CHAPTER XVIII.

RICHMOND ON AN AUTUMN MORNING--A GROUP OF GOOD LOOKING SOLDIERS--JEFF

DAVIS PASSED BY--THE BATTLE OF BALL'S BLUFF--RICHMOND NEWSPAPERS.

While I felt that my "dispatch" would ultimately go through to its

destination at Washington all right, I was yet quite uneasy about this

talked-of advance of the Rebels into Maryland, fearful that it might

take place at once, or before my information could reach the North,

through the blockade mail service, which was necessarily a little bit

slow and uncertain. This fear kept me awake long after I had gotten into

bed; and as I lay there alone in my room, in a Richmond hotel, brooding

over the dangers of a Rebel invasion into Maryland and the humiliation

that would attach to the capture or flight of President Lincoln and his

officers from Washington, I became, I expect, somewhat wild and

frenzied, and again resolved to myself, while in this disordered and

disturbed frame of mind, that I would "stand by Jeff Davis"--for

awhile--that for one, _he_ should not go to Washington.

I had been away from home now since July, during which time I had heard

only of the Union Army through the Rebel sources, and, of course,

everything favorable had been suppressed, while all the weaknesses or

shortcomings of our Northern forces had been greatly exaggerated.

I had heard so much of this sort of talk during these three months that

I had, perhaps, come to believe in a great deal of it. I was young but

not inexperienced.

We soon learned how to interpret the numerous war rumors and gossip of

the soldiers of both sides--a little later on. Every recruit, perhaps,

has suffered--in anticipation--more from the "chin" of old veterans

about a camp-fire, who always knew more of the proposed movements of the

generals than they did themselves.

So it was that I was compelled to listen to the wild talk of the

enthusiastic refugees, my Colonel and Elkton, after they came into the

room that night. It was late--they had been having some fun, and were

feeling greatly exhilarated over the street rumors of the coming fight.

I do not mean to insinuate that they were tipsy, just because the

Colonel got in bed without taking his clothes off, for he was able to

talk plainly and volubly until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

The talk of those two fellows that night, about the dreadful things that

were going to happen soon, had about set me wild, and I felt as if I

should get out of bed and walk right straight up to Washington before

daylight and tell Uncle Abe all about it. But I fell asleep, too, and

dreamed, perhaps, as wildly as I had been planning.

There was one point settled in my mind, and that was that it was my best

plan to remain in Richmond, at least, until something sure was

discovered about the Rebel plans. Another was, that if I kept up my

friendship with these two lively old boys, who thought they were taking

care of me, that I should more easily get fuller and more satisfactory

information. I was obliged, in order to prolong my stay, to go with them

into their Maryland artillery. I could also more safely reach our army

through the cover or disguise of a gray uniform. As they were to go to

the front at once, I was willing to do anything that was necessary for

the good of the Government, but I wanted very much to avoid as long as

was possible the approaching necessity for joining the Rebel Army as a

means to further my ends and objects.

I had already staved it off a long time. I could have returned to the

North via the James river without trouble, and I had all my arrangements

completed to do so, when the reported advance of Beauregard reached my

ears, and I had delayed purposely to learn something about this.

While there had been no active operations, I had worked hard and

faithfully in secret.

I had opened and kept up communication with our Government--through the

rebel channels--that was one great success.

I was also on hand in their territory, and on the alert to discover and

report any further information.

I had probably at last discovered something important was pending, and I

decided to stay and see it out.

The next morning I was out of my bed early, and in the park before my

two comrades were out of their beds. I wanted to see if Jeff Davis had

returned to Richmond, and, after breakfast, I took my accustomed walk,

from which I could obtain a view of his office door.

I can recall that beautiful Autumn day on the Capitol Grounds as

distinctly as if was but a day or two ago. The trees were putting on

their most beautiful shades of color, the air was fresh and bracing, and

I, having fully recovered from my recent weakness, was again so well and

bright that I almost felt in my youthful, impulsive way, that it would

be an easy task to go right up to Manassas that day to see what Mr.

Davis was doing, and, if his movements were not satisfactory, I could

continue my walk on to Washington.

There were at all hours of the day a great many people in the park. They

were of all kinds, from the provisional Congressman and Virginia State

Assemblyman, Confederate Government, down to refugees, citizens,

soldiers and spies.

As I have previously said, there was always to be seen in this beautiful

square any number of people, and on this October morning it seemed as if

every person who wanted to go any place in the city were making it

convenient to walk through the square to their destination.

There was eternally some Confederate soldiers and officers loafing about

on the benches. I had become so accustomed to the boys in gray, in the

streets, that I had forgotten to be at all afraid to meet with and to

talk to them. This morning in particular I was perhaps unduly reckless,

because I was so eager to obtain some further information about this

advance.

Seeing a group of three nice looking soldiers talking together, a little

distance from where I stood, I determined on the spur of the moment to

join them, and, if an opportunity was afforded me, I would try to learn

from them what they knew of the Rebel plans.

A group of three soldiers on a lark is not exactly the source that I

would have applied to for information of an army's proposed movements

six months later, but, as I have said, I was young then and fresh in the

war service.

I approached, and addressed the boys a mild and meek inquiry as to a

good place to enlist in "our army." This was a question that interested

them all, and every fellow was at once eager to give me the desired

information, which was to the effect that they had the very best Captain

in the army.

They belonged to Louisiana, they said, and were recruits from New

Orleans, and were on their way then to join the army at Manassas, having

arrived in Richmond the day previously, and were laying over until the

officer in charge secured some necessary transportation or other

authority at the War Office.

I was urged to go with them. They declared that there was to be some

great fun soon--that their officer knew all about it and had told them

of the plan for the campaign.

The story they had did not differ materially from that I had heard from

our own boys, and I judged safely enough that, as they were but recently

from New Orleans, they could not know much more about the army at

Manassas than I did. While we talked together these few moments, we all

stood in a close group on one of the broad walks, the conversation being

carried on with such a degree of earnestness on their part that we

scarcely noticed the persons who were constantly passing us, until one

of the Virginia police-soldiers came up to us with his gun and politely

ordered the crowd not to block up the way. We moved off a little and sat

down to finish the contract they had undertaken--of inducing me to join

them.

The police-soldier walked off a little piece, and then, taking a

position where two paths joined, he stood like one of the statues for a

moment; then, as if suddenly imbued with life, his arms flew about as he

brought his gun to a "present." Passing him were two gentlemen--one

quite portly and red-faced, the other a slender thin-faced gentleman in

a dark suit of steel gray. As they came closer, we all watched to see

who they might be, as the guard had saluted. The big-faced gentleman was

doing all the talking--the thin-faced one was close to me before I

recognized him. He was so intent on hearing the old man's talk that he

did not look toward us at all; and, after they had passed, I said to the

soldiers: "That's President Davis!" They were, of course, all anxious to

get another glimpse of their great man, and one of them hastily followed

after while one of the others said in his slow, deliberate way:

"I thought so; because he looked just like a Confederate postage

stamp."

At that time Mr. Davis' picture was on the stamps recently issued.

I took this opportunity to get away from them, by saying that I must

join one of our own Maryland regiments, and started off as if I must

find one right away.

Jeff Davis was back in Richmond, as I had discovered with my own eyes.

In my daily rounds, the next source of information I sought was the

newspapers offices, because the crowd that was always to be found about

them seemed to do more satisfactory blowing than any that I could strike

elsewhere. They commented pro and con upon the bulletins that were

sometimes put out; or, in fact, it seemed as if this daily gathering at

the _Examiner_ office, a few doors around the corner from Main, was a

sort of a news clearing-house, where a great many of the citizens of the

better class came to tell all they knew and to hear all that any others

had to tell.

It was through this channel that I obtained some important clues.

While I was in Richmond, the Ball's Bluff, or Leesburg, disaster

occurred, and most eagerly did I read all that appeared in Richmond

about that distressing affair.

The _Examiner_ and _Whig_ articles on this "great victory," if

reproduced to-day, would make some interesting reading, of a character

that would stir up the blood of the old soldiers, even now, about as

quickly as anything I know of.

The prevailing sentiment or feeling in Richmond at the time seemed to

be, that this "great achievement of the Confederates" merely confirmed

the opinions that had been previously uttered, based on the battle of

Bull Run, "that one Southern was equal to five Yankees."

The patronizing and superior manner with which those Richmond people

talked of the battle of Ball's Bluff, which, in fact, was almost a

massacre, made such an impression on my mind that time has not and never

can efface.

The Richmond papers, too, in those days, I recall very distinctly, found

it necessary to apologize for, or defend, General Stone, for his part in

the affair.

It was through this press channel that we heard of General Butler's

operations in North Carolina. The old man had evidently done something

down there that hurt very much, which they did not print, as the city

press was filled almost every day with abuse of him and the Yankees.

I gathered that it was about Henry A. Wise, who had a son or a brother

killed by Butler's operations. One would think, from the manner in which

the Virginians went on about this "outrage," that the Yankees had no

right to kill a Virginia gentleman under any circumstances.

While I am on the subject of the Richmond press, I must not forget to

explain that, as printing paper was becoming quite scarce in the South,

they were obliged to economize, and frequently the Richmond _Examiner_

and _Whig_ appeared in half-sheets and letters; the quality of the paper

became so inferior as to resemble in appearance the reverse side of the

cheapest wall-paper.

I sent to the North, through the blockade, several times, marked copies

of the Richmond papers.

The Pittsburgh _Chronicle_ actually published, while I was yet in

Virginia, an extract from one of those papers, in which were some

caustic comments on a case of a certain well-known Presbyterian

clergyman of Allegheny, who had been dismissed by his church there for

some harsh expressions of sympathy for the South.

I was thanked by name for the "courtesy" in sending the paper, which was

exhibited at the office as a great curiosity, and am thankful even now,

on reflection, that the Pittsburgh papers were not on the Richmond

exchange list.

There were no earthworks of any description around Richmond in 1861.

This is a fact that is not generally known.

When I was before the Committee on the Conduct of the War, some months

after the date of which I am writing, there was an effort being made by

some of the Congressmen to prove to the country that McClellan's

inactivity during the fall and winter was wholly inexcusable. This truth

was fully brought out at the time and the facts proven.

There was probably not a day from August to November, 1861, that General

McClellan could not have easily entered Richmond, with a very small

force, from the Peninsula or via the South.

It was also fully established by the official papers of the Rebel

authorities themselves that twenty-five per cent. of their army was

incapacitated on account of the prevailing epidemic in August and

September, and that twenty-five per cent. more were absent, while the

rest of the Rebel army was as badly demoralized by their victory as we

were by our rout.

I do not attempt to criticise General McClellan in mentioning these

facts. I refer simply to my own personal observations on this point, as

testified to before the Committee of Congress, after I had gotten home

again. I beg to refer the reader to volume 3, page 380 of the printed

Government Record for a part of my sworn testimony referring to these

dates.

After a long day's hunt for news, visiting about every place in the

city, like a reporter, where I thought I could learn anything--among the

rest, Libby Prison guard--I returned to the hotel in the evening.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A NARROW ESCAPE--RECOGNIZED BY TEXAS FRIENDS AT A RICHMOND

THEATRE--PERSONNEL OF THE MARYLAND BATTERY--REFUGEES FROM IRELAND--CAMP

LEE, NEAR RICHMOND--OUR CAPTAIN--LIEUTENANT CLAIBORNE, OF

MISSISSIPPI--OUR SECTION-DRILLS--HORSES FOR OUR USE IN TOWN AND

ADJOINING COUNTY--VISITS OF LADIES--CAPITOLA--POPULARITY OF

REFUGEES--THE ENTERTAINMENT FOR MARYLANDERS--TABLEAU--JEFF DAVIS STRIKES

THE CHAINS FROM THE ENSLAVED MARYLAND BEAUTY.

