One pleasant afternoon I happened around to the Wells house, as usual,

knowing very well that Geno, dressed in her most becoming of summer

toilets, would soon join me on the veranda. Perhaps I was a little

earlier than usual at my accustomed seat; anyway, I became a little

impatient at Geno not putting in an appearance promptly, and thinking

perhaps she might not have become aware of my presence, stepped into the

hall to try to make it known to her. The windows had all been closely

shaded, to exclude the bright August sunlight, giving the hallway a cool

and inviting half-darkened appearance. Stepping into the parlor,

affecting a little cough as a signal that I was around the house, I had

scarcely seated myself when my quick ear caught the sound of her

footsteps as she quickly tripped down the stairway.

Lest I have neglected to mention it, I will say here that Geno was a

sweet girl, with beautiful eyes, and, moreover, she was womanly in

figure and graceful in action, in that hers was of the ethereal style of

beauty so aptly described by Longfellow's "Evangeline." And she was

sixteen, while I was twenty. Rising to greet her, I advanced to the door

just as her lithe figure darkened it. She looked _so_ nice, and you know

the parlor and hallway were shrouded by that dim, religious light one

reads about. I was tempted, and, yielding to the youthful impulse,

grasped both her hands in mine, and attempted to steal a kiss--the first

kiss of love.

I had by her quiet dignity of manner during my visit been repelled from

attempting anything of a too familiar kind on such a short

war-acquaintance. She quickly dropped her head, turning her face from

me, while I held both hands tightly in my own, and uttered only that one

little word of four letters "Geno." Whether it was the tone of voice,

the imploring or entreating manner and earnest emphasis, or a mild

reproach, I knew not. She answered not a word, but turned her pretty

blushing face up to mine, while her beautiful eyes pierced to my soul,

and I--I--oh!

Here I drop my pen, put my feet on the desk on which I have been

writing this, lay my head back in my lazy chair, and with both hands

pressed on my face I bring back this one blissful moment of my life

twenty-five years agone, as if it were but yesterday. I can not write of

it. It's a "true love" story, as the sequel will show, and none but

those who have been there in war-times will appreciate it.

Before I could do it again she had deftly slipped away from me, and,

like a frightened deer, glided into a dark corner of the parlor; from

behind a chair she blushingly cast reproachful glances toward me, while

she rearranged the hair that she had taken so much pains to bewitchingly

do up, and that had so long delayed her appearance.

There is a song, and of course plenty of melody and poetry in it, which

I have frequently asked friends to sing--"Il Bacio"--which more aptly

describes this one blissful moment than my pen can write.

After this there was a sort of an understanding between us that all

lovers, who have been there, will understand, and it is not necessary

for me to explain.

I had Geno's first love; and it is a true saying that, in a woman's

first love, she loves her lover; in all the rest, she loves love.

I have been in love--oh, often--so many times that I cannot enumerate

all, but Geno was my "war girl"; and all old soldiers will agree with me

that there is a something in the very memories of love and war that

touch the heart in a way that is not reached by any other feeling.

Do not for a moment imagine that there was any attempt on the part of

this truly happy family to take any advantage of the tender

susceptibilities of the "Boy Spy." They knew absolutely nothing of my

past record.

"Through the rifted smoke-clouds of the great rebellion" of twenty-five

years ago I am relating a little love story from real life, that seems

almost like a dream now, but which is the best-remembered incident of

all the war to me.

"The ways of fate are very diverse," and it has truly happened to me

that this sweet face looked into so long since has never been forgotten

in all the years that have passed or are yet to come.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A SCOUT TO RICHMOND DEVELOPS IMPORTANT INFORMATION--NO FORCE IN FRONT OF

M'DOWELL TO PREVENT HIS COOPERATING WITH M'CLELLAN--THE SECRETARY OF WAR

RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FAILURE OF THE PENINSULA CAMPAIGN--OUR SPY AS A WAR

CORRESPONDENT ANTAGONIZES THE WAR DEPARTMENT BY CRITICISM IN THE

PAPERS--IS ARRESTED ON A TECHNICALITY AND SENT A SPECIAL PRISONER TO OLD

CAPITOL BY THE SECRETARY OF WAR'S ORDERS.

I made a scout on my own account to the very outskirts of Richmond,

which resulted in establishing the fact that there was no enemy in front

of McDowell. On my return to our lines, I was, as had been my usual

fate, coolly received by our own officers and suspected of disloyalty.

In my impulsive way, perhaps, I had too freely criticised, in my letters

to Mr. Forney's paper, our officers for their listlessness in permitting

McDowell's army to lie idle, while McClellan was being forced to change

his base on the Peninsula.

At the headquarters of the regiment, or picket guard, I had encountered,

I was cross-examined by every officer who could get a chance to stick a

question at me. To all I had the same story, with renewed emphasis each

time, that there was no Rebel army between Fredericksburg and Richmond.

The detention at so many of these subordinate headquarters, or the

halting at so many stages of our return, to answer these same

stereotyped questions, began to annoy me. I had been scouting for hours

without a moment's rest; my nerves were all unstrung, now that I had

gotten safely back. I wanted to go to the real headquarters, and tell

all I knew to the General, and then go to Mrs. Wells' house to see Geno

and rest for the balance of my life. I was tired, hungry, nervous and

irritable, which accounts for the unfortunate fact that I became at last

resentful and, perhaps, insulting, to some of the higher officers about

the headquarters and staff, who questioned my statements.

[Illustration: ON A SCOUT TO RICHMOND.]

General McDowell was not present; he had been sent to Washington, or to

the Shenandoah Valley I think, so that those in command had no

authority, as I knew, and I felt in my nervous condition that they had

insulted me by daring to doubt my story.

While yet smarting under this disagreeable reception of my report, I sat

down and sent Mr. Covode a dispatch, over the military wire, giving him

in brief the results of my recent observations, and asserting positively

that the army could go to McClellan if they wanted to. Those are not the

words of the dispatch, but it was in substance the same story that I had

told, with the addition of some bitter comments. I did not stop to think

at the time that such a dispatch could pass through the War Department

Telegraph Office, and be subject to that censorship. My only object was

to hasten the information to headquarters through Covode, because I

realized that the officers of our own army would not act upon it.

I did not know then, neither did General McClellan, or anybody else in

the armies, that Secretary Stanton had sometime previously positively

ordered General McDowell _not_ to reinforce McClellan.

My dispatch was unintentionally a criticism on the Secretary of War;

and, coming as it did, in this outside and unofficial way, to Covode,

whose committee were investigating these things, it no doubt put me in

bad shape before the Secretary of War.

Undoubtedly, Major Eckert, who was then the official in charge of the

telegraph office, but who in reality acted as a messenger to carry

private news to the ear of the Secretary, gladly availed himself of the

opportunity to place me in a bad light before the Secretary.

As I had previously made several visits to Washington and Baltimore

while sojourning with the family, my short absence of one day and two

nights was not noticed.

I may be permitted to say, parenthetically, that Miss Mamie Wells, the

second daughter, had gone to her sister's home in Baltimore under my

charge a few days previous to this. Her war history, I venture to say

here, would present one of the most attractive yet written.

She was, during the bombardment and battles, a Florence Nightingale to

both sides; and to her parents and family, in the subsequent terrible

sufferings consequent upon their exposed position between the two

armies, became a heroine in deed and in truth.

My personal acquaintance with this remarkable young lady was confined to

the few days of 1862. The incident which is best remembered occurred

while riding up the Potomac from Aquia Creek as her escort, _en route_

to Baltimore. In reply to something that I had said on the subject that

was uppermost in my heart, she took occasion to say to me in a kind,

sisterly way about Geno, that produced a lasting effect upon me: "You

must not trifle with that child."

That I was sincere and very much in earnest she soon discovered,

because, from her charming manner, I was impelled to tell her right

there much more of my love for her sister than I had told Geno herself.

Her smiling approval, when I mentioned my ambition to make Geno an

officer's wife, was: "You love like a boy, but I believe you would fight

like a man."

Miss Sue was of an entirely different disposition. She was a born

coquette, and flirting was natural to her. Her eyes were hazel, and, if

I may be permitted to offer my advice to the sons of veterans, it is,

don't attempt to flirt with a pair of hazel eyes, because it is a waste

of time and dangerous. Perhaps they are less susceptible than black or

blue, but once trifled with, or neglected, they do not pine away in

grief, but rally for revenge and take it out in scorn.

I never made love to Miss Sue that I remember, after having met Geno;

but she evidently felt that I was her legitimate game, simply because

she was the oldest daughter. In fact, she told me plainly that Geno was

entirely too young to be spending so much time with strange young

gentlemen.

Naturally enough, I resented her advice, and talked to Geno about it,

but my little girl only laughed sweetly at my earnestness, and not once,

that I can recall, said a single word in reply that reflected on her

elder sister's judgment. Geno's voice was mild, her method of speaking

slow, with a charmingly hesitating manner, that made everything she

said, or left unsaid, impressive.

The father being absent in exile, Miss Sue prevailed upon the mother to

allow her to "manage this affair," as she haughtily termed it. We were

being restricted somewhat arbitrarily by Miss Sue's management, and, to

get around it, I had recourse to smuggling little notes to Geno through

her little brother George and sister Jennie.

I recall now, with a laugh, with what slyness and caution Geno managed

this little secret service of ours. There were not any ciphers used, but

Geno had away of inserting quotations in French in her notes that

embarrassed me, because I couldn't interpret them myself, and, of

course, dare not appeal to any one else.

One day we all came to grief by Miss Sue getting hold of one of my notes

to Geno, in which I impulsively intimated that the animus or motive of

Sue's opposition was based on the fact that she desired all the

attention bestowed on herself. That was a very indiscreet thing to put

on a piece of paper; but, as I have said before, I think, I was twenty

and Geno was sixteen.

Entering the parlor one afternoon, I found both the sisters sobbing and

crying as if their hearts were breaking over some sudden intelligence of

a dreadful character. I hurriedly asked if their father had been caught.

But, to my eager interest, Sue replied through her tears by taking me to

task about this note. I tried to explain, but she did all the talking

for an hour, and I got no chance to say a word, until she said something

about Geno being too young to take care of herself, when I blurted out:

"Geno is better able to take care of herself than you are, and I know

it."

That was putting my foot into it deeper than ever.

It took me a week to get this affair straightened out, and I verily

believe the words uttered so thoughtlessly at this moment were treasured

up against me in wrath by Miss Sue for twenty years, though she

pretended to "make up," and I kissed both of the sisters that time

before we broke up the conference or love-feast.

There remains in existence to-day a neatly-written, faded letter

addressed to "The friend of an hour," which my sister Ruthie has

preserved. The smart, sharp, stinging words of this letter have served

as a model for more than one communication under similar circumstances.

There was this peculiarity about the Wells family: they were all loyal

and true to each other, and to their parents. More than one outsider has

learned to their sorrow--touch one, and all of them were touched.

As serving to indicate this, and to show the innocence and purity of

Geno, I will relate at my own expense an incident.

Shortly after the Captain and father had "escaped" through my

connivance, Geno, in her sweet, hesitating voice, said to me, in reply

to something I had been saying or doing: "Father said to me, as he bid

me good-by: 'Geno, look out for Mr. O. K.'"

I was stunned. Perhaps I was presuming too far on my being solid with

the family, and, in my usual impulsive way, I earnestly resented the

Captain's caution, probably because I realized that he was right, and

said something harsh in reply. Geno looked up into my face in a

surprised way, while she defended her father. I shall never forget the

words and the manner in which they were uttered: "Why, father knows

best. I would not have him angry with me for anything."

It was a lesson to me. I was angry at the moment, but I loved her all

the more for this evidence of loyalty to her parents.

It may be worth while to add a word of advice to the boys and girls who

may read this. The good and faithful daughter always makes a good wife.

Don't forget it, boys and girls.

