"On the way back to our shanty, I asked the Lieutenant if he thought you

were captured by the Yanks, and he said:

"Oh, no! he's got lost, and will turn up all right when it gets

daylight."

"But the Lieutenant was in a damn bad humor about your going off, and

kept talking to the Sergeant about it being "queer" that you should come

up from Knoxville and go straight out into that country alone. The

Colonel was satisfied that you were lost, but the Lieutenant said the

officers up at the guard-house were sure you had gone straight to the

Yankee Camp, as they were out on the road only a mile and you must have

been among them before night.

"The Lieutenant talked to them as if it might be so, because you had

been having a row with the Captain again, and it was hard to tell what

you had been doing last. That is about the way they kept talking about

you.

"I began to think, if the Yankees were only a mile off, that I would

like to go and see them, and not wait for them to come up and see us. So

that night, after we got back to our quarters, I told the Lieutenant I

would start out at daybreak and hunt you up, my notion being that you

had left for good and I wanted to join you. The duffer that was with me

swore he would not go along with me down the hill, if the Yankees were

only a mile off. At this the Dutchy wakened up from his sleep and

bravely volunteered to go along with me." Then Lanyard with a

contemptuous look, turned to Baker and said: "Say, Dutchy, you blasted

rascal, you played me for a marine, didn't you?" But getting only

another broad smile from Baker for a reply, he continued talking, much

to the amusement of our Guard of Cavalrymen, his tongue and jaw keeping

pace with our quick steps.

"Well, to make a long story short, I laid awake all the balance of the

night in thinking it over. I got our old chum to fix up a plan with the

officers to allow me to go out to hunt you up; and just as soon as I

could bundle up a little, we made the break, and came straight down the

road to that house. They told us you had not been there that night.

After taking my bearings, we grabbed the anchor, set full sail, and ran

out the road until these chaps hailed us back at the house there.

"Dutchy kept right along side of me; he wasn't a bit afraid of the

Yankees, he said, and wanted to go ahead." Then with a look of assumed

disgust at the baker for having so shrewdly deceived him by pretending

bravery in meeting Yankees, while his intention all the time was simply

to conceal his real motive, which had been to escape, his tongue ran on

with an amusing soliloquy, and, partly addressing himself to the

cavalryman about 'the deceitful, lying, treacherous marines he--the

guileless, innocent sailor boy--had been compelled to associate with for

so long a time against his inclination.'

This cavalry was part of an outpost who were stationed at this point on

the road nearest the rebels, as is the usual custom; they were some

miles in advance of the infantry or the headquarters, of the camp. We

learned from our Guard that their principal duty consisted in receiving

and escorting to headquarters the scores of Unionist refugees, who were

constantly coming into their lines day and night, in an exhausted

condition, through the passes of these mountains. Most of these

Unionists were promptly enlisted into the Tennessee regiments, then in

camp with the Union army. By this means was solved a difficult problem

for the officers, as to their maintenance, when driven away from their

homes. (The Government was supposed to guarantee protection to them in

their homes.) Under this head, or in this classification, we were placed

by the Union officer with whom we first came in contact.

Some time ago, in looking over a volume of the published War Records, by

a mere accident I turned to a page referring to some operations about

Cumberland Gap, and, because of its familiarity to me, I took the time

to hunt up, as nearly as I could, some of the official records bearing

on the time of my escape. On a certain page, which I could give herein,

is an official report of the general officer in command of the Union

forces, announcing the arrival of "three men" who had escaped from the

Rebel army that date, and who had given him valuable information of the

plans and the forces of the Rebels in his front.

As I have previously stated, I have no memory for dates, but my

impression is that our information, at that time, was of service to

General Grant, who was then operating in the West, in this, that I had

satisfied the general officer, from my account of the location of the

Rebel troops, their guns and earthworks in the Gap, that it could not be

captured by assault, by any reasonable force in front. In the words of

Longfellow, adapted to the occasion:

"Try not the Pass, the young man said."

And they didn't. The force that had been idly lying out there, where

provisions and ammunition had to be hauled for miles upon miles over the

miserable Kentucky roads, soon after changed their base, and were placed

where they could do the most good.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the camp of the Union

forces. I was tired--very tired, and most awfully hungry, too, when we

got in sight of a real camp of soldiers, which was, in those days, laid

out in regular form according to the books, in rows upon rows of tents

in the woods; a neat clean parade ground, from the center of which rose

a tall staff, on the very pinnacle of which was flying--old glory--the

Stars and Stripes.

There are moments in every soldier's life time that will never be

effaced from the memory, and this was one that, in my heart to-day, is

as bright and happy as it was twenty-five years ago. I can not describe

my feelings; I will not attempt it. Those who have tried to read my

experiences for the months preceding will understand, but only feebly,

how heartfelt was my gratitude in that supreme moment of my life. It was

as if I had escaped an ignoble death, but, generally, my heart was

filled with unselfish pride and pleasure at seeing floating up there,

above the army, the flag that for months upon months I had heard decried

until sometimes I begun to think that there was no one to defend it but

me, and I was all alone among enemies, and must grin and bear the daily

abuse in silence. I don't believe I spoke a word to anybody for an hour.

Near the flag were a few large tents standing by themselves, which were

pointed out to us as the headquarters, where we were to be conducted as

soon as we had washed off some of the dirt and dust. In front of these

headquarter tents were seated three officers comfortably smoking pipes

and chatting together pleasantly.

We were transferred to an infantry guard, being still held as prisoners.

After giving us plenty of time to put ourselves in as good shape as we

could, and being kindly tendered all the aid they could give us, we were

put between files of neatly uniformed soldiers. When I made some remark

to one of them about going to unnecessary trouble about us, as we were

only too glad to get there, and weren't going to leave them, he

explained with a laugh, as he fixed his bayonet to the gun: "That's all

right; we know that; but the 'old man' would kill us if we should march

you fellows up there in anything but the regular military style."

So, after putting us in about the shape that the recruit occupies at his

muster into the G. A. R., a sprightly young officer of the guard, with

sash and sword, gave the order to forward, and we were marched across

the parade ground toward headquarters.

As we passed almost under the flag, I looked up, and, without a thought

that anyone would see me, I involuntarily took off my old rebel hat. Our

appearance was, of course, attracting very general attention in the

camp, and, I presume, some of them witnessed the humble salute to the

old flag, which was the more marked as I wore the gray clothes of a

rebel and a traitor to the flag.

To my surprise, the "old man," as the General was called, was quite an

ordinary-looking little gentleman. It was General Carter, of East

Tennessee. As I have since been advised, he had been a naval officer in

the United States Naval Service for some years before the war.

The Guard, after properly presenting us, were dismissed; we were

pleasantly invited to take seats on a log, and for an hour I did most of

the talking, but that Union officer only gathered from me my East

Tennessee experience, which was of immediate use to him; he was told

nothing whatever of my former relations with Washington and the

Secretary of War.

There was a young fellow on the staff of the General who exerted himself

in a very pleasant, easy way to make us comfortable. To him I was

particularly indebted for some personal favors, that I have never had an

opportunity of repaying, except at this late date to publicly

acknowledge my obligation.

There was not a dollar of any kind of money between the three of us, so

we had need of friends then. In this camp I first saw a greenback, which

was presented to me by this young officer.

After the General was satisfied that he had pumped us all dry of

information, he gave the necessary orders for our entertainment.

We were taken in charge by a couple of jolly fellows of an Indiana

regiment, one of whom had been a river man, and had some acquaintance

with that section of the Ohio river, the headwaters of which I had

started out from with Andy Johnson's train some months before. The

"boys" gave us a hearty supper of _coffee_--real coffee.

It is sufficient to say here that the boys of that Indiana regiment were

clever fellows; they treated us bang-up, as our fellows always did when

a poor, hungry devil in gray strayed in to take supper with them.

There were one or two exceptions, as there always is in every company,

who run around to do the scavenger work. I was tired--I believe I have

said so once before--and, as soon as possible, after the grub had been

swallowed, I hunted a place to stretch myself out for a rest. I felt

safe enough, and knew then that, for the first night in months, I could

lie down to sleep in perfect security, not dreading or fearing what the

next day would bring forth.

One of those curs, that was always hanging around to make themselves

noticed, seemed to have taken offense at what he supposed was an

intentional slight or failure to recognize his importance; he was, I

think, a First Sergeant of a company--one of those fellows who have a

grievance against everybody because he wasn't the Colonel. I don't

really remember what I could have said or done to have brought upon my

defenseless head his vengeance; but it's my impression now that, in his

positive, disagreeable way, he had been boastfully referring to the

Rebel soldiers in their front as being of no consequence--you all know

how some fools talk about the enemy. It's barely possible that I had

resented his estimate of the ability of the Rebels I had just left. I

had been among them a good while, and knew something of their character,

and it was a weakness with me to attempt to defend them at such a time;

but I reckon I was as big a fool as this fellow himself, and talked too

much in an honest, candid way about the earnestness and patriotic zeal

and enthusiasm, as well as the undoubted courage of the Rebel soldiers.

I reckon that I was so tired that I was cross-grained at the persistence

of the fellow urging himself upon me. I was wakened from a sound sleep

by a Corporal with an armed guard, who said he had orders to put me in

the guard-house. Hardly realizing my position, in my dazed condition, I

mechanically followed the Corporal out into the cool, night air, which

had the effect of awakening me fully to the changed conditions in my

circumstances.

It seemed so like a dream that I could scarcely realize that I was being

escorted to a guard-house. The Corporal kindly intimated to me that

there were fears that I would get away. I could get no further

satisfaction from him or the guard, except that the matter would be

explained in the morning.

The fact that a Sentinel stood near me with a loaded musket did not at

all interfere with my slumber; it rather had the effect of inducing more

sound sleep, as I felt a certain personal security from the Rebels as

long as I was honored with a private protector of my own--while I slept.

In the morning a good breakfast was sent me. Lanyard called, but was not

permitted to speak to me, and walked off swearing to himself. After

guard-mounting, I was conducted to the General's tent, where I met the

young staff officer, who, in the most brotherly manner, said:

"Mr. ----, the General was disposed to give you special consideration,

because it seems that he had been impressed by your manner and your

voluntary salute to our colors yesterday, that you were a born loyalist;

but he is informed by Captain ---- and some member of Company --,

Indiana, that you were detected in giving expression to the most

traitorous sentiments, and you declared your belief of the ultimate

success of the Rebels, which, you know, is not the way you talked to us

yesterday."

My manner and the expression of my face must have satisfied the young

officer at once. Really, I was too much taken aback to speak for a

moment, but, when my tongue did get loosened, it gave expression to such

violent language that the young officer laughed heartily at my

earnestness. I denied most positively the use of any such words, and

demanded the authority. The officer simply said:

"Well! The General said you were nobody's fool, and I didn't think you

would have talked that way in our camp;" then, turning to an orderly, he

directed him to bring to headquarters a certain person, whose name I am

sorry I am unable to give. It was the blatant First Sergeant who had

forced himself upon me. When face to face with him, in the presence of

the General and several other persons, I was able to so completely

demolish his statements that his discomfiture was enjoyed by everybody

around the camp. I was indignant, and I talked badly. I was apt to be

that way then, and my tongue and gestures toward my _vis-a-vis_ created

so much amusement I was allowed to indulge myself to the fullest extent.

It was a mistake of mine. The Sergeant went away humiliated and full of

revengeful intent. I was released from arrest and joined Lanyard in the

camp. The affair had created something of a breeze, as every soldier in

camp had heard of the arrest. While in a tent, surrounded by a crowd of

boys who were congratulating me, an officer with a drawn sword rushed

into the crowd and in an instant put the point of his sword against my

breast, with a wild oath, as he grabbed for my throat, declaring he

would kill me if I did not retract every word I said to the General

about his First Sergeant.

[Illustration: IN AN INSTANT HE PUT THE POINT OF HIS SWORD AGAINST MY

BREAST.]