Richmond hotels during the war were very like those in Washington City

during the same period. Every evening the offices, billiard rooms, and

even the bar-rooms, would be filled with that class of a city's

population that usually congregate in these places. As the crowded hotel

lobbies in Washington City nowadays are just the places the newspaper

men seek to obtain news for their papers, so it was in Richmond as well

as Washington during the war.

Everybody agreed on one point--that something was up, but just what it

was nobody seemed able to tell, and I was unable to find out. But I had

a night's adventure, which served to dispel any scruples I had

entertained about the propriety of entering the Rebel Army.

I met at the hotel office my companion, the Colonel, who, upon seeing

me, rushed over the office floor to say:

"Why, where the devil have you been? We have been hunting you every

place."

I explained that I had been poking about the city all day, and was so

tired that I was going straight to bed.

"No you ain't; we are going to initiate you to-night. We got our orders

to-day. Elkton has his commission, and has authority to enlist his

men--you know we have nearly all we need for our section. I am to be

Sergeant in charge of the piece and you are to be Corporal."

Then, with a slap on the shoulder, he hauled me to one side, and

whispered: "We have got it all fixed for our big bounty, and we want

your papers right away."

I was cornered. I must go along or get out of town. There could be no

possible excuse for further putting off this step.

I asked only the one question--"Where do we go?"

"Why, into Maryland, of course!"

Being further assured that this battery was to be at once sent to the

front, I agreed to go along with him--_to get the money_. We found

Elkton in our room, attending to the papers of some of the other

recruits, and, at a favorable opportunity, I, with a trembling hand and

a doubting heart, signed my assumed name to the papers, and by that act

became a _Rebel soldier_. There was one great relief to my mind while

performing this necessary act. It was distinctly understood that I was

to be made the Corporal, and, as such, it would be my duty to sight and

fire the gun of our section. I determined that if the occasion should

arise before I could get away from them, when it would become my duty as

a Rebel soldier to sight that gun, that it should _never be pointed in a

way to do any damage_.

My object was to use this scheme as a disguise to again get to the front

at Manassas, and find out what had been done _there_. I could not learn

anything at Richmond, and once more in the Rebel Army at Manassas,

disguised in a gray uniform, I would find some way to anticipate any

forward movements. I would also be "handy" to our army, and be able to

reach our pickets quickly.

If I were caught going over to the enemy, with a Rebel jacket on, I'd be

shot as a deserter; but I had the consolation of knowing that, if I were

caught in any other clothes, I should be hung anyhow. While this was not

a very comforting thought, I knew it was true.

I did not care much for the money that was to be paid to me; and

authorized Elkton to settle my bills at the hotel and to retain the

balance for me. He furnished the Colonel and me some spending money, and

together we went out to "make a night of it" in Richmond.

The Colonel and I went first to a theatre, located on the street on

which stood the Exchange and Ballard Hotel.

One of the players sang with dramatic effect some words suitable to the

time and people, which was adapted to the French air of "La

Marseillaise." He waved in one hand a French flag and in the other the

Confederate _bars_. At a certain point in the song, the fellow threw to

the floor and stamped upon--old glory--the Stars and Stripes. The wild

cheers of approval and howls of applause from the large audience that

went up at this dastardly exhibition of American treachery sent the cold

chills down my marrow bone. I wondered then, and have never ceased to

wonder, at the frequent exhibitions of contempt and dishonor for their

old flag that were so freely and heartily indulged in by the Southern

people during the war.

It did not occur to me at the time that I might accidentally meet or, at

least, be seen--in a crowded theatre--by some person who would know

something of my past experiences.

As we were slowly edging through the crowd, after the curtain had

fallen, I noticed a tall fellow in front of us, who turned around to

look back. I thought I had seen his face before, but I had been seeing

so many faces lately, that I paid but little attention to him. I

observed that he said something to his companion, as both turned around

facing me, but, as the crowd kept pressing down the narrow aisle, they

did not have a good chance to scan me too closely.

Becoming aware of their scrutiny, my suspicions became aroused. I began

to hasten along, and nervously nudged the Colonel to push ahead more

rapidly. We passed the two men--one of whom was in uniform--and as we

did so, I heard one of them, say:

"That's him, ain't it?"

I didn't linger to hear what reply the other made, but shoved on toward

the door, and had reached the vestibule when the voice behind called

out--_my right name_! I was startled, but did not turn, being intent

only on getting to the street as quickly as possible.

The Colonel, who was with me, had not noticed the affair at all; and the

calling out of my real name had not attracted his attention, as I was

known to him only by the fictitious name that I had assumed.

As I reached the door, and was about to hurry down the front steps, a

hand was laid on my shoulder. I have no doubt that it was a pale face

which turned around, expecting to meet some one that I certainly did not

desire to see at that time.

I did not know him, though his pleasant face, which was covered with a

broad grin, seemed familiar.

"Ain't you Mr. O. K., that was out in Texas with Major J----?"

I suppose that my surprised appearance was misunderstood for an

expression of offended dignity I had assumed. This had the effect of

putting him in doubt as to my identity, as he eyed me more closely, and

gave me his name, and remarked he was one of a regiment that had been

organized in that part of Texas in which I had spent the winter

preceding the war, and had probably known me there, as a stranger

naturally becomes an object of curiosity in that country.

As I did not want to run the risk of meeting any of my Texas uncle's

friends, who might know of my interest in the affair at Fort Pickens--as

the Texas boy--I mildly resented the proposed acquaintance. His

companion relieved the embarrassment by suggesting, politely, that it

was simply a mistake. When I had recovered sufficiently, I gave my

fictitious name and introduced the Colonel, as a sort of endorser for my

statement.

It was accepted with hesitancy, and we parted without stopping to

further explain the matter.

I was now, seemingly, to all intents and purposes, a _bona fide_

"rebel." The position in which I had almost involuntarily placed myself

was such, that it put me in a dangerous attitude toward both sides, and

would necessitate considerable explaining in certain events. It was, in

fact, a "straddle," that caused me a good deal of annoyance and trouble

that I had not counted on before I entered into the arrangement.

After the little incident at the theatre, the Colonel and I went

straight to our room at the hotel. He wanted to run around town a little

longer, but I was not in the humor for taking any further risks of

meeting any more of my Southern acquaintances, and I prevailed upon him

to go with me to bed. After the lights were out, I had an opportunity to

think over the day's doings before I slept. It was arranged between us

that we should travel together as a pair, or as a team of fresh Maryland

colts, wherever we should go. We were both to be attached to the one gun

of the Third Maryland Battery of Artillery. That is the name of the

organization, as will be found upon a reference to the records, and I

have no doubt my name is also set down there among the members of the

company. Elkton was made the Lieutenant, while the "Colonel" was

promoted to be Sergeant in charge of the piece, while I was Corporal and

gunner.

[Illustration: RECOGNIZED BY TEXANS AT RICHMOND THEATRE.]

A majority of the other "refugees" belonging to this patriotic band of

exiles were composed principally of recruits who had been recently drawn

to Richmond from their shovel and pick employment on a railroad

contract, on what is now the Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad. This sense of

duty to the suffering and abused South of their adoption, was due to the

fact, as we all understood it then, that the bounty and pay of the

Maryland refugee was very much greater than that of a laborer in a ditch

while the work was not nearly so fatiguing. In fact, and in brief, the

refugee business was very much of a fraud on the Confederacy in our

company. To be more explicit, I will enumerate, from memory, the several

nationalities which were attached to our "piece," which may be

considered a representative of the Maryland refugees in the Confederacy.

Our No. 1 and No. 2--which all old soldiers will remember, are the

figures that represent the two men who stand at the muzzle of an

old-fashioned gun, one of whom swabs her out, while the other rams the

charge home--were two stalwart Irish brothers, Mike and Terry by name.

The former had been a boss of a wheelbarrow gang somewhere out on the

railway in Virginia--one of those blustering Irish fellows who are so

full of extravagant and positive talk. He was eternally and forever

complaining about something or somebody, and I remember that he gave the

officers and men more trouble on this account than all the rest. He had,

as the leader of his gang, brought a dozen of his Irish recruits into

our organization at one draft, and felt as if he must continue to be

their boss. His men were also disposed to recognize "Mike's" authority,

as being superior to that of the military officers. A good deal of

discipline was necessary to explain to them the changed condition in

their affairs. His brother Terry was a strapping big fellow, whose

position at the gun was alongside of his brother. In disposition and

temperament, Terry was the very opposite of Mike, being a quiet, sullen

fellow, whom I do not remember to have heard speak a dozen words beyond

mere monosyllables. He was, however, a tricky, treacherous fellow, and

the pair of big gray mules gave the team of Maryland colts any amount of

trouble and fun.

The man whose duty it was to prick the cartridge and attend the vent was

a native of Richmond--a fat, boyish fellow of eighteen full of fun and

laugh all the time. My recollection is, that he had been a butcher's

clerk somewhere. He represented what may be called the "poor white

trash," as it was termed by the Southern people.

He was probably attracted by the bounty and the chance to ride on a

gun-carriage, as we found out very soon he was too blamed lazy to walk.

Another peculiarity of this recruit, that we subsequently discovered,

and which made it interesting to the rest of us, was, that he was

subject to epileptic fits, and probably for this cause he had been

rejected by the more respectable Virginia regiments.

When he first took one of those spells, during the excitement occasioned

by the drill-master hustling him around a little, we all felt that

something dreadful had occurred in our midst, and every man in the camp

was crawling over the other in their efforts to wait upon and assist the

poor fellow. He lay on the ground, gnawing and twisting himself in the

most horrible way, frothing at the mouth in the meanwhile in a frightful

manner.

It was on such occasions as this that big Mike showed his usefulness in

the company. He would grab the big Virginian lubber by each hand and

hold him "steady," as if he was a mere baby in his hands, giving orders

meanwhile, as if he was a captain on a man-of-war in a great storm.

The other fellow, who pulled the lanyard, was a slender, good-looking

man, who had been a sailor who had traveled around the world, and did

not seem to have any nationality. The war had found him blockaded at

Norfolk, and, being unable to get out to sea, he had gravitated into

Richmond, where he was induced to join the refugee band by the hard

logic of an empty pocket, a hungry belly, and a show of money as bounty.

He and I became fast friends, and, as a singular coincidence, I mention

here that we both joined that battery with the same intent--_i. e._, to

use it as a means of escape North; and though we were together and slept

together every night for months, neither knew the other's thoughts on

the subject until the morning we met, accidentally, while both were

escaping through the Rebel pickets.

Our No. 5, whose duty it was to carry the cartridge from the caisson to

the gun, was a queer character. He was a man of about forty-five years

of age, tall and angular, with that odd cast of countenance that one

often sees among the lower order of Germans. He was not exactly a

German, but had an accent similar to the German; his face was broad and

square, the lower part of it being apparently broader than the upper. I

think he must have been a Russian or a Polander. He was not a successful

No. 5, because his motions were too stiff and lumbering for that

position; and, in consequence of his stupidity, he was being prodded all

the time when on drill. He became, however, a very useful member to the

company.

By some mysterious expressions from the officers, we were led to believe

at first that he might have been a disguised "juke" or count, exiled

from his native land, and who desired to serve his adopted home with

this band of devoted refugees. We learned, however, that he had simply

been a professor in his own country in--a barbershop. We were all glad

enough to ascertain this fact; also, that he served his time as a

tailor--to be sure his "time" as a tailor had been "put in" at a certain

penitentiary--but he was a good and useful refugee all the same, because

he was detailed to shave the company and, also, to do over the baggy

gray uniforms which were furnished us.