To pick up the tangled love-knot in the thread of this narrative, I will

say during the pleasant evening spent with the Wells family, I was so

happy and contented that I became wholly oblivious to everything that

was going on in the army outside. It was late the next day when I walked

down to the railroad office as usual, to see if there was any news for

me. It was then that I received the note of warning from my brother

Spencer, which had come during my absence, a reference to which has been

made further back in this narrative.

While in or around this office or station, about which were always

congregated a great crowd of officers and soldiers off duty, as well as

sutlers, newsboys, etc., I was pleasantly approached by General

McCallum, who had charge of all the military railroads, as the successor

of Colonel Thos. A. Scott, and who, after talking agreeably about some

of the work I had previously undertaken, told me in his gruff way:

"Railroad and telegraph employes have been required by the Secretary of

War to take the oath of allegiance. All have signed but you, and I have

left a blank in the office for your signature."

I was an employe, and as such was perfectly willing to sign all the

oaths they required, and expressed my willingness to comply at once. I

found a written blank form had been prepared for me in the office. I

signed it without thinking it necessary to read. When handing the paper

back to the clerk, he remarked jocularly: "They have made you sign a

mighty tight paper, haven't they?"

It was only when my curiosity was aroused by this remark that I thought

of reading over the form of the oath. I think it was what was known in

the year after as the cow-catcher bond or iron-clad oath. It was

purposely made strong enough to catch any supposed case of disloyalty.

It contained one simple clause that at the time seemed to perplex me a

little. It read in substance: "I have never belonged to any

organization, or borne arms against the Government of the United States,

voluntarily or involuntarily."

I could not conscientiously or truthfully swear to that. I was willing

enough to do almost anything to get around the ugly point, that seemed

like a rock in my path, without being forced to explain that I had

voluntarily united with the rebel army, and involuntarily borne arms

against the Government. I dreaded very much putting my name to a paper

which could in any event be brought up against me as a proof that I was

"a perjurer."

I was loyal to the core, as everybody who has read this must know; but I

had--I may say voluntarily--united myself with the Third Battalion of

Rebel Maryland Artillery. To be sure, I was forced by the necessities of

my peculiar work and the situation during my sickness in Richmond, as

well as prompted by a desire to further and better aid the United States

Government, to do this; but the stubborn fact was--I had taken their

oath and I had in reality borne Rebel arms. I had not told anyone in

Fredericksburg about this, and none of the railroad employes knew

anything of my former experiences. Perhaps Geno had my confidence, but

none of the family ever received any intimation from her of my true

character. To them all I was, as Sue put it, "A nice little fellow from

Pennsylvania, and that's all we know."

I saw at the first glance of this new oath that I was in a tight place;

and, in a moment of hasty impulse, prompted solely by a desire to be

truthful and honorable to myself, I scratched my name from the paper.

Without a word of explanation to the astonished clerk, I took it to Gen.

McCallum, and, in a few words, explained my action, and desired him to

try and find some way out of the trouble for me. He had understood in a

general way something of my experiences, and when I told him my action,

he agreed with me, and said that it was right and honorable in me to

protect my name. Further, on his return to Washington the day following,

he said he would report the matter to the Secretary of War, and asked

that I be permitted to remain in the service without being compelled to

sign that iron-clad paper.

I thought then that the matter was settled, and in the evening went home

from my office, to pass another--only one more--of the enjoyable, happy

nights, in the company of the ladies.

In the meantime the leaven I had sent to Washington previously, in the

shape of a telegram to Covode, had begun to work; so that when General

McCallum got back to Washington City the next day, and reported my case

to the Assistant Secretaries, P. H. Watson and General Eckert, these two

officials put their wise heads together, and with only the evidence in

their possession, which was additionally overbalanced by General

Eckert's former prejudice, they came to the hasty conclusion, without

giving me a chance to be heard, that "I was a very dangerous man," and

so reported their conclusion to Mr. Stanton, whose attention was at the

same time called to my reports to Covode.

The telegrapher at Fredericksburg at that time, was a Mr. Gentry, of

Kentucky, a clever gentleman, as all Kentuckians are that I have ever

met.

That afternoon, while lounging in the cool parlor with Geno and Miss

Sue, I was called to the door by a visit from Mr. Gentry, who politely

informed me that he had an intimation from my brother and friends in

Washington that I would get into trouble unless I signed that oath. Mr.

Gentry very kindly advised me, to use his own words, which made such a

lasting impression on me that I have not forgotten them: "Now, don't you

be carried away by infatuation for this pretty little girl; act sensibly

for the present; why, I'd sign anything, and I'm from Kentucky."

He was very courteous, and I felt that he had been sent after me, and if

there is any one thing that I abhor it is being "led" or coddled. He

knew nothing of my reasons for declining the oath, and when he desired a

reply from me to telegraph back to Washington, I merely said: "Just

tell them I won't do it. They will understand that."

"But," Mr. Gentry interposed, "the Secretary of War sends this

word--that you must do it."

"Well, I won't do it for the Secretary of War or anybody else."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him to go to ----."

"No," laughed Gentry, "I wouldn't like to do that."

"Well, tell the Secretary I said so."

I felt at that time that it was not Mr. Stanton personally who was

insisting upon cornering me in this way. He certainly knew of my former

services, and that I could not be disloyal if I wanted to. If he had

given the subject a moment's consideration, he would have surmised the

reason for my "recalcitrancy"--to call it by a big name.

I believed then, and I have always entertained the opinion, that Mr.

Eckert, through Assistant Secretary Watson, was instrumental in creating

this misunderstanding. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I shall die without

changing my mind on this subject.

Mr. Gentry probably went direct to his office after his short interview

with me and reported the failure of his effort to "reconstruct me."

I imagine that, in his jocular manner, common to all operators, he

detailed the exact conversation with me over the wire to the War

Department operators. I cannot think he sent my words as an official

message to the Secretary of War, but undoubtedly the substance had been

telegraphed, and, of course, the War Department telegraph spies made the

most use of their opportunity to down one who was inclined to be so

"independent and obstreperous."

In an hour or two Mr. Gentry returned to the house--they all knew where

to find me--called me to the door again, and, in the most feeling

manner, told me privately that he had received, and at the same time

held in his possession, a telegraph order from the Secretary of War, E.

M. Stanton, to Provost-Marshal-General Patrick for my arrest.

Mr. Gentry very kindly kept the fact that he had received such a message

entirely to himself, considerately bringing to me first the ugly

intelligence. He did not say so, but I have always believed his object

was to give me an opportunity of escaping. I could easily have done so

without leaving any suspicion attached to him of having advised me of this

intention.

I had no thought of attempting anything of this kind. We sat down on the

porch together while I read the order, which is to-day on file in the

War Office, in these words: "Arrest and keep in the closest confinement,

O. K., and send to Washington in charge of sufficient guard to prevent

any communication."

Mr. Gentry endeavored to ease the "disagreeable duty," as he termed it,

by saying that the receipt of such an order was a great surprise to him,

and he felt sure there was some mistake, and that all would be righted

when I should reach Washington.

When I realized the full purport of such an order from the Secretary of

War, I was almost stunned at the direful prospect.

My first thoughts were of the distressing effect of such news on my

father and relatives at home, who were expecting that I should receive

soon a promotion from the Secretary of War to the Regular Army. How,

then, could I explain this arrest to them? I don't know now whether or

not I even thanked Mr. Gentry for his kind thoughtfulness at the time. I

hope he may be living and see from this that, after the lapse of

twenty-five years, I have not forgotten his generous and thoughtful

consideration for me on that hot Summer day in 1862.

Asking to be excused for a moment, I briefly told Mrs. Wells of the

sudden intelligence, which she received in her motherly, sympathetic

manner, with both hands raised in astonishment. Without trusting myself

to talk further to her or anyone else in my agitated condition, I

rejoined Mr. Gentry, and we walked together up the hill to General

Patrick's office, where Mr. Gentry handed the order to General Patrick

while I stood by. After he had read the telegram, Mr. Gentry astonished

the old man by introducing his prisoner. The General was kind, indeed he

was very sympathetic, and explained that, as the order was direct from

the Secretary of War, he should have to give it especial attention, and

see that it was executed to the letter; but he would make it as pleasant

for me as possible.

I was given one of the vacant rooms in the private mansion then

occupied as Provost-Marshal's Headquarters; a sentry with a loaded

musket stood guard in the large hallway at my open door, with positive

orders, as I was courteously informed by the officer who placed him

there, not to allow anyone to see me, and, under no circumstances, was I

to communicate with any person, except through himself, as officer of

the guard.

As there were no boats leaving for Washington City from Aquia Creek so

late in the day, I was obliged to remain a solitary prisoner, under

strict order of the War Department, until the following day.

I shall make the story of my imprisonment as brief as may be. During all

my life, it has been a close secret with me, and for the first time, I

am attempting to tell the entire story, which to many of my best friends

has been as a hidden mystery.

The sentry in a blue uniform, with a loaded musket in his arms, stood

within a few feet of me during the evening; and, while I slept on a cot,

he faced about like a guardian angel, in a grum sort of way, however,

that was not at all calculated to promote a feeling of sociability.

In fact, his bearing rather impressed me with an overwhelming sensation

that the gun he carried was loaded, and the fellow who had command of it

looked as if he were asking for a chance to try it on something.

He wasn't a companionable fellow, so I acted toward him as he did to

me--with silent contempt; and that's the way I spent the evening. I knew

very well that there were plenty of friends in town who would have

called to see me in this, my time of need, if they had been permitted to

do so. As it was, I was all alone in my glory, until late in the

evening, when an officer, accompanied by a soldier, came to my prison

door, the soldier carrying a little basket, which I was told contained

my supper, which kind and motherly Mrs. Wells had sent to me, but not a

word of sympathy or regret accompanied it. I don't know for sure, but I

think that the contents had been, not only "inspected" by the officer of

the guard on the lookout for contraband communications, but that the

different little dainties had been sampled as well, probably to see if

they did not conceal a poison.

This generous and thoughtful remembrance from Mrs. Wells, was the only

indication I received in my solitary confinement, during all that

beautiful but lonely long summer evening in Fredericksburg, that there

were any persons outside of my four walls, except the grim old sentry.

Of course, I well knew that at our house there would be assembled the

usual crowd of happy young folks, and their conversation and thoughts

would naturally be with me in my confinement. This comforting reflection

was, however, somewhat disturbed by the fear that the entire family

might either have been arrested or dispersed; so that, the discomforts

of my close confinement were greatly increased by this fear, until I was

in a manner assured of their safety by the arrival of the

daintily-served lunch.

I slept that night--if I slept at all--on a bed of misery. At every turn

I was made to realize that I was a prisoner--to our own side. Though the

officers of General Patrick's Staff, who had charge of me, were

accomplished gentlemen, and seemed apparently to sympathize with me, I

could not conceal and they must have seen my distress, they were

obliged, by the strict orders they had received--as was frequently

explained to me--direct from the Secretary of War--to _prevent_ any

communication with me.

The morning following my arrest, after a hasty and solitary breakfast, I

was personally visited by General Patrick, who was then Provost-Marshal

for that Army, who, in the most kindly manner possible, expressed his

regrets for the necessity of putting me to so much inconvenience,

further explaining that, once in Washington, I could no doubt get

everything fixed up. He then showed me two letters and a small pocket

Bible that had been sent to me, but which he could not deliver to me,

under the strict orders to permit no communication. When I recognized

the address of one letter to be the well-known handwriting of my father,

the very sight of it seemed to be like a thrust of a knife into my

heart, as I at once realized how distressing to him would be the news of

my arrest--my friends had been expecting in its stead a promotion, by

way of recompense for my past services. The other note I knew was from

Geno, while the Bible was the last, best gift of Mrs. Wells.

I was assured by General Patrick that they should be sent along with me

to Washington, in the care of the officer in charge, and he hoped and

expressed the belief that I should soon be free and get possession of

them.

