain had crossed the broad Potomac together from
Maryland to Virginia one night, and had only been in Richmond a month or
so. They were, of course, anxious to meet all the other refugees they
could hear of, and so it came about that I made their acquaintance.
Luckily for me, they were both from a section of Maryland distant from
that which I represented, and neither of them for a moment doubted my
"Loyalty," but, on the other hand, both of these gentlemen seemed to
think it a part of their duty to take care of me; and I take this
opportunity to say to Elkton, or any of his family who may read this,
that his kindness to me has always been appreciated--_but_, I must not
anticipate the story--I was invited to share a bed or cot in the same
room these two gentlemen occupied. Their room was located like the one
to which I had first been assigned--the windows overlooking the park. I
could from my room see all who entered the Capitol building, also had an
unobstructed view of President Davis' office, as well as that of other
prominent officials. This "prospect" was indeed gratifying to me, and,
as it may be assumed, much more satisfactory than anything I had yet
encountered in the way of "facilities." From my window outlook I ran no
risk of detection, as would be the case if I were on the streets all the
time. I was naturally most anxious to see President Davis, and to my
rather eager questions in regard to him--as I look at it now--I was told
by the Colonel that "The President lives right around on the next corner
on the next street. He walks through the grounds to his office every
day; I'll show him to you, the first chance."
That night I lay down early, and had scarcely gotten into sound slumber,
and was, perhaps, dreaming of home, when I was roused gently by the
Colonel to listen to "the serenade." On the street or pavement in front
of the hotel a large crowd had gathered, composed partly of a company of
men without uniforms, who had marched in the rear of a band. I was
informed that they were the nucleus of a company or regiment which was
to be composed entirely of Marylanders, who were expected to arrive in
Richmond by details of three and four at a time. The purpose of the
visit that night was a serenade to Marylanders, the band having been
furnished by kind sympathizers among the Richmond people, who took the
opportunity to compliment the refugees. Now, if I were to say that a
band had been known to serenade a Yankee Spy, the statement would have
been laughed at as ridiculous, yet the facts are that the serenade was
tendered in Richmond, in part at least, to a Yankee Spy, as the
collection was raised for the same in a Virginia church. There were but
three of us in the hotel that night--the Colonel, Elkton, and
myself--and it was the presence of this trio that had brought the band
under our window. They played in a highly effective style, considering
the peculiar surroundings, all their own Southern airs, among which was
"Maryland, my Maryland." This is a really beautiful air, which is
familiar to all who ever associated with any crowd of rebels who could
sing. The beautiful air--the significant words so full of pathos and
sympathy, especially under the existing circumstances and
surroundings--was rendered in a style so sweetly pathetic that the
effect produced on my memory that night will never be effaced. After the
band had played, all the crowd present, recognizing its appropriateness,
gave them with a hearty good will round after round of applause. Cries
were made for an encore, and, while the excitement it had created was
still high, the entire company of Maryland recruits burst forth into a
full chorus of their own good voices and sang, with even greater effect
through, this sweet old war song, "Maryland, my Maryland."
After they had left our hotel, it was understood the band, with the
crowd of followers and all the Marylanders in the city that had been
gathered up, were to call on Jeff Davis and give him a serenade of
"Maryland, my Maryland." I was not able to attend it, but I suppose the
records of the rebellion will show somewhere that Jeff Davis made a fine
speech of welcome to the persecuted exiles from Maryland--my Maryland.
My room-mates had both gotten out of the room at the beginning of the
uproar. I lay awake a long time waiting for their return that I might
hear the talk of the further serenade at the President's and Governor
Letcher's. They were both full of it, of course. Their conversation that
night, if reported in shorthand by the Spy, who lay awake an interested
listener, would make an amusing chapter--read by the light of the
present day. I gathered one point from them that I had not thought of
before, which gave me some food for reflection. They both intended to
unite themselves to the Rebel Army, but each of them wanted to be
officers. If I remember aright, there was some "constitutional"
difficulty in the way of President Davis forming a Maryland
battalion--at least, my impression now is, that he could not issue
commissions, which was the duty of the Governor of Maryland, and it was
necessary that some sort of a "Governor" should help him out of the new
State-rights difficulty. They got over it in some way, however, as they
did other State sovereignty questions. Elkton subsequently became a
Lieutenant of the 3rd Battery of Maryland Artillery. I learned from
their talk that night that they both expected, as a matter of course,
that _I would_ join their Maryland battalion. With them, it seemed to
be only a question of time, or until I should be sufficiently recovered
from my illness. I imagined that I saw in this scheme of theirs a way
out of my difficulty to further serve the Union. Of course, when I
should be able to move about it would be necessary to do _something_;
that I could not stay at the hotel indefinitely without money was
certain, and it was also equally certain that I should not get any
money, even in answer to my letter.