I have said that, in cases of sudden and dangerous emergency, I was

always able to be cool, while I get terribly rattled in anticipation of

imaginary danger. So it was that, in this case, I was the only cool one

in the crowd. Looking straight in the Captain's eye, and wholly

disregarding his sword, I said to him, calmly: "I am unarmed and a

prisoner."

At this, one of the men present, though only an enlisted man, attempted

to interfere in my behalf, which only seemed to further enrage the

officer, who turned from me to glare at the common soldier.

In the mean time some one had run over to headquarters and told the

General and staff that I had been killed by this officer. In a moment

the young staff officer made his appearance on the scene, and my life

was again saved. The explanation was, that the Indiana Captain was a

brother-in-law of the First Sergeant whom I had discomfited. I was

politely requested to accompany the young staff officer to the General's

tent where the matter was explained.

I have seen military men awfully mad, but it was the first time I ever

beheld a General get so angry that he turned as white as a dead man;

why, he couldn't speak at all, but simply walked off; and those who had

not seen his face would have been led to imagine that he was simply

indifferent. I was invited to sit down near the headquarters' tent. In a

very few moments--less than it takes to tell it here--that Indiana

Captain's sword was taken from him, he was in arrest, in disgrace for

having been guilty of one of the most cowardly unofficer-like acts that

can be charged to a soldier--that of assaulting a defenseless prisoner.

That afternoon, the Colonel of the Indiana regiment spent a couple of

hours with the General, in attempting to palliate the Captain's offense,

but it was no use. I could not hear what they said, but could see that

the little General kept shaking his head constantly in a savage

negative, that indicated his feelings.

This affair created such a stir in the camp that it was thought best to

send us away at once. So, that evening, all three of us were marched

under the same style of guard with fixed bayonets to the camp of an Ohio

regiment, located about a mile distant.

In due time we reached Lexington. Here the officer transferred us to the

charge of the sick soldiers. It so happened that, just before reaching

the town of Lexington, we had all stopped for a noon rest at a point

near which was a fine, old-fashioned mansion house, belonging to a large

farm. The house, as is the style of that country, was well supplied with

verandas and porches. In the rear was quite a little village of

whitewashed log-cabins, which I recognized as the negro quarters. The

stone spring-house was in a little ravine convenient to the barn, where

we all went to get a drink of cool water. While seated around on the

big, flat stones, enjoying the cool, refreshing water, an old gentleman,

tall and patriarchal-looking, walked toward us, and, in his courteous

manner, introduced himself to the rough-looking crowd that had taken

possession of his spring-house, as "the farmer who lived here," pointing

back to his house, and politely asked if we required anything more to

make us comfortable. For one, I felt abashed and uncomfortable, but

Lanyard spoke up and suggested that: "We would like to try a little of

the Kentucky whisky that we heard so much about."

"Certainly, certainly, sir;" and turning to a grinning colored "boy,"

who was quite a gray old rat, he directed him to "fetch the brown jug

down."

This kindly reception of the sailor's suggestion served to make the old

gentleman exceedingly popular with the whole crowd. The colored man was

anxious to be agreeable also, and, with quite a frisky manner for one of

his age, he soon trotted back with a big jug and two tin cups.

"Wait on the gentlemen," was the brief order. The old darky smiled all

over when he saw the alacrity with which the boys crowded toward the

jug. I had never allowed myself to drink, and when my turn came the old

gentleman seemed to be offended at my declining it, as if it were the

quality of the whisky that I was objecting to; he explained:

"You need not be afraid of that, my boy, it's pure; the rye was grown

right over in that field, sir; I had it made myself, sir; it's for my

own family use, sir."

To satisfy him I took hold of a tin cup and allowed the boy to pour out

a spoonful or two, intending to fill it up with water.

"No use in that, sir; it don't need any water, sir."

I gulped it down like a dose of medicine, and put a tin cup full of

water on top of it. It was the first time I had ever seen whisky drank

from a tin, but I saw lots of it come from the tin canteens soon after.

The effect on Lanyard was to make him talkative and somewhat

confidential with the genial old host. I didn't hear what was said, but

when we had separated, or the jug had been emptied, Lanyard took me to

one side and muttered in my ear, in a half-drunken way, in great

confidence that: "I've told the old man that you and I were Confederate

prisoners, and gave him a hint that we would be glad to get a lunch."

Then grabbing me by the arm, I was dragged up to the house and made to

sit down on the veranda with him. I wasn't drunk--that's a fact--I

could see peeping through the window shades several pairs of bright

eyes.

I realized at a glance that it was our gray clothes that was the

attraction, and that the appearance of two _real_ Confederates on that

porch was creating something of a sensation among the lady occupants of

that "Old Kentucky Home."

In order to gratify my vanity, and to see the ladies, as well as a

desire to have some fun, I helped to keep up this delusion. Lanyard's

object was something good to eat.

Lest there should be some misunderstanding on the part of our officer

and his companions as to our motives, I quietly gave them the cue, and I

admit now, with a sense of mortification, that we shamefully imposed

ourselves on the kind people of that home as Confederates, and, through

this means, we were so hospitably entertained that the officer in

command was induced to prolong his camp in that grove all night.

Several of us were furnished with an elegant supper of chicken and corn

cakes, while the officer and myself were agreeably entertained by the

ladies in the parlor during the long evening.

There were, also, a couple of mules going back home on sick furlough.

These were tied on behind the wagon that was in front of ours, being

towed along in this way like a pair of solemn prisoners of war.

One of these mules was bigger than the other, but the little one had the

larger head and longer ears of the two, which gave to it a peculiar,

wise-looking expression of grave dignity. It was what would be called a

roan. I remember that, in our joking way, we had lots of fun about its

hide being about the color of the Rebel uniforms. I reckon our loud and

coarse remarks about this mule must have hurt its feelings; at least,

this is the only way in which I can account for its subsequent

vindictive conduct toward me.

Those who have been in Kentucky--especially that part of Kentucky--will

know something about the roads. At this season of the year they were

simply awful--not so muddy, but just about as rough as big rocks, and

the exposed roots of large trees could make them. The rains for ages

back seemed to have washed out all the bottom of earth, and had left

exposed on the surface a network or corduroy of roots, with the chinks

filled in with stones. It wasn't pleasant riding in an army wagon over

these roads, and we earned our passage by walking. There was not

sufficient room on that road beside the wagon for a foot path, so we had

to follow in the rear of the wagons. In a long procession of wagons,

mules, and soldiers, sandwitched one behind the other, I was walking

slowly, one afternoon, with my head down, thinking over the happy

escapes from the many dangers through which I had been almost

miraculously preserved, and no doubt dreaming of the anticipated joys of

a welcome home, which was soon to be realized, when all of a sudden I

felt a quick rush of wind and dust thrown like a gust into my face; at

the same time the rim of my hat was barely touched by the heels of that

roan mule. The fellow who was beside me cried out something about

"looking out," and dragged me back into the heads of the team following.

This is not an attempt to be funny, but is set down here as a most

remarkable intervention of Providence--or my good angel--for my safety.

That mule kicked back over a clear space as long as himself, and had

correctly directed his heels right into my face; had I been two inches

closer, the blow would have been received full on my forehead and must

have fractured my skull with its force.

When we got into the town, or City of Lexington, about noon, one day, we

found the town full of people. It was, I think, court week; anyway, the

prisoner game was played on some of the citizens here also, by Lanyard.

In this way we were well cared for.

It was night when we reached Cincinnati, where we were ferried over the

Ohio river and placed on Ohio soil. Here I was, at last, free of all

restraint, and permitted to do as I pleased. Lanyard was still full of

the genuine Kentucky bourbon, and that night was lost to me forever.

I usually hunted up in those days, on reaching a city, a telegraph

office, that I might announce to my folks at home, in this spirited way,

that I had again returned to the earth for a brief visit to them. It was

always a surprise to them to hear from me, after one of these

secret-service trips; they never knew exactly where I was, of course,

and could not make any calculations as to what point on the earth my

balloon would land me next. It will be remembered that I had come upon

them suddenly, after being widely advertised as having been hung by

both the Rebels and our own officers at Fort Pickens, some time

previously, from New York. This time it was from Cincinnati.

Being one of the boys--that is, a telegrapher--I usually had free access

to the operating-rooms of the offices, where I frequently met with some

of the fraternity with whom I was well acquainted--by wire. You know it

is a fact that there are old acquaintances and even intimate friends

amongst telegraphers, who have never met personally; their only method

of knowing each other is through the mysterious and magnetic pulse of

the electric wave over the wire.

In the operating room of the Cincinnati office, up on a dingy fourth

floor, I found the night manager, a gentleman whom I had known

familiarly by wire, though I had never seen him before. Introducing

myself, I was at once made at home, and felt as if I had met the first

friend since my return. After giving him a brief account of myself, I

was courteously put in instant communication with some of my old

associates in the neighboring city, with whom I was personally

acquainted, and who had, by the way, heard of my mysterious

disappearance and subsequent adventures. For the time being, all other

business was laid to one side on that telegraph circuit and the entire

system was turned over to me.

Remember, if you please, that I had not heard a single word from home

for over eight months. I did not, of course, know that all were well. I

almost dreaded to hear first that some one dear to me had died during my

long absence. I had sent some communications through the blockade from

Richmond, but this had been some time before I left East Tennessee.

Of course, no replies to these could be received by me. Now, if the

reader will put himself in my own, or my father's place, each at the end

of a wire five hundred miles long, and try to imagine, if he can, the

agony of suspense and fear that hung over me at that hour, he will

realize, in part, my feelings. My nerves were at such a tension that,

figuratively speaking, they were strung out as long as that wire, that

reached over miles of mountain and plain to my Pennsylvania home. With

my own hand trembling on the telegraph key I sent my own message, as

follows:

"To father: I am here safe; are all well at home?"

[Illustration: TO FATHER: "I AM SAFE; ARE ALL WELL AT HOME?"]

While waiting for the answer, which I knew must come soon, the moments

seemed hours of suspense, while I tried to entertain my friends who were

about me with a brief sketch of my adventurers, one of the operators

took from the wires and handed me the reply, which I had failed to catch

with my own ear while engaged in the talk. He read aloud the exact words

of a _bona fide_ message:

"I had little hopes of ever seeing you again. Come straight home. Your

uncle A---- is dead. All the rest well.--Father."

That was all. It was enough. All were well at home. The uncle who had

died in my absence was the one relative I had last visited on the day I

heard of the battle of Bull Run. I would like here to tender a tribute

to my father, but I feel that I am not competent to do the subject

justice.

He still lives, an old patriarch, and will read these notes and for the

first time fully understand the entire story of his wayward boy's

adventures. My father was the one true constant friend of my checkered

career, and to him and his untiring interest in my behalf I owe not only

the preservation of my life, but what little I have attained in this

world. I can sincerely thank God, as Beecher says, "That I was born of

parents who gave me a sound constitution and a noble example, and can

never pay back what I got from my parents. If I were able to raise a

monument of gold higher than heaven, it would be no expression of the

debt of gratitude which I owe them, for that which they unceasingly gave

by the heritage of their body and the heritage of their souls to me."

That night we reached Pittsburgh, which had been my business home for

some years immediately preceding my war travels.

My father's home was not at that time in Pittsburgh but a little

distance beyond.

Early next morning I was around town, and soon enough found plenty of my

old chums. I was only in danger then of meeting too many people who were

anxious to hear my story from my own lips. Luckily for me, perhaps, I

was captured by Mr. William Moreland, an old associate, who was then the

district attorney, and through his advice and management I was preserved

from my friends, and urged not to talk too much until I had first

reported to Washington.

It will be remembered that I had suffered previously by giving the New

York papers an account of my Florida campaign in advance of my report to

Washington; and, with a desire to profit by this experience, I refrained

from giving away my story.

At my father's house, on the sunset side of the Allegheny Mountains

close by Cresson Springs, I remained in comparative retirement but for a

few days.