With a kind "Good-by," he introduced me to Captain ----, whose name I

have forgotten, and a Lieutenant, who would kindly accompany me to

Washington. The Captain very considerately observed that it had been

arranged that we should get out of town quietly, without attracting any

attention from the crowds about the streets, who had, no doubt, heard of

my arrest.

To better accomplish this and avoid the depot, we crossed the river

together at a ferry, in order to take the train for Aquia Creek from the

other side, and, in so doing, we passed within a half block of Geno's

house, but not within sight of it.

The Captain who accompanied me, though always by my side or, at least,

close by me, considerately made it a point to act toward me--his

prisoner--as if I were merely a companion. Not any of the crowd that

took the train that day with us suspected that I was a prisoner. And, by

the way, there was a great crowd leaving for Washington about that time,

caused, if I remember aright, by some bad news from General Banks in the

Valley, or McClellan.

It was the Lieutenant who was acting as the silent partner of the

Captain, who kept the closer eye upon me, while, at the same time, he

discreetly kept himself aloof from us and did not appear at all as one

of the party. I mention all this minutely, merely to show that,

notwithstanding the strict orders of the Secretary of War, and the close

watch of the two officers, I succeeded in communicating with my friends

at Washington.

When the overcrowded train of open freight cars and one or two passenger

coaches cautiously crawled over the big trestle-work bridges,

constructed by details of soldiers, between Falmouth, on the opposite

side of the river from Fredericksburg, and reached "You-be-dam" Station,

near Aquia Creek, though only twelve or fourteen miles, it was late in

the day. There was a long temporary pier at Aquia Creek, and a number of

rough board-sheds had been erected for the accommodation of the

Quartermaster, commissary and other officers at this base of supplies.

Among these offices was located the railroad telegraph offices, which

were then in charge of Mr. Wm. Emerick, at the present time the

efficient manager of the Gold and Stock Telegraph Company in New York

City. In the management of the business in hand, it so happened that my

Captain was obliged to call in a business way upon the Quartermaster,

stationed here, to secure the required transportation for his party, on

the boat up to Washington City; and while he was showing his papers and

explaining his errand, I occupied a seat that I discovered to be

convenient to the telegraph office, or desk, which was located in the

same room. Mr. Emerick did not at that time suspect that I was an

operator, neither did he know that I was under arrest; so, when the

attention of the Captain was drawn, Mr. Emerick was eating his lunch

outside, I sat on the edge of the rough table that was used for the

telegraph instruments. Without speaking a word and apparently intent on

watching the Captain's business, as my face was toward him, quietly,

with one hand I touched the telegraph key, and deftly making use of my

education as an operator, I signaled for attention. Quickly, and as all

operators will readily understand, in shorter time than it takes me to

tell it on paper, I was recognized by the answer, I, I, g-a., which

means, Yes, go ahead. I sent a few words nervously to my brother

operator, in effect for Mr. "John Covode--Call at Old Capitol Prison to

see me," and signed my name.

This was all done so quickly, and so quietly and effectively, that not

one person present suspected that I was occupied in anything of the

sort.

Lest I should be suspected, I left the telegraph desk abruptly, but I

had the satisfaction of hearing the acknowledgment of my dispatch, in

the familiar telegraph sound: "O. K."

In the year following, I rode in an ambulance one day with Mr. Emerick

from Aldie to Washington during the Gettysburg campaign, and was amused

beyond my power of description to hear Mr. Emerick detail the trick that

a Rebel Spy had played on him at Aquia Creek. He did not detect, in my

hearty laugh at his recital of the story, that I was in any way an

interested party because, at that time, I was on the Headquarters

Cavalry Corps, Army of the Potomac Staff, and wore the blue uniform.

At the regular hour for the daily boats to leave Aquia Creek for

Washington, we--the Captain, Lieutenant and myself--were aboard and

comfortably seated in arm-chairs on the hurricane deck.

About 6 P. M. we ran up past the Arsenal and finally fastened to the

wharf. Here I realized fully, for the first time, that the Captain and

Lieutenant were both strictly attentive to me, insisting on giving me a

helping hand to almost every step through the crowds that were then

rushing off the boats as soon as they touched the landings. I realized,

with a sickening sensation at my heart, that I was not now free to go as

I pleased, as had been my habit on many former trips up the river to

Washington.

The officer in charge, not knowing the location of the Old Capitol

Prison, in Washington, it became my duty to pilot my guard to my own

prison. I believe we went along Maryland avenue, or, at least, to the

south side of Washington, on what was known as "the Island"--below the

canal--and got up through one of the stone-yards that then surrounded

the unfinished Capitol.

In 1862 there were no beautiful Capitol Grounds to the north and south

of the building, but, instead, the whole country thereabout was occupied

by the gang of stone-cutters and their piles of marble or stone debris,

similar to that which surrounded the Washington Monument within the last

few years.

I steered the way in a direct course to the Old Capitol. When we got

there, we were stopped by an armed sentry on the pavement, who called an

officer that escorted us inside the hallway.

Here we were again detained, to wait until the Commandant had been heard

from. After a most unhappy wait of half an hour we were ordered to the

"office." Here, for the first time, I saw Colonel W. P. Woods, who is, I

understand, a resident of Washington. Colonel Woods was rather a young,

sharp-looking man, if I remember correctly, with side-whiskers, or, as

we term them, short Presbyterians.

He was evidently accustomed to receiving guests at his hotel, and at

first seemingly paid but little attention to the new arrivals, being at

the time engaged in conversation with some lady visitors. The Captain

produced a letter, which a young fellow, with all the airs of a hotel

clerk, graciously deigned to open and read. He left his seat and

whispered a word to Captain Woods, who left his talkative lady friends

and turned his attentions to us, with as sudden an interest as if he

had discovered a millionaire guest among the recent arrivals. I never

knew what were the contents of the letter delivered to the Captain. I

presume it is on record in the War Department among the Rebellion

Records. Only this much I am sure. I am not mistaken in saying that I

was a special guest, and at once became the center of attraction for

Captain Wood and his force of attendants.

He gave us his personal attention, and himself took the records, and

entered my arrival on his register, where they will be found to-day.

The walls of the Old Capitol Prison of the War of the Rebellion are

still standing on the corner of First and A streets, North-East

Washington, but in so altered a shape as to be scarcely recognized by

the oldest inhabitants. In 1862 this famous building was a plain, oblong

structure, more closely resembling a warehouse after the style of the

Richmond Tobacco Libby, than anything else that I can think of just now

by way of comparison.

The old building was what was known as a double house, with a large,

very broad hallway running through the center of the house, extending to

the back porch or yard, on the L-shaped wing--a back building on A

street.

In one of the four rooms that opened out of the hall, located nearest

the door I think, was Captain Wood's office. Here I was "detained" for,

well, probably an hour, after the Captain had bidden me a cordial

"Good-by," promising that when he reported my safe arrival to the

Secretary, on the following morning, he would endeavor to say a word of

commendation of my good conduct.

My heart sank within me when I realized to the fullest extent that I was

a prisoner. I sat in a chair near Mr. Wood's desk, while he, with some

others, arranged suitable quarters for me. In due time I was shown to my

room, which was located in the L, immediately at the head of the back

stairs that led up out of the porch. I am living in Washington on the

same square with the celebrated old building, now occupied as a princely

residence by Chief Justice Field, General Drum, Senator Spooner, and,

during my daily walks to and fro, I frequently pass the old window, and

never once fail to look at it, almost expecting to see a ghost of my

former self looking out at me.

I was shown to my little eight by ten hall-room, furnished only by a

soldier's cot and a chair, and being so tired, sick, and broken-hearted

I lay down, and, after bitter, scalding tears, soon dropped into the

sleep of innocence.

CHAPTER XXVII.

OLD CAPITOL PRISON--BELLE BOYD, THE REBEL SPY, A COMPANION AND FRIEND--A

DISGUISED ENGLISH DUKE--INTERESTING SCENES AND EXPERIENCES IN THIS

FAMOUS STATE PRISON--PLANNING TO ESCAPE DISGUISED AS A

CONTRABAND--RELEASED ON PAROLE BY ORDER OF THE SECRETARY OF WAR.

My Old Capitol Prison experience covered about three weeks of the

hottest and, to me, the most disagreeable close and sultry days of a

Washington summer.

I was a "prisoner of State" within the walls of the ugly old building

during part of the months of August and September, 1862.

To one of my active temperament, the confinement at this particular time

was made doubly annoying by the knowledge we, as prisoners, were

permitted to obtain, in an unsatisfactory way, of course, of the

important military movements that were then going on outside. We heard,

in a half apologetic way, of the abandonment of the Peninsula by

McClellan, or a change of base; and this news was received inside the

prison by the inmates with cheers, that sent cold chills down my spine.

The locks and bars, which were always in sight, as well as the bayonets

of the armed sentry, that were everywhere in view from the windows,

seemed to sink deeper into my heart, when I realized that Fredericksburg

was also necessarily abandoned, and Geno in the hands of the Rebels.

When the crowded inmates of the prison would form groups in the yard in

the evening, and, in the wildest glee, openly congratulate each other on

the prospect of their speedy release by Stonewall Jackson's men, when he

should reach Washington, I felt, for obvious reasons, that I'd rather

not be "released" by that sort of a crowd. This feeling was especially

exhibited after the news of General Pope's disaster at the second battle

of Bull Run, that occurred while I was locked up there. But I am getting

over these three weeks in O. C. P., as we call it for short, a little

prematurely.

Very few of the tourists who visit Washington are aware that within

rifle-shot of the Capitol stands (in greatly altered shape, of

course,) one of the most historic buildings about the city. A good-sized

book might be printed about the Old Capitol, and yet not one-half the

secrets the old walls could tell would have been told. It was within

these walls that John C. Calhoun, in dreadful agony of mind and body,

breathed his last on earth, and it is said that his last words were not

those of peace and happiness. It seems a little odd that the same brick

and mortar hid from the outside world the last dreadful agony of the

arch-fiend Wirz. The Kit Carson G. A. R. Post, of Washington, of which I

am a comrade, was organized over the same bier and in the same dungeon

that contained the body of Wirz after execution, in the year of the

assassination of Lincoln, and during the Presidency of Mr. Andrew

Johnson.

[Illustration: IN OLD CAPITOL PRISON--I ADMIT THAT I BROKE DOWN

COMPLETELY.]

I spent my first night alone in a prison on the only cot the little

hall-room contained. I had thrown myself upon it when I realized that

Colonel Woods had closed and locked the door on me, after a polite

"Good-night," without undressing myself. I admit that I broke down

completely, and cried myself to sleep. I was simply broken-hearted when

I recalled my previous dangerous services for the Government; could not

understand why I should be so ruthlessly and heartlessly treated by the

Secretary-of-War. It was my sensitive feelings that were so cruelly

hurt.

In the morning I wakened, a hardened, stubborn, and, if I had been given

the least chance, I should have shown myself an ugly, vindictive _man_.

It seemed as if the _boy_ in my nature had parted from me with those

bitter tears, and when I roused myself it was with a determination to

"do something"--I didn't know exactly what, but it was anything but a

surrender, or to beg for my liberty.

The unlocking of the doors and the tramping of feet along the hallways,

with the voices of the attendants in boisterous conversation with the

inmates of the other part of the Hotel de O. C. P., were the sounds that

first awakened me to this new life, as it were. As I had not undressed,

I was out before the crowd got around, and enjoyed the opportunity of

surveying my surroundings in quietness. As I have tried to explain, my

room was right at the head of the hall stairs, on the L-part of the

building, facing on A street north. The only window the room contained

looked north, and, as there were in those days no buildings at all, of

any size, in that part of the city, my view extended away across the

country to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum on the northern hills. In the low

foreground were the numerous trains of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad,

that were constantly going and coming out, the tracks being in full

view. This sight of loaded cars speeding away to the North--to home and

liberty--was not, you may be assured, exactly the thing calculated to

make the close prisoner, who saw them from his window, feel any better

contented with his prison. My first thoughts at this sight were, that I

should quietly leap down the short distance from that window on to the

pavement below, as it was but one story above the walk, where I might

quietly glide over the open commons and "catch a train."

