SECRETARY STANTON DENIES RESPONSIBILITY
From the hour of my arrival in the capital, Friday, November 17th, my
misgivings gave place to courage. I went directly to Willard’s, which,
being near the Executive Mansion and the War Department, and my purse
very slender, I believed would save me hack hire. I had scarcely
registered when General Clingman called. He was followed shortly by
Senators Garland and Johnson, of Arkansas, the vanguard of numerous
friends, who within a few hours came to extend their sympathies and
wishes for the success of my mission. During that first day I sent a
note to Colonel Johnson, Mr. Johnson’s Secretary, asking for an
interview with the President at the earliest possible date. To my great
relief of mind, within a few hours there came an answer, telling me the
President would see me the following Wednesday!
For the next few days I knew no moment alone. The list of callers noted
in my small diary necessarily was but partial, yet even that is
wonderfully long. Among them, to my surprise and somewhat to my
mystification, were General Ihrie, Major Miller and Colonel Ayr of
Grant’s staff. Their friendliness amazed me. I could imagine no reason
why they should call. General Ihrie, moreover, assured me of his chief’s
kind feeling toward my husband, and advised me to see the
Lieutenant-General at an early date.
The Sunday after my arrival, callers began to arrive before breakfast,
the first being Colonel Ogle Tayloe, bearing an invitation from Mrs.
Tayloe to dinner the following evening. Before church hour had arrived,
dear old Mr. Corcoran came, intending to give me welcome on his way to
St. John’s. He forgot to leave again until services were over, and
others returning from church crowded in. Mr. Corcoran’s manner was full
of the old-time charm, as he bade me good-bye at last; and, as he took
my hand in parting, he said, “You’ve not forgotten the little white
house round the corner?” (referring to the banking-house of Riggs &
Corcoran).
“No,” I answered, smiling sadly, “You are my bankers still, but, alas!
where are my deposits?”
Mr. Corcoran’s glance was full of kindness. Laying his hand upon his
heart, he replied, “They are here, my friend!” and he pressed my hand
reassuringly.
I remember that Sunday as one in which tears of gratitude rose to my
eyes again and again, until at last I exclaimed, “It is all very strange
to me! There appears to be none of my husband’s enemies here! It seems
to me as if everyone is his friend!”
The following morning, however, I had an experience calculated to arouse
in me a feeling somewhat less secure. I was still in the bath when a tap
came at my door.
“A lady wishes to see you,” was the reply to my question.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Don’t know, ma’am. She wouldn’t give her name!”
“Very well,” I answered. “Explain to her that I am dressing; that unless
her business is imperative, I would prefer to have her call later.”
In a few moments I heard light tapping again. Upon my inquiry, a name
was whispered through the keyhole, which I recognised as that of the
wife of a well-known public official. I at once admitted her. The
purpose of her visit was a peculiar one. She had come to warn me of the
presence in the city of James Montgomery, _alias_ Thompson, one of the
hireling witnesses whose “testimony” against Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay had
been registered with the Bureau of Military Justice. By some unfortunate
connection of her own family with this miscreant, my visitor had learned
that Montgomery, upon hearing of my object in visiting Washington, had
been heard to make a threat of violence against me. The lady, who shall
continue to be nameless, was so convinced some harm threatened me that
she begged me to promise that while in the capital I would go armed, and
especially be cautious with unknown callers. Montgomery, she added, was
likely to disguise himself; but, further to aid me in guarding against
some injury at his hands, she had brought with her a photograph of the
wretched man. Whether or not some crime was projected against me by this
man I never knew, but the wild nature of the times warranted me in
exercising, thereafter, a prudence which otherwise would not have
occurred to me. I took counsel with friends, and, with one exception,
later to be mentioned, no occurrence during my stay in the capital
served to arouse in me a further apprehension from that quarter.
In the days that intervened until my appointment with the President, my
hours were spent in advantageous interviews with Judge Hughes, of Hughes
& Denver, with Judge Black, Senator Garland, Frederick A. Aiken and
others, during which I gleaned much knowledge of what had transpired
since my husband’s incarceration, and of the public feeling concerning
the distinguished prisoners at Fortress Monroe, whose trials had been so
mysteriously postponed. It was now six months since the imprisonment of
Messrs. Davis and Clay; but in so far as might be learned, definite
charges against them had not yet been filed at the War Department. On
every side I heard it declared that the situation was unprecedented in
English or American jurisprudence. Leading lawyers of the country were
ready and eager to appear in the prisoners’ behalf, but every effort
made by friends to see them thus far had been futile. In those first
weeks, reiterated proffers of legal aid continued to reach me daily from
distinguished quarters.
Upon my arrival in the capital I had put myself at once into
communication with Judge Hughes, as advised by Senator Pendleton. His
kindness was unceasing, not only in the matter of legal advice to guide
me through the intricacies of my undertaking, but in his generous
placing at my disposal his horses and carriages, and the services of his
coachman and footman. Mrs. Hughes was absent in the West, and the
hospitality of their home, therefore, was barred; but all that a
thoughtful nature could suggest was done by the Judge to facilitate
success in my mission.