The "Colonel" and I were the first to take advantage of this

information, as to the "juke's" accomplishments, to have him refit the

gray blouses and trousers which we were to wear. We procured some black

stuff for trimming the cuffs of our coats, because one of the Lanyards'

lady friends had told him that the black and gray matched nicely

together. We also had our Sergeant's and Corporal's stripes of bright

red stitched on to our sleeves, and a narrow binding of red was sewed

down in front of the coat. It was in this rather neatly-trimmed Rebel

uniform that I boldly walked the streets of Richmond, and secured

entrance to houses and places of interest, from which I had heretofore

been excluded, during the rest of my eventful stay in that city.

It will be seen that, in this account of the personnel of one section

of the so-called Maryland Battery, there was but the _one_ genuine

Maryland refugee in its outfit, outside of Elkton, and that was the

Sergeant, who is the "Colonel" of our story. I was, of course, supposed

to be another Marylander, but it will be seen that the much-vaunted

"flower of the South," which composed the Confederate armies, was very

much like the "flower of the North" in its actual composition.

The other sections of our battery were composed principally of the

aforesaid "recruits" from the railway laborers, who were mostly refugees

from Ireland and Germany.

Our other lieutenant was a Mr. Claiborne, one of the genuine sons of the

South, a native of Mississippi, and as clever and courteous a young

gentleman as it has ever been my pleasure to meet. I recall my

acquaintance with Lieutenant Claiborne, though formed in this

surreptitious way, as one of the most agreeable in which I have ever

shared. If it shall so happen that this writing may meet his own eye, or

that of his family or friends--and I have given the correct name--he

will understand some of my actions toward him, which were at the time,

to say it briefly, inexplicable. Lieutenant Claiborne, I think, followed

the Confederate fortunes to the end--I am sure he did so if he lived to

see the end--for, without a doubt, he was earnestly, though quietly,

sincere in his devotion to the cause of the South.

The Captain of the company had been, as I understood it, a lawyer from

Baltimore. He was a small man in stature, small in mind, and about as

_little_ and trifling in every way as any soldier that I have ever met.

Perhaps some allowance should be made for the Captain on account of the

fact that he was a cripple. He was born, I believe, with one leg shorter

than the other--wore what is known as a club foot; that is, one shoe was

filled with a cork sole, which raised his foot three or four inches from

the ground. He walked with a cane, and sometimes used two, and

apparently walked with difficulty. His face wore an expression of pain

or sourness that is peculiar to many persons whom I have met that are

similarly afflicted.

In justice to the Captain, it may be inferred that, on account of his

bodily infirmity, he had been reared in such a way that every whim was

gratified, and he was petted and spoiled until he became in nature and

disposition a veritable tyrant, as all pets are. We understood that he

came of a first-class Maryland family, and that he had been highly

educated at his home, where he had become a successful attorney. Our

impressions in this regard were amply confirmed by our association; and

the fact that our Captain had great influence at the Rebel War

Department was undisputed. The Captain himself recognized his

importance, and was of the temperament that inclined to make the most of

his advantages.

There was a disposition on the part of our first Lieutenant, Elkton, to

resist the Captain's severe exercise of his authority and overbearing

manner; and in this rebellion within a rebellion, we of this section

unanimously sustained our Lieutenant. Mr. Claiborne, the second

Lieutenant, was also in constant friction with the Captain, and, as his

squad sustained him, also, we were in hot water right along.

The Captain became a cross, surly, revengeful man. He knew nothing

whatever of military drill and the requirements, and was narrow-minded

enough to meddle and interfere with the trifling details, which should

have been left to the subordinate officers.

Big Mike, of our section, was one of the fellows who had a grievance,

because he had not been made sergeant in charge of the gun, with his own

squad of Irish to work it, instead of my Colonel. He took every

complaint to this sour-faced, crippled Captain, who, in an unmilitary

manner, entertained his private growling complaint against the officers

and the rest of the company. He would invite Mike into his quarters,

where he would discuss with him the minor affairs of the company. Any

old soldier will see how this sort of thing would work; and if any

imagine for a moment that all the Southern soldiers were a "band of

brothers," harmoniously bound together, fighting only against the Yankee

invaders, they are very much mistaken.

I have seen more of the ugly, bitter jealousy between Rebel officers,

and severe criticism of Jeff Davis and his generals, in an association

of nine months among them, than I did subsequently in three years

between Stanton and Halleck and all the commanders of the armies of the

Potomac.

Our company was quartered in the Fair Grounds, on the outskirts of

Richmond, which in after years became widely known as "Camp Lee." A high

board fence enclosed several acres of ground; inside this enclosure were

a number of temporary wooden sheds, which had been turned into barracks

for the Confederate soldiers.

Troops were arriving at this camp from the South every day; and as fast

as they were organized or suitably provided with arms and clothing, they

were shipped on the cars, which ran right by the grounds, to the Rebel

Army at Manassas or thereabouts. I was always glad to see the trains

stop to load up some of the troops for the North, because I felt, every

time I saw it, that our turn to go would soon come, and I should soon be

at the front again, from whence I could easily skip over the line into

Washington City.

The time, during these days, was usually occupied in a daily routine of

military life. Officers and men occupied comfortable quarters at Camp

Lee, in the barracks. There was a roll-call every morning, a very good

breakfast, then a couple of hours' drill at the one old iron cannon,

which was all that the entire camp possessed. Each of the sections took

turns at this one piece. So it was, that, between us all, we managed to

keep it hot pretty near all day. This drill was a regular circus. As the

gunner, I did not have very much exercise. Lanyard, who stood by me, and

I, had so much fun together over the two big Irishmen, who would so

violently ram home the imaginary charges of powder and ball and swing

the big swab around as wildly as if it was a little shilleleh. Fatty,

the Virginia refugee, whose place was across from us, was full of fun

himself, and kept us all amused by his antics during the drill--holding

his fingers to his ears and winking and jumping as if a charge had

actually been fired and the rebound was dangerous. The two big Irish

brothers were always in a sweat and swearing at the disguised "juke,"

because he was so dignified in his bearing that he could not be made to

see the necessity of rushing frantically from the limber, holding an

imaginary cartridge in his hand. It, perhaps, seemed too absurd for a

man of his dignity, age and clumsy bearing to be compelled to run around

the gun holding out his empty hands, as if carrying a ten-pound shot in

them, which he was supposed to deliver in like imaginary manner.

My duty was to sight the piece, and I learned to get that part of the

drill down so fine that I was able, on short notice, to hit the same

knot-hole in the fence, twenty feet distant, every time.

The number of Yankees that we killed with that gun--in imagination--far

outnumbered all that were afterward slaughtered by all of General

Alexander's Rebel Artillery. The Captain somehow got a notion that I was

the only person in the company who could use pen and ink. This was not

very complimentary to the rest of the company, because I've not, in all

these years, learned how to write properly; but I was, in consequence,

detailed as a company clerk, or as a private secretary to the Captain,

and from this assignment, until we took the field, I had what is

vulgarly called--a snap.

I was quartered thenceforth in the Captain's room, except when off duty,

when I would quickly join the Colonel and Lanyard in their barracks. My

duties were not at all onerous; on the other hand, I became relieved

from all details for drill guard, police duty, and a hundred and one

other little "turns" that catch everybody in the ranks, both in the

Rebel and Union armies. It was my business to do all the company's

clerical work: I filled out requisitions for commissary supplies, kept

the roster, made a daily report for the Captain to somebody who was the

General in command at the camp at that time.

One day the Captain notified the men, as we were at evening roll-call,

that he had engaged a doctor for the exclusive benefit of the company,

who would accompany us as our surgeon. Everybody was glad to hear this,

as we had experienced a good bit of sickness already while in camp. The

Captain wound up his speech with the incidental observation that a

dollar or two would be retained from each man's pay to compensate this

private surgeon. There was surprise, and the parade was dismissed and

the men reassembled to growl. Big Mike then took a turn at making a

speech, inciting rebellion against the Captain's arbitrary orders. It

resulted in a regular Irish row upon the Captain ordering Mike's arrest

and imprisonment in the guard-house. Before we got through with it, the

whole of the bold refugees were under the guns of some of the other

troops, that had been called upon to quell the disturbance.

It was lots of fun to Fatty and Lanyard, but for my part I'd rather get

into a real battle than to become mixed up in an Irish fist fight.

There were some horses in camp belonging to the several officers who

were quartered out there. Our Captain had his own, a finely-bred animal,

which he rode to town and back every day. On account of the deformity of

his limbs or hips, it was necessary that he should be almost lifted into

the saddle, which was made of a particular shape suited to him. Because

of this necessity for having someone always with him, I was selected by

the Captain, with whom I had become a favorite, to accompany him nearly

every day on a second horse. He almost always rode straight to the War

Department, and I went along with him as far as I could. In this way I

was able to keep up safely my silent watch on the Rebel War Office,

rarely missing a day during our stay in Camp Lee on which I did not get

to town with the Captain.

My gray uniform had been neatly fitted by the "juke," and my way of

wearing my blouse coat-tails tucked inside my trousers had so pleased

the Captain that he had ordered every man to wear his clothes as I did.

This style of dress gave me a sort of Garibaldi appearance, and I fancy

that, as I rode my horse fairly well, from an early training in Western

Texas, I made a pretty creditable appearance on the streets of Richmond

as a Rebel soldier boy.

It was in this disguise that, I may safely assert, I openly visited

_every single point of interest in and around Richmond_.

I felt so perfectly secure and safe, that I had again become reckless

and careless.

By reason of my close association with the Captain, as his private

secretary or company clerk, I was able to secure from him his written

permit to visit town in the evening. The Colonel (or Sergeant), Mr.

Lanyard and myself had naturally gravitated toward each other, and

visits to town after dark were usually made by this congenial trio in

one group, but we didn't always return together.

The old Colonel and Lanyard were the real Philistines, and I may safely

put all their night raids upon them. Whenever the Colonel or Lanyard

wished to go to town, one of them would come to me, as the "Adjutant of

their Corps," as the Colonel used to say, and in their seductive manner

ask me to write out a pass for three and get the "old man" to sign it.

The Captain had gotten into the way of signing so many of the blank

forms, that it was my daily duty to submit to him, his signature was

easily obtained to further our little schemes.

Of the great number and variety of troops, probably the most popular, as

a general thing, were the refugees from Maryland.

For some months after the first battle, the ladies of the very best old

families of Richmond were in the habit of making daily visits to the

camps of the troops about the city.

There was a crack battalion of "gentlemen" soldiers from South Carolina

that came to town during my stay, whose regiment I've forgotten, but my

impression is that it was Hampton's South Carolina Battalion. Their

presence created quite a furore among the ladies of Richmond, and the

dress-parade in the evening seemed to bring half the town out in

carriages and in droves of pedestrians. These fellows wore a fancy

uniform, and, without a word of exaggeration, I may say every private in

the battalion was provided with a body servant--in most cases a likely

boy, perhaps one of the slaves with whom the soldier had played as a

child, was now sent along with him to the war to take care of the young

master.

Our Colonel didn't like the attention that was being given to the South

Carolina boys; perhaps he felt a little bit envious or jealous, as he

observed to a lady:

"These fellows have brought along their niggers to carry umbrellas over

them while they fight."

While Lanyard thought: "It's most likely the nigger is there to fix up

their cocktails."

