PRISONERS OF THE UNITED STATES
Dawn found us haggard and ill. Our night ride to Augusta was a fatiguing
one. Of our party, only the children slept. The air in the car was of
the foulest, and the discomforts of the trip were consequently most
trying to our invalids, of whom there now were three—Mr. Davis, Mr.
Clay, and our venerable Vice-President, Mr. Stephens, we having taken
the latter aboard during the night; also, our late Postmaster-General
Reagan, ex-Governor Lubbock, and General Wheeler and staff. Nor were we
again permitted to leave the car until our arrival in Augusta.
Telegraphic orders having been sent ahead for our meals, these were
brought to the train and eaten _en route_.
Upon our arrival in Augusta, I asked Colonel Pritchard for the privilege
of driving in the carriage assigned to us to the home of a beloved
friend, Mrs. George Winter. Upon my promise that at the hour appointed I
would be responsible for Mr. Clay’s appearance on the boat which was to
take us to Savannah, Colonel Pritchard gave a somewhat reluctant consent
and we drove rapidly away. As had been the case in Macon and Atlanta,
the town was in commotion. This visit to our friends was almost an
error; for, greatly excited at our appearance among them, they embraced
us in hysterical alarm, and begged my husband even yet to fly. To add to
the distress, neighbouring friends, hearing of our presence, hastened in
and joined their pleadings to those of our hostess. The scene was
unendurable to Mr. Clay, and, literally tearing ourselves from their
embraces, we re-entered the carriage. The horses heads were turned at
once toward the river where our custodians awaited us. Arrived there,
though I cannot admit that it was our intention or impulse to board the
boat with a fond alacrity, our embarkation was not without a misleading
appearance of-eagerness. The bank of the river was both steep and
slippery, and, notwithstanding I was assisted in my descent by two
officers, my approach was neither stately nor awe-inspiring. In fact, it
was precipitate, and I found myself, most unexpectedly, in the arms of a
soldierly little figure in undress uniform who stood close to the crude
gang-plank. As I opened my lips to apologise for my unexpected
onslaught, he turned and raised his hat. It was “little Joe!”
An episode of that trip in connection with General Wheeler fixed itself
indelibly in my mind. I was in conversation with this hero on one
occasion, during which he leaned against the side of the boat in a
half-recumbent position. Presently a young officer, rude in the display
of “his brief authority,” approached us, and rapping General Wheeler
sharply with his sword, said, “It is against the rule to lean on the
guard-rail!”
To my amazement, our hero, who had fought so nobly against his peers and
whose name alone had been a menace to his foes, merely touched his hat
and said quietly, “I did not know the rule, sir, or I would not have
infringed it.” I was thrilled with admiration.
“General!” I exclaimed, “you have taught me a lesson in self-control and
courtesy I can never forget! Had I been a man, that Yankee would have
been exploring the bottom of the Savannah River, or I, one!”
The discomforts to which we had been subjected during our journey to and
from the headquarters of General Wilson culminated in the wretched
little craft on which we now were. Not a chair was in the cabin for our
invalids, nor an available couch. For Mr. Davis, who suffered intensely
during the trip from pain in his eye (for years a chronic disability),
two valises were stacked one on top of the other, being the nearest
approach to a seat it was possible to improvise. On these he rested
during much of the journey, Mrs. Davis, Miss Howell or myself in turn
acting as support in lieu of a chair-back. From time to time we bathed
his temples with cologne in vain attempts to lessen his tortures.
Our journey from Savannah may best be pictured by reference to my
pocket-diary, carried throughout those momentous weeks. We boarded the
_William P. Clyde_ on the fifteenth of May, our destination still
unknown to us, as we steamed out into the Atlantic. These are some of
the brief records I made of ship and passengers:
“May 16, 1865. _William P. Clyde_ is a brig-rigged steamer, quite
comfortable. The Fourth Michigan is with us, and an armed convoy,
the _Tuscarora_, escorts us. Her guns bear directly upon us, day and
night. Fears are entertained of the _Stonewall_ or _Shenandoah_. My
husband keeps well and heroic. God in mercy give us grace for the
fiery ordeal.”
