RETURN FROM FORTRESS MONROE
By the second day after the incarceration of Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay we
were a heartsick company, and I was glad when, in the late afternoon of
the twenty-fourth of May, our sailing orders came. During the last day
we were anchored off Fortress Monroe, two hundred paroled prisoners had
been taken aboard the _Clyde_, a small and stuffy boat at best, and the
five days spent upon the return trip added to our anguish of mind by
much physical discomfort. The sea was exceedingly rough. Often during
the voyage a hundred or more passengers at a time were confined below.
Those who were well found their cabins unendurably warm. In mine, the
gossip of the negroes and sailors on the lower deck was clearly audible;
and, as their themes ran principally upon the probable fate of the
prisoners, questionable as I knew the source to be from which flowed the
conversations, the gossip did not serve to lessen my melancholy, though
it keyed my alertness to a higher pitch.
Some hours previous to our departure from Hampton Roads, in sheer
exhaustion from the experiences that had crowded upon us, I lay down in
my cabin, a prey to mingled heart-aching and bitterness; when, looking
toward the door, I perceived a sentinel on guard. What I took to be an
added indignity made me resentful. I spoke to him.
“You are a brave man, standing there with bayonet in hand to terrorise a
wretched woman!” I said. He turned slightly, “Mrs. Clay,” he answered,
“You ought to be glad to have me here guarding you, for this boat is
full of rough soldiers!” In a moment my wrath was turned to gratitude. I
thanked him, and I felt that in him, thereafter, I had a friend; indeed,
we had reason to feel that all aboard who dared to show it felt pity for
and kindness toward our desolate party.
During the trip, as Mrs. Davis, Miss Howell and I sat at night on deck,
looking out over the seas, I thought the swish of the waters against the
_Clyde’s_ side was as melancholy a note as I had ever heard. One evening
we had sat thus, discussing our situation and the dangers that
surrounded us, when, rising to return to my stateroom, I felt my dress
slightly pulled. Thinking my skirts had become entangled in the rope
coils or rigging near us, I reached out to detach them, when, to my
alarm, I found my hand in contact with another, and into mine was thrust
a bundle of newspapers. I could not have thanked the sailor who handed
them to me had I had the presence of mind to do so, for, passing swiftly
on his way, he was lost in the darkness ere I could identify him. The
roll was in my hand, however, and I made my way quickly to the cabin
with it. They were the first newspapers we had had since arriving at the
Fortress. By the light of the dim cabin lamp I read them. The
aggregation of “opinions of the press” was so awful in its animosity
that they stunned my very power of thought. One extract burnt itself
into my brain. It ran, “We hope soon to see the bodies of these two arch
traitors, Davis and Clay, dangling and blackening in the wind and rain!”
The horror of these printed words for the moment overbalanced my reason.
I hastened with it to Mrs. Davis; a great mistake, for her agony of mind
upon reading it was such that restoratives were necessary to prevent her
from fainting. I never knew who the sailor was who gave the papers to
me, though I was more fortunate in regard to the author of another
kindness which, happily, was less reactionary upon me.
Immediately upon my husband’s incarceration I had busied myself in
writing letters to a list of distinguished public men which had been
prepared for my use by Mr. Clay. It included the name of Joseph Holt,
who, once our friend, had deplored the possible loss to the nation of my
husband’s counsels. My list comprised thirteen names, the number that
has been accounted unlucky since thirteen sat at the table of our Lord
and one betrayed him. In view of the months of persecution, which
followed my husband’s surrender, directly traceable to malice or
fanatical zeal in the Judge Advocate’s office, an analogy is
unavoidable. My list included the names of T. W. Pierce, of Boston, Ben.
Wood, owner and editor of the New York _Daily News_, R. J. Halderman,
Charles O’Conor, the great jurist, Judge Jeremiah Black and others. To
Mr. Holt I wrote as follows:
“OFF FORTRESS MONROE ON STEAMER _Clyde_,
“May 23, 1865.
“JUDGE ADVOCATE GENERAL HOLT.
“_My Dear Sir_: The circumstances of my husband’s voluntary
surrender to the Federal authorities, to meet the charges against
him, doubtless have reached you, as General Wilson, commanding at
Macon, promised to telegraph as well as write you immediately of it.
We left Macon on the 13th, in company with other prisoners, General
Wilson permitting me to accompany Mr. Clay without orders or
restrictions. For five days we have lain at this spot awaiting
events. Yesterday morning, with five minutes’ warning only, my
husband was taken to Fortress Monroe. As no communication is
permitted, I am denied appeals to Generals Miles or Halleck, but
entertain strong hope that one or the other may arrive to-day to
relieve my suspense.