I have, myself, seen refined ladies in our camp, with sleeves rolled up

and huge aprons covering their fine dresses, assisting the troopers to

bake their biscuit and bread. The younger and better-looking ladies were

often to be seen at camp, with baskets in hand, laying out bountiful

spreads in the barrack "dining-room."

The appearance of these ladies at camp always put the Colonel on his

mettle--he would go about our part of the quarters, his actions totally

altered from his usual slow and quiet manner.

Our sailor-boy chum, whom we called Lanyard, had not enjoyed the society

of ladies so much as the Colonel, probably on account of his sea-faring

life, and was rather inclined to resent the intrusion of the ladies.

Through the Colonel's gallantry and cheek, our little mess was pretty

well remembered by the visiting sisters.

It was through visits of this character that we became acquainted with a

nice young lady, whom we will call Capitola, because that wasn't her

name. She was a typical Southern girl. I can not describe her, except to

say that she was a beautiful brunette, who had attended boarding school

somewhere near Baltimore, and probably through this fact she became

interested in the Maryland refugees. As I have said, the Colonel was a

gallant fellow, and also a good manager, who was not slow to take

advantage of the opportunity this pretty girl's visits to our camp

afforded. She, of course, made her visits in company with a bevy of

other pretty girls, some of whom were equally as handsome as herself,

but Capitola is _the_ girl of this part of our story.

One day our fair visitors made a special call on our officers to notify

us, in their charming way, of an entertainment which was to be given at

one of the halls in the city, to which Marylanders especially were

invited. The Colonel in his courteous way accepted the invitation for

us.

When the ladies were ready to return, the Colonel persistently escorted

them to the gate--as he always did--while we bashful boys stood back and

envied his easy manners, as he escorted them away from us. He always

came back to us with a broad grin on his face, but, kept a taunting

silence as to the conversation that seemed to be so interesting and

amusing.

We put in the balance of that day preparing for the evening's

entertainment. As a general thing, we were demoralized after the visit

and could do nothing else. It so happened that it rained one of those

cold, misty, half-rain and half-sleet storms, that are so disagreeable

always, and especially so when they interfere with one's efforts to get

himself up in his best shape. The storm did not, however, prevent a full

attendance at the ball, for it was a sort of ball or reception, after

some introductory addresses, accompanied by the music of "Dixie" and

"Maryland, my Maryland."

Mrs. President Davis was present. Though I had frequently seen her, she

never looked to my eyes other than a very ordinary matronly lady.

It was a tableau, in which our girl was representing "Maryland

enslaved." She was attired, not exactly in the costume of the Greek

slave, but in a sombre mourning garb, with her head bowed as if in

great sorrow and distress. She walked on to the stage, and, with a

pathetic appeal, lifted toward heaven as beautiful a face as I have ever

seen, stretching out her bared arms, which were shackled by chains. It

was a beautiful and a striking picture, presented with great effect, and

I don't suppose there was a person in the vast crowd who did not feel

ready to make a desperate effort to release the pretty Maryland girl

from those dreadful chains. I'm quite sure I should have done so if I'd

had the opportunity, and would have been glad to have picked "Maryland"

up and carried her away from such dreadful people, but we were not to be

given this privilege.

At the proper moment, Mr. President Davis stepped forward, and, like an

accomplished actor, played his part excellently well, wrenching the

chains from "Maryland" and setting her free. "Maryland" horrified all

the battery boys by immediately throwing her arms around her rescuer.

"We three roughish chaps together," came away from that show with our

empty heads in a whirl. It was still sleeting and quite cold. Lanyard,

with an assumed shudder, proposed that we go to some saloon to get

something hot to prevent our taking cold.

I have never been drunk in my life. I say this here, because a good many

persons who will read this will naturally think that any person who has

"been around" as much as I, must at some time have been full. Especially

as I am an old soldier, I know that some persons will laugh at this

statement as a joke; but it's a sober fact. I never was drunk, but I

came mighty near it that night in Richmond.

Lanyard was familiar with all the best places to "get something," and

took us into a cozy, warm room, where there was a good, cheerful fire

blazing. On one side of the room was the bar--one of those old-fashioned

high counters--but you all know what a bar is like, so I won't attempt a

description of such a place to old soldiers. On this counter was a large

china bowl beautifully decorated on the outside, while within was

floating a mixture that I had never seen before. On inquiry, I was

informed by the bartender, with a significant grin at the Colonel, which

I afterward recalled, that the mixture was Virgina apple-jack.

You don't know what that is? No, I think it has gone out of date, or

perhaps its concoction is one of the lost arts. There were

apples--roasted apples--floating in a sea of foam, that gave forth a

most delightful fragrance. I was curious about the stuff, and being

assured by Lanyard that it was a sort of cooked cider, that was made in

Virginia as a temperance drink for those who were opposed to hard cider,

I, in my unsuspecting innocence, partook of a mug full of the hot stuff.

It was not hard to take, being quite pleasant to the taste, and, the

evening being so cold and wet, I was prevailed upon to poke my nose into

another mug of the apple tea, "just to keep from taking cold."

We all sat down at an adjoining table to await our order of fried

oysters, the two companions becoming quite hilarious over their gin, in

a way, which I recalled afterwards, as quite significant.

The room was quite warm, and, as I began to dry out in its atmosphere, I

became, I thought, too warm, and said as much, which my companions

passed off in their careless way with a laugh.

When I attempted to get on to my feet, for the first time in my life my

head felt a little bit dizzy, and I had to support myself as I stood to

get a proper balance. The table began to move, as if impelled by some

unseen power; in looking up, the fire had grown into three or four

different fires in as many different places; there were several hundred

bottles behind the bar, and realizing in an instant what was coming, I

made a sudden rush for the door, staggering through the room, amid the

laughter of the Colonel and Lanyard, who urged me to sit down; but I had

not yet lost my head, and refused to stop until I got outside, when I

leaned against the door until I cooled off.

It was a close call, but the Federal Spy didn't lose his head in

Richmond that night.

CHAPTER XIX.

RICHMOND, FALL, 1861--DAILY VISITS TO THE WAR OFFICE, MECHANICS'

HALL--EVENINGS DEVOTED TO VISITS IN TOWN--MIXED UP WITH MARYLAND

LADIES--FORT PICKENS OPENS FIRE ON PENSACOLA BATTERIES--GENERAL WINDER,

OF MARYLAND--JEFF DAVIS INAUGURATED PRESIDENT--SHAKE HANDS WITH JEFF

DAVIS.

While it may very often become expedient for a spy, while perambulating

in an enemy's country, to drink socially with those with whom he desires

to communicate, it is always a dangerous expedient, because, of all

persons, a spy requires a cool and clear head.

Although these Confederate soldiers, with whom I was that night

associated, had not the slightest suspicion of my true character and

purposes, yet, if I had been made foolishly drunk by them, there is no

telling what my loosened tongue might have done for me. We were--all

three of us--very much "gone" on the enslaved beauty, and under such

softening influences, at this particular time, a very light dose of

Virginia "apple-jack," added to the "Maryland" influence, would have

completely upset us all.

In fact, I was in greater danger of losing my heart than my head. The

beautiful tableau which we had just witnessed, coupled with the presence

of refined and lovely ladies, accompanied by the sweet music of

Maryland, had more effectually intoxicated my senses than the seductive

"apple-jack."

It will be remembered that in our set was the Lieutenant, who was

supposed to have been a staid married man at home in Maryland, and it

would hardly be fair now to print his desperate efforts to cut out the

boys of his company, simply because he was an officer. We were only able

to defeat his intrigue by bringing to our aid the gallant and handsome

Second Lieutenant, a dark-eyed Mississippi gentleman, but he, with base

ingratitude, took unfair advantage of the opportunities we had afforded

him and used his big black eyes and seductive smiles to capture _our

girl_--and she, the beautiful but uncertain Capitola, the friend of the

Maryland refugees, surrendered to our Mississippi Lieutenant, and there

was great trouble and heart-burning in that Rebel battery ever after.

My undertakings and surroundings in Richmond were not exactly adapted to

the production of humorous or funny effects, but I had lots of fun, all

the same, though I was not sent there for that purpose.

I went about the city during daylight in the garb of a Confederate

soldier, carrying in my pocket the pass of the commanding officer at

Camp Lee, which was furnished me freely through my Maryland Captain's

influence.

General Winder, who became afterward notorious as the

Provost-Marshal-General of Richmond and keeper of Libby Prison, was a

Maryland man, and it so happened that he had known our Captain

intimately while the two lived together in Baltimore. This was a most

fortunate circumstance for my schemes, as the first endorsement I had

taken General Winder was of a personal character from his friend, our

Captain, and thereafter I became solid with General Winder as long as I

remained in Richmond.

I was frequently tempted to go home; indeed, I had several times come to

the conclusion, from my own observation, that there was to be no advance

into Maryland, and that I might as well quit and go home; but, again, I

really felt as if I must accomplish _something_ first. I had stayed away

so long, and had done nothing of importance, that I began to feel that

it would be a degradation to crawl back home and have to explain to

every person I knew where I had been and why I had been there.

I wanted to go back when I should be made welcome. I confess right here

that, since our pleasant acquaintance with the ladies of Richmond had

been formed, I was becoming more content to remain longer in exile. The

presence, and particularly the bright smiles and winning ways of our

"Capitola" was a very great attraction.

I did not go about Richmond as a tramp or a peddler, as is the usual

method of spies we read about in novels, but, instead, I personated a

high-toned Maryland youth--dressed myself in the grayest of gray

uniform, adding all the red trimmings that my rank as Corporal

permitted. I rode a good horse, and, in my capacity of Private Secretary

or Orderly to our lame Captain, enjoyed unusual facilities. During the

daytime I took advantage of all these circumstances, and had my eyes

and wits about me, while the night, in the company of our trio, was

usually spent "about town," where I met some of the best people, who

welcomed us to their houses as Marylanders exiled from our homes. I also

encountered among others some of the very worst class of citizens.

As I have before stated, our Captain frequently visited the War Office,

and I was nearly always taken along him, as he, on account of the

stiffness of one of his legs, was unable to mount or dismount his horse

without assistance. I learned, through this association with him, that

the influence which he controlled at headquarters, and which enabled

him--a cripple--to obtain such a good and much-sought-after position in

the army over the heads of others, was derived, in part at least, from

some relationship with Mr. Judah P. Benjamin, the Secretary of War for

the Confederates.

Mr. Benjamin, it will be remembered, was a close friend of Mr. Davis.

As the fall was now well advanced into winter, the weather was daily

becoming colder, the rains were more frequent, and once or twice we had

some signs of snow, and occasionally that most disagreeable of all

weathers--sleet, rain and cold, all at the same time. We understood,

generally, that it was now getting too late in the season for a fall or

winter invasion of Maryland.

I had not learned enough of the art or science of war at that time to

know that there were any seasons for Army operations.

One day, while standing in the hall door of the War Department Office,

waiting, as was my custom, for the Captain to come around, I was aroused

from the indifference, which had grown upon me, by overhearing two

persons, who were passing me, talking together excitedly about Fort

Pickens and Pensacola. As we had been hearing nothing at all about Fort

Pickens during these summer and fall months, I had almost made up mind

that the place had been overlooked.

As may be imagined, I was not anxious on my own account to have the

subject revived during my stay in Richmond. When I heard the word

"Pickens," which to my ears was like a shot in the rear, I was instantly

on the alert, and watched most eagerly the movements of the two

gentlemen, whose discussion had attracted my attention. They passed

along out of the building and together walked up the street and were

gone out of my sight. It was evident from their not paying any attention

to my presence, that their conversation about Pickens did not have any

reference to me or my connection with the affairs.