From the first, too, Judge Jeremiah S. Black, ex-Attorney-General, and
Secretary of State under President Buchanan, with whom I now became, for
the first time, personally acquainted, proved a bulwark of sympathy that
thereafter never failed my husband and self. He was a peculiar man in
appearance, with shaggy brows, deep-set eyes, and a cavernous mouth, out
of which invincible arguments rolled that made men listen. This feature
was large when he spoke, but when he laughed, the top of his head fell
back like a box cover, and looked as if it must drop over the other way.
Happily for the unfortunate, his heart was modelled on a scale as large,
and for months he gave his time and advice unstintedly to me.
On the Wednesday appointed by the President, accompanied by Judge
Hughes, I proceeded to keep my appointment at the White House. One of
the first familiar faces I saw as I entered was that of Mrs. Stephen A.
Douglas, now widowed. A wait of some moments being imminent, with the
affectionate warmth so well-known to me in other and happier days, Mrs.
Douglas at once volunteered to accompany me in my call upon “the good
President,” and in a few moments we were shown into his presence. Mr.
Johnson received us civilly, preserving, at first, what I learned
afterward to know was an habitual composure, though he softened somewhat
under the ardent appeal of Mrs. Douglas when she urged upon him the
granting of my request.
My first impression of the President, who, while a Senator, in the
fifties, had seldom been seen in social gatherings in the capital, was
that of a man upon whom greatness, of a truth, had been thrust; a
political accident, in fact. His hands were small and soft; his manner
was self-contained, it is true, but his face, with “cheeks as red as
June apples,” was not a forceful one.
From the beginning, as Judge Black had declared he would do, Mr. Johnson
clearly wished to shirk the responsibility of my husband’s case, and to
throw it upon the shoulders of his Secretary of War. His non-committal
responses to my reasons why I should have access to my husband, why he
should be tried or liberated, disheartened me greatly. When Mrs. Douglas
perceived this, she added her pleadings to mine, and, as the President’s
shiftiness became more and more apparent, she burst into tears, and,
throwing herself down on her knees before him, called upon me to follow
her example. This, however, I could not comply with. I had no reason to
respect the Tennesseean before me. That he should have my husband’s life
in his power was a monstrous wrong, and a thousand reasons why it was
wrong flashed through my mind like lightning as I measured him, searing
it as they passed. My heart was full of indignant protest that such an
appeal as Mrs. Douglas’s should have been necessary; but that, having
been made, Mr. Johnson could refuse it, angered me still more. I would
not have knelt to him even to save a precious life. This first,
memorable one of many, unhappy scenes at the White House, ended by the
President inviting me to call again after he had consulted his Cabinet.
At the same time he urged me to see Mr. Stanton.
“I think you had best go to him,” he said. “This case comes strictly
within the jurisdiction of the Secretary of War, and I advise you to see
him!”
Realising the futility of further argument with Mr. Johnson at the time,
I followed his advice, going almost immediately, and alone, to the War
Department. It was my first and last visit to Secretary Stanton, in that
day of the Government’s chaos, autocrat of all the United States and
their citizens. Varying accounts of that experience have appeared in the
press during the last thirty-seven years. The majority of them have
exaggerated the iron Secretary’s treatment of me. Many have accused him
of a form of brusque brutality,[54] which, while quite in keeping with
his reputation, nevertheless was not exhibited toward me.
The Secretary of War was not guilty of “tearing up in my face and
throwing in the waste-basket,” as one writer has averred, the
President’s note of introduction, which I bore him, even though I was a
declared “Rebel” and the wife of a so-called conspirator and assassin.
He was simply inflexibly austere and pitiless.
Upon arriving at the War Department, I gave my card and the President’s
note to the messenger in waiting, which, from across the room, I saw
handed to the Secretary. He glanced at them, laid them on the desk at
which he sat, and continued in conversation with a lady who stood beside
him. In a second the messenger returned, and desired me to take a seat
on a sofa, which, as it happened, was directly in line with Mr.
Stanton’s desk. In a few moments the lady with whom he had been in
conversation withdrew. As she passed me I recognised her. She was Mrs.
Kennedy, daughter of ex-Secretary Mallory, then a prisoner in Fort
Lafayette. Her face was flushed and very sad, which I interpreted (and
rightly, as it proved) as meaning that her request had been denied. The
sight filled me with indignation. I resolved at once to retain my seat
and let the Secretary seek me, as a gentleman should do. I was
strengthened in this determination by the conviction that he would
ignore my plea also, and I was resolved to yield him no double victory.
After a delay of a few moments, in which the Secretary adjusted first
his glasses and then his papers, he slowly approached me, saying, “This
is Mrs. Clay, I presume?”
“And this Mr. Stanton?” I replied.
I at once briefly, but bravely, proceeded with my story. I told him that
my object in visiting Washington was to obtain the speedy release of my
husband, who was dying hourly under the deprivations and discipline of
prison life; or, failing this, to obtain for him an early trial, which
he desired not to shirk, but to hasten; of the result of which we had no
fear, unless “he be given up to that triumvirate called the ‘Military
Bureau of Justice,’ of which you are one, Mr. Stanton!” This I said with
inward trembling and with eyes brimming, but looking him fully in the
face. His own gaze fell.