While I was at home, it so happened that Parson Brownlow was coming up

through Ohio on his way to Washington, after his release or banishment

from home. He was having quite extensive ovations at all the principal

cities, delivering at each place one of his characteristic speeches. One

day, rather unexpectedly to me, we were told that the Parson would pass

our place on a certain train in a few hours. I determined to see him,

and, if possible, get a speech for our townspeople while the train

stopped. Quite a crowd had gathered about the platform by the time the

train reached us. We discovered the Parson on the engine. The railroad

officials, who were quite attentive to this class of travelers, usually

tender their distinguished guests a seat on the engine, for a better

view of the scenery as the train is whirled over the big mountain.

I climbed up on the engine as soon as the train stopped, followed by my

father and several others. The Parson looked surprised, and I imagined

for a moment that when he saw the familiar gray clothes making a break

on him, followed by a crowd of eager persons so closely, that he

recalled some of his former Knoxville experiences among the Rebels.

Mr. Brownlow had changed considerably since I had seen him, when he was

wrapped up in his old shawl in his Knoxville parlor. He was dressed in a

new suit of black broadcloth, and wore a high silk hat, gloves, etc.,

that gave him quite a clerical appearance.

Without speaking a word for a moment, so surprised was he, he simply

reached his hand toward me with a blank stare of astonishment on his

countenance. To my hearty, laughing greeting, he soon cordially replied,

recognizing me as his interviewer with Miss Craig, and, but for the fact

that the train stopped only a moment, we would have had a good speech

from him.

When the train reached Altoona, twenty-five miles beyond, where the

party were met by G. W. Childs and Mr. Stewart, as a committee of

reception from the City of Philadelphia, and, in reply to their address

of welcome, Mr. Brownlow pleasantly referred to "meeting one of his

rebel guard up on the mountain," declaring that the Rebel ghost followed

him, phantom-like, every place he went, night and day, always awake.

CHAPTER XXIV.

ARRIVAL AT WASHINGTON--MEETS HON. JOHN COVODE--J. W. FORNEY AND

SENATORS--TESTIMONY BEFORE COMMITTEE ON THE CONDUCT OF THE

WAR--REMARKABLE INTERVIEWS WITH SECRETARY STANTON--A VISIT TO MR.

LINCOLN, AT WASHINGTON--THE TELEGRAPH CORPS--AGAIN ORDERED TO THE FRONT,

AT FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA.

It was my good fortune at the time of my return home to meet with the

Hon. A. A. Barker, of Ebensburg, Pennsylvania, who had been a friend of

the family all my life, who subsequently represented that district of

Pennsylvania in Congress. Mr. Barker may be described as being in every

sense a large man. He was one of those great six-feet, bone-and-sinew

fellows, who, as he used to say, "come from way down in Maine, where I

was bred and born." He was not only large in stature, but broad and

liberal otherwise, with a head and heart in correct proportion. He lives

yet, an honored citizen and a veritable Daniel in the politics of his

adopted State, and will, I have no doubt, be glad to read in print the

history of his _protege_ of the early days of the war.

Mr. Barker took me in charge for the time being, accompanying me to

Washington at his own expense, where I was to meet with my former

friend, the Hon. John Covode. We went by way of Philadelphia, in order

to again meet Parson Brownlow, who was then a guest of Mr. George W.

Childs.

The purpose of the visit was to obtain from Mr. Brownlow some additional

endorsement from him, of my being in Knoxville, that my friends desired

to use in Washington.

In those days I cared but little for such matters, as proofs or evidence

of work I had endeavored to perform, which, as a rule, we left to others

to look after in my interest. It would have been better for me in those

days, perhaps, if I had been blessed with a little bit of ordinary

business management, but I confess here that I had but a small allowance

of "business sense," as that term is applied to selfish interests. I am

thankful, however, for a good memory, and really believe that, after a

little quiet reflection, I can bring to my mind nearly everything that

happened to me during the war--that is worth remembering.

I was induced to say that I had but little common sense, by the

reflection, after a lapse of twenty-five years, that I must have shown a

lamentable lack of policy, by traveling about so defiantly at this time

in Pennsylvania and Washington, clothed in a dirty Rebel uniform. This

in itself was bad enough, but I was frequently so indiscreet as to show

some boyish resentment toward every person whom I imagined was showing

an idle curiosity as to my history.

I became contrary, or, if you please, cranky, and indignantly refused to

act upon the suggestion of friends, that I should make a change in my

dress, declaring stubbornly that I should face the President in that

uniform--and I did--at the War Department office in Washington; but it

was a foolish thing to do, and gave me a heap of trouble subsequently,

as we shall see.

One of the most unlucky or unfortunate changes that had occurred during

my long absence in Richmond was, that Simon Cameron had been relieved,

as the Secretary of War, by the Hon. E. M. Stanton.

The kind and clever old Pennsylvania statesman, who had been induced to

take such an interest in my work, and to whom I was directly

responsible, was, at the time of my return, away off in St. Petersburg,

Russia, as Minister for the United States.

Colonel Thomas A. Scott, who had been an Assistant Secretary of War to

Mr. Cameron, and whose personal endorsement to Mr. Cameron had first set

me going, had also been relieved by a Mr. P. H. Watson, who was at the

time Acting Assistant Secretary to Mr. Stanton.

My brother, Spencer, who, for some months previously, had been in the

employ of the War Department as a telegraph operator, and whose

relations with the Government officials were necessarily somewhat of a

confidential character, took me to his room in a boarding-house on F

street, where were living a number of War Department clerks. Spencer

thought the fact of my wearing the Rebel uniform one of the best kind of

jokes, and he, consequently, took great delight in calling the attention

of all his War Department associates to the fact.

My old and constant friend "Glory to God," as the Hon. John Covode was

called, was the only man of prominence in Washington that I knew, or who

had any knowledge of my previous undertakings. He was a Member of

Congress from a Pennsylvania District adjoining my own home, near

Pittsburgh. Congress was in session at this time, and it so happened

that, for some months previously Mr. Covode had been stirring things up

in the House at a lively rate, by his persistent investigation of our

military men and movements in Virginia. There had been an investigation

of Bull Run, of Ball's Bluff massacre, of old Patterson, in

Pennsylvania, and, more recently, a great hubbub had been raised all

over the country about General McClellan's failure, or slowness, in

moving "on to Richmond" via Manassas.

There was, indeed, a great deal of this sort of thing going on, the

details of which had been ground up and sifted through the one joint

"Committee on the Conduct of the War," of which Mr. Covode was chairman.

To make a long story short, all will see--to use a vulgar term--that my

arrival was "just nuts to Old Glory," as some one told me. If an angel

had dropped down from the sky to corroborate the honest old man's

assertion, it would not have been more opportune.

I had been inside the Rebel lines for months. I had obtained the Rebel

opinions, officially, of Manassas, after the battle, and knew the exact

strength of the Rebel Army was not _one-half_ as large as McClellan's

scare had represented it to be. I had heard the comments of the Rebel

Secretary of War on Ball's Bluff massacre. Mr. Covode could, and did,

endorse me as a "reliable devil," as he put it, in the committee room,

and, of course, I was willing enough to be of service to my old friend,

and was glad that I was able to substantiate nearly all of his

statements.

The morning of my arrival in Washington, I hunted up Mr. Covode, and

found him in his rooms at the old Avenue Hotel, the large, plain, old

affair, that once stood at the corner of Seventh and Market Space. I was

an early caller, and, without a card, knocked at his door before he was

out of bed. To his sleepy growl of "Who's there?" I simply gave my name.

There was only one word of reply, "Helloa," in a loud emphatic tone;

then in a more moderate voice, he continued, as if talking to himself:

"Wait a minute. I got word you were coming, and have been expecting

you every day."

[Illustration: HE SEEMED TO HAVE FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT DRESSING HIMSELF.]

The door opened, and the great Pennsylvania statesman stood before

me--in his robe _de nuit_--grinning all over, with his hair all mussed

up and his bare legs sticking out under his shirt.

He was about as funny a looking object as anything I had met with in my

travels. He wasn't embarrassed, but, as he shook hands, I was drawn

inside, and the door closed with a bang. All that was said that morning

would make quite a chapter.

The circumstance which remains strongest in my mind to-day is, that he

sat on the edge of the bed, and asked question after question in such an

interested way that he seemed to me to have forgotten all about dressing

himself. I was for the time being more interested in seeing him get some

clothes on than in the fate of McClellan's army.

After breakfast, Mr. Covode took me to the Capitol, and the first person

I met there was Colonel J. W. Forney, then editor of the Philadelphia

_Press_, and also Secretary of the Senate. Mr. Forney impressed me most

favorably; in truth, I felt more at home with him than with my old

friend Covode--probably because Mr. Forney had the tact of drawing out

his subjects and was more able to practice the suave gentleman than was

the sturdy, honest old John. I was for a time taken in charge by Mr.

Forney, who, in turn, introduced me to several Senators, among them the

Hon. Edgar Cowan, of Pennsylvania. I remember Mr. Forney saying, in an

aside to Senator Cowan, and the others to whom I was introduced, "He is

a capital subject." Mr. Forney did me another valuable service at this

time. Of course I had no money; I had been depending upon the generous

pocketbook of my good friend Barker. I made Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode

acquainted with my circumstances, by a request for some immediate and

active employment to enable me to earn my expenses.

Mr. Forney had a clerk make out some sort of a "voucher," which I think

must have been for mileage and witness fees all over the Rebel country

that I had traversed, another clerk cashed the paper for me, and, in

this way, I was furnished at once with quite a nice little pile of

crisp, new greenbacks from the Secretary of the Senate.

This was the first and only cash that I have ever received for all those

months of service--of trial, distress and danger--excepting that which

the good comrades who will contribute by subscribing for these

"recollections of the unforgotten days to all of us."

Amongst the other members of the Pennsylvania delegation, to whom I was

introduced that morning, was the Hon. S. S. Blair, then and now a

resident of Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. As Mr. Blair is the sole

survivor of those who were with me at that time, I desire particularly

that his testimony should be added to establish the correctness of my

narrative, or to serve as a review notice, if it ever attains to the

distinction of a criticism or becomes the subject of a controversy.

The Hon. J. K. Moorehead, who represented Pittsburgh, was another of the

delegation in my interest. Thus it will be seen that, through the

management of Mr. Forney, the entire Western Pennsylvania delegation,

including Senator Cowan, of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, had been

interested in my "report."

As I have before stated, I paid but little attention to these details at

the time. I had but the one request, and, as before, which was, that I

should be commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the Regular Cavalry

Service and detailed on the General Staff, in active field service. I

wanted to go _at once_ to the field, and cared but little for the

"effect of my testimony" before the committee, or the pecuniary reward

for the service.

Mr. Forney said, in his pleasant way, that was so grateful to me that I

have not forgotten a word of it: "Why, certainly, you must have that at

least, if not more;" but, turning to Covode, he continued: "Curtin can

do better than that for us."

Covode thought anything whatever that I wanted could be done, but

suggested, kindly, that it would be better for me not to take a

commission in the Volunteers of Pennsylvania, because I should have to

be put in over the heads of some others, and that would make it ugly for

me personally.

I agreed with Mr. Covode heartily in that. I had been in the Rebel

service long enough to see that this sort of thing didn't work there,

because Claiborne, the Mississippi Lieutenant, was really treated as a

foreigner, or outsider, by the rest of us "refugees from Maryland." So

it was arranged between them that I should have a commission in the

Regular Army. In support of this, Mr. Forney kindly talked to Senator

Cowan in my behalf, who expressed some doubts about getting a

Lieutenancy, saying in his plain way:

"Why, we may just as well ask the Secretary to make him a

Brigadier-General; he can do that, because they are making Generals

every day, but they are not making any Lieutenants in the Regular Army."

But Mr. Forney insisted in his agreeable way: "But, my dear sir, here is

a young man who has done our State--who has done the Government more

service than some of our Generals; he has been all over Virginia, and

knows all about the Rebel Army, and all about Richmond--from personal

visits; why," with an expression of disgust, "his services are simply

indispensable at this time; he should be sent down to the army, where

the information he has gained will be of immediate use to us."