There were no bars to the windows, and the sash was not even fastened

down, because of the necessity for ventilation, so that I was able to

stick my head clearly outside, but I was paralyzed to discover on the

first inspection that, down on the pavement below my window, every inch

was being closely patrolled by a double guard of armed sentries, while

the commons, a little distance off, were occupied as the camp for the

outside-guard. That's exactly the way they had it arranged in 1862, and,

I also observed very soon after my arrival, that there was an

inside-guard pacing up and down the hallway in front of our open doors.

The outside sentinels did not allow _any_ one except their own officers

on the pavement or street, in their front, so that communication in any

shape or form was out of the question.

The back stairway led out on to the porch of the L, that opened into the

yard. Communicating with this wooden porch at one end was the front

hall, which led through the center of the main building out on to First

street, to the west. It was modeled precisely on the same old-fashioned

plan of a large farmhouse or country hotel. A main building, divided in

the center by a hall which opened on to the big back porch. As if to

further complete the comparison with a country tavern, I found, on going

down stairs that first morning, that the porch was provided with a

number of wash-bowls and long towels on rollers, at which the guests

were expected to make their morning toilets, assisted by that usual

scraggy old comb attached to a yard of string, tied to each post of the

porch, that contained, of course, a looking-glass which distorted one's

face so that I imagined, at the first sight of myself, that a single

night in jail had made me look like a horrible old murderer.

Meals were served by the proprietors, of course, but I was politely

informed by an officer, in answer to some question about the rules and

regulations of the house, that those who preferred it could select a

caterer and have special meals served from the outside. I concluded to

be a prisoner on the European plan, and joined a mess of two or three

other hail-fellows-well-met, to whom I was introduced by the officer.

There were no restrictions placed on my intercourse with this mess,

though we were informed that the trio would not be allowed to have any

communication with prisoners in the other part of the house.

I did not want to see anybody that I had ever known before--not even my

brother, who was then at the War Department, and to whom I had secretly

telegraphed to meet me with Mr. Covode. There is no other explanation of

this feeling except an admission that it was a cranky freak I indulged

in to the fullest extent. After my first breakfast, while in my little

room engaged in looking out of the window at the shifting trains, I was

surprised by a first call from a lady.

One of our mess, whom I will call English, because he was an English

"Spy"--or had been arrested as being in communication with the

Rebels--politely knocked at my half-open door, saying, in the most

polite way, for he was a genuine English gentleman:

"Miss Belle Boyd desires to meet you, sir," and, before I could recover

from my surprise, the door was darkened by the lithe and graceful figure

of a neatly-dressed young lady, who had presented herself to my vision

so suddenly as to suggest a spirit from the other world. It was Belle

Boyd, the celebrated female Rebel Spy. I had heard of her in connection

with her daring horseback raids about Winchester and in the Valley with

Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart, but did not have any idea that she was

to be a "fellow" prisoner with me. Without any embarrassment at all, and

as if sincerely anxious to welcome me to the prison, she stepped forward

smilingly and, with hands outstretched, took mine in hers, as she said:

"I was anxious to see who it was that was here by Stanton's express

orders."

I don't just remember now how I did act, but it's most likely that it

was in an awkward, embarrassed manner, that caused Miss Belle to say,

reassuringly: "Oh, you are among your friends now, and I'm glad to know

you."

To my immediate relief the conversation was further carried on by

English and Miss Boyd in a strain which, while it gave me an opportunity

to recover myself, at the same time put the thought into my brain that

I'd "catch on," as we say nowadays, and find out what this racket in the

Spy line was. Here were two Rebel spies, with whom I had been put in

confidential communication, and it flashed across my mind in an instant

that I would make some good come of the unpleasant surroundings and put

myself in such a position that the War Department would be glad enough

to acknowledge my services. There was not a shadow of a doubt of Belle

Boyd's sincere interest in me. She said:

"I was in C. I. Woods' office last night when I heard him tell the

officers on duty: 'You must not overlook the fact that the young man in

the hall room, by himself, is here under the _express_ orders of Mr.

Stanton.'"

As Miss Boyd made this observation in her own positive style, her lip

curled with scorn at the mention of Mr. Stanton's name. She said

further, in words that I have never forgotten:

"There was something else said in an undertone that I could not gather,

but I determined that I would see the prisoner who was under Mr.

Stanton's express orders."

This was my introduction to Belle Boyd, and to this indorsement of

Colonel Woods and Mr. Stanton I am probably indebted for the very warm

and kindly interest this famous female Spy afterward showed toward me.

As I remember her appearance at that time, she was of light, rather fair

complexion, and I think her hair was inclined to be a strawberry blonde.

While she was not strictly a handsome woman, there was something in her

manner that was very attractive. She reminded me of Maggie Mitchell in

her younger days. She was graceful, and, if I remember her right, has

been accorded much praise for her winning ways and easy bearings. Though

she was older than myself at that time, and the center of attraction

among the distinguished prisoners, all of whom seemed anxious to win her

favor, I flatter myself that the famous female Spy took quite a fancy to

me.

The gentleman whom I have called Mr. English was rather older than

either of the little coterie that I had been invited to join. He was one

of those fellows who have been everywhere and know everything; in short,

a regular adventurer, after the style of the English novel. He was

educated--at least, we all thought so--because he talked so glibly and

knowingly about every conceivable thing, and incidentally mentioned some

of the palaces he had visited, how he had been entertained by royalty.

This, with an occasional hint as to the character of his family friends,

and the accidental exhibition of a genuine coat-of-arms, convinced Miss

Boyd and myself, in our inexperience with this sort of thing, that our

friend was, of course, a disguised "juke," and from that time forth he

was treated with the greatest deference by us, and ate the best part of

our rations. Fortunately for me, he and Miss Belle Boyd did all the

talking for the first few days. I became a quiet and admiring listener,

had plenty of time in which to gather myself up, so as to be able to

formulate my own story, when it should be called for.

But this everlasting Englishman talked so incessantly, and so agreeably,

too, about his wonderful adventures, "in the bush, you know," while in

the East India service, and in the Crimea, that, as I said, even Belle

Boyd, who was a great talker, had but little show.

Our friend could sing, too, as well as talk; each evening the prisoners

assembled in the "court-yard," while our glee club, on the balcony

above, which was something like a stage, led by the Englishman, who

bossed everything, you know, furnished entertaining music. We had every

song in the whole list well rendered. It is easier to mention what was

_not_ sung than to begin to tell all that were given by this improvised

club. Among those we never heard was the Star Spangled Banner, and

kindred airs. We had Dixie for reveille, dinner and tea, and it was

Dixie for a doxology at taps.

We had regular taps and hours in O. C. P. just as they have in camp

outside. At bed-time everyone was made to "douse his glim" with as much

strictness as if we were all aboard a man-of-war at Fort Pickens.

While I played the Rebel inside the prison for a purpose, because, as I

have said, I determined the first day not to beg off, and it came sort

of natural for me to ventilate a little against Stanton, I became

awfully bored by the everlasting Rebel talk, and especially so at the

Englishman's predictions, that we would all become willing "subjects of

Her Majesty before long."

I must do the most violent Rebel prisoner the credit for resenting this

sort of talk, every time it was broached in O. C. P.

One evening the Englishman was, as usual, entertaining the assembled

crowd with his melodious bellowing of "Brittania Rules the Waves;" he

could do that song up in the most approved operatic style; indeed, my

later judgment is that the fellow must have been an opera singer among

his other accomplishments. He sang this beautiful song standing before

the prisoners in the most effective stage style, expecting, as a matter

of course, to be applauded and encored at the end of the act. Instead of

that, however, in a quiet, slow-speaking voice, I suggested

involuntarily: "How about the Monitor and Merrimac?"

The question seemed so apt, and put in such a sly way, that it seemed to

act as a match that exploded a slumbering mine. The Englishman never

before had such applause, accompanied with loud laughter. It was a

continuous "howl" for a few minutes. We retired that night, laughingly

discussing the Englishman and the Monitor.

The incident served to break up the singing services, and after that we

heard less of England. It also shows that, even among the United States

Rebel prisoners in the Old Capitol Prison, in 1862, there was a

smoldering or banked-up fire of genuine patriotism yet burning, that

only needed a little stirring or poking up, to cause it to break out

into a great flame.

I will not burden this narrative with this Englishman's story. His

history, and especially his secret services for the Rebellion, as he

related it every day in the three weeks that I was obliged to listen to

his everlasting talk, would, to use a common term, fill a book.

He was evidently enamored of Miss Boyd, and the plans of these two Rebel

Spies, after they should be released, were from day to day discussed in

my hearing.

Belle Boyd's operations as a Spy, had been carried on principally in the

Valley, where I was not at all known. During our many hours of

confidential chat together, I learned from her, under pretense of

expecting to use the information in getting South, when I should

"escape," the names and location of those people along the Upper Potomac

and in Washington, who could be depended upon as "our friends," or as we

called them in those days, "Rebel sympathizers."

The list was extensive, and embraced some Washington "officials."

If my services had not resulted in anything else, this information

alone, which I gained as an involuntary Spy, was of sufficient

importance to compensate for all my troubles. Of course, it will be

understood here that Belle Boyd never once suspected my true character.

She had heard me denounced by the officials of the prison as a

"dangerous man." Indeed, without egotism, I may be allowed to say that,

at that particular time, I was looked upon by the prisoners and

attendants as a "remarkable character," to put it modestly.

I did not suspect at this time that I was the object of so much quiet

Rebel homage and attention, else I might have conducted myself

differently, and exhibited some vanity over the reputation I then

enjoyed. As it was, I was set down as one of the quietest, least

troublesome of all Colonel Woods' guests. That was my Old Capitol Prison

record in brief; and I don't know now whether I should boast of it or

not. Probably I do not deserve any credit at all for the simple facts

were, that I was so sick at heart, and yet so stubborn in disposition,

that I had neither inclination or desire to speak a word to _anybody_,

and wanted to be let alone.

My brother called to see me the second day after my arrival, accompanied

by some officious fellow from General Eckert's War Department Office,

whose name I have forgotten.

When Colonel Woods personally called me down to his office, he said, in

a kindly way, that my brother and a friend had called, and that, out of

respect for us all, he would permit us to have a quiet interview,

without any show of guards or the usual censorship of official

attendants. I thought at the time that this was very kind in Colonel

Woods, but I changed my mind after the interview had ended.

As I walked into the room, my brother stepped up to shake my hand, but

the poor fellow broke down completely and could not utter a word. His

exhibition of feeling surprised and, of course, affected me, and for the

moment I more fully realized the effect that imprisonment was even then

having on my father and friends in the world outside. With this came a

reaction in an intense bitterness, engendered by the knowledge that I

was being at least outrageously treated, so that I became in a moment,

even in the presence of my heart-broken brother, as cold and apparently

as indifferent as the worst Rebel inside. It will be seen that this

unjustifiable imprisonment had changed my whole nature for the time

being. It had soured me, as it were, with the War Department

Administration (but not with the country), as completely as a

thunderstorm would have turned a glass of sweet cream into a cold thick

mass of clabber.

The young fellow who accompanied my brother commenced to do the talking,

expressing in his kindliest way, but in a drawling nasal tone, peculiar

to a Down-east man who affects the moral-reform style, that has had the

effect of setting me on edge ever since against this class of men, his

"sincere regret at my unfortunate condition." His tone and manner not

only put me on nettles, but his first proposition was, "Now, my dear

boy, the best thing you can do, for your brother and yourself, is to

freely confess to----."

That's all he said; he didn't get any further, because I snapped him up

abruptly, saying, "Confess _nothing_; I'll do nothing of the kind,

because there isn't anything to confess."

"But, my dear boy, why did you refuse to take the oath of allegiance?

Surely if you----."

