RICHMOND DESOLATE.
The scenes of entering the doomed stronghold, when Grant had burst its
gates, ought to be made vivid as the spectacle of death. With my good
and talented associate, Mr. Jerome B. Stillson, I hold the Spotswood
Hotel, and from this caravansary of the late capital as thoroughly
identified with Rebellion as the inn at Bethlehem with the gospel, we
date our joint paragraphs upon the condition of the city. A week cannot
have exhausted the curiosity of the North to learn the exact appearance
of a city which has stood longer, more frequent, and more persistent
sieges, than any in Christendom. This town is the Rebellion; it is all
that we have directly striven for; quitting it, the Confederate leaders
have quitted their sheet-anchor, their roof-tree, their abiding hope.
Its history is the epitome of the whole contest, and to us, shivering
our thunderbolts against it for more than four years, Richmond is still
a mystery.
Know then, that, whether coming from Washington or Baltimore, the two
points of embarkation, all bound hitherward must rendezvous at Fortress
Monroe; thence, in such excellent steamers as the _Dictator_, start up
the broad James River. To own a country-house upon the "Jeems" river is
the Virginia gentleman's ultimate aspiration. There, with a
tobacco-farm, and wide wheatlands, his feet on his front-porch rails, a
Havana cigar between his teeth, and a colored person to bring him
frequent juleps, the Virginia gentleman, confident in the divinity of
slavery, hopes in his natural, refined idleness, to watch the little
family graveyard close up to his threshold, till it shall kindly open
and give him sepulture.
Elsewhere men aim to be successful, or enterprising, or eloquent, or
scholarly, but that nobleness of hospitality, high spirit, dignity, and
affability which constitute our idea of chivalry is everywhere save here
an exotic. We say that chivalry is "played out," and that the prestige
of "first families" is gone with the hurried retreat before Grant's
salamanders. Not so. Secession as a cause is past the range of
possibilities. But no people in their subjugation wear a better front
than these brave old spirits, whose lives are not their own. Fire has
ravaged their beautiful city, soldiers of the color of their servants,
guard the crossings and pace the pavement with bayoneted muskets. But
gentlemen they are still, in every pace, and inch, and syllable,--such
men as we were wont to call brothers and countrymen. However, the James
River, at which we commenced, has not a town upon it between the sea and
the head of navigation. It is a strong commentary upon this patriarchal
civilization, judged by our gregarious tastes, that one of the noblest
streams in the world should show to the traveller only here and there a
pleasant mansion, flanked by negro cabins, but nowhere a church-spire
nor a steam-mill. All that we see from Fortress Monroe to City Point are
ridges of breastworks, rifle-pits, and forts, lying bare, yellow, and
deserted, to defend its passage, excepting at James Island, where the
solitary and broken tower of the ancient colony holds guard over some
bramble and ruin. Here Smith founded the celebrated settlement, which
wooed to its threshold the gentle Pocahontas, and fell to fragments at
the behest of the fiery Bacon. The ramparts on the James will remain
forever; great as they are, they would hardly hold the bones of the
slain in the capture and defence. Four hours from Fortress Monroe we
pass Harrison's Landing, where two grand armies, _beaten_ aside from
Richmond, sought the shelter of the river, and at City Point quit our
large craft, to be transferred to a light draught vessel, which is to
carry the first mail going to Richmond under the national flag since the
beginning of the war.
City Point is still a populous place, and the millions of mules upon it
bray hoarsely; but we leave all these behind, as well as the national
standard, which flaunts over General Grant's late head-quarters, and
steam past the mouth of the Appomattox to go through the enemy's lines.
Henceforward every foot of the way is freshly interesting. The Rebel ram
_Atlanta_ in tow of a couple of tugs, goes past us with a torpedo boat
at the rear. She is raking, slant, and formidable; but "old glory" is
waving on her. Directly our own leviathan, the _Roanoke_ drifts up, and
all her storm-throated tars cheer like the belch of her guns. We see to
the right, the tip of Malvern Hill, ever sorrowful and sacred, and soon
a great unfinished ram careens by, which never grew to battle-size; the
true colors shine above her bulwarks like a flower growing in a carcass.
Then at little intervals there are frequent prizes from the docks of
Richmond, tugs, transports, barges, some of which show under our
beautiful banner the Rebel cross, pale and contemptible. These
malcontents committed as great crime against good taste in substituting
for our starry emblem this artistic abomination, as against law and
policy in changing the configuration of the Union. There is another
flag, however, which we see, half exultantly, half vindictively,--the
cross of St. George,--flying from a British cutter.