“May 17th. Fairly at sea, and considerable fear of the _Stonewall_
evinced by the ship’s crew. All the axes of the vessel are removed
from their usual positions to the Colonel’s room. Mrs. Davis sent
ashore for oranges for Miss Howell, who is ill. Poor girl!”
[“It was Mr. Davis who called my attention to the removal of the
battle-axes. ‘Cowards!’ he said, ‘They’re afraid of this handful of
Confederate men!’”]
“May 19. Nearing Fortress Monroe. We are boarded by Captain Fraley,
Commander of the _Tuscarora_, the man-of-war which has been our
escort, her guns bearing directly on us from Hilton Head. The
Captain called on Mr. and Mrs. Davis, and husband and myself, and
renewed an acquaintance of former years. He proffered any attentions
in his power. Just to our left is seen Fort Calhoun, built by Mr.
Davis, while Secretary of War....”
“May 20. Anchored off Fort Monroe awaiting orders. General Halleck
to arrive on board at 11 A. M. I sadly fear they will land my
darling at this fort. God forbid! In sight are many vessels, some
bearing the English and some the French flags. The fort presents the
same appearance as years ago, when I went to visit the spot. One
week this day since we bade adieu to friends. Two days have we been
anchored. General Halleck said to be on _Tuscarora_.”
“May 21. Last night at dark a tug was hailed. She replied, “General
Halleck!” She was alongside in a few moments with orders which were
quickly known. Governor Lubbock, Colonel Johnston and General
Wheeler and staff left at six this A. M. for Delaware. At ten, Mr.
Stephens and Judge Reagan were put aboard the _Tuscarora_ for Fort
Warren. Mr. Stephen’s servant detained. We are still in doubt, but
Monroe is probably our destination.”
“May 22. Mr. Davis, Mr. Clay and Burton Harrison are all left!
Preparations are going on at Fortress Monroe for them,’tis said.
Colonel Pritchard says I will not be allowed to land or go to
Washington or Baltimore or abroad!!! Terrible firing from a
man-of-war!”
“May 23. Wrote letter to Judge Holt, and note to General Miles. At
ten we were boarded by Major Church, and two Yankee women and four
guards, and all hands, luggage, berths and persons thoroughly
searched. A comico-serio-tragico’ scene! Sailors our friends. Both
nurses leave. Mrs. Davis’s [man] Robert only left.”
Our journey on the _Clyde_, though sorrowful, apprehensive as we were
concerning the fate to which the prisoners were being led, was otherwise
uneventful. Mr. Davis was exceedingly depressed, and moved restlessly
about, seeming scarcely ever to desire to sit down. Always an
intellectual cosmopolite, however, he made observations on the natural
phenomena about us, commenting from time to time on the beauty of sea or
sky. Our meals, which were served at a table reserved for the prisoners,
by no means represented the fare of the coastwise steamers of to-day,
but few of us were in a mood to take note of culinary deficiencies.
On the morning of May 22d a sultry, drizzling rain fell. It was a day
exactly calculated to induce melancholy even in the stoutest-hearted. To
us, eagerly alert to learn what we might of our fate, it was unspeakably
distressful. Shortly after breakfast my husband came quietly into our
stateroom. “There is no longer any doubt,” he said, “that this fort is
the one destined for Davis and me! I have just been notified that we are
expected to take a ride on a tug. I am convinced we shall be taken to
Fortress Monroe. I can’t imagine why they do not come out boldly and
tell us so, but be sure this is our farewell, my wife!” We took leave of
each other in our stateroom, nor did I leave it to follow Mr. Clay to
the deck. I stood, instead, at the fourteen-inch window of my cabin,
alone with my thoughts.
As Mr. Davis passed the aperture, he stopped for a second to say
good-bye to me, then he, too, disappeared. A few moments passed, and
then the weeping of children and wailing of women announced the return
of the stricken family. I heard a soldier say to Mr. Davis’s little son,
“Don’t cry, Jeff. They ain’t going to hang your pa!” and the little
fellow’s reply, made through his sobs.
“When I get to be a man,” he cried, “I’m going to kill every Yankee I
see!”
When the child approached my door and I caught him in my arms and tried
to cheer him, his resentment quickly changed to a manly tenderness; and,
putting his baby lips up for a kiss, he said, “My papa told me to keep
care of you and my Mamma!”