I had expected to get back by using their underground system, as soon as
I would be able to travel by that line. But, as I had opened
communication, I realized the correctness of my theory--that I could
best serve the North by not _at once_ attempting to return, but by
remaining in Richmond, to watch and report the progress of events there.
One of the first walks I took after getting out of my room was to the
house of President Davis, which was, and is yet, beautifully located on
the top of the hill; indeed, it is almost on the edge of a precipice
that commands a view of the low country to the north.
The Colonel had not observed in my letter the reference to "my
regiment." Now that it had been sent off without his, or anybody but the
sick proprietor seeing it, I was glad to drop any reference to a
previous connection with the army at Manassas. My story was, in brief,
the same old thing, done over to suit the altered condition of things. I
had told the Colonel about coming through Manassas; that I had been
delayed there expecting to meet some of my Maryland friends, but was
taken sick and had come on to Richmond for them. That, and the letter,
and more especially my appearance, coupled with the greater inducement
that he saw a recruit for their Maryland battalion, was to them all
sufficient. No questions were asked by either him or Elkton; they were
satisfied themselves, and their cordial introduction of myself to their
other friends were enough to fix my status in Richmond for the time
being. I was kindly treated by all with whom I was brought in contact,
through the influence of my two newly-made friends. As I have stated,
the first visit was, by courtesy, made to the President's _House_. I did
not find it advisable to thrust myself on to Mr. Davis just then. The
next point of greater interest to me was Libby Prison, where were
confined a great number of the officers captured at Bull Run. I
learned, upon cautious inquiries, that Libby was situated at the other
end of the town, or about a mile distant from the hotel. This was quite
a long walk for me to undertake, but I was almost sickened with the
everlasting and eternal Rebel talk, which I had been forced to hear
every day and hour for so long, that I felt in my soul that the sight of
one true-blooded Union man would do my heart good, even though I saw him
through iron bars. At the first favorable opportunity, on finding myself
alone, I started out for a morning walk, leading in the direction of
Libby Prison. Once on Main street, I began to feel a little apprehensive
lest I should run against some one in the crowded throng who might
recognize me. There were a great many soldiers in gray moving about the
streets. It seemed, too, as if everybody I met was staring at me, and
probably they were--as an object of pity. I became more accustomed to
it, however, as I began to see that the interest being centered on me
was probably due to the fact that I had been sick, and showed it in my
appearance and walk. I felt more assured, too, when I saw, after awhile,
that no person seemed to care much after all who I was, after they had
once gratified their curiosity by a stare.
I wanted very much to gaze once more on a Union soldier, and one, too,
who had fought in a real battle against these howling, blowing Rebels,
even though he were defeated and was then a prisoner. I saw them, lots
of them, through eyes that were pretty watery, and with a heart
throbbing so hard with a fellow-feeling for them that I was almost
afraid that I should lose control of myself, and I turned away. Through
the barred windows of the prison I could see a room full of the boys in
their ragged but still beautiful blue, as compared with the gray of the
guard. They talked together in groups; some were laughing heartily, as
though they were having a fine time among themselves; others walked up
and down the floor with heads bowed and their arms behind them, as if in
deep study. Occasionally I would catch the eye of some one looking
through their bars at me; and, oh, dear, what wouldn't I have given at
that moment for the privilege of being one of them--of making myself
known with a shout. I felt that moment that it were far better to be a
real prisoner of war, even though confined to the dreary walls of Libby,
than to be as I was at the time, in truth or in anticipation, a
prisoner already condemned to execution. Though apparently at liberty, I
felt as Wordsworth writes, that I was not only
"Homeless near a thousand homes."
But, also, that,
"Near a thousand friends I pined and wanted friends."