By and by we come to our intrenchments upon the upper James and at
Bermuda Hundred. Now they are very listless and half empty. The boys
have gone off to tread on Lee's shanks. Only a few vessels stand at the
landings, and the few remnants have laid down the rifle, and taken up
the fishing-pole. One should come up this river to get a conception of
our splendid navy. Sharp-pointed gunboats, with bullet-proof crows'
nests and swivels that are the gentlest murderers ever polished;
monitors through whose eyeholes a ball a big as a cook-stove squints
from a columbiad socket; ferry-boats which are speckled with brass
cannon, and all sorts of craft that can float and manoeuvre, provided
they look at us through deadly muzzles are there to the number of fifty
or sixty, as many as make the entire navies of all other American
nations. After the war we must have a great naval review, and invite all
the crowned heads to attend it. Soon we reach Dutch Gap, where lies
Butler's canal, or "Butler's gut," as the sailors call it. The river at
this point is so crooked that Butler must have laid it out by the aid of
his wrong eye. The canal is meant to cut on a long elbow; but being
almost at right angles to the course of the river, only the most
obliging tide would run through it. As a consequence, it is a sort of a
sluice merely, of insufficient width, and as a "sight" very
disappointing to great expectations. Between the points of debouch of
this canal crosses a drawbridge of pontoons, for the use of our troops,
and just beyond it Aiken's Landing, where the flag of truce boat
stopped. A fine brick mansion stands in shore, with a wharf abreast it.
The banks around it are trodden here with many feet. These are the
traces of the poor prisoners who reached here, fevered, and starving and
naked, to catch for the first time the sight of cool waters and friends,
and the bright flag which they had followed to the edge of the grave.
How they threw up their hats, and cheered to the feeblest, and wept, and
danced, and laughed. Long be the place remembered, as holy, neutral
ground, where death never trod, and multitudes passed from suffering, to
freedom and home. Beyond this point, the most formidable Rebel works we
have seen, line the high bluffs and ridges. They are monuments of
patient labor, and make of themselves hills as great as nature's. But
the siege pieces, which often bellowed upon them like thunderbolts
along the mountain-tops, are gone now, and only straggling, meddling
fellows pass them at all. The highest of these works commands both ends
of the Dutch Gap canal, and while our lads were digging they often hid
themselves in caves which they dug in the cliff-sides.
We reach the first torpedo at length; a little red flag marks it, by
which the boat slips tremulously, though another and another are before,
at the sight of which our nervous folks are agitated. Here is a monitor
with a drag behind it, which has just fished up one; and the sequel is
told by a bloody and motionless figure upon the deck. These torpedoes
are the true dragon teeth of Cadmus, which spring up armed men.
Happily for us, the Rebels have sown but few of them, and the position
of these was pointed out by one of their captains who deserted to our
side. In the midst of these lie the obstructions. Great hulks of vessels
and chained spars, and tree-tops which reach quite across the river,
except where our pioneers have hewn a little gap to let the steamer
through. Upon these obstructions a hundred cannon bear from the cliffs
before us, and as we go further we see the whole river-bed sprinkled
with strange contrivances to keep back our thunder-bearers. We think it
absolutely impossible, under any circumstances, that our fleet could
have got to Richmond so long as the Rebels contested the passage; each
step forward finds new and greater obstacles. The channel is as narrow
as Harlem River and as crooked as a walk in the ramble of Central Park.
Each elbow of the stream is muscular with snag and snare wherever the
swift stream swoops around abruptly. Jagged abatis, driven piles, and
artificial lumber, bar the way before us. To the right of us, to the
left of us, behind us, stand up the bare parapets, crowned with airy
lookout towers, where, at the coming of a nautilus, the whole horizon
and foreground would rain crossfires of shell and iron bolts, to sweep
into annihilation the tiniest or the staunchest opposition from the
earth's surface, and under the earth and above the earth death waited to
leap up and draw the daring to its bosom. Not one, nor two, nor three
lines of defences frowned down as we cautiously steamed along, but every
precipice was bristling with defiance, as if the deep subterranean fires
underlying our race had burst here fitfully and frequently, heaving up
the swells of the hills till they lay hard and barren for human
ingenuity to garnish them with anxious artillery. All along were the
deep funnel-shaped cases of the torpedoes just disentombed. But at
nightfall Drury's Bluff flitted by like the battlemented wall of a city,
and then we saw no more.