The only answer that Senator Cowan made to this appeal, as he looked me

all over critically, as he would if buying a horse: "You have the right

sort of grit in you, but I don't believe we can get it."

It was arranged between them all that I should first give my testimony

before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Mr. Covode and Mr.

Forney quietly conferred among themselves (they were Republicans and

Senator Cowan a Democrat), and concluded that only a small part of my

history should be made public at present.

I don't know why this was thought necessary, but while Mr. Covode and I

walked together over to the committee room on the House side of the

Capitol, he cautioned me, in his fatherly way, not to talk too much, and

to answer only such questions as he would suggest.

On page 480, volume 3, of the printed document containing the report of

the Committee on the Conduct of the War, will be found only that portion

of my testimony that Mr. Covode and Mr. Forney, as my political

managers, thought advisable to put on record at the time. The full story

was detailed at different times to Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode, and

others, but has never been made fully public until the present time.

After I had finished my testimony to suit Mr. Covode, and had been

severely cross-examined by some of the opposition members of the

committee, I was told through my friend Covode, that I should make

myself perfectly comfortable; that he and the rest of the delegation

would see that I was properly cared for.

I felt that a great load had been taken off my shoulders in this one

day--that the secrets of my trip, which I had been carrying around with

me, among Rebels and friends for months, had been safely deposited with

the Government, and that I was at last free, and could do as I pleased

once more.

I had worn the Rebel uniform to the Capitol and into the committee room,

and gave my testimony standing at "attention" in it.

In giving my full testimony to the Committee on the Conduct of the War,

I had no thought of antagonizing the War Department. My secret service

was, in a manner, "irregular," and, instead of reporting direct to the

War Office or to a General in the field, I was induced to give the story

to a committee that was investigating both. In this way it was not

"suppressed" in anybody's interest, but afterward had the effect of

antagonizing certain War Department detectives against my subsequent

services, as will be shown further on.

The first thing that I did with some of the money which had been given

me was to trim myself out from head to foot in the best suit of clothes

that I could find in Washington, but I preserved the uniform for future

use. The next number on the programme was to take my brother and some of

his friends to "Gautier's"--which was then the celebrated French

restaurant--or, Chamberlains, of to-day, in Washington, where we

indulged in a generous lay-out. The third number on the programme, I

will simply describe as "making a night of it." We all went to the

Canterbury and had a pleasant evening together, while I told the party

of similar experiences at night in the Rebel Capitol at Richmond.

While I remained in Washington waiting for an office, like the

office-seekers that now hang about the Departments, I remember that I

was continually worried with the dreadful thought that McClellan's great

army of good-looking officers would get there while I was being

tethered, like a young steer, in the Capitol.

My case was "left entirely in the hands of my friends"--that is, I had

nothing whatever to do with it but to wait, which was about the most

difficult part of the job. As I recollect it, Mr. Covode was not on

such particularly good terms with Mr. Stanton as he had been with the

Pennsylvania Secretary, General Simon Cameron.

It is likely, too, that Mr. Covode's disposition to be continually

"investigating things," caused the new administration of the War

Department some annoyance. Covode was naturally Cameron's champion,

because they were both Pennsylvania politicians--if for no other reason.

On account of some such feeling as this, perhaps, it was thought

advisable among my "managers" that Mr. Covode should not personally

bother Mr. Stanton--in my interest; that part of the contract was to be

left to Senator Cowan and John W. Forney, while Covode was to see Mr.

Lincoln.

I loafed about the Capitol a great deal during the session each day, and

I reckon, in my persistence and restlessness, that I bothered these

statesmen a good bit. I had assurances from Mr. Covode every day that

"it was all right," but I remembered that this was the exact way in

which he talked to me on the former visit, and I was blunt enough to

remind him of this truth, when he promptly got it back on me by saying:

"It would have been all right, too, if you had come back here, but we

all thought you were dead for so long."

He explained over and over again that the War Office was so crowded, on

account of the spring campaign, that it was impossible to do anything

there in a rush.

One day Senator Cowan, of Pennsylvania, handed me a very brief note,

which read as follows, bluntly directing me to go to the War Department

and watch my chance to present it personally to Mr. Stanton.

"HON. E. M. STANTON, _Secretary of War_.

"_Dear Sir:_ The bearer is the young man who has given

important testimony to the committee, about whom papers have

been filed for an appointment where he can do the most good. It

is suggested that you may be able to learn something additional

of value from him.

Yours truly,

"EDGAR COWAN."

The Senator didn't give me a chance to ask him any questions, but left

me abruptly to talk to a group of persons who were waiting for him. I

saw Mr. Forney and showed him the letter, which somehow or other was not

satisfactory to me.

Mr. Forney folded it up and handed it back to me, saying, in his elegant

way: "You just take that paper up to Stanton, and hang to him till he

_sees you_. That's all he wants." Then, in a fatherly way, he gave me

the advice to "let him do all the talking; you just answer his

questions."

In an hour I was at the old War Department again. I first put on my gray

jacket, but had covered it with a light spring duster or overcoat, at

Mr. Forney's suggestion.

The War Department of 1862 was a desolate looking old affair, something

after the architectural style of the "four story barracks," in a

well-kept arsenal reservation. On the second floor a long corridor

extended from one end of the building to the other, running east and

west, on each side of which were the rooms of the principal chiefs. In

the southeast corner, nearest to the White House, was the Secretary's

apartments, with whose location I was somewhat familiar, because of some

previous long "waits" and mighty short interviews with Mr. Cameron when

he was Secretary.

On this visit, as before, I found in this corridor rows of people seated

along the wall--ladies and gentlemen, officers, and a few sick-looking

soldiers; big fat contractors elbowed the thin-faced, big-nosed, Jewish

sutler, Congressmen, and, in fact, all sorts of people; and it is safe

to say that every one of them had been there for hours, perhaps days and

weeks previously, waiting their turn, or an opportunity to get to talk

to the Secretary on their own business, which, of course, was more

important to them than anybody else's.

There was a handsome soldier of the Regular Army in citizen's dress on

duty at the outside door, as an orderly or messenger. When I saw all

that were ahead of me, I was discouraged, but, profiting by past

experience, I made a break for the Secretary's office, when I was

stopped by the orderly, who demanded my business. I was in a Rebel

uniform, but the soldier orderly didn't notice that; he said his orders

were not to admit anybody at that time. I showed him my letter, saying,

with an assumption of importance, that I was sent to the Secretary by

Senator Cowan to present it personally. A Senator, especially a

_Democratic_ Senator's request, was really of greater weight than half a

dozen common Congressmen, because it was important just then that the

Government should conciliate the loyal Democrats in Congress.

The soldier took a card, wrote the Senator's name and my own on it, and

invited me to a vacant chair in the Secretary's office. There were rows

of people sitting alongside the wall, inside the room, just as there was

out in the corridor; but I had gained one point; I was on the inner

circle.

I had never seen Mr. Stanton before, and was not nearly so anxious to

see him again, after the first time. I need not describe the great War

Secretary's personal appearance. His face resembles the photographs, and

has always struck me as being the best likeness extant of all those

great men. He was not so tall as one would think from looking at a

picture of his face; and when I saw him, he stood at a small, high desk,

a little to one side of the room, very much to my mind in the position

of a school-teacher before an old-fashioned desk. The desk itself was a

plain, square, long-legged affair, precisely such as we used to see our

teachers stand behind, or that are used more recently by auctioneers on

street sales. The sitters on the anxious benches all around the front

portion of his room, with their serious watchful faces, helped the

illusion, that I was in the presence of a lecturer or judge, awaiting my

turn for sentence, like the rest of the culprits.

The attendant found me a chair alongside of a natty-looking young

officer in uniform on one side, and a big, fat Congressman on the other;

he laid my card, with the Senator's name, on Mr. Stanton's desk.

The Secretary was then standing beside his pulpit, talking in his

positive way to some old gentleman; he was so intent on this business

that he never deigned to look at my card when it was left on his table.

We did not overhear the conversation between the Secretary and his

visitor, and being at a loss for something to do, I turned to the young

officer beside me and said something as to the prospect for a talk with

the Secretary. He replied in a very polite way, that he had been waiting

for hours, for a single word; that, with him, it was a question of life

and death; but he couldn't get any audience until the Secretary "called

his name" from the cards on his desk.

The young man had so impressed me by his courteous manner that I became

curious to know his errand, which he explained in a whispered

conversation. He was just from the bedside of a dying father, on his way

to rejoin his command, his leave having expired; he had stopped at

Washington, and, upon the endorsement of influential Congressmen, he had

called to ask the Secretary to extend his leave so that he might be at

his father's bedside and bury him before leaving for the army. The

officer told me all of this in a trembling voice, while his eyes were

filled with tears. I felt so much sympathy for him that I offered to

give him my time if my name should be called before his. At my urgent

suggestion, when the old gentleman was about to leave the Secretary, the

young officer approached Mr. Stanton, who bluntly demanded his name.

Then looking over his file of papers to what his business was, while the

young fellow in the most genteel and effective way stated his wishes to

the Secretary. I shall never, never forget the words that Mr. Stanton

spoke on that occasion; they "sank deeply into my heart," perhaps, as

also into that of the young officer.

"I cannot extend your leave, but I will accept your resignation!" As he

said this, he handed to the officer the papers he had filed. Looking him

over in a contemptuous way, the Secretary turned to look after the next

victim on his list. The officer mildly protested, saying: "Why, Mr.

Secretary I do not want to leave the service; I merely want to spend the

last days--"

Here he was roughly interrupted by Mr. Stanton who repeated in an angry

tone, so that all could hear: "I'll accept your resignation, sir."

The poor fellow would not consent to be driven from the service in this

way, even to attend his father's last wishes. When he returned to pick

up his hat, which had been left on the chair beside me, his face was

white, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely take hold of his

hat. I assisted him, and together we left the Secretary's office in deep

disgust. I had enough for one day. After reporting the incident to Mr.

Covode and others, they mildly laughed at my indignation, while they

expressed the cold-blooded opinion that it was only one of Stanton's

ordinary jokes.

After this, I was more than ever anxious to get out of Washington, and

began to feel that I should be willing to take anything at all, that

savored of active service in the field, being perfectly content to leave

my personal business with Mr. Stanton in the hands of my friends. It was

decided among them all that I should be taken to the White House to see

Mr. Lincoln, personally. All the arrangements for this visit were made,

as nearly as I can recollect, without consulting me about it in any way

at all. It was generally understood, I reckon, that I needed somebody to

properly present my business affairs, and that it was hardly worth while

to bother with me about such things. I only know that I was told by Mr.

Covode to get ready to accompany him to the White House.

"We are all going up in General Moorehead's carriage and want you to be

on hand sure, as it's hard to get them all together." I didn't know who

"they" were, until I came down to his room rigged out in a grey jacket.

While we were waiting for the carriage to come around for us, Mr. Covode

explained further: "We're going to make a demand on the President for

your pay out of the secret-service fund."

I had only heard in a general way that anything of this sort was

contemplated. I can say here again, sincerely, that my only desire and

aim was for a commission in the Regular Army, and a detail on the Staff,

where I should have a chance for active service in the field. While we

waited Mr. Covode explained more fully:

"You are entitled to this; the fund is being squandered shamefully by

certain influences, who are making the President believe that they are

giving him valuable information. We all know your service and experience

has been of some practical use, and you are going to be paid for it,

too, in cash as well as in promotion."

He had a way of saying things in a very emphatic style when he became

interested, when I expressed my thanks for his interest and proffered a

remuneration, he began to talk bad grammar at me in such a way that I

had to beg off.

The carriage called; in it were Senator Cowan, General J. K. Moorehead,

M. C., from Pittsburgh; Hon. S. S. Blair, of Hollidaysburg, and Hon.

John Covode. I jumped up with the coachman, and we made a charge on the

White House. Before we started off there was a short but pointed

business consultation among them. Senator Cowan had suggested: "Now we

had better have an understanding before we go up there."