I felt the least bit uneasy, however, and, while I stood about the War

Office in Richmond that day, the terrible thought passed through my

brain, "Had I in any manner given myself away, and was I being taken to

the Department by our Captain for the purpose of entrapping or

identifying me?"

It does not take very long for these dreadful thoughts to get possession

of one's brain, and they do grow most wonderfully into the wildest fears

and fancies in less time than it takes to write the words that will

explain the incident. I waited and watched most anxiously about the

square in front of the office, where our horses were tied, for the

appearance of our Captain. He was not in the building at that time, I

learned upon inquiring of some of the clerks. He was most likely further

down town, or with General Winder. It was our custom to hitch our horses

at this same place every day, when, after dismounting, the Captain went

his way, while I did as I pleased also, it being understood always that

at or near a certain time we were to remount at this place and together

return to Camp Lee.

That evening he was unusually late getting around, and when I saw him

limping along, his cane pounding the pavement with more than ordinary

vigor, I knew I should have to lift the old man bodily on to his horse.

He was always more communicative at such times, and ready to tell all

that he had learned during the day. To my own surprise I blurted out,

without thinking of my words, so engrossed was my mind on this subject,

as if determined to hear the worst at once:

"How about Fort Pickens?"

"Oh," he growled out in his thick, guttural tones, "the Yankees have

opened fire on our fellows from that damned Fort Pickens."

"Is that all," said I, with great a sigh of relief, which he must have

noticed had he been sober enough.

"That's enough, ain't it? The President and the Secretary are both

disgusted with General Bragg for not capturing the damn place last

spring."

"Too bad!" my thoughts were, though I did not dare express them. I had

prevented the capture of Fort Pickens in April.

As we rode along in silence for the remainder of the way out to camp, I

had the opportunity to recall the Fort Pickens service, and I wondered

and planned in my own mind just how that duel would be carried on there.

I should have liked so much to have witnessed the booming of guns from

Pickens, and the exploding of the great shells over the exact spots in

which I had located the masked Rebel batteries down there.

My fears having been relieved by this explanation of the conversation I

had overheard, I felt very much as if I'd like to go off by myself and

yell for the old flag, just once, but I dare not; I must continue to

suffer and enjoy, in the silence, that was becoming almost a second

nature to me.

It will be remembered that I had been at Montgomery, Alabama, at about

the time the provisional Government of Jeff Davis was being initiated at

that place. I was at the same hotel for about a week at which Mr. Davis

then occupied rooms. I had several times been close to his

person--indeed, so near that I was able to overhear the conversation in

which he always seemed to be engaged.

Through the fortunes of war, and an adventurous, reckless disposition, I

was again, in the winter of the same year, at the Capitol of the Rebel

Government in Richmond, Virginia, in a position to witness the formal

inauguration of Mr. Jeff Davis as President of the "permanent"

Government of the Confederate States of America, for the term of six

years.

I saw Mr. Davis inaugurated, attended his public reception on the same

evening, and, with all the rest of the callers, I was introduced to him,

shook his hand, looked into his one eye, and passed out into the darkest

night that I ever remember to have seen. The inauguration ceremonies

were intended to be imposing.

We all know now that, even at the early stage of the war, there was much

serious trouble among the Confederate leaders. During my experience

among them there was scarcely a day that I did not hear expressions of

discontent, and witness other evidences of a bitter feeling between the

extreme Southern men and what they termed "Virginia Yankees."

My observations were, of course, principally among the rank and file,

but I had also an eye and an ear for what was occurring among the higher

classes. Though they were able to conceal their bickerings at the time,

to a certain extent, we all know now, from the testimony of such men as

Generals Joe Johnston, Beauregard and Longstreet, that there were always

the smoldering embers of a volcano in the very heart of the Rebellion,

and this cause alone would have prevented their success in the end, even

if General Grant and the Army of the Potomac had been defeated in the

field.

Though Mr. Davis had been elected President without any contest, the

fact remains that there had been hostile opposition to him from various

sources, probably the most noted being that of Howell Cobb. We, of the

Maryland Battery, were given to understand by our Captain that we would

be expected to do our share, individually and collectively, in making

the inauguration a success.

The Secretary of War was a personal friend of our Captain, as will be

remembered, and we all know now, if we did not suspect it then, that Mr.

Benjamin was the Mephistopheles of Mr. Davis' Cabinet, such was the

peculiar character of his services to his chief.

Of course, we were all glad enough of an opportunity to display

ourselves in Richmond as Marylanders who were exiled from home; we had

been accustomed to receive the "ovations" of our Richmond lady friends,

and we were all glad enough of another opportunity to secure all the

attention we could command from them.

There were some fears, too, that the inauguration might be of such a

quiet character as to reflect somewhat, in this way, upon the

administration of Mr. Davis. In brief, Mr. Benjamin and our side were to

take an active part in making it a "popular" ovation. I was in for this,

as I had been for anything at all that would add a little spice to the

daily routine of camp life, that was becoming tiresome to me.

A couple of days previous to the inauguration day, we were all kept

pretty busy drilling our awkward squad in marching and in burnishing up

our uniforms. We had received no arms as yet. The one old condemned iron

cannon we were using to practice on was all that we refugees could boast

of in the way of arms, for the proposed invasion of Maryland.

The trio before mentioned had been dubbed the "Three roguish chaps

together," comprised the Colonel (our Sergeant), Lanyard, the sailor,

and myself had promised the Captain our hearty cooeperation. We

determined to assist him and his friends in every way we could in

"creating a demonstration," leaving for ourselves the evening following

the reception of the President.

The eventful morning came at last, ushered in by a slowly-drizzling,

cold rain. Indeed it promised about as inauspicious for a street display

as could have been imagined. Later in the day the rain increased, and

about the hour set for the ceremonies it had settled down to a steady

pour.

It was, indeed, a dreary day in Richmond overhead as well as under foot.

We marched to the city through slop and mud, that added to our personal

misery and discomfiture, as well as it detracted from our intended gay

appearance.

The ceremony took place in the Capitol Grounds--a stand had been erected

in the neighborhood of the Henry Clay statue. On account of the pouring

rain, it was necessary at almost the last hour for a gang of workingmen

to erect a temporary roof or shelter over the place from which Mr. Davis

was to deliver his inaugural address.

I did not get to hear a word of it, but I was not caring a scrap about

it just then. I saw Mr. Davis, though, through all the proceedings--we

were stationed at some distance down the hill and looked up over a sea

of umbrellas.

After the ceremony was over, we three were permitted by our Captain to

remain in town, and the trio at once found shelter in the same

comfortable restaurant in which I had first tasted the apple-jack. Here

we were permitted to dry out our wet clothing and enjoy a good

old-fashioned Virginia dinner, which mine host had prepared in honor of

the day. The great china punch-bowl was still on the high bar, filled

almost to the brim with the sweet-smelling, seductive apple-jack, in

which floated some roast apples, which were garnished with cloves, so

they looked like great pine balls, but I felt that they were as

dangerous as porcupines.

I was urged to drink several times indeed, but one taste was enough for

me. The landlord was rather hurt, or pretended to be, that I should

refuse to accept from his own hands the courteously proffered mug of

the delicious compound, to be drunk in honor of the day, etc.

The Colonel, who had been such a good friend since we had met while I

was sick in the hotel, had formed apparently the utmost confidence in

me. In fact, our relations became of the most intimate character, as far

as was possible between any two persons who were so unlike in

disposition and purposes. The Colonel was my senior by several years;

perhaps, because of this, or maybe from the fact that he had nursed me

out from my illness and led me into the company, I felt that he had an

oversight or care over me, and acted toward me in the kindly way of an

elder brother.

In the love affairs, in which we all became so absurdly mixed up with

our Maryland slave, Capitola, the Colonel had taken it upon himself to

act in my behalf and for my good. I had taken him into my confidence

about Capitola, and told him all about my trouble in that direction; how

our officers had taken undue advantage of their uniform to cut me out,

etc. He agreed with me that it was an "outrage," and admitted, with a

smile, that I now recall as significant, that it was due entirely to the

uniforms.

I had accepted his offer to make things all right for me. I had

consented most reluctantly to the Colonel's disinterested and brotherly

advice--not to have anything more to do with Capitola.

On inauguration day, being in town and feeling in pretty good trim, I

yielded to the impulse, and concluded to meet Capitola just once more,

to say "Good-by," provided I could do so without letting the Colonel

find it out.

While trying to fix up a scheme to get away from him and Lanyard that

afternoon, so that I might make the proposed call undetained, I was

delighted to hear the Colonel ask Lanyard and I, to excuse him for a

couple of hours, as he had an important engagement with the Lieutenant

that afternoon--business must be attended to.

I was not long in getting away from Lanyard, and quickly skipped around

to the well known residence of our Capitola. She surprised me by meeting

me cordially and, all in one breath, demanded to know why I had stayed

away so long.

"Why," she said, in her smiling, innocent way, "all the rest of your

boys have been to call on us."

"Indeed," thought I; and when I had sufficiently recovered to ask who

had been there since I had been gone, she smilingly said:

"Why, your friend, the Colonel, calls frequently; also that Mississippi

Lieutenant of yours. Isn't he just too nice?"

This was not exactly what I expected or desired to hear from Capitola,

but it was enough. The Colonel, my brotherly friend, was deceiving me,

too. One purpose of my visit had been to request her company to the

reception at the President's that evening. I had formed the impression

that it would be a great scheme for the Spy to escort the Maryland slave

to Jeff Davis' reception. When I had intimated the object of my visit,

she burst into a hearty laugh as she said, cheerily:

"Oh, that is too funny. I believe every soldier from Maryland in your

company has made that request already, and I had to decline them all,

because I had engaged to go with the Lieutenant, you know."

I was preparing to take my leave when the door bell rang. After a few

more words and a sad "Good-by" to Capitola, I was about to leave the

room when I ran against my disinterested, brotherly Colonel, who had

been trying to replace himself in the affections of my girl--while

advising me to stay away. He was not at all embarrassed, but at once

broke out into a hearty laugh, and, pulling me over to a sofa, we had a

talk about the affair, which amused Capitola so much that her merry

laughter rang through the house as she gathered the situation from our

"explanations."

The Colonel proposed going out with me, but I noticed that he had

cunningly slipped Capitola to one side and whispered in her ear

something which had the effect of causing her cheery laughter to break

out in a fresh place. She rushed over to me and, placing both hands on

my shoulder, said:

"There is another--he wants me to go with _him_ to the reception."

So I had my turn to laugh on the Colonel. We were about to leave.

Capitola, smiling, suggested that we march the whole company down to her

house and she should go along with all of us--as the _Fille de

Regiment_.

Despite the weather and some gloomy forebodings of friends, the

reception of President Jeff Davis was a success--in the way of a crowd,

at least. It seemed to me at the time that everybody was there. There

were all kinds of people present during the evening--the very best class

of the citizens of Richmond and, perhaps, some of the very worst

element, along with the numerous army officers and soldiers.

Richmond, in the winter of 1861, may justly be termed, at that time, the

wickedest city in America. Adventurous gamblers and bad citizens of

every conceivable description had flocked to the Rebel Capital from New

Orleans and all parts of the South and North. One portion of Main street

was abandoned almost wholly to gambling houses, which, at night, were

inhabited by the worst kind of characters, in Rebel uniforms. These

people and their associates, who were in the city for sport and to ply

their vocations, flocked in great numbers to all places where crowds

were gathered, such as theatres, receptions, etc.