The band that greeted us from a distance stops playing as the boat nears
the wharf.
There is a stillness, in the midst of which Richmond, with her ruins,
her spectral roof, afar, and her unchanging spires, rests beneath a
ghastly, fitful glare,--the night stain which a great conflagration
leaves behind it for weeks,--struggling silently with colossal shadows
along the foreground, two hideous walls alone arise in front, shutting
these gleams. They are the Libby Prison and Castle Thunder. Right and
left, and far in the moonlighted perspective beyond, there is a soft
glitter upon cornices and domes. A haggard glow of candles, faintly
defines the thoroughfares that have not suffered ruin; while massive,
and upon a height overlooking all, stands the Capitol, flying its black
shadow from the sinking moon across a hundred crumbling walls, until its
edges touch the windows of the Libby.
But over its massive roof, dimly seen through the mists of the river,
and, as before, "through the mists of the deep," the banner of the
Union, banished for four years, is shaken out again, broad and
beautiful, by the breath of an April night. Upon the face of every
leaning figure on the steamer's deck, in sight of that radiant signal,
is the same half-melancholy, half-triumphant smile.
The thought of the battle which has passed, of the army, which, after
struggling through years for this majestic procession, has swept by and
beyond without the view for which its straining eyes have yearned, is
sad and strange. There comes back dimly suggestive, a story of Iran and
his host, thundering at the gates of Tupelo, for the possession of a
wondrous jewel, and awakening once upon a dawn to learn that Tupelo was
an empty casket,--to turn back longing, "wondering eyes upon the city,
and to hunt the fleeing prize afar." Yet unto those legions of the
republic which have emptied Richmond of a prize which yet they may have
easily clutched, there go out reverence and blessing even larger than
might be bestowed upon them resting in camp, upon these overlooking
hills. That true allegiance, that calm and stern self-sacrifice which
impels an army forward past the sweet applauses and rewarding calms to
which great victories might entitle it, are the purest sources of its
glory and its fame. God bless the army that has permitted us to
consummate this journey and to gaze upon this spectacle, while it does
not impress us too proudly, too triumphantly. Both pride and triumph
have, of course, a place in the tumultuous feeling that surges through
the hearts of all; yet as in every true man is born an instinct of
compassion for a fallen foe, we prefer that the shout should go up in
honor of our victory alone, and not because these have suffered.
The boat touches the shore at Rockett's, the foot of Richmond. A few
minutes' walk and we tread the pavements of the capital. There are no
noisy and no beseeching runners; there is no sound of life, but the
stillness of a catacomb, only as our footsteps fall dull on the deserted
sidewalk, and a funeral troop of echoes bump their elfin heads against
the dead walls and closed shutters in reply, and this is Richmond. Says
a melancholy voice: "And this is Richmond."
We are under the shadow of ruins. From the pavements where we walk far
off into the gradual curtain of the night, stretches a vista of
desolation. The hundreds of fabrics, the millions of wealth, that
crumbled less than a week ago beneath one fiery kiss, here topple and
moulder into rest. A white smoke-wreath rising occasionally, enwraps a
shattered wall as in a shroud. A gleam of flame shoots a grotesque
picture of broken arches and ragged chimneys into the brain. Huge piles
of debris begin to encumber the sidewalks, and even the pavements, as we
go on. The streets in some places are quite choked up from walking. We
are among the ruins of half a city. The wreck, the loneliness, seem
interminable. The memory of lights in houses above, beheld while upon
the steamer, alone keeps despondency from a victory over hope; and
although the continued existence of the Spottswood Hotel is vouched for
by authority, my lodge in such a wilderness seems next to impossible.
Away to the right, above the waste of blackened walls, around the
phantom-looking flag upon the capitol,--the only sign betwixt heaven and
earth, or upon the earth, that Richmond is not wholly deserted,--beyond
and out of the ruins, we walk past one of two open doorways where the
moon serves as candle to a group of talking negroes. The gas works,
injured by fire, are not working, and "ile" has not been struck in the
Confederacy. Not a white man appears until we reach the
Spottswood,--there before the entrance is a conclave of officers,--then,
at last, entering, we stand in that most famous of Southern hotels, the
interior of which is filled with the very aroma of the Rebellion. A
thankful yielding up of carpet-bags and valises to the indignant negro
waiters, and then a brief moonlight stroll toward the capitol.