I referred in my diary to the serio-comic incidents of the search of our
party. The event occurred early in the morning of the day following that
of my husband’s removal. While gazing sadly across the waters toward the
grim fort, I espied what seemed to be a pretty shallop, dancing lightly
over the waters, in which were seated two women, brightly dressed. The
little vessel seemed to be making for the _Clyde_. When I observed this,
I called Mrs. Davis’s attention to the approaching party, saying, “Thank
God! Here, I do believe, are two Virginia ladies come to give us some
comfort.”
In a few moments one of our unknown visitors was at my cabin door. In my
eagerness to meet a friendly face, I had almost extended my hand, when
something in the appearance of the person before me struck me as
peculiar. My surprise and curiosity was soon relieved, for my visitor
said glibly, “We’ve been sent by the Government to see if you have any
treasonable papers on board!” I looked at her in amazement.
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that the United States Government thinks we
are such simpletons as to have carried treasonable papers aboard this
ship?” My indignation grew.
“I frankly confess that if I could sink the whole Yankee nation in
Hampton Roads I would do so; but carry valuable papers _here_? Pshaw!”
and I turned away from her, full of contempt.
It was a hot, sultry day; one of those May days when the sun strikes the
water vertically, and even breathing becomes a fatiguing effort. Despite
the weather, the women who had thus unexpectedly presented themselves
were greatly overdressed. Each wore an immense chignon on the back of
her head, and was rouged and powdered and be-frizzed to an extent that
was altogether unusual in ordinary circles. Bustles of the largest size,
high-heeled shoes, conspicuous stockings, and as freely revealed gay
petticoats completed the gaudy costumes of these remarkable agents of
the Government. The person who had addressed me entered my cabin and
proceeded to strip the pillow-case from the by no means immaculate
pillow. She shook and felt carefully each article of bedding; then
opened my valise and as minutely examined every article of borrowed
finery therein. She commented on their quality as she did so, but I
speedily put an end to this. “Proceed with your work, Madam!” I said,
and I turned from the unpleasant sight before me.
As she emptied my gripsack, I heard her utter a half-shriek of alarm.
“Oh!” she cried, “you have a pistol!”
“Of course I have,” I said, complacently reaching for it and taking it
in my hand; and, a spirit of mischief seizing me (it has often been my
salvation), I twirled the alarming firearm in the air, taking care that
the barrel should fall pointing toward her, saying, as I did so, “You
may take everything in the stateroom but this. If necessary, I shall use
it!” As I marked the effect of my words, her shrinking and ejaculations
of fear amused me more and more, nor did she resume her work until,
tired of the farce, the pistol was once more safely bestowed in my bag.
When she renewed her search, her manner was somewhat more timid.
Upon completing the overhauling of my belongings she turned to me. “Will
you please take off your dress, Madam?” she said. My answer was forceful
and prompt.
“I will not! If you wish it taken off, you may disrobe me!” And I added,
in my indignation, “I’ve heard that white maids are as good as black
ones!”
And now the comedy moved rapidly. The lady began by taking off my
breastpin and my collar. She unfastened my bodice and removed it,
examining every seam with a microscopic care. She then proceeded to
remove my clothing piece by piece, submitting each to the same
scrupulous examination. Coming at last to my stays, she attempted to
unclasp them.
The situation was so amusing I could not resist the growing desire to
accentuate it. I have alluded to the prevailing sultry weather. In the
close little cabin, the heat was scarce bearable. Already perspiration
was trickling in streams down the cheeks of my unwelcome visitor.
Smiling within myself as the lady came forward to remove the last-named
garment, I took a full, deep breath and held it, expanding my form to
the very utmost, tightening my clothing for the time being to such an
extent that I think she could scarcely have pried open the garments with
hammer and chisel. The efforts of my tormentor (?) were entertaining.
Every now and then between a straining on my part and a futile tugging
on hers, she would run out of the cabin, fanning herself and gasping to
the guards, “Oh! I am nearly dead!”