General Moorehead agreed that this was necessary; and when I undertook

to make a suggestion about getting Mr. Lincoln to give me a commission,

Covode told me in polite terms but decided language, but in a fatherly

way: "Now you've got to keep quiet."

The rest all thought this quite a funny remark. When Covode crawled into

the carriage, Mr. Moorehead said, "Well, what's the programme?" Covode

explained that it was to be a demand for pay from the President's

secret-service fund. No one had even suggested the amount, and I reckon

Mr. Covode's idea was to leave this discretionary with the President,

but Mr. Blair and Moorehead, who were business men as well as statesmen,

insisted that it would be better to settle a sum in advance.

"Make it enough," said Mr. Blair.

"Yes, we may just as well make it $10,000," observed the Senator.

Mr. Moorehead shrewdly suggested: "We have to appropriate this

secret-service money anyhow, and our votes will go for this amount."

Covode admitted that, "We have given him hundreds of thousands of

dollars for this use already."

This, in a general way was the plan and purpose of the visit to Mr.

Lincoln on that date.

It failed--not that the claim was rejected by the President--it was

never presented to him or anybody else. When we reached the White House

we were informed on the threshold that "the President had that day gone

to Fortress Monroe." That ended it for that day, and for all time. Soon

after, I left Washington for another trip. The same crowd were never

again brought together in this interest. As I have said, I was not a

good manager, and perhaps neglected my own interests in this respect.

I have to show my children, however, that which is dearer to me than

gold--a commission as a Second Lieutenant signed by Abraham Lincoln and

E. M. Stanton. That will remain for all time on the war records of my

country. If I had secured this money, I might have failed in obtaining

this commission, and no doubt the $10,000 would have soon disappeared

from sight forever and no record of it left.

A few days after this visit--the date of which may be fixed by a

reference to the books, which will indicate the time of Mr. Lincoln's

visit to Fortress Monroe--I saw Mr. Stanton personally, but only for a

moment; he was not such a dreadful person after all, as I expected to

find him.

Since I had been a disgusted witness to the abrupt interview between Mr.

Secretary Stanton and the young officer who desired his leave extended

that he might visit his dying father, I was not particularly anxious to

encounter the Secretary at close range. I had said as much so

emphatically to Mr. Covode and the other friends, all of whom laughed at

my earnestness, and consoled me with the remark that they had all

suffered in the same way at the War Office, and that I must not expect

to be welcomed with open arms by Mr. Stanton. It was no good to explain

to them that I didn't want to be welcomed, or kicked out either. I was

told that I _must_ see Mr. Stanton; that they could do nothing for me

without first securing his approval. I recall in this connection an old

chestnut, which explains in reality pretty nearly the true status of

affairs between the President and his Secretary of War. In conversation

with a group of friends about my "case," Mr. Covode had expressed the

conviction that for him to interfere with Stanton would only operate

against my chances, as he was thought to be a meddlesome investigator;

and another Congressman related the story about Mr. Lincoln telling an

importunate office-seeker that he, the President, "didn't have very much

influence with this administration."

I called at the War Office several times, and always found the same old

crowd in the corridors, and, though I was somewhat "fresh" and

impulsive, I could not raise the courage to face the grim old Secretary,

because he was _always_ engaged with somebody, and I feared to intrude

or interrupt him with my personal affairs.

As I have said previously, I had a brother, who was employed in the War

Department Telegraph Office, but as his hours for duty were at night, I

could not avail myself of this opportunity to loaf with him. One day,

however, after so much annoying delay, I put on my Rebel jacket, screwed

up my courage, and determined to settle the matter by a bold dash on the

War Office. My brother accompanied me, and, while waiting in the

ante-room of the telegraph office, I had a long and quite an agreeable

chat with General Anson Stager, who had charge of all the military

telegraph. The General, in those days, was quite a jolly, good-natured

gentleman; and, in this respect, almost the opposite to his subordinate,

Major Eckert, who was very dignified in his bearing toward his

subordinates. I was young and not unobserving, and I noticed that Major

Eckert always lost his dignity and high-and-mighty bearing, when he had

any dealings with _his_ superiors. General Stager was alike to all.

General Stager became much interested in my secret service more

especially in that part wherein I had attached myself to the Rebel

telegraph office at General Beauregard's headquarters, from whence I

could overhear all the messages between headquarters and Richmond.

General Stager laughed heartily at my recital of these events. He looked

at my rebel jacket with interest, took hold of my arm to critically

examine the texture of the cloth, and wound up by saying:

"Well, you certainly are an acquisition to us, and I want you in our

service."

When I explained my desire to obtain a commission, that I might get into

active service, the General endeavored in a kindly way to persuade me

saying:

"It wasn't worth while to do that; they could pay me more salary than a

commission as Second Lieutenant would bring beside I should be allowed

all the liberty I chose at the front, being at headquarters as a

civilian, furnished with a horse or ambulance, and all the rations I

could consume, and independent of the military."

He made it very attractive indeed; but I resisted the temptation,

determined to stick to my plans. I had expressed a willingness to do or

undertake any special service, but I wanted to be an officer. After

consultation with some one in another room, who was either the Secretary

himself or some of the high officials in the Adjutant-General's

Department, General Stager came back to me and clinched that which came

very near being a nail in my coffin. He proposed something like this:

"The army is on the peninsula, and Washington is cut off in a manner

from telegraph communication with them, except by means of a dispatch

boat to the nearest point on the Maryland side of the Chesapeake, from

which the telegraph is open to Washington. If you could open

communication for us, _overland_--say from Fredericksburg, or the

outposts of our forces there, to connect with McClellan on the Peninsula

by courier service--it would be a good thing for us, as we could hear

from our army so much quicker."

Everybody will appreciate the anxiety of the officials to hear from the

Army promptly and frequently. In other words, I was to operate secretly

between our lines below Fredericksburg and McClellan's advance, only a

gap of a few miles, but not occupied by either army but infested with

"guerrillas."

I accepted the proposition without a moment's thought about the probable

difficulties that were to be met with in carrying out the undertaking,

and I had been over that country in Virginia and was familiar with it. I

was anxious to do _anything_ that would give me an opportunity for

active service.

My brother interposed some objections, which General Stager thoughtfully

considered, and, after admonishing me of the danger in my case, he again

proffered service in the telegraph department. It was arranged between

us that I should call again on the following day; meantime he would

consult with some of the officers and ascertain their wishes in regard

to the matter.

General Eckert, who was in the room, had overheard part of my story--he

had not been consulted at all by General Stager--to my mind, showed in

his manner some little resentment toward me, probably because of the

interest that General Stager had seemingly taken in my affairs.

He felt impelled to make some remark, intended to be jocular, about a

Rebel uniform being in the War Department. I didn't pay much attention

to it at the time, and probably would not have observed the circumstance

had not several others, who were present, made it a subject of

conversation among themselves at our dinner-table that day.

In leaving the War Department Building that day, I walked out by the

basement or east door, nearest the White House, intending to take the

short cut, through the White House grounds, to our boarding-house on F

street.

Just as I passed out of the door my quick eye detected President Lincoln

coming up the few stone steps into the doorway; as he slowly walked or

shuffled along, he was apparently reading the contents of a paper, which

he held before his eyes with both hands. I had seen Mr. Lincoln

inaugurated, and frequently since. I recognized him at a glance, and to

get a closer look, I respectfully stood to one side of the steps to let

him pass. A gentleman was walking alongside of the President, and as

the two passed the President became crowded quite close to me, and

actually touched or rubbed against my Rebel uniform. Mr. Lincoln

apparently did not see me; he was too deeply immersed in reading, or

trying to read, the letter he held in his hand as he walked, while the

gentlemen with him was gabbling in his ear in a very earnest manner.

So it happened, as I had predicted, when my home friends had shown their

opposition to my wearing the gray, that I saw Mr. Lincoln while dressed

in my Rebel uniform. I had shaken hands with "the other President"--Jeff

Davis--in Richmond, only a short time previously, while attired in the

same court dress.

This "interview" wasn't exactly as satisfactory to me as it might have

been, if I had been presented by the delegation that had called with me

a few days sooner. But I had "seen the President," and, as there had

been such a great opportunity presented for some further secret service

in my line, I didn't care very much just then whether I should again get

the crowd together for another call or not.

That evening I saw Mr. Covode, to whom I related my interview with

General Stager, telling him of the plan upon which I had agreed to make

the trip to Richmond again. The old man put on his specks, looked over

the top of them at me in a curious sort of way, and said, rather

savagely: "You beat hell, you do." Then in a more moderate tone he

protested earnestly against it, saying: "You mustn't let everybody make

use of you that way."

When I explained that I was only desirous of getting out of Washington,

and anxious to be on hand in the field when Richmond was taken, and

intimated further that Mr. Stanton and the President would give me the

commission on sight if I should come in first with some good news, he

remonstrated earnestly: "Oh, yes; you go down there again in that shape,

and you wont need any commission; they will hang you, sure, to the first

tree."

I had to leave the old man without getting any encouragement from him,

but had given him a promise, before saying "Good-night," that I would

not do anything further in the matter until I saw him again; in the

meantime he urged me to see Mr. Stanton.

I went to bed that night very much disturbed in mind. While I was not so

very anxious to continue the secret-service work, I felt so worn-out

and disappointed at the dilatoriness in getting anything settled in

Washington toward a commission, that I was about ready to both give it

up and to try again. We were continually hearing so much that was

exciting from the front, that I was really half wild and in a fever of

impatience to be on hand among the boys.

The next day I called at the War Office early, determined to see Mr.

Stanton, or at least make a sure thing of his seeing me before I should

again leave.

I had preserved Senator Cowan's letter and with it in my hand I made an

onslaught on the regular orderly at the door. He had gotten to know me,

and pleasantly suggested:

"If you hang to it with your teeth, you will get all you want."

With his assistance I got my card in to the Secretary, and was again

shown a seat inside the Secretary's room, to wait until my name was

called.

In addition to the regular crowd, there seemed to be a delegation of

some kind in an adjoining room, as I judged from the loud talking. The

Secretary came out of the room, but, before he could reach his pulpit,

he was called back; then, in a few minutes, he again made his appearance

in the doorway, talking back to those inside in his usual vigorous

style. Feeling desperate, and always impulsive, I made a bold break and

handed the Secretary my letter before he reached his desk, being careful

to prelude my intrusion by saying: "Senator Cowan directed me to hand

you this personally."

With a sharp glance of impatience at me, he took the letter, walked to

his desk, and, without opening it, began to deliberately look over his

pile of cards. I stood my ground, right in front of him, feeling very

much like a guilty school-boy who had been called up by his teacher for

punishment.

When Mr. Stanton raised his eyes from the cards and spied me, still

standing in front of him, he looked towards me then as if remembering

the letter, and said to me: "Where is the note from Senator Cowan?"

"I gave it to you, Mr. Secretary," said I tremblingly.

He looked around, found the envelope, and, while he read it, I felt in

my soul that I would rather face Jeff Davis and the whole Rebel Army

again than the Secretary of War. I resolved, if I ever got out of that

alive, I'd risk anything in the front rather than go back into that room

and face the Secretary of War.

When he finished reading the letter, he looked me over earnestly as he

folded it up slowly. It will be remembered that this paper referred to

me as having been _every place_ in the South; that I had a most valuable

experience, etc.

The Secretary astonished me by saying, in the most agreeable and gentle

tones, as he looked benevolently through his glasses: "I would like to

talk with you, but I'm engaged, and I will have to refer you to the

Assistant-Secretary to-day."

I was too scared to make an immediate reply. The Secretary, calling the

orderly to him, said to him, as he endorsed something on the bottom of

my letter: "Take this gentleman to the Assistant-Secretary."

That was all, but that was enough for me for one day. If there was any

one person in all Washington City for whom, or against whom, I

entertained an unjust prejudice--I might say, a deep-seated hatred--it

was Mr. P. H. Watson, the Assistant-Secretary of War.