"Oh you go to ----. I'm not going to make any further explanations to

you."

Then, turning to my brother, I quietly told him that Mr. Covode would

explain matters; that I would not, if I stayed there forever, ask any

favors from the War Office. My brother said that this man had been sent

down as a witness to my denial, and it was only necessary for me to say

in his presence that I would take the oath.

But, I could not honorably do that. I could not swear falsely to get out

of prison, that "I had never borne arms nor belonged to an armed

organization against the United States." And I would not perjure myself,

even with the orders of Secretary Stanton, with a long imprisonment

threatening me for disobedience.

And I did not. To make the long story short, I went back to prison.

Colonel Woods, who had been called into the room and heard with surprise

of my refusal to be released on such a "technicality," merely laughed as

he escorted me back to quarters, fully satisfied in his own mind, no

doubt, that I was a "case."

The Englishman and Belle Boyd had, of course, heard one side of his

story of my "bribery," and, in consequence, became, if possible, more

interested than ever in the development of my interesting case.

Realizing from this interview that I was simply at Mr. Stanton's mercy,

and that he was most probably influenced by the War Department suckers

whom I have mentioned, and who were envious or jealous of my independent

and important telegraph or secret communications, I made up my mind that

it was going to be a long siege in O. C. P. for me. The more I thought

about it, and as each day's scanty news brought us fresh and exciting

intelligence of the military doings in front of our army, I concluded

impulsively that I _wouldn't_ stay very long; that I _must_ be on hand

and once more outside. I would vindicate myself independently of Mr.

Stanton's advisers.

Our mess was served by a caterer from the outside, as I have already

explained. The meals were brought in three times a day, on a tray, by a

colored boy, or a contraband. I had noticed from my room window that

this colored boy came from that direction, and had, in consequence,

learned to look out for his appearance as regularly as we got hungry, at

each meal time, so that it became a daily question in our mess: "Is

dinner in sight yet?"

The same boy brought it every day. He had to pass the quartette of

guards in front of the house, and his basket was "subject to inspection"

inside the hall before it could be admitted through the house.

But, as a matter of fact, the inspection became somewhat of a fraud,

because the hungry guards selected the best bits of everything by way of

sampling the contents, so that we held so many indignation meetings and

bothered Colonel Woods so much with protests and complaints, that he was

glad enough to arrange with a "trooly loil" cook, whom he could trust to

not pack any papers in our grub. In this way our boy was permitted to

pass unquestioned, as he became so well known to the regular

attendants.

It occurred to me that it would be a good scheme to personate the

colored boy, and walk out with the empty dishes, past the guard

unquestioned, and so escape from the prison.

Looking up into the colored boy's face, I noticed that his ragged, old,

white, straw-hat, always worn well pulled down over his curly head, half

concealed a black face that, while it was not exactly similar to my own

features, may be set down as being (with the exception of the black)

about my "style," in age and general appearance, if I should black my

face.

Playfully at first, I suggested to Belle Boyd a scheme of exchanging

places with the boy, coloring my face, dressing in his coat and hat, and

attempting to walk out with his tray.

She looked at the boy, then at me, and, with a hearty laugh, declared:

"It's the very thing; let's do it."

Mr. English was, of course, consulted, and graciously gave his assent to

the undertaking, provided he was allowed to "make me up," and to boss

the job generally.

This suggestion was fully discussed between us during that and the days

that followed; indeed, we talked of little else for a while. How to

conceal the boy, inside, until I should get safely out of reach of the

guards, was the most difficult part of the problem. The trouble that

would ensue from my friend's complicity, if he should be detected, was

also fully discussed, and a plausible way out of all these difficulties

was arranged.

I was to borrow or buy from the boy, his old hat and coat, and the

patched pants and torn shoes I would manufacture.

I was to be already blackened when he should come in, at a certain

evening meal, that was usually served nearly at dark. While he was

waiting on our table I was quickly to don his hat and coat, and, with

the empty basket of rattling dishes, to boldly march out, as he had been

in the habit of doing, into the street, and then trust to my legs for

the balance. We were a long time in arranging all the details. Indeed,

the occupation it gave to us all helped to pleasantly pass hours that

might otherwise have been distressing.

Belle Boyd was as much interested in my outfit as any school-girl is

over the dressing up of her new doll, while the Englishman gave me

enough instructions and orders to carry me around the world. He was

certainly an adept in the business.

During my three weeks at the Old Capitol Prison, I made a number of

peculiar acquaintances that were quite interesting in the year which

followed. As I am only to furnish that which pertains to myself

personally, I will omit the mention of any other except to record my

first acquaintance with a most universally-known war character.

The party to whom I refer will be recognized by every soldier, I may say

without a single exception, in all the armies. I regret very much that I

can not give his name in Latin, but in war talk it was the "Greyback,"

or, in plain United States--lice.

These detestable things were in Old Capitol as thick as they only can

be, and, after my first contact, I may say frankly, they stuck to me

closer than a brother "for three years or during the war." This was one

of the "things" that "animated" me to get out of that dirty old

building, that I might rush down to the Potomac and drown myself.

Old Capitol is now a beautiful block of fine residences, containing,

to-day, probably as fine and as luxurious furniture and occupied by as

refined people as are in the country, but, personally, I wouldn't live

in it for anything, because I feel sure the bugs are in the walls yet.

The plan I proposed was entirely feasible; we all agreed on that; not

one of us doubted but that I would be able to successfully accomplish

the dangerous undertaking. It was dangerous only if I should be detected

in the attempt, as it would certainly end in my being sent off to Fort

Lafayette in New York Harbor, where I would probably be ironed and

placed in a dungeon as a dangerous character, and be kept there, too,

during the war. It never once occurred to me that to have been caught in

attempting to escape, or to have succeeded in doing so, would have

reacted against me disastrously, to the satisfaction of those who were

so anxious that I should afford them some proof by which they might be

able to more fully substantiate the charges of supposed disloyalty, that

they had whispered into the ear of the Secretary of War. It was quite an

easy matter in those days for the suckers, like Woods, Eckert, and the

gang of Pinkerton suckers, and others, who were around the War

Department, to poison the mind of the powers that were against any

persons they may have selected as a target for their contemptible and

cowardly persecution. It's a true story, well known among historians,

that this was being done--in many cases where the victims were often men

of great prominence and rank, that subsequent events proved to have been

as loyal as the Secretary himself.

The Englishman's story, that I gathered from his continual gabble, would

make a chapter in itself. I will only mention now that he was apparently

in the service of at least some official of great prominence in the

English Government. He told us of letters of introduction he brought to

President Jefferson Davis and a number of the leading officers of the

Rebel Government at Richmond; from ever so many "my lords" of high

degree in England.

It was while endeavoring to reach Richmond through the Potomac blockade

that he was captured, and, to his great disgust, all of his papers were

"seized," as he said, "by some brutal soldiers, you know," and the

vulgar officers absolutely declined to return his papers, and had

actually been so preposterous as to send him under guard to "a vile

prison."

That's about the style of his everlasting chin--from morning until

night--and the fact that his accent, as well as his foreign airs of

superiority and of contempt for the Yankees, necessarily accompanied the

words, made him all the more disagreeable to me.

The most interesting part of his story is, as he in an unguarded moment,

apparently, while talking with Miss Boyd, who had expressed a curiosity

to know why he did not attempt to escape, too, confessed that the real

object and purpose of his mission in this country, as he had been

instructed before leaving England by his friend, was to purposely place

himself in the way of arrest and imprisonment by the United States

Government.

His papers were not of an incendiary character exactly, I suppose, and

my recollection of it now is, that they were principally letters of

introduction, which were prepared by English lords with the avowed

purpose of being used by the bearer in making a "case," or difficulty,

on account of his English citizenship, which would give them some

grounds to make a claim for his release, that would create a breach, and

bring about a war, all in the interests of the Southern people. This, in

effect, was the story, and I took it all in very carefully.

One day, to my disgust as well as personal discomfort, Colonel Woods

brought a gentleman to my door, whom he introduced as a fellow Rebel who

would be compelled to share my room with me for awhile; because, as he

explained, they were getting a little crowded. The party introduced to

me, I recognized at once--that is I remembered seeing his face some

place, but couldn't exactly place him; when Colonel Woods in a little

further chat, intimated that my associate would no doubt be a boon

companion, as he was an original Rebel, he left us alone.

My new room-mate was a man of thirty-five or forty years, with a face

that I should now denominate as hard. He was pleasant; indeed, his

manner was made especially agreeable to me. The story he told me of the

cause of his imprisonment served to satisfy me--for the time being--that

I had been in error in having supposed that I had ever seen him before.

He said he was arrested for having been implicated in an attempt to

recapture and return to Virginia some fugitive slave whom he had caught

in the District of Columbia. He gave me a long account of the law, as it

then existed--which, by the way, is the fact--that in 1862 there was a

fugitive slave law in the District.

As soon as my two comrades in distress heard of this associate having

been thrust upon us, and dropped into our exclusive mess to become our

company, their suspicions were aroused.

The Englishman declared that the object of putting "this person" in

among us was to ascertain what we had been so thick about lately. I

confess this had not once occurred to me. I was simply annoyed at being

obliged to have the constant company of another person in my cramped

little hall room; not that he was at all disagreeable personally, but

probably because we three had become rather exclusive and wanted to

select our company from among the convicts. It is likely enough that we

would have resented any person's society from outside just then.

When the others expressed their conviction that it was a scheme to

entrap us, my eyes became opened, as I recalled again my first

impression, that I had certainly seen the man before. When I mentioned

this fact to Miss Boyd, she at once jumped to the conclusion that he was

a spy on us, which opinion was shared by the Englishman most decidedly,

who gave us our orders as our commander to be on the _qui vive_ for him.

It was thought best that we should treat him with the greatest possible

coolness, but of course with decency. Indeed, our Englishman was so

exceedingly polite and gracious to the new-comer that his assumed airs

and comic actions were so amusing to Miss Boyd and myself that we could

scarcely keep up our show of dignity. Miss Boyd performed the chilling

process, and she acted the part so well that the poor man was frozen on

to me, as the only one to whom he could talk sensibly. I talked lots to

him when we were alone. The opinions, the very decided opinions, he got

from me, on Mr. Stanton and his clerks, if repeated to his employers,

would have made things more interesting for him and me too.

When I became satisfied, or thought I was, and imagined that I had for

my room-mate or companion a Pinkerton man, who had been purposely sent

in there by some of the War Department officials to manufacture

testimony against us, we all took the greatest delight in filling him

up.

The first night, when alone, I talked him to sleep. I told him all my

grievances; at least, that part that I wanted the War Office to hear

officially.

I was careful to only tell one story correctly, and that was the exact

character and object of the Englishman's business in this country. I saw

that my listener was interested in it from his actions and questionings,

so that I gave him the full details, for a purpose. I knew, or suspected

very strongly, that he would make a report of it to the Secretary, and

I, as a victim of the Pinkerton clique, was willing that they, as

detectives, should have the credit from the Secretary of unearthing that

story.

My desire was to defeat the Englishman's purpose, and to benefit this

Government, whose officials were persecuting me when I knew that I was

entitled to a reward.

We made him sick; at least, the following day he complained of feeling

unwell, and, under this pretense, he was allowed to go, ostensibly to

the hospital, which was located in another part of the building.

His name was Horton or Norton, I have forgotten which. I learned, in a

couple weeks following, that he was the detective we had suspected him

of being. When I mentioned to my brother, that I had seen him before,

he told me that I had probably met him in Eckert's telegraph room, at

the War Office, where he had been specially employed.

[Illustration: IN OLD CAPITOL PRISON--DISGUISED AS A CONTRABAND.]

When relieved of our unwelcome guest, we set about with renewed energy

to put into operation the plan we had now about matured for my escape.

Miss Belle Boyd entered into the preparations for this scheme as

school-girls plan their tableaux.