“But the object of this letter is to appeal to you, in this moment
of dire necessity, on behalf my dear husband. You, Judge Holt, now
the embodiment of the ‘majesty of the law,’ were once pleased to
subscribe yourself my ‘sincere friend.’ I will not believe that time
or circumstances have changed your feelings toward one who
reciprocated that friendship and was beloved by your angelic wife.
So, into your hands, my dear sir, I commit my precious husband’s
case, begging that you will see to it that he receives proper
counsel and a fair and impartial trial, from which he will surely
come forth vindicated. Of course, you have some appearance of
testimony in your courts or the proclamation would not have been
issued, but I also believe that you esteem Mr. Clay as innocent of
that horrid crime, as I know him to be. Hold the scales of mercy and
justice as our great and final Judge will hold them in your and my
cases when we stand at the Bar, and I shall fear no evil. Write me a
line at Macon, if you please, and, if possible, permit me to visit
my husband. With kindest regards to ... believe me,
“ETC.”
With the exception of the Archbishop of Bermuda, who was away from his
post, as I learned some time later, only Mr. Holt, of the thirteen
written to, ignored my appeal.
Having taken the precaution to give to each correspondent an address at
which, under cover, replies might reach me, I sealed and addressed each
letter preparatory for posting; but now I found myself in a quandary as
to how I should accomplish this important feat. I held them for several
days uncertain as to whose care I might intrust them. As we were
approaching Hilton Head, however, a soldier, whom I had observed passing
and repassing the open door of my cabin, tossed in a slip of paper on
which was written, “I will mail your letters. Trust me.” As there was
nothing treasonable in them, and the need was urgent for getting them
swiftly to their several destinations, I concluded to accept the offer
so miraculously made.
I therefore rolled them up, and, putting a gold dollar in a bit of
paper, awaited the reappearance of my unknown messenger. In a few
moments he came, and I slipped the little parcel into his hands. That
afternoon I heard a careless whistler pass my door and the bit of gold
was tossed into my stateroom, and with excellent aim, too, for it fell
directly upon my berth. The friendly stranger had refused to retain
sufficient coin to pay for the postage. Before leaving the _Clyde_ I
ascertained his name. He was Charles McKim, of Philadelphia.
Such kindly aid unexpectedly extended to us by a stranger now and then
had its own part in stimulating and encouraging us during a voyage in
which a thousand hopes and fears and memories tortured us. The very
coast-line, there in the distance, seemed to write on the horizon the
story of our disasters. We passed on our way within one hundred yards of
desolate, historic Sumter, over which the Union flag floated, and the
solitary sentinel pacing his rounds was visible to us. Beyond lay
Charleston, her outlines placid, though we knew she was scarred within.
Our journey, as I have stated, was full of discomfort. Our cabins were
far from clean, and chamber service we had none save that performed by
Mrs. Davis’s coloured servant, Robert, who attended to our needs; and so
soiled were the pillows that we were obliged to pin over them our white
petticoats before retiring, these being our only protection against the
nocturnal invaders that thronged in the bedding. It will be concluded,
therefore, that, upon our arrival in Savannah, we were a rather
bedraggled and travel-stained party. Our original supply of clothing for
the trip had been small, and the service demanded of it thus far had
been in exactly an inverse ratio. It required some courage, therefore,
as well as ingenuity, to arrange our toilettes in such manner as would
help us to a condition of outward composure. I, having no little ones to
care for, was most abundantly provided, and was, therefore, enabled to
contribute to my less fortunate companion, Mrs. Davis, my black silk
Talma, a loose garment of those days much used in travelling.
We heard at once, upon stepping ashore at Savannah, that the Federal
authorities had prohibited our party the use of carriages, and the
absence of friendly faces at the wharf told us that the date of our
arrival had also been kept a secret. We were, therefore, obliged to
begin our walk up the acclivity that led to the Pulaski House without
the moral support of a friendly presence. Those of the young children
who could toddle did so; but the infant, Winnie, was carried by Miss
Howell, Robert following behind with such luggage as he could “tote.” We
were a sad procession!
We had nearly reached the hotel, when a party of gentlemen, seeing us,
stopped in the midst of a conversation and eyed us a second. Among them
were our friends, Mr. Frederick Myers and Mr. Green. Upon recognising
our party, first one and then another of the group caught up the
children and bore them on their shoulders into the Pulaski House.