I had never met him; in fact, I had never seen him; but the simple fact

that he had taken the place of my old friend Colonel Thomas A. Scott in

the War Office, since Cameron's removal, was of itself sufficient to

turn me against him; but, in addition to this fact, I had gathered from

Mr. Covode and the rest of the Pennsylvania delegation, as well as the

telegraph boys in the War Department, that Mr. Watson, and his clique of

friends, had scandalously maligned Mr. Scott personally and abused Mr.

Cameron politically.

I was ushered into the presence of a large, red-headed,

sandy-complexioned man, to whom I was introduced, as the young man Mr.

Secretary had "directed to present to you."

Mr. Watson, at the moment we entered, was busy with some papers. He was

surrounded by clerks, occupying other desks in his room, but at once

dropped everything to receive us. Upon reading the Senator's letter and

the Secretary's endorsement, he at once became very gracious toward me.

And, as he shook hands and drew me to a chair near him, and began some

complimentary remarks about my "valuable services," I was not only

disappointed at the Secretary in having said not a word about the matter

which was uppermost in my mind, but I was also really angry at being

handed over to Mr. Watson in a second-handed manner to be pumped by him.

Therefore, I didn't pump worth a cent. I was dry. Mr. Watson made it

worse for me by the first question he put. "I presume you are in Mr.

Pinkerton's service." That was adding insult. I resented this

insinuation by asserting emphatically: "I am not a detective at all."

The interview did not last long, so there is not much to say about it

here; in fact, it ended rather abruptly, when Mr. Watson further

suggested that I should put myself in communication with Mr. Pinkerton,

who had charge of all these things. I want to make it as plain right

here to all who may read this story as I did to Mr. Watson twenty-five

years ago, that I reject with scorn and contempt the intimation that I

was a detective, working for money. I declined positively to have any

communication with the Chief of the Secret Service, and told Mr. Watson,

as my friends had all frequently suggested, that I had done important

secret-service work for the Secretary of the War Department, _direct_,

and I wanted something now wherein I could make available my past

experiences.

As I had promised Mr. Covode not to make any engagements with any one,

and had fulfilled my agreement to see the Secretary, I retired from the

War Office in disappointment and disgust.

I saw Mr. Covode and the other friends, to whom I related my experience

with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Watson, and, at the same time, declared my

intention to leave the city for the front, and enter the army as a

private soldier, and work my way up to position by meritorious service

in _front_ of the enemy, instead of in the rear.

The day following, before I could get an opportunity to again see

General Stager in regard to his proposal, or take any action myself, Mr.

Covode sent for me. When I reached his room he said, in his blunt way:

"If you are bound to be in the field, I'll give you a letter to General

Haupt, who has charge of the railroad between Fredericksburg and Aquia

Creek, and he will give you something to do to keep you busy down there

till we can get something fixed up here."

I eagerly accepted this proposal; it was not what I wanted exactly, but

it admitted of my going to the front, and that, too, in an official

position, wherein I could be on hand and, unmolested, see everything

that was being done. I had known General Haupt well, as the accomplished

Chief Engineer of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Mr. Covode had been

assured by him, it seems, that he would be delighted to have me in his

Military Railroad Service, as I had experience in that direction in Mr.

Scott's service.

We were going to rebuild that road right into Richmond the next week,

and I consoled myself with the thought that, if I did not reenter

Richmond on a horse as an officer, that I might get there all the same

on a locomotive.

I was to be paid a good salary and expenses. All my friends thought it

just splendid, and I imagine now, though I didn't think so at the time,

that the position was created for me just to prevent my getting into

trouble again. In a few days I took a morning steamer, armed with an

official pass and a bundle of good clothing, and sailed with the

greatest anticipations of quickly seeing Richmond. We reached Aquia

Creek in a few hours--this, as all the boys will know, was then the

leading place or connecting point between the steamers and the railroads

to Richmond. After strolling about there for an hour, I got aboard the

first train, which was made up of open truck cars, and we rolled over

the ten or twelve miles past the straggling camps of our forces then

thereabouts, crossing the high and hastily-improvised trestle of bridges

that had been built by "sojers," in the place of those destroyed.

CHAPTER XXV.

GENO--FREDERICKSBURG--A CHAPTER OF WAR HISTORY NOT IN _The Century_

PAPERS.

It will be remembered that, on a previous occasion, I had made an entree

into the town of Fredericksburg, on the bare back of an old horse, on

the morning in August after the night of horror in which I was pursued

by Rebels, suffering from the attack of bloodhounds.

On the occasion of this, my second visit, I rolled over the temporary

railroad bridge into the old depot at Fredericksburg on a freight train,

dressed--well, in the best store clothes that money would buy at that

time in Washington.

I am not sure of the exact date on which I got into Fredericksburg, _en

route_ to Richmond; it does not matter much, as I do not pretend to have

kept an accurate record of the dates, however, it was along in April or

May, judging by my recollection of the weather at that time. McClellan's

great Army of the Potomac was on the Peninsula only a few miles from

Richmond, while Fitz-John Porter had been up to Hanover Court House,

about half way between Fredericksburg and Richmond. General McDowell was

in command of quite a large, but, as I recollect it, a widely scattered

and very much mixed up force at Fredericksburg.

The problem was to unite McClellan's and McDowell's forces against

Richmond. There was just this little gap of some ten or fifteen miles

between these two armies, and it was this bit of neutral ground that

General Anson Stager, of the United States Military Telegraph Corps, was

so desirous of opening communication through, because the "Washington

Government" could only hear from McClellan by way of the slow medium of

dispatch boats across the bay to the nearest point of telegraph.

I was directed by Mr. Covode to report in person, with a letter to the

Chief Engineer, or Superintendent, of the Richmond & Fredericksburg

Military Railroad, General Haupt, who was recently the Chief Engineer

and builder of the Northern Pacific Railroad. Exactly what was to be

the nature of my duties I do not now recall, if, indeed, I ever knew.

I was shown to the Exchange, or may be it was the Planter's; anyway, it

was the best hotel, located on the hill, on one of the principal streets

leading out toward Marye's Heights. It was not a particularly hospitable

place for me, because I saw at once that the young boy, who ran the

office for his mother, was only there to collect all the money he could

from the "Yankee Invaders," while the father and elder brother were

probably in the Rebel camps outside of town, only waiting a favorable

opportunity to return and scalp the boarders.

The town was full, literally and spiritually, not only of McDowell's

soldiers, who were in camp all around, but of all sorts of strange

people in civilians' dress--adventurers, sutlers, traders, whisky

smugglers, strange women--in fact, the main street of the quiet, sleepy

old aristocratic town was a perfect bedlam in 1862, as compared with my

first visit in August, 1861.

That evening, before dark, I saw on the street a greater variety of life

than I had met in Washington on any one evening during my stay there.

These numerous hangers-on of the armies had been, to a great degree,

excluded from the Peninsula, so they had swarmed up to Fredericksburg as

the next best place for them, to be nearest their favorite regiments,

and "on the road to Richmond," where they all expected to rejoin

McClellan's army in a very few days.

In addition to the great number of officers and men of the army, there

were several batches of naval officers from one or two gunboats of the

Potomac Flotilla, which had sailed up the Rappahannock and were anchored

below town.

Altogether, it was what might be termed a lively town. The ordinary,

quiet population had been suddenly increased to 40,000 or 50,000 of

McDowell's army and followers, which had settled down around the hills

and the streets in one night, like a flock of bluebirds or crows at a

roosting place.

During my walk about the town that evening, I ran against a crowd of

contrabands on the sidewalk, who were watching with the greatest

interest the antics of a pair of New York street arabs, or newsboys, who

were dressed up in their rags doing some song-and-dance acts, to the

great delight of the country soldiers and assembled contrabands. There

was even an attempt at a theatrical performance after early

candle-lighting. Indeed it was only after taps that the

Provost-Marshal's Guard made any attempt to suppress the fun.

It did not occur to me, until after I had undressed myself and had

"doused the glim," while looking out of the window toward the Virginia

hill, since so well known as Marye's Heights, that there was any

possibility of the Rebels making a sudden dash on the town and capturing

us all. I seemed to realize, only when I was alone, that there might be

some chance for those Rebel fellows getting in there in sufficient force

to gobble us all up.

As I peered through the darkness in the direction of Richmond, I

appreciated pretty strongly the fact that I was getting close to the

front of that Rebel gang again, and I had not the least desire to get

inside their lines as a prisoner. I didn't sleep well, so early next

morning I started out to find a place to stay, which did not impress me

so strongly as being the house of my enemy.

It was my good luck, or my fate, to have met with a clever gentleman in

Mr. Jimmy Wilson, of Middletown, Pennsylvania. He was one of those

happy, companionable persons, to whom one naturally attaches one's self

to on first acquaintance. His business in Fredericksburg was that of a

trader to the army, and he had secured some special privileges in this

direction through his townsman, General Simon Cameron, while he was yet

Secretary of War.

It may be that Mr. Wilson was attracted to me by something of a selfish

motive, through a knowledge of my connection with the railroad in an

official capacity, by which he might be able to better facilitate his

business interests in the transportation of his "supplies" over the road

and evading too close inspections.

In the shrewd manner peculiar to the business of traveling salesmen, he

had discovered the very best place in the town to live, to which he

kindly consented to introduce me. It was through him that I first met my

"fate," in the family of Captain Wells. There were in this happy and

accomplished household quite a bevy of young ladies. "All were young,

but one was beautiful."

It is quite a long, and I think may be an interesting, story, which is

indeed quite too romantic for this narrative of facts. I will only say

that Geno, the youngest, was, to my eyes, all that may be described as a

beautiful, budding young girl.

The eldest, Miss Sue, had been a belle in Georgetown before the war;

another, Miss Mamie, was noted for her sweet disposition. The father, I

grieve to add, was suspected by our officers of being a blockade-runner

for the Rebels. He had been engaged on the regular underground line

between Richmond and Washington, via the Potomac River, since the

commencement of the war. Previous to this he had been the owner and

captain of a steamer plying on the Rappahannock River. Through this

means he had gained valuable information of the river and little bays of

that part of Virgina, and knew all about the inlets and outlets of the

adjacent water, and was, in consequence of this fact, probably suspected

of being a most valuable ally to the Rebel Government. His sympathies

were openly with the South, but, as this was the general feeling among

the citizens, no one attached importance to the Captain's personal

sentiments.

Between my infatuation for Geno and the sense of duty, I had a

troublesome old time of it in the weeks and months and years that

followed this first evening in the Wells home.

It's pretty much the same old story of love at first sight and trouble

forever after. I was politely invited to join the family circle in the

parlor after tea. The mother was as youthful in her happy manner as her

daughters. The genial Captain permitted himself to be prevailed upon by

the younger children to sing one or two comic songs, which were received

with hilarious applause. The three daughters vied with the others in

their polite efforts to entertain such a dull boy, as I must certainly

have become after encountering the apparition of Geno that evening.

Jimmy Wilson's presence seemed to help me out a little. A group played

cards, while some one banged the piano and sang "Bonnie Blue Flag,"

"Dixie," and, by way of a tease, "Yankee Doodle." The elder daughter,

Miss Sue, was a decidedly beautiful girl, of perhaps twenty, quite

lively, and perhaps a little bit of a flirt. I state this opinion

generally. I did not entertain it so fully at that time as I did

subsequently. Miss Mamie was the good girl of the family, while Geno was

the beauty.

If I were not writing this story myself, I should be tempted to

honestly declare that Geno was not only the prettiest, but the sweetest,

girl I ever saw, and I have seen a great many in my life. She was not

tall, but a slender, graceful, womanly figure, dressed in dark blue, she

required no artificial aids to her fresh young beauty. Her face was

sweetly intelligent, and, while not lacking in resolution, it was marked

by that shyness which belongs to young girls who are well-born and bred

in comparative seclusion.