At first, I utilised these intervals “to gird on my armour” still
tighter; but, at last, when I was myself almost exhausted from holding
my breath, I relaxed and allowed her to proceed. By the time her
examination of my apparel and belongings was completed, the lady’s face
was striped, and the path of the perspiration, wending its way through
layers of cosmetics, had quite destroyed her erstwhile dazzling
appearance; but though I, too, was almost fainting from the heat, and
would gladly have been left alone, my determination to tease her was by
no means appeased. I, therefore, demanded that, having undressed me, the
lady complete her work and put my clothing on again. This, with various
delays, amusing and otherwise, she at last accomplished, much to her
satisfaction if not wholly to mine. Once rehabilitated, I stepped to
Mrs. Davis’s stateroom, mine being between those of Mrs. Davis and Miss
Howell. I found the former in tears and reduced to the lightest of
deshabille. I tried to comfort her, but she still wept, saying:
“Oh,’Ginie! What humiliation!”
“But I would die before they should see me shed tears!” I declared.
“Ah, you haven’t four little children about you,” said Mrs. Davis. Nor
did this search end the trials that befell us while we lay in Hampton
Roads. Upon leaving my stateroom the following morning I met Mrs. Davis,
baby Winnie in arms. She was greatly agitated.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“That man!” she replied, pointing to an officer near by, “has come to
take away my shawl. It’s the last wrapping I have! He declares it is
part of Mr. Davis’s disguise!”
“You’re not going to let him have it?” I asked, my indignation rising at
once.
“What can I do?” asked Mrs. Davis, wringing her hands.
“Tear it into shreds as fine as vermicelli!” I cried, “and throw it into
Hampton Roads!”
As I spoke the officer stepped toward us. Raising his hand and shaking
his finger in my face, he asked, threateningly, “You dare counsel
resistance, Madam?”
“Yes!” I retorted, returning the finger-shaking, “To the shedding of
blood, and I’ll begin with you!”
The scene must have been a ludicrous one to all save the two
participants. Mrs. Davis’s spirits certainly rose in contemplating it,
for, as the officer strutted off, his sword dragging at his side, she
smiled as she said, “Puss-in-boots!” In a second, however, her anxiety
returned.
“What shall we do?” she asked. “He will surely come back for the shawl.”
Bent upon foiling him, I quickly suggested an expedient.
“My shawl,” I said, “is almost a counterpart of yours. Let’s fold them
both up and make him guess which is which. Perhaps he’ll take mine!” and
we laughed heartily at the device.
It was not long ere Lieutenant Hudson returned, this time with another
shawl, a coarse thing such as the small stores nearby afforded. Upon his
repeated demand we complacently handed him Mrs. Davis’s shawl and mine.
To our amazement he took them both. Then, as the old saying puts it, we
“laughed on the other side of our faces.” For, by the aid of one of Mrs.
Davis’s former maids, Lieutenant Hudson was enabled to identify Mrs.
Davis’s shawl, which he retained, returning mine. The first, for many
years, was preserved among the curios of the Smithsonian Institution.
During the morning of the day made memorable by the visit of the
Government’s searching party, General Miles and his staff boarded the
_Clyde_. It was my first meeting with the handsome young officer who was
destined to incur so much odium in the near future for his treatment of
the unfortunate ex-President of the Confederate States. I can recall no
particulars of that first meeting with my husband’s jailor, save that he
and his staff made an impressive group as they stood bowing
respectfully, while a few civil words were spoken by their leader.
Upon the question of the latter, as to whether he might serve me in any
way, I answered, “Yes! let me know, from time to time, whether my
husband lives or is dead. If you will do this it will relieve me from an
insupportable suspense!” To this he kindly agreed.
In the interim, I had sent to my husband his valise, containing some
gold and my Bible, which, being set in a specially large type, I knew he
would be glad to have. These were brought back to me shortly after
General Miles’s visit, by an officer who found us still at the mess
table. My Bible was returned to me because of the following
“communication from Mrs. Clay, written on the fly-leaf.”
“2 P. M. Ship-board. May, ’5. With tearful eyes and aching heart, I
commend you, my precious husband, to the care and keeping of
Almighty God. May He bless you, and keep you, and permit us once
again to meet, shall be my unceasing prayer. Farewell,
WIFE.”
As the officer dropped the gold upon the table beside me, he said,
“Please count it, Madam!” I instantly declined to do this, however,
saying, “If General Miles sent it, I presume it is correct,” and swept
it into my lap without further examination.