The Mayor of the city, a Mr. Mayo--whose name I remember so well because

it lacked but the final letter "r" to spell the name and position in the

same word--was a dignified, gray-haired, old Virginia gentleman, who did

the best he could to preserve the peace and order of the city. I saw him

frequently on the street and at the City Hall, on Broad street. I never

had any dealings with him in his official capacity that prevents my

bearing this testimony to his good intentions. He was on hand at the

reception, as the city official, as was also Governor Letcher, who was

another Virginia gentleman and official who I can remember with feeling

of respect. General Winder, who had been a police inspector, or

something of the kind, in Baltimore, was, in reality, the Governor, the

Mayor, and the Provost-Marshal combined in one, as well as Military

Governor, with absolute authority from the Confederate Government. He

had, as a Baltimorean, imported into Richmond a number of the Baltimore

ex-police, or plug-uglies, whom he had employed as special detectives in

his service.

We went to the President's house together, early; and we stayed around

the neighborhood as long as we could stand the storm, in hope of getting

a sight of Claiborne and Capitola.

The Colonel and I took our places in the line, to be presented in our

turn. I had some slight misgivings on the outcome of this adventure,

because I knew that Mr. Davis had frequently seen me while in Montgomery

with him, and I feared that the subsequent notoriety I had obtained

from the Fort Pickens episode would have served to have placed me in his

mind. It will be remembered, too, that the press all over the South, as

well as the North, had fully described my visit from Montgomery to

Pensacola. So, it was with something of a nervous quivering at the heart

that I saw myself being slowly advanced to the President. I watched his

face closely from my place in the line before I reached him, and saw him

courteously and smilingly take each one by the hand as he was presented.

As I have said before, Mr. Davis' face was thin--his cheeks somewhat

sunken. His pictures do not properly represent his face, as it was only

when he smiled and spoke in his low, soft, gentle manner, that he was so

fascinating to those who knew him best.

He was, of course, severe and unbending to his enemies, but he was

always the same to friends.

The Colonel was ahead of me, and, as his name was mentioned, he said to

Mr. Davis, as he turned to me:

"A couple of Maryland boys have come to pay their respects to you, Mr.

President."

Mr. Davis held his hand for a moment, saying, pleasantly, to the

Colonel:

"Why, I'm right glad to see you."

At the same time he reached his other hand to me, and, for a moment, he

grasped us each with a hand saying, as he looked at me with that one

mighty bright eye:

"I'm glad to see you both."

We passed on, my heart fluttering terribly; but, once, in the crowd

again, I felt that I had passed another danger. We lingered in the crowd

for a short time; saw all who came and left in that time, and not being

able longer to stand the storm, while waiting for a glimpse of Capitola,

I turned away from the crowd into the darkness of a stormy night and

wandered out to camp, so much absorbed in my own thoughts that I lost

all care for my appearance--trudging blindly along through the darkness

into the mud and slush until I reached camp, tired, where I quickly

tumbled into the bunk and was quickly lost to all consciousness of the

day's doing.

CHAPTER XX.

ONE SUNDAY IN RICHMOND--JEFF DAVIS' AND GENERAL LEE'S HOMES AND

CHURCH--RECOGNIZED AT LIBBY PRISON--VISIT TO TEXAS CAMP--A "DIFFICULTY"

RENEWED--THRILLING EXPERIENCE--A NIGHT IN RICHMOND WITH TEXAS BOYS.

From the subsequent questionings of our people North about how things

looked in Richmond during the war, I gathered that they all entertained

erroneous impressions about the conditions of affairs in that city at

that time. I have been trying to describe them from a Unionist's

standpoint. Though it had been in a state of siege at the time of which

I write, and was apparently cut off from the balance of the world for a

year, yet there was absolutely nothing in the general appearance of

things in the streets to indicate that the city suffered in the least

from the blockade.

It may be said that Richmond was very much like Washington at the same

period, the principal difference being that the soldiers who thronged

the streets and filled the saloons and houses of one city were in a gray

uniform, while those in the other wore a blue. There was probably more

of the blue boys loose in Washington than of the gray in Richmond,

because the Confederate officials and, particularly,

Provost-Marshal-General Winder, of Maryland, was able, with the despotic

power granted him by the War Office, to prevent a great deal of

straggling.

The weather was now settled into the regular Virginia winter,

alternating into rain, snow, slush and sleet. Under these conditions it

was impossible for either army to move, and, as a consequence, the city

was soon filled full of officers from Manassas, who were on leave from

their command, or of soldiers on furlough, or straggling deserters. No

one will attempt to claim that the city at this time was orderly; in

fact, the oldest citizens are ready to assert, even now, that, during

the early winter months, the respectable portion of the community were

in truth besieged in their own houses. It was scarcely safe for a lady

to venture alone in certain portions of the town during the daytime,

while at night the straggling furloughed officers and soldiers, under

such conditions, on the same equality, had entire possession in the

streets and certain parts of the city.

There was apparently no scarcity of money--such as it was--and there was

not, that I can recall, any limit of the supply of whisky and all the

other little attachments that the soldiers either in gray or in blue

will have.

Main street, 1886, looked to me very much as it did in 1861 and 1862,

except, perhaps, that on the occasion of my last visit the city

presented to my eye somewhat the appearance of Sunday, in its general

orderly and quiet bearing, as compared with the noisy, boisterous crowds

that we saw on the streets daily in 1861 and 1862.

Camp Lee was on that side of the city furthest from the Libby Prison and

Rockett's Wharf, and those places in the neighborhood of which I had

spent most of my time in the first days of my visit, after recovering

from my illness.

I had neglected to visit my early friends, the guard at Libby during

these later days, because of the long distance of our camps from them,

and not that I had forgotten or lost interest in our prisoners at Libby.

One Sunday morning, the weather being rather more agreeable than any we

had enjoyed for some days previously, I obtained permission and a pass

from our Captain to go to the city early in the day to attend church.

The Captain pleasantly granted the request. Some of the officers, who

were near by when I asked the privilege of attending church, facetiously

recommended the Captain not to refuse anything that would tend to

improve the morals of his corporal or clerk. I went off alone on foot,

intending to make a visit to the prisoners before I should return.

Perhaps I may have been feeling a little bit homesick and disgusted with

Richmond on this Sunday morning, because on the evening previous our

beautiful Capitola had--to put it vulgarly--gone back on me for our

Lieutenant.

I walked into the city via Franklin street, which is the aristocratic

residence street of Richmond. There are on this thoroughfare some old

Virginia homes and families that the city and State may well be proud

of. General Lee's family lived on this street in a large, plain, double

brick house, on the south side, one or two blocks from the Capitol

Grounds. The house is quite ordinary-looking as compared with that of

some of the large private residences in the neighborhood, but it will

always remain to Southern people one of the historic houses of their

city, because it was here on the street, on a Sunday morning after the

surrender, that General Lee, accompanied by a few members of his staff,

rode up to his door, dismounted from his war horse--Traveler--and, with

a silent wave of the hand, parted with his personal staff, entered his

house and closed the doors forever on his hopes of a Confederacy.

It is not written what occurred behind the closed doors, but there is

gossip, which has, perhaps, been confirmed, that the staid, reserved,

dignified old General, once inside his own hall at his home, completely

broke down and fell to the floor, from which he was carried to his bed

by the servants and that part of his family who were present.

The home of General Lee is more sought out by tourists in Richmond

nowadays than is that of President Jeff Davis.

A block below, or nearest the Capitol, and directly opposite the

grounds, stands St. Paul's Episcopal Church, in which both President

Davis and General Lee worshiped. On the Sunday morning of which I am

writing, in 1861, I took a position at the Fountain Hotel, directly

opposite the church, to await the arrival of President Davis. There had

been a good bit of talk about Mr. Davis' intentions of joining this

church. Though he was a regular attendant during his early days in

Richmond, it was not until some months after--and, I think, during the

day of which I write--that he was formally baptized and confirmed into

that church.

I did not have to wait long for the appearance of Mr. Davis. He came on

to the steps so suddenly that I nearly missed seeing him. He was alone,

and dressed in his usual plain way--had walked up from the direction of

his office, when I had looked for him coming down through the grounds

from his house. He spoke pleasantly to the few people whom he passed on

his way, and disappeared inside the church.

Mr. Davis, whatever may be said of his public character, and a great

deal has been written against him by his own Southern people, always

impressed me at sight as being an agreeable, honest gentleman. I was

frequently close to him, and always felt his presence, impressed with

the feeling that he was having a great deal of serious trouble. I have

often wondered if Mr. Davis ever entertained, for a moment even, the

thought or fear that his life was in danger. I hope he may live long,

and perhaps read the poor story of the Yankee Spy, who dogged his very

footsteps in Richmond from after the battle of Bull Run until the winter

following, and prevented any attempt at invasion of the North.

After the President had entered the Church, I lounged outside while the

great organ gave the beautiful Sunday morning an impressive salute. When

the tones had died away, feeling more homesick and blue than ever, I

started off on my walk down Main street toward the Libby and the

Warehouse prisons. As Libby is in the lower end of the city pretty close

to Rockett's Wharf, it was a long walk, though it was Sunday, and the

shops along the way were open and dispensing refreshments to the crowds.

My early Rebel friend was not on guard that morning, but some of his

friends said he would be around after dinner, so, under pretense of

waiting for him, I sat around in such shape that I could get a good view

of the "animals" as they called the prisoners.

The tobacco warehouses in which the prisoners were confined have been so

often described that any attempt of mine would be superfluous. It will

be remembered, however, that, even before the war, all these large

barn-like buildings were constructed pretty much after the form of our

modern bonded warehouses. All the windows were made with iron bars,

presenting the appearance of cages.

Groups of our poor fellows were easily to be seen through the bars, some

of them having become pretty ragged; others were standing by the windows

peering through the bars; a few walked or promenaded in pairs up and

down the large barn-like floors. There were always two sentries and an

officer at the main door, while on the pavement in front other sentries

paced their silent beats, so that it was impossible for me to have any

communication with them.

I desired for a particular reason to ascertain the names of some of the

prisoners, and, if possible, to get the address of their friends in the

North, that I might test my mail communication, by sending some word

direct to them. Perhaps, for my own good, I was not successful.

I may be permitted to say here that, in case we had another war, the

benefit of the Signal Service Code will be made apparent in this, that a

silent communication may be carried on between friends of the same side

under just precisely such conditions as I have described here.

If there had been a prisoner inside the bars who had been familiar with

the Telegraph Code, as adapted to the motions of the hand, I could have

spelled out over the head of the guard, without his knowledge, quite as

rapidly as I can write it, messages that would have been a relief and

pleasure to the prisoners inside, if not otherwise beneficial.

It was while standing in front of the Warehouse Prison, on Main street,

thinking and planning over the possibilities in this direction, looking

intently, from where I stood on the inside of the pavement, through the

windows at the prisoners, that I felt a slap on my back that caused me

to jump like an india-rubber ball. The voice, which was not a familiar

one, said, loudly enough for even the prisoners to hear, using my own,

my right name:

"Hello, Blank!"

When I turned to see who had "struck" me, I am sure that I presented a

very flushed and, perhaps, angry face. I did not at once recognize the

person, probably because he was in a gray uniform, but the smiling face

of his companion, in the full black beard, I at once recognized as

Doctor ----, of San Marcos, Texas, whom I had known familiarly as the

young son of my uncle's neighbor.

I saw that I was caught at last, as I fully believed, and determined to

make the most of my short time.

The tall young fellow, who had first approached me, I was able to

recall, as the doctor mentioned his name and a visit we had made

together to his house.