[Illustration: GENO WAS NOT ONLY THE PRETTIEST, BUT THE SWEETEST GIRL I

EVER SAW.]

It was decreed that Geno should sit near me that evening on a low sofa,

located in a corner of the parlor. All the chairs were occupied by the

rest of the company, either by accident or through Miss Sue's propensity

to tease her younger sister and myself.

Geno, though but between fifteen and sixteen at that time, was, in her

manner, quite as easy and winning as her elder sisters. She sat beside

me on the sofa, her luxuriant, dark hair bewitchingly plaited in a roll

over her head, wearing a low-neck dress, short skirts, while her bare

arms gracefully held a guitar, on which she skillfully played the

accompaniment and sweetly sang the old, old Spanish serenade, _Juanita_.

(I advise the young ladies to get a guitar and practice on this song; it

will catch a boy every time.) It was that _song_, and the beautiful,

large, dark, expressive eyes of this dear little girl that put me in Old

Capitol Prison.

I was a "goner" from that moment, and have never gotten entirely over it

in all these years.

I do not say it boastingly at all, but for a truth. I believe I should

at that time have felt more at my ease if I had been "scouting" or

sitting around a camp-fire with Rebels instead of beside the little girl

whose dress touched me. It was a clear case of love at first sight.

The Wells family were natives of my own State, having been embargoed

during the war because of the father's steamboat interests on the river;

and thereby hangs another tale not pertinent to this narrative, which I

hope, subsequently, to give to the world.

I had been introduced to the family as a civilian employe of the

military railway, and had been able to present some flattering letters

of introduction from Mr. John W. Forney, Mr. Covode, and other prominent

Pennsylvania gentlemen. I was, of course, made to feel quite at home.

I may as well admit frankly I was about Geno's house more than duty

warranted; so much so, indeed, that the amiable mother must have become

tired of me. I seldom went to the railroad headquarters, and I had lost

all interest in the capture of Richmond and in Capitola.

Of course, I felt obliged to make an appearance of reporting for duty to

the railroad office occasionally.

With a desire to learn something of the probable advance to Richmond, I

had spent considerable time about the Provost-Marshal's Office, where I

had become quite well acquainted with a young officer on detached duty.

His interest probably sprung from having seen me in the company of the

pretty girl, with whom he desired to become acquainted through me.

On the occasion of one of these visits, I was questioned quite closely

by another of the Staff officers about the politics of the Wells family,

and especially of the sympathies of the ladies for Confederate officers.

Perhaps I was not in proper frame of mind to dispassionately discuss

this question of Geno's family affairs with a strange officer, and it is

probable that I somewhat rashly resented the supposed impertinence.

I was informed that it was through the usual gossipy information

volunteered, by some unfriendly Unionists of the town, that this officer

at headquarters had learned that Captain Wells had been engaged in

blockade-running for the Rebels. I exclaimed that I knew better; that my

relations with the family were of an intimate character; that Captain

Wells was a native of my own State; that all his daughters had been born

and educated in the Wyoming Valley, and that he was in Virginia solely

and only because his business of steamboating had embargoed him there,

and he had chosen to remain himself and sacrifice his boats, rather than

abandon his family. All this was said in a positive manner, and with

probably a little more animation than the subject justified. It had,

however, the undesirable effect of bringing out prominently a trifling

affair that occurred in connection with the family, which I must relate,

as part of my experience which soon followed, just to show that "trifles

light as air, are to the jealous, confirmations strong as proofs of Holy

Writ."

It will be remembered by the old soldiers that, early in the war, it

was the custom to display flags promiscuously wherever they could find a

place to string one in a Virginia town.

[Illustration: REFUSING IN HER VERY DECIDED MANNER TO WALK UNDER "THAT

FLAG."]

Soldiers who were in Fredericksburg with McDowell, in 1862, will know

that over the main streets of the town hung innumerable flags, so that

the natives must either walk under the flag or stay indoors altogether.

Miss Sue Wells, like most bright girls of her age who lived in the

South, was fond of tormenting our officers, "just for fun, you know."

She insisted, in the company of Union officers, that she was a Rebel,

but I was quietly informed by the family that, when the Confederates

first had possession of the town, she was a Union girl to them.

On this and several other questions Miss Sue and I differed quite

decidedly. The sequence and truthfulness of this story compels me to say

here that Miss Sue and I quarreled all the time (after I had become

fairly established in the family). One day, while walking with her along

the main street of the town, we encountered one of the numerous flags

that were suspended over the sidewalk. Miss Sue put her little foot down

(and I know positively that she had a little foot), refusing in her very

decided manner to walk under "that flag!"

What could I do? The street was full of soldiers and officers, whose

attention was being attracted toward us by my taking her arm and

attempting to force her to accompany me under the flag. I explained that

there were flags on the other side of the street,

Flags to the right of us,

Flags to the left of us,

and flags every place; that we would not dare to go around it; but the

more I talked and urged, the more contrary she grew, and to prevent a

further scene on the street, we retraced our steps.

That little act on the streets of Fredericksburg, in the summer of 1862,

is on record to-day in the war archives as part of the specifications in

a charge of disloyalty against myself, on which I was subsequently

arrested and confined in Old Capitol Prison.

It is a shameful fact, that my early record for the Union at Fort

Pickens, and the subsequent year of service with a rope about my neck,

was, for a short time, completely shadowed by this silly performance

with a young lady in Fredericksburg. Not only this, but it was, perhaps,

the indirect cause of this young lady's father's banishment from his

home and the confiscation of his property.

The officer who had reminded me of this incident undertook to give me

some advice as to my association or intimacy in a Rebel family.

He further astonished me by saying they had information of a piratical

scheme being hatched, which had for its object the seizure of some of

the regular line of steamers plying on the Chesapeake Bay, and Captain

Wells was to act as pilot. The officer explained to me further that the

plan, as they had learned of it, was for a party of Rebels, disguised as

passengers and laborers, to board one of these steamers in Baltimore,

and, after she was out in the bay, at midnight, they were to throw off

their masks, seize the boat, confine the officers and, under the

pilotage of Geno's father, run her into Rebel waters as a prize.

This was indeed startling intelligence, that for a moment staggered me.

I realized that a more suitable person to do the work could not have

been selected than Captain Wells.

The officer said, as they had no proof of this at all, he had mentioned

it to me with a view of having me look the matter up; that my relations

with the family were of such a character as to enable me to get on to

the real facts. I left the headquarters feeling very much depressed.

After another enjoyable evening spent at the Wells house following this

conversation at Provost Headquarters, I went to my quarters quite

disturbed in heart and mind as to my duty.

With the sweet voice of "Juanita" still ringing in my ears, and the

memory of her beautiful eyes seemingly appealing to my tenderest

sympathies, I went to bed with my head in a whirl, and dropped into a

restless sleep without having settled the question in my own mind

satisfactorily as to her father's guilt. There was no question as to the

Captain's being entirely competent to pilot or even command such an

expedition, and I may as well cut this story short by the frank

admission that, had he not been the father of a very pretty girl, I

would have jumped at the same conclusion as the officer.

I was, however, unwilling to believe that the father of such an

interesting family, all of whom had been born and reared in

Pennsylvania, would become the leader of a piratical gang. I concluded

at last that I would postpone any action, for a while at least. I could

do this with the better grace, as I was not specially engaged in secret

service at that time. I rather relished the truth, too, that the failure

of the Secretary of War to recognize my former services relieved me from

any obligation to act as "spotter" for the Pinkerton detectives.

But after having slept over the matter, and while enjoying a walk the

next morning among the neighboring camps, over which floated the

"emblem," I suddenly regained my senses, for a little while at least,

and made up my mind that it would be worse than traitorous for me, by my

silence and apparent association, to permit those Maryland sympathizers

to go on and mature a plan to hire a gang of Baltimore plug-uglies to

play the pirate on unarmed vessels on the bay, within sight of our

armies. I could, at least, put the officials on their guard. I walked

back toward my "office," where I briefly wrote the rumor as it had,

without my volition, been detailed to me, and at once put the letter in

form to reach Mr. Covode through the improvised mail service then

existing between Washington and the army of McDowell. I felt better for

having done this much. I had also advised Mr. Covode that I was in a

position to follow up the matter from this clew, and, if it could be

confirmed, I would give the information directly to himself, and no one

else. I expect, too, that I was indiscreet enough to have taken this

opportunity to ventilate my own rather fresh opinions of Secretary

Stanton; because just then I was smarting under his seeming indifference

to and neglect of my services and claims. I am sure that my letter

contained some unnecessary criticisms on Mr. P. H. Watson, Assistant

Secretary, as well as the Secret Service Corps, which was under his

direction, and Maj. Eckert, of the Telegraph Corps.

This letter was intended as a private communication to my friend Covode,

and I had particularly cautioned him not to permit certain War

Department influences to get hold of the rumors, as I wanted to work it

out myself. I learned subsequently, to my sorrow, that this personal

letter, containing both the information and the criticism, was sent to

the War Office at once as an important paper. Anybody will see that it

was not only a mistake of my own to have written in this way, but also

of Mr. Covode's to have shown it; but it was one of that statesman's

"privileges" to mix things up. It probably never occurred to him--as I

afterward heard--that the principal effect of the criticisms, coupled

with the "information," would be to impress upon the War Department

officials the suspicion that Covode had employed me as one of his agents

to play the "spy" on our own officials, for the benefit of the

Congressional Committee of the War.

I was not very much bothered about the consequences of such things at

that time. I was in love, which will account for a good many of my

mistakes.

When I went to my newly-found home, at Capt. Wells's house, the evening

of the same day on which I had written and mailed this letter, I was

received so kindly and courteously into the house by the genial Captain

himself, that I began to feel that I had been guilty of an awfully

shabby trick in having reported, even privately to Mr. Covode, a private

conversation with this Staff officer in regard to mine host.

Indeed, I was feeling so uncomfortable over what seemed to have been an

ungracious return for favors received, that I took the first opportunity

to get out of the Captain's presence, and, in the seclusion of my room

that night, I inwardly resolved that I would, if possible, attempt to

modify my report by another letter to follow the first.

The evening was spent in the little parlor, as on the many previous

occasions. I was treated as one of the family, and entertained in the

most agreeable manner by the accomplished ladies of this happy

household. Each night we had music. Of course, Juanita, with the guitar,

accompanied by Geno, became one feature of all others that was always so

charmingly attractive to me. The Captain himself sang a number of comic

songs with good effect, while the elder daughter, Miss Sue, exerted

herself in a pleasant way to create a little fun for the company at my

own and Geno's expense. Col. Hoffman, Mr. Wilson and myself furnished

the only audience, while a happy-faced, brisk little mother supplied the

refreshments, and made us all feel at home.

This general attempt at a description of one evening must suffice for

the many, many happy days and evenings that I spent in Fredericksburg

during the months of McDowell's occupation of that country. As I have

previously stated, I could furnish the material for a romance based on

wonderful facts connected with my different visits here that would make

a large-sized book in itself. This is simply a blunt narrative of fact.

This is an absolutely "true love" story, and I am giving correct names

and actual incidents, realizing that I may be talking to some of the

survivors of McDowell's army, who may have been "thar or tharabouts".

The Colonel Hoffman referred to above was in command of the regiment

that had control of the town at this time. The Colonel having known the

Wells family in the North, was glad of the opportunity to meet them, and

during his stay in town lived with them in the house with Mr. Wilson and

myself. His regiment had been recruited somewhere in the neighborhood of

Elmira, New York.

As soon as I could see the Colonel alone, I took the opportunity to tell

him the story of the Captain's alleged complicity in the Chesapeake Bay

piracy. To my surprise and gratification, he blurted out rather

savagely: "I don't believe a word of it. Why, I've known Frank Wells all

my life. No one at home ever accused him of any such traits of character

as this. Why," continued the Colonel, with a show of disgust, "it's

impossible. He couldn't be a disloyal man; he comes of Puritan stock,

from away back. I've seen myself a family tombstone up in Long Island

which shows that his ancestors were buried there as early as 1671. Why,

boy, they came over in the Mayflower."