The news of our arrival spread over the city at once, and an impromptu
levee was begun which lasted until late in the night. It was followed,
the next day, by gifts of flowers and fruit, and, what was immediately
needful, of clothing of every description. The people of Savannah acted
as by one great impulse of generosity, all eager to demonstrate their
devotion to the prisoners now in the hands of the United States
Government, and to us, their representatives. We found in the city many
of our former Washington and Richmond friends, among whom were
ex-Senator Yulee, of Florida, and General Mercer. Savannah was in a
state of continual disquiet. The air rang with sounds of fifes and drums
of Federal soldiers, and bands of triumphant music were encountered in
every direction. Drills were constant and innumerable, and fully as
unpleasant to our eyes as our conquerors could wish; but, to my Southern
mind, no sight was so sad, and none presented so awful a travesty on the
supposed dignity of arms, as the manœuvres of a regiment of negroes in
full dress!
However, I was in no mood to think resentfully upon these minor evils of
our times; for, notwithstanding the kindnesses shown our party on every
side, my apprehensions for my husband’s safety increased as the journals
of each day gave out their horrors. The news that Mr. Davis, saddened,
ill, strengthless, as we knew him to be, had been put in chains,
startled us. Not a soul in the South but was horrified at the wanton
act, and none, I think, will ever forgive the deed though its authorship
has remained unacknowledged to this day. The press, both North and
South, was filled with alarming prognostications and with news of the
gathering testimony which would fix the crime with which the
ex-President and my husband were charged, upon them. Items which I might
not otherwise have seen were clipped from Northern papers and sent to me
by friends eager to acquaint me with news of every development which
might warn or strengthen. From mysterious purlieus, witnesses were being
brought forward on whose awful testimony were to be formulated, it was
said, charges of heinous crime against the prisoners of state. What this
testimony was to be, who was to give it, were mysteries to me. I tried
in vain to communicate with Mr. Clay, and on the 8th of June, unable
longer to endure the suspense, I wrote to General Miles, imploring him
to send me at least one line to assure me of Mr. Clay’s welfare; at the
same time inclosing a second letter to Judge Advocate General Holt.
To add to my distress of mind, the interest of the newspapers, being now
concerned with the Surratt and other trials, became silent for the time
being on the cases of Messrs. Davis and Clay, and, until the receipt of
a letter from General Miles, I was uncertain of my husband’s
whereabouts, rumours having reached me of his having been transferred to
Fort Warren. A letter received at this time from General James H. Wilson
records that he, too, was under this impression. Waiting from day to day
in the hope of ascertaining some definite information concerning Mr.
Clay, and having established communication with friends in various
quarters, I now began to shape my plans for a return to Huntsville,
meanwhile offering such consolations to my companions as was in my
power. Only the uncomprehending children of our party seemed happily
free from the weight of trouble everywhere besetting us. I remember an
amusing incident in connection with the little Jeff., our manly
protector, just previous to my leaving the hotel to accept the
hospitality of friends. He had scarcely arrived, when he formed an
attachment for a fine Newfoundland dog, a regular attaché of the popular
hostelry. While Mrs. Davis and I were entertaining some of Savannah’s
kind people, we heard Jeff.’s voice shouting every now and then in
uproarious good humour, “Bully for Jeff.! Bully for Jeff.!” At last I
went out to reason with him. I found him successfully mounted on his
canine acquaintance, a strong bridle in one hand, a switch in the other.
“You shouldn’t say ‘Bully for Jeff.,’” I remonstrated. “It isn’t nice.
You must remember whose boy you are!” The little fellow looked
nonplussed.
“Well!” he said, ruefully, “Mis’ Clay, if a fellow don’t bully for
hisself, who’s going to bully for him?” I gazed at him, puzzled. This
was a Waterloo for me. I answered, “Well, bully for yourself! but don’t
bully so loud,” and retreated to the parlour, leaving the little lad to
cogitate on whether he or I was master of the situation.
I lingered in Savannah, eagerly awaiting letters which I hoped would
meet me there, until the middle of June, when I proceeded to Macon, _en
route_ for Huntsville, and I am amused now at the contrariety of the
human memory, when, into the woof of the thoughts of those strenuous
days, there is thrust a thread of comedy. Just before leaving the
hospitable coast city, I was the guest of Mrs. Levy, mother of the
brilliant Mrs. Philip Phillips, of Washington, of Mrs. Pember, and of
Miss Martha Levy, one of the readiest wits I have ever known.
During the evening first referred to, many guests were introduced, among
them some of Savannah’s prominent Hebrews. For an hour Miss Martha had
been busy presenting her friends, both Christian and Jew, when, one
after another, came Mr. Cohen, Mr. Salomon, Dr. Lazarus and Dr.
Mordecai. At this remarkable procession my risibles proved triumphant. I
glanced slyly at Miss Martha. Her eyes shone with mischief as she
presented Dr. Mordecai.
“And is Haman here, too?” I asked.