“Madam,” he answered. “I am not your husband’s judge——”
“I know it!” I interrupted. “And I am thankful for it; and I would not
have you for his accuser!”
“Neither am I his accuser!” he continued. I could scarcely believe I had
heard him aright. His manner was gravely polite. I remember thinking at
that moment, “Can this be the rude man of whom I have heard? Can I have
been misinformed about him?”
“Thank you, Mr. Stanton, for those words,” I said. “I had not hoped to
hear them from you. I thought you were the bitterest of my husband’s
enemies! I assure you your words give me fresh hope! I will tell the
President at once of this cheering interview!”
At these expressions Mr. Stanton seemed somewhat confused. I wondered
whether he would modify or recall his words. He did not, however, and
thanking him again for even that concession, I withdrew.
The legal friends to whom I gave an account of this conversation were
less confident as to its significance. If Mr. Stanton was neither Mr.
Clay’s judge nor accuser, who was? Some one was surely responsible for
his detention; some one with the power to obstruct justice was delaying
the trial, which the first legal minds in the country for months had
sought to bring about. If not Mr. Stanton, could it be Mr. Holt, whose
name was already become one of abhorrence among the majority of
Southerners? Judge Black felt sure it was. But accusation against the
Judge Advocate General without proof was impolitic, with my husband’s
safety still in the balance. In a situation so serious as the present, I
should, have preferred to conciliate him.
“Have you tried to interest Judge Holt in your husband’s behalf?” wrote
our old friend ex-Speaker Orr. “Would not some little kind memory of the
past steal over him when you revive the morning reminiscences of the
Ebbitt House, when his much-adored wife was a shining luminary in that
bright circle? He would be more or less than man if such a picture did
not move him. Will you try it?”
Great, indeed, was Mr. Orr’s surprise when he learned that I had written
to Mr. Holt three times, only to meet with complete silence at his
hands!
Under such circumstances it was wiser to adhere to my first purpose;
namely, to sue for the privilege of seeing Mr. Clay and for his release
on parole, or for a speedy trial. I was urged by Judge Black not to
cease in my appeals to the President; to tell the Executive of my
interview with his Secretary of War, and in the meantime to secure from
General Grant, if possible, a letter to the President, advocating my
plea. I had already been assured by General Ihrie of his chief’s ability
and willingness to serve me. On the evening of the second Sunday after
my arrival in Washington, therefore, I drove from Willard’s at seven
o’clock, accompanied by Major Echols, to Lieutenant-General Grant’s
headquarters in Georgetown. I found these to be established in what was
formerly the home of our friend Mr. Alfred Scott,[55] of Alabama, now
deceased. Soldiers guarded the entrance, as became a military
headquarters, and one came forward to take my card as we drove up. Upon
his return, Major Echols and I were shown at once to the General’s
reception parlour. Dismissing the officers in uniform who stood about,
General Grant received me courteously, tendering his hand frankly. I at
once presented Major Echols, saying that “my friend, like yourself, is a
graduate of West Point; but, feeling bound to offer his allegiance to
his native South, he had served with distinction at Fort Sumter,” which
introduction, I imagined, pleased the General, though it disconcerted my
modest escort.
I now briefly, and in some trepidation at finding myself face to face
with the “Hero of the Hour!” the “Coming Man,” “Our next President” (for
by these and many other titles was the hero of Appomattox already
crowned), explained as succinctly as I could my motive in calling upon
him, closing my remarks with the assurance that the one circumstance
prompting me to ask his aid was not his army victories, but his noble
conduct to our beloved General Lee in his recent surrender. I was
convinced, I added, that the man who had borne himself so magnanimously
toward a brave soldier whom he had vanquished, possessed the soul to
espouse and sustain a cause, if just, though all the world opposed. It
was in this faith I had come to him.
The Federal General listened very gravely. When I had finished he
responded in his characteristic, quiet way: “If it were in my power,
Mrs. Clay, I would to-morrow open every prison in the length and breadth
of the land. I would release every prisoner unless——” (after a pause)
“unless Mr. Davis might be detained awhile to satisfy public clamour.
Your husband’s manly surrender entitles him to all you ask. I admire and
honour him for it, and anything I can say or do to assist you shall be
done. I heartily wish you success.”
I asked him, in the course of our conversation, if he would go with me
to the White House the next day, at any hour, day or evening.
“That is impossible,” he said. “I leave at midnight for Richmond.”
“Would you be willing to write what you have spoken?”
“With pleasure!” he replied. Going to the door he called, “Julia!”
In a moment Mrs. Grant entered the room. She shook my hand with the
cordiality of a friend, saying, as she did so, “We have many mutual
friends in St. Louis.” She then expressed her deep sympathy for me, and
hoped her husband could serve me with the President.
In a few moments General Grant returned with the promised letter. I
thanked him from a grateful heart. Upon rising to go, he accompanied me
half down the steps, where, with a hearty shake of the hand, we parted.