This seemed to settle it with Colonel Hoffman, but he added, in an

explanatory way: "I suppose it's one of those 'Unionists' stories. Every

dog who has a grievance against his neighbor, in war times, runs to the

nearest Provost-Marshal to get the army on to his enemy. Wells came down

here to run his boats on the Rappahannock; that was his business. He

tells me that he, with a majority of the citizens here, did not believe

there would be a war, or that Virginia would go out of the Union, and,

therefore, he did not attempt to get away until it was too late. The

Confederates wouldn't let him take his boats North. When our fellows got

there, he ran his boats below town to prevent the Rebels burning them,

as they did all the rest; and when the gunboats came up the river they

allowed a lot of rough sailors to seize and confiscate his boats. Their

object was prize money, and it is probably to their interest to create

an impression that he was disloyal, that they may secure this money.

I've told Frank he ought to resist this, but he is mad about it; swears

they are robbers and thieves; and it is likely he and the girls have

given offense in this way to some of our officers."

The Colonel's decided talk fully confirmed me in the belief that the

story of the Captain's complicity was the outcome of some personal

grievance.

Feeling that I had been guilty of a mean action, in reporting the names

to Mr. Covode, I sat down and wrote him the second letter, retracting

all that the first contained, and added that the mistake arose from the

desire of some enemies of mine, or the Captain, to get me mixed up with

the War Department.

I do not remember just what I did write, but if the reader will put

himself in my place at that time, or try to realize what an

enthusiastic, love-sick boy would be liable to write under such

circumstances, in defense of his intended father-in-law, you will be apt

to reach the conclusion that I do now, that I put my foot in it badly.

Unfortunately, I did not mail the letter in time to overtake the first

one. I was delayed by engaging myself to accompany the ladies the next

day on a visit to the grave and monument of the mother of General

Washington. As all know, the mother of President Washington lived, died,

and is buried in this historic old town. The old house, or all that is

left of it, still stands on one of the streets. The tomb and monument is

situated on rising ground some distance in the outskirts.

Most of the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac have visited this spot,

at least all who were interested in such matters did, who were about

Fredericksburg, and it will not be necessary to describe it.

It was arranged that we should make a select picnic party of our visit

to the tomb of the Mother of our Country, and, as we expected to make a

day of it, one day's rations for a dozen, composed of the usual girls'

rations of sweet cake and sour pickle, were packed in a big lunch

basket.

The picnic was a pleasant affair, of course, because Geno was there.

For the time being I had entirely forgotten or, at least, lost interest

in the letter of explanation which I had intended to send to Mr. Covode

on that day, as well as everything else but Geno. On our return through

town that same evening, I saw for the first time a New York regiment in

full Zouave uniform marching in their cat-like or tip-toe step, carrying

their guns in a graceful, easy manner as they marched along in their

picturesque style. The band played and, seemingly, the whole regiment of

a thousand bass voices sang "John Brown's body," as I have never heard

it since. The effect upon our own party and the few loyal citizens was

magical, and I leave the reader to imagine the sensations of the Rebel

occupants of the houses along the line of march. The shades were

closed--they always were--but that did not entirely conceal a number of

bright-flashing eyes, that one could always find on close inspection

peeping through the cracks.

After relieving my mind by sending the letter in the evening I turned in

to enjoy myself freely in the society of the ladies, and became so much

immersed in the pursuit of this new-found delight that I lost sight of

all other business. Every day became a picnic and every evening a party.

One day, while loafing about my office down at the depot, I observed a

strange-looking fellow hanging about. Every time I would look toward him

I discovered his eyes had been upon me. He was not a good spy, or

detective, because he at once gave himself away by his too naked manner

of observing things. I got on to him at once, because he did not seem to

do anything but shadow me.

There was also a telegraph office at the depot, the wire extending, I

believe, only as far as the railroad was operated, to Aquia Creek. I had

not met the operator personally, and, as had been my invariable

practice, I had carefully concealed from all strangers, even friends,

the fact that I was also a sound operator. I knew that neither the

detective nor the operator suspected me of being an operator. As soon as

I discovered that a suspicious watch had been put upon me, it stirred me

all up, and served most effectively to recall me to some sense of the

duties or obligations that were expected of me. For the day or two

following I passed more of my time within the hearing of the telegraph

instrument and less in the parlor of Captain Wells.

One morning I saw the Pinkerton detective hand a piece of paper to the

operator, who quietly put it on his telegraph desk. I had to wait a

long, long time, and was forced to manufacture a good many excuses for

lying around the office so closely.

There is something which I cannot explain that instinctively seems to

satisfy one of certain conditions or impressions of another's mind. In

modern mind-reading a telegraph operator has a very great advantage over

any of the professional mind-readers, from the fact that, by a simple

contact of the hand to any part of the body, the telegraph operator can

telegraph by silent taps or touches or by simple pressure of the hands

the characters of the telegraph alphabet, and thus spell out rapidly any

word. Perhaps this fact will account for some of the recent phenomena in

this direction.

As I have said, I was satisfied in my own mind, instinctively, as it

were, that this fellow was a War Department spy on Captain Wells and,

perhaps myself, and I was just sharp and cunning enough when my blood

was up to determine to beat him at his own game. He walked off some

distance while I hung to the office, apparently very much interested in

reading a copy of the Christian Commission Army Bible, which had found

its way into the office there. I heard the operator call up his office,

and, after doing some routine railroad business, he sent the message to

some one of the chief detectives in Washington, which was, in effect, as

nearly as I can remember, a sort of report or excuse for the failure to

arrest a certain party, because he was absent that day, but was expected

to return at night, when the arrest would be made.

Of course I saw that I was not the party referred to, because I was not

absent. It did not take long, however, to find out, after some

investigation and private talk with the operator, that Mr. Pinkerton had

sent a man down there to look after the matter referred to in my letter

to Covode. Of course Covode had indiscreetly rushed to the office and

presented my letter, without once thinking of the severe reflections on

the officials, or in anyway considering my interests. He only thought of

the proposed scheme to get possession of the steamers. I suppose that he

felt in his honest, patriotic heart that it must be thwarted at once.

That's the way Mr. Covode did things. He told me subsequently that he

felt that my letter would show Stanton and Watson that I was a valuable

man.

But I was not willing that the detectives of Pinkerton should have the

credit of working up this plan, and, aside from little personal feeling

against the Pinkerton spy and my sympathies and sentiment for the father

of Geno, I at once determined to defeat their aspirations; and I

succeeded--to my own subsequent discomfiture.

Determined to prevent the arrest of Geno's father, because I believed

him innocent, and realizing that I was responsible for the espionage

that had been placed upon the family, and without a single thought as to

the consequence to myself, I went quietly from the telegraph office to

the Wells house, only a few blocks distant.

Geno smilingly welcomed me as she opened the door (she had learned to

look for my coming, I have since thought,) and to her pleasant greeting

I abruptly demanded, in a tone and with an agitation that must have

seemed strange, "I want to see your father right away." To the polite

response, "Why, there is nobody at home but me; come in;" I could only

say, rather nervously, perhaps, "I must see your father or your mother

on private business. I can not talk to you until this matter is settled

first."

Geno turned her big, black eyes on me quickly, quizzically, looked into

my heart, seemingly satisfied herself that I was very much in earnest,

she observed, with a smile: "You can see father to-night, if you wish."

"I must see him before to-night. Where is he?"

My animated manner, or perhaps urgent demands in the hallway, had

attracted Mrs. Wells's attention in an upper room. Making an appearance

at the head of the stairway, she asked, pleasantly: "What in the world

is the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing much. Come down, please. I have something to say to you and

the Captain, privately."

The happy mother descended only to the landing, where she halted long

enough to see whether it would be safe enough for her to come any

closer. Geno having heard me express a desire to talk privately to her

parents, had suddenly disappeared through a side door; while Mrs. Wells,

laughingly, stepped down, and, without waiting to hear from me, said, in

her gentle, motherly way:

"Now, my dear boy, don't you talk to me about that. Why Geno is only a

child."

"Oh, no; not that--not now. I came to tell you that the Captain will be

arrested to-night. He must leave town at once."

With a few words more of explanation, the loyal wife and mother was

alive to the gravity of the situation. I left the house as suddenly as I

had entered it, after cautioning them under no circumstances to admit

that I gave this information, as I would be hung too. I was back at the

station before they had discovered that I had been away.

My plan, as detailed to Covode, was to have quietly waited and watched

for some tangible proofs of this rumored piracy. If they had left me

alone I should have worked it up for all it was worth, and reported the

result to the War Department. But they jumped in and agitated the

oyster, which of course closed up the oyster securely. I admit that on

seeing this attempt at poaching on my premises, that I flushed the game,

believing that the end would justify the means. I was only apprehensive

that some member of the family might accidentally say something that

would indicate that I was responsible for the escape of Captain Wells.

I became for a day or two subsequently a most regular attendant at the

Department Telegraph Office.

I learned by my telegraph facilities that this Pinkerton spy had

reported to his chief that "Wells has not yet returned," that "the party

was still absent," and later that he had "escaped South." Luckily for me

he did not learn of the short and interesting return visit the Captain

made, and, in consequence, he had no occasion to immediately investigate

the Captain's taking off, so that several days elapsed before he found

it out. The Captain did not go South to join the Rebels, but, instead,

went North, visiting during his exile a married daughter living in

Baltimore, and subsequently published a little family history, in which

he gives "a friend" the credit for the warning and also for supplying a

pass over the railroad to Aquia Creek.

I found that I had made my way clear in thus "breaking the ice" when I

should want to ask for Geno's hand. I had killed two or three birds at

one shot that day. I had thwarted Assistant Secretary of War Watson and

his Pinkerton crowd in their attempt at arresting Captain Wells on mere

rumors. I had established myself in the good graces of Geno's entire

family. I had prevented her father from being imprisoned. In addition

to all this, I succeeded in getting myself into Old Capitol Prison, by

order of Secretary of War E. M. Stanton, and became a companion of Belle

Boyd and numerous other Rebel spies. But I'll have to tell some other

things that occurred at Fredericksburg before this unfortunate episode

came to pass.

I need not say that, after this episode, I felt that the fate of the

entire Wells family was in my hands. From that day on I was what may be

slangily termed "solid" with that happy family. I believe I have

mentioned the fact previously that Geno was a strikingly beautiful young

girl of sixteen, and that I was twenty. I may be permitted to even say,

parenthetically, that there has been nothing in my adventurous life

nearly so fascinating as were the summer days in which I was "isolated"

in company with the little girl who lived, as it were, between the two

armies, at Fredericksburg.

To be sure the soldiers were there, or thereabout, in force.

The crack of the picket's rifle--almost the distant boom of McClellan's

battles around Richmond--indeed, the smoke of war was in the air at the

time, and no one knew what a day would bring forth. This was not exactly

a period well adapted to sincere love-making. But no one who has known

of Geno could be made to believe that she could be insincere, or that

anyone could insincerely make love to her.

We were together nearly all the time, but I do not think we were

sentimental in our talk.

There was this difference to me between Geno and all my other girls. In

her presence it did not seem to be at all necessary to do any

sentimental talking. I was always impressed by her soul-piercing eyes

with the feeling that she knew it all anyhow, and it was no use in

talking--I had almost written lying. I believe I told Geno more of my

life than I ever intended anybody to know. I simply couldn't help it.

But I shall never do this subject justice until I write out the "Romance

of this Secret Love and Secret Service." This is only a narrative of

facts.

I believe I have said somewhere in this story that Geno was a pretty

little girl, but, at the risk of repetition, I will say that her beauty

was of a kind that may not be easily described or portrayed. It was her

eyes--her beautiful dark-brown eyes--that were in themselves a soul.

In every man's life there is one moment, or one single memory, that is

more cherished than all others. I shall have to tell of this one moment

of my life, which occurred the day before I left.