I was assured somewhat, and recovered from my surprise by the doctor

extending his hand, and in the most agreeable and hearty manner, said:

"Well, Blank, I'm damn glad to see you are on the right side."

I hardly knew what to say to them, the surprise was so great, but this

remark served to bring me to my senses, and I replied in a somewhat

embarrassed manner, by asking what they were doing in Richmond?

"Oh! we are all here. Our regiment is encamped just out here. We have

been in town to church, but are going out to camp now." Then taking my

arm, familiarly, said: "Come along, the boys will all be glad to see

you?"

Their invitation was so cordial, and I was being urged with such

earnestness to join them, that I could see at once that they did not

suspect my true character. It was evident that neither of them had heard

of my Fort Pickens affair.

The one difficulty I saw before me in renewing this Texas acquaintance

was, that I should have to represent in Richmond two different

characters, under the two different names. I might be able to keep up

this dual character if the two crowds were distinct or separated, but

there was, of course, a great risk in this.

I did not, under any circumstances, want to become known by the name in

Richmond by which I had been so widely published as the Pensacola Spy.

All the Rebel detective force, which was made up principally of

Baltimore police and detectives imported by General Winder, had

undoubtedly been furnished with instructions to look after spies, and

perhaps I had been specially honored by their notice as being the first

on record during the war.

But I could not well resist the demand to accompany these two Texas boys

out to their camp; and when they suggested that I _must_ see my old

friends from Texas, and seemed to take it as an affront that I should

hesitate, there seemed to be no way out of it--especially as they had

proposed furnishing me a horse to return to my own camp in the evening.

I reluctantly started to walk out to their camp, talking familiarly and

cordially on the way, as they did about their delight at finding me on

the "right" side. I could not entertain the thought that these

honest-hearted Texan youths, who had never before been so far from home,

were capable of any trick--they were sincerely glad to see me. I felt

instinctively that they were old friends and neighbors of my Texas

uncle, who did not suspect me of being a Yankee Spy.

The road to the camp of the Texans led in the direction of Seven Pines

(or Fair Oaks), where Johnston attacked McClellan's left in the

following May, and the camp itself was not far from that point.

As we tramped along a pleasant chat was kept up, and though I was on the

alert to hear if any suspicion attached to me for the Fort Pickens

matter, nothing was said to indicate that either one had ever heard of

the affair. They were, undoubtedly, sincere in their cordiality, and

only desired to gratify their companions in camp with their success in

having found one whom they all knew, so far away from their Texas homes.

In the talk, I gathered that one company in their regiment came from the

neighborhood in which my uncle lived, and was composed principally of

the very set of young fellows with whom I had been associated there only

the previous winter. They gave me the names of a good many of the boys,

and amused me with the accounts of the journey they had made from Texas

to Virginia in search of the war. The fact of my having an uncle in the

South would of itself have been sufficient indorsement for my "loyalty"

with most of these fellows, but I recalled to myself that, while amongst

them in Texas, I had got into trouble several times by my outspoken

Northern sentiments during the Presidential campaign, which was then

going on. The doctor probably referred to this when he congratulated me

so heartily on having found me on the right side.

We finally reached the camp. I was marched up to the company quarters,

and was generally recognized by the boys, who were as sincerely glad to

see me as if I was just from their home. I was at home among

them--everything was all right there, and I enjoyed renewing the

friendship of a year previous. Among the boys was one fellow, to whom I

referred in the introduction of this story, as having a difficulty

with--the grandson of David Crockett, the hero of the Alamo. Young

Crockett, like most of his class, had been taught to presume a little on

the glory of his ancestors. This had made him somewhat personally

disagreeable to his associates; but he kept away from me that day.

I remained in camp until after dress parade. It was a regiment of as

fine a looking set of truly American men and boys as I have ever seen in

either army. Their war record, as the Texas Rangers, will bear me out in

this opinion. Their Colonel was afterward the famous General John B.

Hood.

I was urged to stay for camp dinner. The boys, with whom I had so often

before been in camps in Texas, while "rounding up" their stock, were all

well up to the use of the camp-kettles and pots, and, with the

advantages of the city close by them, they were able to get up in good

style, first-class shape, one of the good old-style Western Texas

dinners. We were having a good time all around. I was being urged to get

a release from my Maryland Battery and join the Texas Brigade.

I saw that I could not very well keep up this dual character, the very

cordiality of these fellows would lead to their visiting me up in the

Maryland Battery, and, once there, things would become badly mixed up. I

would never be able to explain to these Maryland fellows that I was in

reality another fellow altogether, and it would cause some confusion in

the Texas camp to have to explain the other way to my Texas friends.

These thoughts, however, detracted but little from the pleasure of my

visit, for, as I felt that somehow or other I would get out of the

difficulty, I did not concern myself for a moment.

It was a mistake to have accompanied the Texans to their camp. It was,

to say the least, when there, very indiscreet to place myself on

exhibition among the hundreds of other spectators who were grouped in

front of the Texas regiment while they were having their Sunday dress

parade.

In the society of the earnest and cordial Texas acquaintances whom I had

found--or who had found me--I had wholly overlooked the little

circumstance that had occurred during the night at the theater, when, it

will be remembered, I had been pleasantly approached after the dismissal

by a couple of Confederates who said they had met me in Texas the

preceding winter. I was then that evening in the company of the Colonel,

who knew me only as a Marylander, and by an entirely different name than

that by which the Texans addressed me, and it will be remembered that I

then declined to be recognized as ----, and had, perhaps, rather curtly

repelled their courteous advances.

As I sat at camp dinner on an improvised bench in front of the tent with

my friends, with consternation I saw approaching me the very chap whom I

had snubbed in the vestibule of the theater. The appearance of this tall

fellow at the time, in his gray clothes, had about such an effect on me

at the dinner table in that company in broad daylight as a ghost might

produce when alone somewhere near midnight. He had his staring eyes

fixed right on me. There was no mistaking it.

My dangerous predicament rushed to my mind at once. Luckily for me,

perhaps, we were all seated at the table, so the fellow had politeness

enough not to intrude himself upon the crowd, but walked on past us

keeping his eye searchingly, and I felt sternly, fixed on me. I lost my

appetite, which a moment previously was ravenous, and, as soon as I

could decently do so, meekly suggested that, as I had a long way to go,

I'd better leave them at once.

"O, no; we are going to escort you back to your camp on a horse, as we

agreed to do."

That was very kind, of course, but if there was any one thing that I did

not want to happen just then, was any farther attention to be paid to

their guest. I declined the proffered kindness with so much earnestness

that it might have had the effect of quieting the matter had not one of

the fellows observed:

"Well, I'm going to town to-night anyway, and you can wait awhile and

ride that far."

I have no doubt that the conversation between myself and the Texas

Confederates that evening (in the light of subsequent events), would be

interesting to any of them yet living who may see this narrative, and if

I were able to put it down here in detail it might also be interesting

to the ordinary reader.

I remember all that occurred during the half hour that followed the

dinner hour. Could I forget that banquet?

While my newly-found old friends were arranging among themselves a

programme to spend the evening in Richmond with me as their guide, my

searching glances detected that my tall theatre acquaintance had

gathered a group of half a dozen of his comrades around himself, and, as

I imagined, he was earnestly explaining to them his experience with me

at the theatre door.

Of course, I must have imagined the worst; who would not have done so

under the same conditions? He probably did not suspect my true character

at all, and was, perhaps, only entertaining his associates with an

account of what he, no doubt, termed the shabby treatment that I had

accorded him, as compared with what he was witnessing in my intercourse

with the other boys. It had, however, another dangerous effect of

calling the attention of a great many of the regiment to their visiting

comrade in gray--the Maryland refugee--who was, by a stretch of the

imagination, almost as far from home as were the Texans, because, as

they said, in their sympathetic way, when speaking of their absence and

distance from home:

"We can get home if we have occasion to go, but you cannot, because, you

live in a foreign country that's at war with us, you know."

While talking together, the doctor came up to the group of which I was

the center, and remarked in a half-quizzical way, his face wearing a

smiling expression:

"Say, Blank, Jim Haws says he met you one night at the theatre, and you

wouldn't speak to him."

Right here I made another mistake that day, by denying that I had

refused to speak to any one.

"That's what I told him, but he swears that he and Bill Williams both

saw you there."

I realized that I had again put my foot into it; but, I suppose, on the

principle that a lie well stuck to will answer for the truth, I

deliberately thrust myself deeper into the mire by insisting that I had

not met any one at the theatre. This was satisfactory to the friends

near me, who had become somewhat interested in the talk, and it all

might have passed off without any further questioning or investigation

if my former enemy, Davy Crockett, Jr., had not meddled with the affair.

He had, as it subsequently appeared, been volunteering his sympathies

and comments unfavorable to me to the two comrades whose story of the

"insult" at the theatre had reached him. Of course, the motive that

prompted young Crockett was simply a desire to get even with me, for

presuming to promptly accept a challenge from him while in Texas to

fight a duel.

As I have said, the one thing that I most desired just at that time was

to get away from that crowd. If this intention had not been so fixed in

my mind, or if I had at all thought of being delayed, perhaps I should

have conducted myself with more discretion, and not have committed the

blunder of denying a matter that would so soon and so surely react on me

and endanger my life.

When we were about ready to leave the camp, and as I was flattering

myself that once out of sight I should be out of mind, and have another

opportunity to get away, I was confronted by the identical Jim Haws, who

had brought to our part of the camp "a few friends," among whom was

Billy Williams. In a voice trembling with suppressed rage, he said,

looking savagely at me:

"Didn't you see me at the theater the other night?"

I have before stated, not with egotism, but as an explanation for some

of my statements, that it is or has been one of my good points to always

have been able to meet a sudden danger coolly, while at the same time I

confess that I would tremble with apprehension and fear if I were

anticipating or expecting the same danger.

Looking him straight in the eye--for I was _riled_ by his savage

manner--I answered, resentfully and boldly:

"I don't know whether I did or not. I've seen so many fellows like you

around town that I've not minded them much."

For the moment my defiant manner served to give me the advantage, and

the fellow was so badly stumped that he couldn't answer at once, but

turning to his friend and companion, Williams, whom he had brought along

as a witness to prove to the boys that he was right in his assertion of

my having insulted him, he said:

"Bill, ain't he the fellow?"

Whether it was a disposition on the part of Bill to prevent any outbreak

(a crowd was collecting), he mildly answered:

"Well, it looks mighty much like him, but you know we might be

mistaken," and, turning to me, said, politely:

"My friend felt sure you were the man we met that night, but, as I had

never seen you at home, and it was so dark and crowded there, I can't be

certain myself."

At this stage, while I had become too much excited to talk coolly, my

friends stepped in and interfered in my behalf, and Bill and Jim walked

off with their friends, the latter muttering threats of vengeance.

The little ruffle on the surface, which looked like a "difficulty" on

this quiet Sunday evening, created quite a commotion about the quarters.

All know how quickly a fight will gather a crowd in camp, and how soon

the officers become aware of it.

The serious part of this threatened fight was in the fact, that it

served to call general attention to me individually--would bring to the

scene not only the officer of the day, but other officers of the

regiment, who had been attracted by the gathering crowd.

[Illustration: "BILL, AIN'T HE THE FELLOW?"]

Explanations followed freely in our own crowd, to the effect that it was

a case of mistaken identity, which was generally accepted

good-naturedly. The fact that I was a visitor, and a friend of some of

the best men in the regiment, who were ready to vouch for me (as the

"Nephew of my Uncle")--had been inhospitably or ungenerously treated by

any of their men while a guest--had the effect on these good,

generous-hearted boys of completely turning the tide of feeling to

sympathy for me. In the general exchange of courtesies, which resulted

from the officers coming down to see us, it so happened that I was

introduced to a Captain Somebody, who, not hearing distinctly, had asked

for my name a second time, and on my repeating it with some little pride

on my uncle's account, he said, turning to his companion, who was also

an officer:

"Why, isn't that the name of the Yankee Spy that was at Pensacola?"