Within the gates of the Square, that swing on their hinges silent as the
hour we pass alone, before us stands the magnificent monument crowned
with Crawford's equestrian statue of Washington. The right hand of the
rider, lifted against the sky, points a prophetic finger toward the
southwest. Dark, and motionless, and grand, it is the one symbol
belonging solely to the Union, which they have not dared to desecrate;
which they have strangely chosen to consider neither as an insult nor a
rebuke.
Gazing beyond at the capitol itself, and back again at the figure which
overlooks the building, it is not hard to imagine that, while the noisy
debates of a congress of traitors to the Union that he founded were in
progress, those bronze lips sometimes smiled in scorn.
Leaving Richmond proper, and descending into the low, squalid portion of
the town known as Rocketts, one sees among the many large warehouses,
used without exception for the storage of tobacco, a certain one more
irregular than the rest. An archway leads into it, and upon the outside
of the second story windows runs a long ledge or footway, whereupon
sentries used to stride, guarding the miserable people within. This is
the jail of Castle Thunder, and it was the civil or State prison of the
capital. Ill as were the accommodations of prisoners of war, the
treatment of their own unoffending citizens by the Rebel government was
ten times more infamous. We could not repress indignation, nor by any
philosophic or charitable effort excuse the atrocious tyranny which here
lashed, chained, handcuffed, tortured, shot, and hung, hundreds of
people whom it could not stultify or impress. We may grant that the
Confederacy had become a government; that, in its perilous incipiency,
it had apology for severity and rigor with all malcontents; that, in its
own struggle for death or life, it might, in self-defence, absorb all
private liberty; but even thus the terrible testimony of this Castle
Thunder is an everlasting stigma upon the Southern cause. We entered its
strong portal, and there in the new commandant's room lay the record
left behind by the Confederates. Its pages made one shudder.
These are some of the entries:--
"George Barton,--giving food to Federal prisoners of war; forty
lashes upon the bare back. Approved. Sentence carried into effect
July 2.
"Peter B. Innis,--passing forged government notes; chain and ball
for twelve months; forty lashes a day. Approved.
"Arthur Wright,--attempting to desert to the enemy; sentenced to be
shot. Approved. Carried into effect, March 26.
"John Morton,--communicating with the enemy; to be hung. Approved.
Carried into effect, March 26."
In an inner room are some fifty pairs of balls and chains, with anklets
and handcuffs upon them, which have bent the spirit and body of many a
resisting heart. Within are two condemned cells, perfectly dark,--a
faded flap over the window peep-hole,--the smell from which would knock
a strong man down.
For in their centre lies the sink, ever open, and the floors are sappy
with uncleanliness. To the right of these, a door leads to a walled yard
not forty feet long, nor fifteen wide, overlooked by the barred windows
of the main prison rooms, and by sentry boxes upon the wall-top. Here
the wretched were shot and hung in sight of their trembling comrades.
The brick wall at the foot of the yard is scarred and crushed by balls
and bullets which first passed through some human heart and wrote here
their damning testimony. The gallows had been suspended from a wing in
the ledge, and in mid-air the impotent captive swung, none daring or
willing to say a good word for him; and not for any offence against
God's law, not for wronging his neighbor, or shedding blood, or making
his kind miserable, but for standing in the way of an upstart
organization, which his impulse and his judgment alike impelled him to
oppose. This little yard, bullet-marked, close, and shut from all
sympathy, is to us the ghastliest spot in the world. Can Mr. Davis visit
it, and pray as he does so devoutly afterward? When men plead the
justice of the South, and arguments are prompt to favor them, let this
prison yard rise up and say that no such crimes in liberty's name have
ever been committed, on this continent, at least. Up stairs, in Castle
Thunder, there are two or three large rooms, barred and dimly lit, and
two or three series of condemned cells, pent-up and pitchy, where, by a
refinement of cruelty, the ceiling has been built low so that no man can
stand upright. Here fifteen or twenty were crowded together, and, in the
burning atmosphere, they stripped themselves stark naked, so that when
in the morning the cell-doors were opened, they came forth as from the
grave, begging for death. There are women's cells too; for this great
and valiant government recognized women as belligerents, and locked them
up close to a sentry's cartridge, so that, in the bitterness of
solitude, they were unsexed, and railed, and blasphemed, like wanton
things. On the pavements before the jail, were hidden numberless guards,
who shot at every rag fluttering from the cages, and all this little
circle of death and terror was enacted close to the bright river, and
airy pediment of that high capitol, where bold men hoped by war to wring
from a reluctant Union, acknowledgment of arrogant independence to rein
civilization as it pleased, and warp the destinies of our race.