Her quick manner, or apt way of being able to change the subject of

conversation, in case of occasional interruption was, to me, a source of

great astonishment coupled with admiration.

One evening, by way of experiment, I was, with the assistance of Belle

Boyd and the Englishman, completely rigged out in the colored boy's

clothes. Corks had been gathered up and scientifically toasted, or

burnt, over the lamp flame by our Englishman, who handled the business

so familiarly that I am constrained now to think he was a disguised

showman instead of a scion of a noble family.

I was dressed in the rags we had collected for the purpose, Belle

managing this part of the job with as much glee and interest as if

dressing a bride for a wedding. She would stick a pin in here, or tuck

up a rag at another place, look at me critically, order me to turn

around or walk off, as if I were trying on a new dress. The Englishman

rubbed my face, and, after the manner of an artist, cocked his eye to

get a better view of the effect of the last touch of shade, and then

both would nearly explode with suppressed laughter at my ridiculous

appearance.

I was instructed in the best way to show all my teeth at once, duly

cautioned not to speak unless I was obliged to, and drilled in the

broadest negro dialect, to which I was somewhat accustomed through my

long residence in the South.

When all was satisfactory, after dark, the curtain was rang up and I was

ushered out into the hundreds of assembled prisoners to try my disguise,

by mixing promiscuously among them for a while. I entered boldly into

the fun, and, with the feeling that, if detected, it would only be

considered a good joke, as long as I was not attempting to use it as a

means to pass the guard, I, in a happy, careless way, went through my

part in such a satisfactory manner that even Miss Boyd and the

Englishman, who were intently watching the play, involuntarily applauded

me every time I happened to do a piece of silly business that tickled

them.

As an amateur actor, my debut on that sort of a dangerous stage was

satisfactory to the two patrons who were managing the "bringing me out."

I stepped up to Miss Boyd, who had been standing on the balcony watching

the play, bowed low, and, in as broad a dialect as I could muster,

requested her order for breakfast. She, in her quick way, had a smart

reply:

"Sam, you ugly, good-for-nothing nigger, tell your master to use a

scrubbing brush on you before you come to me again."

This, with some other unkind observation, which Miss Boyd addressed to

the Englishman, as to the "villainous expression of that nigger's face,"

served to wind up the fun for me, when, at the first opportunity, I got

behind my door and very quickly changed my color and clothes.

As an experiment, it was a complete success; so satisfactory that we

agreed that there would be no trouble in my being able to pass the

guards in this disguise, provided I could keep a stiff upper lip, and

not become so nervous as to excite any suspicion. I was willing to risk

that part of it. A day was set, which was to be Saturday evening of that

week, only two days distant, for me to make the attempt.

I had minute directions from Belle Boyd as to the location of her Rebel

friends--in Maryland and in Washington--who would furnish me assistance

in getting back to the Rebel lines. Of these I made a careful mental

note, and also procured from the lady some short notes of introduction.

If I had gone into that miserable prison as a Union Spy, with the object

of gathering information from an intimate association with the inmates,

I could not have hoped to be as successful in this direction as I had

been while I was acting as an involuntary Spy.

It so happened, and I take pleasure in recording it, as something almost

supernatural, or in the line of that providence that seemed always to be

with me, and to control my actions at the right time, that at the very

time I was arranging all these details in my room, preparatory to an

escape in the evening, a visitor was in the prison waiting to see me.

As I have so often said, while in the prison I had positively and even

stubbornly declined to ask any consideration at the hands of the

Secretary of War or his whelping advisers. This singular feeling I shall

not attempt to excuse now, simply stating the facts. It was a mistake;

but my whole life seems to have been made up of mistakes. The effect of

it was to estrange from me even my best friends, and my brother who, on

account of the confidential relations he held in the War Telegraph

Office, was afraid to become too openly interested in my case.

Rather to my surprise, I was notified on this Saturday afternoon by one

of the regular prison attendants that I was wanted in Colonel Woods'

office. Of course I suspected at once that our little game had been

found out, and that I was to be called upon for an explanation. This

subject of escaping had been in my mind so much lately that I could not

for the time think that anything else was probable. As if further to

confirm my suspicions, the attendant who brought the summons to me said,

in his polite but positive way, "I am ordered to stay with you, and you

are to take anything you have along, as there is to be some change made

in your case."

I had not brought anything with me to the prison in the way of baggage,

and had really less to take away, excepting the greybacks, which we had

always with us. My only baggage was my light wearing apparel, with the

Bible which Mrs. Wells had given to me.

The purpose in thus suddenly summoning prisoners to headquarters was to

prevent their relieving themselves of anything incendiary which a search

of the person might have disclosed.

My request to be permitted to see Miss Boyd was politely refused by the

attendant, who explained his refusal by saying, his orders were to take

me at once to the office and to prevent any communication. I saw that it

was no use to reason or argue with that New Hampshire Yankee--he had his

orders and was going to obey them to the letter--so, gathering up my

coat, slipping it on nervously, and, donning my hat, I was at his side,

and in a few minutes more was inside Colonel Woods' office.

To my astonishment, I saw my brother and some stranger seated in the

office chatting cheerfully with Colonel Woods. The greeting of Spencer

on this occasion was so entirely different from the first visit, when he

had involuntarily broken down on seeing me, that I was further surprised

by his clapping me on the back, in his old-time brotherly way, and

saying, "Well, boy, we are going to take you away from here."

I don't know what I said or did; probably the first feeling was one of

disappointment that I was to be deprived of the fun of escaping; but,

quickly realizing the fact that I had almost overlooked that there was a

world outside, I joined pleasantly in the greetings until it was

explained that there were some little preliminaries to be arranged, in

the way of signing some papers.

When my brother's friend spoke up in explaining this, and observed that

the Secretary was "disposed to be lenient in my case," a feeling of

resentment came over me, which might have broken out in some expression,

if my brother had not whispered: "Father wants you to go home, and says

Covode will arrange everything right there."

The mention of my father, and a request from him has, under all

conditions and circumstances of my checkered life, been respected, and,

if possible, complied with. It has been my observation, too, that I have

never made a mistake while acting under his advice, and, also, that I

have always found it disastrous to disregard his injunctions. In this

case my father's simple request had more effect than the Secretary's

mandate.

An examination of the little papers that the messenger from Mr. Stanton

presented to be in duplicate, showed at a glance that it was simply a

parole of honor, without any conditions or penalties, by which I agreed

_not to go south of a certain point_, until _authorized or released from

the parole_.

Knowing that I could secure the necessary release through my friends,

and, after a word of kind advice by Colonel Woods, I attached my name to

the paper in duplicate, took one with me, and walked out of the door a

free man, with my gratified brother, while the other copy was taken to

the War Department, and is _on record there to-day_, as a proof that I

was in the Old Capitol Prison during this time, as stated.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FIRED OUT OF OLD CAPITOL PRISON--"DON'T COME HERE AGAIN!"--MY FRIEND THE

JEW SUTLER--OUT IN A NEW RIG--AT THE CANTERBURY THEATRE.

I was fired out of Old Capitol Prison as suddenly and unexpectedly to

myself as I had been run into the old trap.

When I said something to the officials about my own expenses, the

Colonel handed me a copy of the parole, saying in a jocular manner:

"There is your receipt in full; that paper clears you. Get out, now, and

don't come back here again."

I went out with my brother and his companion, first to a "haberdashery,"

kept by a sutler Jew on the avenue. He was one of the fellows whom I, as

a railroad official at Fredericksburg, had granted some special favors

in the way of getting his goods into the army, through the Provost

Guards.

At the time, the fellow was all smiles, or rather grins, because in the

position I then occupied, I had been able to secure him special

facilities to carry on his profitable army trading business. I thought,

of course, from the gushing way he had talked to me then, that he would

be my everlasting friend, as he had so freely expressed his gratitude to

me and desired to make me presents. Naturally I looked him up the first

thing when I discovered that my neat wardrobe had become sadly in need

of replenishing during the month. I wanted some clean, fresh clothing,

"cheap for cash." We found the fellow easily enough; but, dear me!

circumstances had altered cases with him. When I made known my errand,

and asked an outfit on small payment, the broad open-mouthed grin of the

ugly fellow closed up tight as an oyster, and his face became solemn as

a patriarch as he began the lamentation of Jacob over his losses by the

evacuation of Fredericksburg.

Through my brother Spencer's assistance, I was soon supplied with an

entirely new and fresh outfit from the skin out. At first my demands for

a complete rig rather struck my brother as being a little extravagant,

but when I had explained that one of the tortures Mr. Stanton inflicted

upon his victims at the Old Capitol was the persistent bugs that the

building was infested with, he let go my arm as suddenly as if he had

experienced an electric shock, sidled off from me, and, without another

word of argument, fully agreed with me that the only and first thing to

do was to get rid of everything--clothes and all, from hat to socks.

Carrying my bundle to a barber shop, I had my hair cut, took a bath,

donned my new suit, and generously donated my old clothes to the colored

barber.

Disguised in a new suit of clothes, I walked the streets of Washington

an hour after having left the prison. The first place I desired to visit

was the War Department. I felt that I had some urgent business with some

of the officials up there, that I was anxious to relieve my mind of at

once.

My brother and his companion objected. This mutual friend called my

attention to the parole, which I had carelessly left in my old clothes

in the barber shop. I was gently reminded that I had agreed to go north

of a certain point at once, and was not to return south of that line

until properly authorized to do so by the War Office.

Instead of going to the train that evening, I went to the "Canterbury

Theatre," an institution on Louisiana avenue as well known by old

soldiers who spent a day in Washington as any of the War relics.

While seated in the theater, which was crowded by officers, soldiers,

citizens, adventurers, sutlers, clerks, politicians, army contractors,

etc., I was immensely amused when a pair of country officers, dressed up

in full uniform, each wearing belt, sash and saber, strutted down the

crowded aisle, their accoutrements of war rattling at every step, making

so great a noise that it disturbed Johnny Hart, a negro comedian then on

the stage, who abruptly stopped his performance, stepped up to the

footlights, and addressed the noisy incomers: "Say, why in hell didn't

you bring your horses too?"

This brought the house down, and had the effect of silencing that part

of the audience that brought their camp and garrison equipage to the

theatre.

It was not so much of a joke, however, when a little later on an army

officer led a Corporal's Guard, armed with loaded muskets and bayonets

stuck into their guns, down the aisle, and at a lull in the performance,

came to an "order arms," while this shrewd officer of the Washington

Provost Guard demanded the passes of every one in the audience who wore

a uniform. I felt quite uneasy when they actually arrested and took out

of the same bench on which I sat two commissioned officers who could not

show passes.

Fortunately I was not disturbed, but I lost all interest in the show,

and soon retired to quarters where the Provost Guard couldn't find me.

The only thing I could hear from Covode in relation to our own

embarrassing affairs was: "Oh, that's all right; just tell him that it

will be all right."

It was true, though not much of a consolation for me, to be reminded by

some kind friends that I was not alone a sufferer by Mr. Stanton's

arbitrary orders. Even General McClellan had been not only relieved from

command of the army, but had been ordered to proceed to Burlington,

N. J., and there await orders. This I was told meant, in reality, exile

for him in precisely the same manner as for my own humble self, though

the phraseology of the order was a little different from that in my

parole.

I went home, where I was affectionately received into my father's house

by my sisters and my aunts--I had no mother then. Probably, if I had not

so early in life been deprived of a mother, I would have been saved, by

her teachings, from many of the hard knocks which I was receiving by way

of bitter experience. My father, always kind and indulgent, seemed to

think that it was our privilege and right to pitch in for ourselves,

that we might learn from experience. He seldom gave his boys any of that

"I told you so" advice, in the threatening manner which renders it so

inoperative.

I had made up my mind, while in the Old Capitol Prison, that when I

should get free again the very first thing I should do would be to

enlist as a private soldier in the Union Army.

I reasoned to myself that my services as a Scout or Spy, while working

as a civilian in the interest of the politicians at Washington, would

not advance my military ambition. In fact, I had learned from some hard

hits already that it was an uphill business to operate in the field as a

civilian. Somehow or other, all the military people were not exactly

distrustful, but there seemed to be at least a prejudice against any

person about the camp who did not wear a uniform. I was willing and

anxious enough to wear a uniform, but my ambition was to be an officer

in the Regular Service, attached to Headquarters Staff.

This, as I have said, was about as difficult to reach as the position of

Brigadier-General in the Volunteers, because they were making

Brigadier-Generals every day, and they were not making Second

Lieutenants in the Regular Army.

I explained my plans to my father and a few friends. My father

interposed some objections to my selection of the Regular Army,

preferring that I should identify myself with some regiment from our own

State, and especially from our own neighborhood.

I preferred the Regular Cavalry first, because I intended fitting

myself, by the experience I should gain in the ranks under the severe

discipline and drill, for a Second Lieutenancy in that branch. My father

thought that I would not be able to stand the restraints the discipline

would impose upon me; but, as usual, I had my own way, overcoming their

preference for the State troops, by the reminder that the treatment I

had received from the Secretary of War would serve as a club in the

hands of malcontents and growlers, who are to be found in every

regiment, kicking against new-comers' advancement.

Another difficulty was raised by the receipt of a letter from my

brother, at Washington, which reminded my father that I was not allowed

to remain at my home, because it was located south of the line of my

stipulated parole.

The War Department detectives had tracked me even into my own home,

through the connivance of some contemptible neighbors, who are

descendants of the Revolutionary Hessians, and like the craven dogs they

were, they helped to hound me away from my father's home. To relieve my

father and friends of any embarrassment, I left the house, after bidding

them another "Good-by," one evening, arriving in Pittsburgh before

midnight of the same day. The first thing the next morning I hunted up

the recruiting office, astonished the officers by offering myself, and

without any preliminaries enlisted into Company B, Second United States

Cavalry, Captain T. F. Rodenbaugh.

When I applied for enlistment I never once thought of the bounty money I

would become entitled to, therefore my entry into the army in the fall

of 1862 was in no sense mercenary. I had served a year previously as a

civilian and knew what was in store for me in the ranks.

I was not even "in the draft," as my parole would have relieved me from

every obligation, if I had chosen so to use it. I volunteered from

motives of duty and patriotism in 1862, at a time when recruiting was

not so brisk as it had been; in fact, at a time when everything looked

dark enough for our side.

Instead of availing myself of the parole that cleared me from

obligation, I, in the darkest days of the war voluntarily enlisted as a

private soldier. I felt in my heart that, in thus putting my life in

pawn for the cause I had from the first consistently championed, that I

would forever put beyond discussion the question of the sincerity of my

motives, and I became credited to Alleghany County, Pennsylvania, so

that, after all, I was a "regular volunteer" from my own State and

County.

Through the thoughtfulness of Captain Rodenbaugh, I was paid some bounty

money, which I expended in the purchase of mementoes for my friends,

believing that I should never again come home to them.

In the matter of my get-up as a soldier, Captain Rodenbaugh was quite

useful to me, and became quite pleasantly interested, taking the trouble

to accompany me to the tailor shop, where he gave the necessary

directions as to the regulation pattern.

I was to act as his private secretary or company clerk, and I suspect

that he also intended to use my good clothes as a sort of a dressed-up

dummy, to stand around the office with white gloves on, as a decoy to

entice recruits to his roll, pretty much as we see the "walking sign"

now a days at recruiting offices.

In the Second Cavalry, the facings, instead of being the ordinary

"yaller" of the cavalry, were of an orange color, to distinguish them as

the "Dragoons," as they were listed previous to the reorganization of

that service just before the war.

I was made a Corporal by the Captain, and had the stripes in a

beautiful orange on my arms. The cap was the regulation little fatigue

or McClellan style, with the crossed sabers, and the insignia of company

and regiment in brass letter--B 2.

At my earnest solicitation, Captain Rodenbaugh sent me away with the

first detachment of recruits to Cavalry Headquarters, then Carlisle

Barracks, Pennsylvania. Here I had a regular circus every hour of the

day, from reveille till retreat or tattoo. It's only those who have seen

cavalry recruits drilled with regular cavalry horses and old drilled

Sergeants, that can be made to believe the stories that are told of

their accomplishments in this direction.

Carlisle Barracks was in crude form, just what the West Point Riding

School of to-day is. I was anxious to learn to be a good soldier, and I

did learn a good deal--in a mighty short time, too--while I was at

Carlisle. I was taught some things there that I thought I had learned

thoroughly before I went there. For instance, I had been a long time in

Western Texas, and had ridden wild and bucking horses without a saddle,

chased buck-rabbits in a zigzag course over hog-wallow prairies in a

reckless way that made my head dizzy, but it was reserved for my Drill

Sergeant at Carlisle Barracks to show me how simple a matter it was for

a trained cavalry horse to throw off a Texas cow-boy. Those old

Sergeants--and there were a number of them--had the drill horses trained

so thoroughly, and withal so full of tricks, that they beat Buffalo Bill

and any circus horses I've ever seen all to pieces.

It was lots of fun for the Sergeants and a few officers and their wives,

who were always watching our evolutions from their barrack windows, but

it was a little bit rough on some of the boys.

We were given lessons in mounting and dismounting by the hour, till I

became so expert that I was relieved of that part of the drill and

advanced into a squad who had been there some time, and were soon to be

sent off to the front as graduates. We were all obliged to hold the

bridle-rein in one and the same way; that is, in the left hand, turned

up so that we could see the finger-nails. All the steering had to be

done by merely turning or twisting the clenched hand around, keeping it

in the same position. There was no hauling back of the reins permitted,

except by drawing the hand straight up to the chin to check or tighten

the lines; and the forearm must be always directly in front of the

pommel of the saddle.

This part of the riding lesson was all new to me. I had always used my

hands as I pleased, but here we must all hold the infernal wild horses

with one hand turned upside down, and dare not even yank the elbow

around without getting a cuss from the Sergeant. There were always two

or three Sergeants to each drill; one gave the commands from his

position in front, while another old rascal rode behind somewhere to

watch our arms and legs and to do the extra cussing.

Some of the fellows in our squad had been farmer boys, and felt that

they knew all about horses, and were disposed at first to talk horse

with the Sergeants; but one lesson in deportment answered for the whole

term at Carlisle Barracks.

Those old fellows all said they would far rather take a city man who had

never been on a horse than a farmer who had been riding all his life.

The city fellows made good Regular Cavalrymen. We learned to ride with

our knees and to steer with the legs.

At first our little caps would not stay on top of our heads, but we soon

became able to balance them, with the strap dangling under the nose or

chin, instead of being fastened under the chin.

These old war-horses had been at the barracks a long time, and had been

carefully trained to go by the bugle. At the sound "trot," they would

all start off as neatly, with the left foot foremost, as any infantry

squad. When the "gallop" was sounded every old horse would switch his

tail, take the bit in his teeth and go off like a shot over the field,

helter-skelter, as if it were a hurdle race, or the whole Rebel Army

were after them. This part of the show is where the most of the fun came

in. Of course, some of the riders couldn't keep time with the horses,

and their caps and sabers would become troublesome appendages, and were

often cast off; then the old Sergeant, bringing up the rear, would yell

like a Comanche Indian, which none of us could understand, and, as

everybody thought it was necessary we should hear, it had the effect of

rattling the whole squad. One of our first lessons was that never, under

any circumstances, must we speak to our horses; everything must be done

quietly and effectively by bit and spur; but when they got to running us

off by the bugle, some of the farmer boys, when they would be tossed up

too much, involuntarily sang out, "Whoa!" or else, too audible, cursed

the man alongside for jamming their legs. This would bring down such a

torrent of abuse on the head of the offender that we were kept in a

state of terror from the time we were on the horses till we dismounted.

The Sergeant, or perhaps an officer, after getting the squad well under

way, would sound "to the right," and, of course, the horses knew what

the bugle said and obeyed the signal instantly; but most of the riders

didn't, and were, in consequence, involuntarily going straight ahead or

fell off at the unexpected turn of the horse. Then, on the home-stretch,

they would so abruptly sound a "halt," that the horses would stop in two

jumps, while the rider very likely went straight ahead.

I'm telling you the truth about Carlisle Barracks and the Regular

Cavalry. I've been there--several times--and know it all pretty well.

Why, it's a fact, that those old horses would, at the command "right

dress," as soberly turn their one eye down the line and back up a step

or forward as any infantry regiment; and on the wheel the inside horse

always marked time beautifully, while the fellow on the outside had to

gallop.

I had lots of fun during the couple of weeks that I was at Carlisle

Barracks. Probably because I entered with so much zest and earnestness

into the drill, which was really sport for me. I attracted the attention

(favorably) of the Sergeants and officers, and was so rapidly advanced

that my request to be sent to the front with the first detachment was

approved. In this ambition Captain Rodenbaugh seconded me, as he had

been relieved of recruiting duty, and was ordered to conduct the first

party to the front.

We left one cold day in November, via Harrisburg, traveling all night in

a box-car attached to a freight train. We were delayed all the next day

in Baltimore, putting in the time standing around in the cold, miserable

streets, under guard, awaiting our transportation over the slow

Baltimore & Ohio to Washington. The second night we reached Washington,

and slept on the floor of the barn-like affair they called the Soldiers'

Retreat, then located down by the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot. A

great many soldiers will remember that shanty.

Early next morning, before any of my comrades were awake, I was up about

daybreak, anxious to get a look at Washington, and especially Old

Capitol Prison, through the glasses of a Union soldier. It was a bitter

cold morning; so early as 5 A. M., when I went to the door of our

barracks, I was astonished to see, wrapped up in his big blue overcoat,

the snow blowing all over him, and standing almost up to his knees in

it, our Captain, C. F. Rodenbaugh.

I did not know then that it was an officer's duty, and one of his

privileges, to stand around all night in the cold, while his men slept

comfortably under shelter. I said something like this to the Captain,

when he courteously answered that he was the officer in charge, and it

was his duty to see that the sentries were on hand. It was an early

lesson; and I will say right here that the Regular officers, though

severe and strict in discipline, I found always ready to expose

themselves before they asked their men to do so. Apparently the Regular

officers held themselves aloof from their men, and though I was almost

intimate with Captain Rodenbaugh, I would not have ventured to address

him, except in the way of duty, and then only after a proper salute,

after we had gotten out in the field. Yet, if I could have met him alone

or unobserved, I should have been as free with him as with my best

friend. This matter of Regular Army etiquette was fully understood as

part of our drill, and the subject never gave us any uneasiness, but in

all probability saved us much trouble. There were no favorites in our

service; every man was treated alike, and as long as every man did his

duty, right up to the scratch, in Regular Army style, he was as

independent as any officer, in his way. I had some queer experiences in

this way, which I will relate further on.

I was in Washington again, and, strange to say, we were camped for the

first night right in sight of the Old Capitol Prison.

Mr. Stanton, the autocrat Secretary of War, failed entirely to suppress

me. With all his arbitrary exercise of authority he could not keep me

away from the front. Locking me up in Old Capitol Prison only detained

me temporarily. If I had not been released I certainly should have

escaped the same day.

The first visit I made in Washington after my return there as a soldier

was to the Capitol.

Armed with a pass, duly approved by the Provost-Guard officers, and

dressed up in my Sunday uniform, I called the member of Congress from my

home District from his seat out into the corridor (Mr. Covode being

absent), where I bluntly and briefly explained that I had been given a

parole not to come South until released, but being satisfied in my own

heart that it was a wrong to me, and injustice had been done through the

envy and malice of some War Department officials, I had, upon the advice

of such men as Covode, decided to enlist in the army, and they had

formally notified the Secretary of my intention of so doing.

I had not officially been advised that "I was forgiven," and desired Mr.

Blair to see the Secretary and arrange the matter for me. He looked at

me with astonishment at first, and then, realizing the absurdity of the

thing, laughed heartily, saying "Why, of course, that's all right; they

would not dare to annoy you any further."

I was, further, most kindly assured that my friends in Congress would

all see me through, in case I had any difficulties on that score.

I left the Capitol, going straight to the War Department, where I

endeavored to get an interview with the Secretary, but, dear me, a

soldier--a common soldier--only a little Corporal in the Dragoon's

uniform--presuming to address the Secretary of War, was something so

unheard of among the old regular attendants about the door that they

were disposed to fire me out of the up-stairs window for my effrontery.

I had found it difficult as a civilian to reach the Secretary of War on

several former occasions, but I learned, to my disgust, that as a

soldier it was entirely impossible.

The lesson in the Regular Army etiquette which I took that day, burned

itself so bitterly and deeply into my heart that I never attempted

afterward to address anything higher than a First Sergeant in the

Regular Army, except through the regular channels.

On account of an accident that happened me at Carlisle, I was permitted

by Captain Rodenbaugh to sleep in a boarding-house during the first days

after our arrival at Washington City, or until horses were issued to us.

At Carlisle there was an old horse widely known among all the Regular

cavalrymen who have been there as "Squeezer." At stable-call, I had

noticed the men in the squad to which I had been advanced, all showed a

singular alacrity in rushing to the task of cleaning their horses as

soon as we broke ranks for this purpose. I learned by an experience that

came near being serious, that this was caused not so much by anxiety of

the troopers to clean horses, as to avoid a certain stall which Squeezer

occupied.

[Illustration: THE SERGEANT KINDLY GAVE HIM THE STEEL.]

Squeezer was a good-enough horse outside of his stall, or away from a

fence-post or the side of a house. The trouble with him was, that he

would invariably catch the man detailed to curry him against the side of

the stall, and the vicious beast would deliberately put the weight of

his whole body against the man so caught, to try and crush his bones.

The only satisfaction the old horse seemed to get out of the dirty trick

was, in listening to the cries of pain the poor fellow so caught was

obliged to give vent to.

The Sergeants in charge of the stables were up to Squeezer's tricks so

well that they always carried a sharp-pointed saber-blade to the stable,

which was the only thing, well struck in, that would make the old rascal

let go his hold of a victim.

It was the custom to let the recruit get caught by this horse trick, and

I, as the latest in our squad, suffered the penalty. Squeezer put his

haunches up against my breast and forced me up against the board stall

until the bones began to crack, when the Sergeant kindly gave him the

steel, and he let go of me, but began to kick viciously at the Sergeant.

I was hurt badly, and suffered severely from it for some days. I learned

afterward that every man in our squad carried a saddler's awl as part of

the outfit, and when Squeezer became too affectionate with the man to

whose lot it fell to tackle him, he kept the awl in one hand and the

brush in the other, and used them alternately.

It was one of the games of the men to lay for a chance to catch the old

Sergeant near his heels, when they would give Squeezer an inch of the

awl, and the heels would reach for the Sergeant in a style that took all

the military dignity out of him.

For a few days our detachment was encamped in the roughest kind of

barracks, located on Capitol Hill, near Old Capitol. We drew our rations

of soft bread, but our meat was the regulation pickled pork, fished out

of the original barrels on the spot. I recall now, with a good deal of

surprise to myself, the truth that there ever was a time in Washington

when I had to take my slice of raw pork on a slice of bread, standing in

two inches of snow, warming up with a quart of black coffee drank from a

tin cup.

I am at the present writing a resident of this same Capitol Hill, within

gunshot of the Old Capitol Prison and this former camp-ground. We would

consider it a great hardship to be deprived of any of the comforts and

pleasures to be extracted from a residence in this beautiful city.

How few of those who now enjoy the blessings of this great Government

ever think that all of these pleasures were made possible for the

children by the willing sacrifices and hardships of their parents in

1861-65.

After many unsatisfactory days spent about the old barracks on the Hill,

we were at length ordered into camp near Fort Albany, Virginia. This

fort was located on the high ground just beyond the Long Bridge, close

by Fort Corcoran, or between the Long Bridge and Arlington.

I was at heart greatly rejoiced to find myself once more in old

Virginia, even if it were only over the Long Bridge and the Potomac

River. Though yet in sight, I was out of Washington, and safely beyond

the reach of the meddlesome War Department detectives, who had become so

numerous and about as thoroughly despised as were the army insect pests.

It does not speak so well for the shrewdness or effectiveness of Mr.

Pinkerton's corps, that I am able to record the truthful fact that they

had not, with all their vaunted facilities of telegraph and military and

civil police connections, been able to locate me, or discover that I,

who had been represented to the Secretary of War as a dangerous man, was

freely circulating all over Washington City.

Had I been so disposed, it would have been a simple matter to have

concocted much mischief, with the aid of information I had obtained in

the Old Capitol of Rebel sympathizers who were living in the city. Miss

Boyd had given me the names and addresses of pretty nearly everybody she

had known as a friend of the South; but I made no use of this myself,

except to give the information in writing to Covode's committee.

At our camp, near Fort Albany, we were quartered in the regulation

Sibley tent, which all old soldiers will recognize without further

description. As the company clerk, or private secretary of our Captain,

I was pleasantly provided for in the First Sergeant's tent. There were

but the two of us in the big concern, because we had to make room for

the desks or writing-table and other storage for the company papers.

It is a little curious that I was selected to do precisely this same

duty by the Rebels in their capital.

Through the good management of the Captain and the First Sergeant, who

were, of course, my friends, and looked after my interests in the

company while I was busy on the papers, I was supplied with a real

beauty of a horse. He was one of the black Morgan type, a little small,

but oh, my! I suspect that the Captain became personally solicitous

about my being handsomely mounted, as I found myself detailed to act as

an Orderly to himself and the other officers almost every time they rode

into the city.

My little nag was what may be termed frisky and spirited. I am talking

all this horse now, because in the days and weeks and months that

immediately followed "Frisky" took an important part in all the

adventures that I had. From this time forth most of my experiences were

somewhat of a dashing character, dressed, as I was, in a neat uniform,

and well mounted on a horse. One little trick of Frisky's will serve to

illustrate better than I could describe in many words the nature of the

animal.

The stable, in the field, you know, was simply a parallelogram composed

of ropes tied to posts driven in the ground. Inside of this the horses

were tied to the ropes. At every stable-call I usually went out to

attend to my own horse, so as to get a chance to ride bareback to water.

At a certain signal, all hands mounted their horses, and at the command

all filed out of the ropes, under the leader, toward the water. Frisky,

being well to the rear of the column the first time I got on him,

astonished me and surprised the officer in command by suddenly jumping

at a clear leap over the top of the rope and running off toward the head

of the line. So that, at every water-call, it got to be a regular show

for the officers to come around to Frisky's side of the corral to see

him jump over the rope instead of marching around in the rear of the

others.

I was at least as good a horseman as any of the rest of our batch of

recruits, and probably my experience in Texas, supplemented by the

lessons at Carlisle, had made me quite proficient in the regulation

style of marching my horse.

We frequently rode over to Washington to spend an evening. I had lots of

fun, but no adventures that I care to put in print. Nearly every Sunday

a couple of us would get permission and passes and ride up to what was

then called the Arlington House, and thence through the lines of heavy

artillery sentries about the fortifications, over the Aqueduct Bridge,

to Georgetown and Washington.

At last we were ordered to the front. I do not now remember the exact

date, but it was sometime in December.

This is engrafted on my memory by the fact that the "front"--as the

history of the war shows--was then at or near Fredericksburg, the same

grand old historic town, so dear to my memory, from which I have been

escorted a prisoner to the Old Capitol only a couple of months before.

But I was going back--so the fates had decreed, in spite of Stanton--to

this very same place; not exactly the same place, as the Rebel Army

occupied the town most of the time; but we were going to get as close as

we could to it, and be neighborly, without getting into a fight.

Another circumstance which impresses this date upon my mind is, that I

spent my Christmas of 1862 on the Rappahannock with the boys of the old

Army of the Potomac.

I was as happy as a boy with a new pair of boots when the orders came

for us to draw five days' rations and get ready to move. As company

clerk, being in the ring, as it were, with the First Sergeant, I was

privately advised that we were to go to the front, so that I got all the

papers in my possession in shape, and had everything so packed away

before the Sergeant was ready that I had to open up the box for him

again.

I supposed, as a matter of course, we would ride our horses right

through Fairfax to Fredericksburg, going the route leading somewhere

near the old trail I had footed so faithfully while I was in the Rebel

lines.

I had not told anybody in our company--not even my good friend Captain

Rodenbaugh--of my previous experiences in Virginia.

It will be readily understood that I was not anxious to disclose these

things, which had given me so much trouble; in fact, I desired above all

things to conceal them.

When I heard of the proposed movement, I went to the Captain personally,

and took occasion to tell him that I knew something of the road to

Fredericksburg, and felt competent to act as guide for the regiment, and

offered my services in that direction.

The Captain looked at me for a moment, then, with a significant smile,

he took my breath away by observing, pleasantly:

"Well, yes, Corporal, I understand you have had some experience down

here that would seem to make you familiar with the roads; but it has

been ordered that we march down through Maryland on the other side of

the Potomac."

Though the Captain's manner was so agreeable and assuring, I was so

astonished by the revelation that he, of all others, had learned of my

private history, that I was for the moment so taken down I could hardly

look him in the face. I felt as though I had been deceiving my best

friend, and he had caught me in the act, as it were. When I ventured to

offer some explanation, the Captain, in his courteous way, said: "Why,

my dear boy, that's all right; we all--that is, the officers--have heard

of your services, and, as a consequence, you have in advance plenty of

friends in the regiment."

I was gratified to hear this from him, and asked no further questions as

to his source of information, but ever after that I was further

convinced not only of the Captain's kindly feeling toward me, but of the

other officers as well, by the fact that, on almost every important

occasion, I was honored by being selected for special Orderly duty with

the officers.

We marched or rode our squadron out of Fort Albany camp one cold, damp

December morning, crossed the Long Bridge, passed through the lower part

of the city, up over Capitol Hill, where I got a farewell glimpse of Old

Capitol Prison from under my fatigue cap, seated on a horse, going to

the front.

We crossed the old bridge, beyond the Navy Yard, over the Eastern

Branch, went up over the hill, and were soon out of sight of

Washington, traveling all day over the same route that Wilkes Booth took

in his flight to Virginia the night of the assassination.

The next morning we reached the river at some point, and put in all that

day in getting our horses and baggage ferried across about four miles of

water.

The next night we slept on the sacred soil at or near Aquia Creek, in

Virginia--precisely the same point from which I had embarked as a

first-class passenger in charge of an officer _en route_ to Old Capitol

Prison.

The following day we marched over a long, wind-about road to cover the

fourteen miles from the Potomac to the Rappahannock. How shall I write

it, but that evening at sundown, as soon as I could beg the privilege, I

rode my horse down to the Lacey House, which, as all old soldiers know,

is located on the banks of the Rappahannock directly opposite

Fredericksburg. The Rappahannock river only was between me and Geno;

but, oh! my heart ached when I realized what a great gulf it was; and

that was as near as I could get to Fredericksburg. Though at this point

it is but a narrow stream--so narrow indeed that a conversation in an

ordinary tone of voice could be carried on over it--I could not, except

under the penalty of being at once shot to death by our own or the rebel

forces, make even the slightest attempt at signaling to the other shore.

The Rebel Army occupied that side.

I could see walking about the streets some few persons in citizen's

clothes, but all along the river, and at the foot of the street leading

to the river, were armed men in gray uniforms. They had possession of

the town that held all that was dear to me just then--little Geno Wells.

I lingered until the early twilight of that December evening began to

drop down like a curtain; then with a heavy heart I rode slowly back to

our own camp, determined in my own mind and heart that I should get into

that town somehow, in spite of our own and the Rebel Army.