I have often, often thought, in the years that have since passed, of

that one terrible moment of my life. Here I was just emerging from one

difficulty, resulting from my dual character as a spy, while I was in

Richmond, and on the precipice of another greater danger directly in my

path. A single word improperly spoken at that time would have condemned

me to the scaffold in _less than_ twenty-four hours.

I felt for the moment that the fates were against me and determined to

crush me at last. Realizing that the mere reoepening of my difficulty

with the Texas boys must now result in an investigation, and that would

lead in the one direction, only to the gallows, I said nothing. Perhaps

I was too much stunned for an instant to speak; but I have often thought

that my flushed face was misinterpreted by those who must have seen it

to indicate resentment at the coupling of my name in such a way.

My friend, the doctor, relieved my temporary embarrassment by speaking

up for me, saying, in a laughable way that seemed to change the subject:

"Come on, let us get away from here, or somebody will swear they saw you

some place else."

Thus relieved, I quietly suggested to the Captain that I had been

wearing a gray uniform up in Virginia since I left Texas.

I was again temporarily out of danger and breathed a little freer, but

became nervously anxious to get away, and hurried up the boys who were

to accompany me into town.

While still talking to these officers, the younger one, to whom the

Captain had addressed the inquiry as to the name of the Pensacola Spy,

incidentally volunteered the information that their company, which was a

part of the regiment, had been organized about Galveston in the early

days of April and May, and, while waiting for the enlistment of the

regiment's full quota, they had been ordered to New Orleans, and from

thence were assigned to duty at Pensacola, Florida, and _were actually

there about the time_ of my adventure to Fort Pickens.

I did not feel like pursuing the conversation much further in that

direction. I quickly changed the subject, so as to make an impression on

their minds that I had been in active service in Virginia right along.

This was not difficult, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that my

gray uniform had been of service again. It saved my bacon that day,

sure.

It seemed, in my nervousness, that the boys would never get ready to

leave camp for town. When I learned the delay was caused by some

disappointment about securing enough horses for all who wanted to go

along, I urged with much earnestness that horses would only be an

encumbrance--that we could easily walk and have more fun if not

encumbered with their care. They abandoned them reluctantly, as a Texan

thinks he can not go a square without a horse. We all started off at

last, light-footed. There was not one of that crowd of hearty boys who

walked out of that camp in the gloaming of that Sunday evening who

suspected my true character. My heart was heavy enough as I walked along

with them, brooding inwardly over the troubles which I saw must result

from this Sunday visit; but my feet were light, and I verily believe

that I could have double-quicked it all night in almost any direction

that would lead me away from there.

I dared not take any of these boys to our Maryland Battery and introduce

them to my friends there, who knew me as a different person. They were,

for this time, only expecting to put in a night sky-larking in

Richmond, but I knew very well the time would come--very soon, too--when

I must expect a return visit from them. I realized, too, that in the

meantime my old enemy, Davy Crockett, would keep stirring up the two

boys who had been only temporarily put down; and if the Captain could

hear of their story, and be made to believe that I was playing double

with them, it would surely awaken his Pensacola recollections and direct

his attention to me. So I did not want to see anybody from Texas any

more.

In attempting two different characters on the one day, in Richmond, I

ran a foolish risk, and had probably stirred up an investigation that

would be fatal to me. This was about the situation of affairs on this

Sunday evening, when I was actually reckless enough to risk again mixing

myself up, by acting as a guide or cicerone to a party of Rebel soldiers

about their own Capital at night for fun. Notwithstanding the previous

encounters, I enjoyed the night off fully as much as any of the boys of

the crowd.

I was somewhat heavy-hearted when we first left the Texas camp, but the

hearty, joyous, unsuspecting behavior of the crowd had the effect of

reassuring me, as it were; and seeing that they, at least, would stand

by me in their own camp, I entered with them into the spirit of the fun

in such a way that I am surprised at myself when I think of it now.

We walked into town over what is known as Church Hill, above Rockett's,

on the road leading out to Seven Pines and Fair Oaks.

It was about dark when we reached the colored settlement in the

outskirts, and, as we began the descent of the long hill (the same on

which the colored troops first entered Richmond in 1865), we heard the

church bells of the city. There is, in many souls like my own, a

sympathy with sounds of this character. In our crowd was the doctor, an

educated as well as a polished gentleman and scholar. When the tones

reached his ear he stopped, lifted his hat reverently as he stood on the

sidewalk, and recited in a manner that so impressed me that I shall

never forget these words:

"Hist! When the church bell chime,

'Tis Angels music."

Some of the boys, inclined to poke fun at the doctor's seriousness, to

which, in his absent-minded, thoughtful way, he responded: "Have you

never been where bells have tolled to church?"

He continued in this serious strain, while the jangle of the bells

lasted; and as he and I were walking side by side, he kept pouring into

my ear the beautiful thoughts about church bells, home, and all its

attendant happiness, that I began to feel quite homesick.

"Those evening bells, those evening bells,

How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,

When last I heard their soothing chime."

The doctor suggested that we all go to church, but seeing that his

recommendation did not meet with a very eager second, he amended it by

adding the word "first," observing by way of explanation, that it would

be a good way to put in the time for awhile. There were objections: one

said he was an Episcopalian--their church did not have services at

night; he was supported in this evasion by another who declared he was a

Catholic. The doctor, appealing to me, asked if I were not an

Episcopalian, too; I assented to it, when he mildly observed:

"I thought so; you and the other Episcopalian swear and lie alike so

superbly."

Of course the boys wanted to get into some of the "society" of Richmond,

and, as I had been there during the winter season, they expected me to

introduce them.

I had entertained them about my experiences, which naturally aroused

their curiosity, and excited their interest to learn more, and, perhaps,

they desired to participate a little in the social enjoyments.

There was a great deal of society in Richmond in the winter of 1861, as

I have said heretofore--people of all classes and all kinds were there

in throngs, from every portion of the South, principally New Orleans,

Baltimore, and other large cities. To my mind, unsophisticated as I was,

there was but one--the beautiful little brunette, our Capitola--the

Maryland slave.

I had talked to these fellows about Capitola so much that I was urged in

the most seductive way to permit them to make her acquaintance, on my

account. That sort of talk was all very nice, but it didn't have

exactly the desired effect. I'd been fooled that way once before, twice

before by being inveigled into introducing the Mississippi Lieutenant,

who was anxious to see her on my account, and also who had cut me out

entirely, on his own account. I didn't tell the Texas fellows this part

of the story, though.

A spy who allows himself to get mixed up with a lady in his work, and

loses his heart and parts with his judgment, is worse, decidedly worse,

than one who loses his head with drink.

Personally, I wanted very much to call on Capitola, and would have been

delighted with the excuse that was offered to present my friends, but

for the fact that she knew me only as Mr. B----, while my friends called

me Mr. A----.

In my eagerness to meet with her again, as I felt that now I must leave

town, I was willing to take some risk. It was explained to the boys

that I had assumed a fictitious name in my intercourse with Capitola,

and, after giving them the blind, it was arranged that I should first

see our enslaved beauty alone, and obtain her consent to present the

Texans at her court that evening.

A soldier will risk a good deal for the sake of meeting his girl, as we

all know. It was with the earnest desire to accomplish the purpose of

seeing my girl--just once more--to say "Good-by" forever, that I was

willing to meet another danger.

I saw Capitola alone, and nervously explained that a few of my Texan

acquaintances, who had heard so much of her beauty and accomplishments,

were clamorous for an opportunity to kneel at the feet of "Maryland." I

did not attempt to say a word for myself, because it was understood

that, since the Mississippi Lieutenant had been paying his addresses to

her, we were, all of us, entirely out of the question. This disagreeable

fact did not, however, prevent the handsome girl from entertaining me in

a heartily cordial manner during my preliminary visit that evening in

the interest of the other boys.

I could not say "Good-by," because, don't you see, I dare not tell

anybody--not even my best girl--that I must go away; so I was denied

even the poor satisfaction of a farewell with Capitola.

I do not remember whether I have said so before in this narrative, but,

at the risk of a repetition, I will write down here what I believe to

have been the truth--that Capitola was attracted more by the

Mississippi Lieutenant's uniform and position than by his superior

personal appearance. That she became convinced that the blue-eyed and

light-haired Maryland Corporal of Artillery was the most devoted of her

lovers, if not as handsome as many others, I have every reason to know.

It was pleasantly agreed that I should introduce to her my Texas

friends. She, in her fascinating manner, considerately proposed to have

with her one or two lady friends as her companions, who would help to

pleasantly entertain my friends, the Texans, who were as she expressed

it, "Thousands of miles from their homes."

While all these fascinating interviews were being held, I, like a

love-sick boy, became wholly indifferent to the dangers and

complications which I was rapidly bringing about myself.

I subsequently escorted my three friends around to Capitola's residence

on ---- street--I can not give the name of the street. I know the

location very well, however, from frequent visits. It was popularly

known among us as "Poplar Grove," as it is the custom in Virginia to

give names to residences. This was given to Capitola's house, because

one solitary and sickly Poplar shade tree stood before it.

That we were pleasantly and cordially received by Capitola, goes without

saying. She had, with bewitching taste and consideration, dressed

herself for the occasion in her "Maryland, my Maryland," robes, as

nearly as she consistently could, and, of course, she looked to my eye

more beautiful than ever. Not to my eye alone, either, as I saw at once

that our boys were most favorably impressed, not only with her

appearance, but by the ease and cordiality of her manner, which served,

in some mysterious way, to make everybody feel so much at home in her

presence.

The doctor was particularly pleased--of all our crowd the most affable

and gentlemanly and winning in conversation, being able to sustain

himself creditably in any company, he was, of course, very soon at home,

as we all found out to our sorrow. With him it was apparently a case of

love at first sight--at least he tried to make Capitola think so. As I

was out of the field myself, it was something of a gratification to me

to see a prospect of some one of my friends being able to shove

Lieutenant Claiborne off the stool. Some such thought as this was in my

mind when, to my utter consternation, a black servant announced to

Capitola that "Lieutenant Claiborne was at the door."

Jumping to my feet and rushing across the room to where Capitola was

seated with the doctor, I begged her so earnestly not to admit

Lieutenant Claiborne that I suppose I made myself ridiculous. She

misunderstood my motive; but, with her quiet tact, she said to me,

laughingly:

"Why, of course. I will arrange that your company shall not be

interrupted."

She passed out to the hallway closing the door after her, while she held

a consultation with some one, whom I knew to be my Lieutenant. If he had

come into the room just then introductions would have ensued, and, of

course, explanations must have followed; and, as I have so often said in

these sketches, if there was any one thing that I desired to avoid more

than another, it was any necessity for "explanations."

Capitola returned to the room, laughing heartily as the outside door

closed with a bang, and saying to the doctor and the rest of us, as we

rose to go: "Oh, no! seat yourselves and be at home here this evening."

There was not a word of reference to the visitor on her part until, in

my eagerness, I found an opportunity to ask quietly if she had told

Claiborne who we were.

"Why, yes; I merely told him some of your friends had called by a

previously arranged agreement to spend the evening."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at all, except that he would call later, and when I said that

you would probably remain all the evening, he left me in a towering

rage."

Then she added, laughing heartily as she spoke: