THE EVACUATION OF PETERSBURG
The happy day was not distant when the husband and father of our little
family was to be restored to his own home and his own people.
I never inquired the source from which John drew his materials for a
festival; but, a day or two before my husband was to arrive, he appeared
with a small duck! This he roasted to perfection, to be served cold, as
the hour for the dinner could not be determined in advance.
We were all expectation and excitement when a lady drove up rapidly and
asked for shelter, as she had been "driven in from the lines." Shelter I
could give by spreading quilts on the parlor floor—but, alas, my duck!
Must my precious duck be sacrificed upon the altar of hospitality? I
unlocked the little tin safe to assure myself that I could manage to
keep it hidden, and behold, it was gone! Not until next day, when it was
placed before my husband with a triumphant flourish (our unwelcome guest
had departed), did I discover that John had stolen it! "Why, there's
the duck!" I exclaimed.
"Course here's the duck," said John, respectfully. "Ducks got plenty of
sense. They knows as well as folks when to hide."
We found our released prisoner pale and thin, but devoutly thankful
to be at home. Mr. Connolly and the officers around us called in the
evening, keenly anxious to hear his story, and heartily expressing
their joy at his release. My friends in Washington had wished to send
me some presents, but my husband declined them, accepting only two
cans of pineapple. Mr. Connolly sent out for the "boys in the yard"
and assisted me in dividing the fruit into portions, so each one should
have a bit. It was served on all the saucers and butter-plates we could
find, and Mr. Connolly himself handed the tray around, exclaiming, "Oh,
lads! It is just the _best_ thing you ever tasted!" Then each soldier
brought forth his brier-root and gathered around the traveller for his
story. His story was a thrilling one—of his capture, his incarceration,
his comrades; finally, of the unexpected result of the efforts of his
ante-bellum friends, Washington McLean and John W. Forney, for his
release. It was ascertained by these friends in Washington that he
was detained as hostage for the safety of some Union officer whom the
Confederate government had threatened to put to death.
Mr. McLean and Colonel Forney first approached General Grant. The
General positively refused to grant their request. Then Mr. McLean
visited Mr. Stanton. He found Mr. Stanton in the library of his own
home, with his daughter in his arms, and the following conversation
ensued:—
"This is a charming fireside picture, Mr. Secretary! I warrant that
little lady cares nothing for war or the Secretary of War! She has her
father, and that fills all her ambition."
"You never said a truer word, did he, pet?" pressing the curly head
close to his bosom.
"Well, then, Stanton, you will understand my errand. There are curly
heads down there in old Virginia, weeping out their bright eyes for a
father loved just as this pretty baby loves you."
"Yes, yes! Probably so," said Stanton.
"Now—there's Pryor—"
But before another word could be said the Secretary of War pushed the
child from his knee and thundered:—
"He shall be hanged! Damn him!"
But he had reckoned without his host when he supposed that Washington
McLean would not appeal from that verdict. Armed with a letter of
introduction from Horace Greeley, Mr. McLean visited Mr. Lincoln. The
President remembered General Pryor's uniformly generous treatment of
prisoners who had, at various times, fallen into his custody, especially
his capture at Manassas of the whole camp of Federal wounded, surgeons
and ambulance corps, and his prompt parole of the same. Mr. Lincoln
listened attentively, and, after ascertaining all the facts, issued
an order directing Colonel Burke, the commander at Fort Lafayette, to
"deliver Roger A. Pryor into the custody of Washington McLean."
Armed with this order, Mr. McLean visited Fort Lafayette, where he found
his friend in close confinement in the casemate with other prisoners.
At that time John Y. Beall, a Confederate officer, was confined with
General Pryor, under sentence of death as a spy. Mr. McLean became
interested in his fate, and suggested that if General Pryor would make a
personal appeal in his behalf to President Lincoln, his execution might
probably be prevented. To that end, Mr. McLean telegraphed a request
to Mr. Lincoln, that he accord General Pryor an interview, to which
a favorable response was promptly returned. The next evening, General
Pryor, with Mr. McLean and Mr. Forney, called at the White House, and
was graciously received by the President. General Pryor at once opened
his intercession in behalf of Captain Beall; but, although Mr. Lincoln
evinced the sincerest compassion for the young man, and an extreme
aversion to his death, he felt constrained to yield to the assurance
of General Dix, in a telegram just received, that the execution was
indispensable to the security of the Northern cities—it being believed,
though erroneously, that Captain Beall was implicated in the burning
of the New York hotels. Mr. Lincoln then turned the conversation to the
recent conference at Hampton Roads, the miscarriage of which he deplored
with the profoundest sorrow. He said that had the Confederate government
agreed to the reëstablishment of the Union and the abolition of slavery,
the people of the South might have been compensated for the loss of
their negroes and would have been protected by a universal amnesty,
but that Mr. Jefferson Davis made the recognition of the Confederacy a
condition _sine qua non_ of any negotiations. Thus, he declared, would
Mr. Davis be responsible for every drop of blood that should be shed
in the further prosecution of the war, a futile and wicked effusion of
blood, since it was then obvious to every sane man that the Southern
armies must be speedily crushed. On this topic he dwelt so warmly and at
such length that General Pryor inferred that he still hoped the people
of the South would reverse Mr. Davis's action, and would renew the
negotiations for peace. Indeed, he declared in terms that he could not
believe the senseless obstinacy of Mr. Davis represented the sentiment
of the South. It was apparent to General Pryor that Mr. Lincoln desired
him to sound leading men of the South on the subject. Accordingly, on
the General's return to Richmond, he did consult with Senator Hunter and
other prominent men in the Confederacy, but with one voice they assured
him that nothing could be done with Mr. Davis, and that the South had
only to wait the imminent and inevitable catastrophe.
The inevitable catastrophe marched on apace.
Agnes wrote from Richmond, March 28—the last letter I received from the
Confederate capital:—
"I do hate to write you bad news just now when you should be
so happy with our dear General, but, really and truly, I don't
at all like the looks of things here. Sheridan is at Ashland.
And General Sherman has finished up North Carolina, and is in
Virginia!
"I made an excursion through some of the Main Street stores
last week—and recognized some of Mrs. Davis's things. I
learned that she had placed a great many articles at the
dry-goods stores for sale and had sold her horses. And now
comes the surprising news, that she has left the city with
her family. What does all this mean? Some of the girls here
have taken their jewellery to the Treasury Department, giving
it to help redeem the currency. I am sure they are welcome to
all mine!"
On the morning of April 2 we were all up early that we might prepare
and send to Dr. Claiborne's Hospital certain things we had suddenly
acquired. An old farmer friend of my husband had loaded a wagon with
peas, potatoes, dried fruit, hominy, and a little bacon, and had sent
it as a welcoming present. We had been told of the prevalence of scurvy
in the hospitals, and had boiled a quantity of hominy, and also of dried
fruit, to be sent with the potatoes for the relief of the sick.
My husband said to me at our early breakfast:—
"How soundly you can sleep! The cannonading was awful last night. It
shook the house."
"Oh, that is only Fort Gregg," I answered. "Those guns fire incessantly.
I don't consider them. You've been shut up in a casemate so long you've
forgotten the smell of powder."
Our father, who happened to be with us that morning, said:—
"By the bye, Roger, I went to see General Lee, and told him you seemed
to be under the impression that if your division moves, you should go
along with it. The General said emphatically: 'That would be violation
of his parole, Doctor. Your son surely knows he cannot march with the
army until he is exchanged.'"
This was a great relief to me, for I had been afraid of a different
construction.
After breakfast I repaired to the kitchen to see the pails filled for
the hospital, and to send Alick and John on their errand.
Presently a message was brought me that I must join my husband, who
had walked out to the fortification behind the garden. I found a low
earthwork had been thrown up during the night still nearer our house,
and on it he was standing.
I have had, very lately, access to a Federal map of the intrenched lines
in the immediate front of Petersburg, drawn by a major of engineers
of the United States Army. There I find a double line of breastworks,
protected by thirty-four forts sweeping around the city and embracing
some six or eight miles of country beyond, on either side. Within the
Federal line is a little thread of a line protected by lunettes and
only _two_ forts (for this map has quite a Chinese feeling), and these
two are named by the enemy, Fort Gregg and Fort Baldwin—the latter our
Battery 45. To my surprise I find the engineer had his eye on me all
winter. Near together are certain dots—two for "Turnbull" (General
Lee's headquarters), two for "Green," two for "Laighton," and four
for "Pryor," representing the dwelling, office, kitchen, and servants'
quarter at Cottage Farm! I perceive from the map that the engineer knew
all about us all the time.
To return to the morning of April 2—my husband held out his hand and
drew me up on the breastwork beside him. Negroes were passing, wheeling
their barrows, containing the spades they had just used. Below was a
plain, and ambulances were collecting and stopping at intervals. Then a
slender gray line stretched across under cover of the first earthwork
and the forts. Fort Gregg and Battery 45 were belching away with all
their might, answered by guns all along the line. While we gazed on
all this the wood opposite seemed alive, and out stepped a division
of bluecoats—muskets shining and banners flying in the morning sun. My
husband exclaimed: "My God! What a line! They are going to fight here
right away. Run home and get the children in the cellar."
When I reached the little encampment behind the house, I found the
greatest confusion. Tents were struck and a wagon was loading with them.
Captain Glover rode up to me and conjured me to leave immediately. I
reminded him of his promise not to allow me to be surprised.
"We are ourselves surprised," he said; "believe me, your life is
not safe here a moment." Tapping his breast, he continued, "I bear
despatches proving what I say."
I ran into the house and gathered my little children. I bade the
servants remain. If things grew warm, they had the cellar, and perhaps
their presence would save their own goods and mine, should the day go
against us. Uncle Frank immediately repaired to the cellar. "I have
only one order," I told the rest, "hide the General's flag." As I left
(bareheaded, I could not find my hat), I heard Uncle Frank call from the
little portholes of his retreat to his wife, "For Gawd's sake, Jinny,
bring me a gode of water."
The morning was close and warm, and as we toiled up the dusty road
I regretted the loss of my hat. Presently I met a gentleman driving
rapidly from town. It was my neighbor, Mr. Laighton. He had removed his
wife and little girls to a place of safety and was returning for me. He
proposed, as we were now out of musket range, that I should rest with
the children under the shade of a tree, and he would return to the farm
to see if he could save something—what did I suggest? I asked that he
would bring a change of clothing for the children and my medicine chest.
As we waited for his return some terrified horses dashed up the road,
one with blood flowing from his nostrils. When Mr. Laighton finally
returned, he brought news that he had seen my husband, that all the
cooked provisions were spread out for the passing soldiers, and that
more were in preparation; also that he had promised to take care of me,
and to leave the General free to dispense these things judiciously. John
had put the service of silver into the buggy, and Eliza had packed a
trunk, for which he was to return. This proved to be the French trunk
in which Eliza sent a change of clothing.
We were all soon in the buggy and on our way to town.
"Where shall I take you?" asked Mr. Laighton. I had no answer ready.
I thought I would trust to chance for an invitation. But we found the
streets full of refugees like ourselves, and like ourselves, uncertain
of shelter. Very few of our friends had remained in the city after the
siege had proven to be a permanent one.
After a while, as we drove slowly through the crowded streets, we met
Mr. Stuart, my husband's tailor. He said a good house had been left
vacant by one of his customers, who had authorized him to rent it.
"I now rent it to General Pryor," said Mr. Stuart, and he conducted
us to the door of a residence near my old home on Washington Street.
When the door-bell was answered he informed a man whom he addressed as
Robert, that we had become his master's tenants, and said that Robert
and his mother, now in the house, would not be required to leave,
adding:—
"Take good care of this lady. I will see that your wages are paid and
that you are suitably rewarded."
The silver service was dumped down in the front porch, and there we
awaited events. About noon John appeared. He had saved something!—my
champagne glasses! He had also brought a basket of biscuits. I sent him
back to the farm, strictly ordering that the flag should be cared for.
John told me it was safe. He had hidden it under some fence rails in the
cellar. As to the battle, he had no news, except that "Marse Roger is
giving away everything on the earth. All the presents from the farmer
will go in a little while."
My next envoy from the seat of war was Alick, who walked into the yard,
leading Rose by a rope, and at once proceeded to stable her. Go back?
No, _marm_, not if he knew his name was Alick. His mammy had never
borned him to be in no battle! And walking off to give Rose a pail of
water, he informed her that "You'n me, Rose, is the only folks I see
anywhar 'bout here with any sense."
Neighbors soon discovered us; and to my joy I found that Mrs. Gibson,
Mrs. Meade, and Mr. Bishop—one of my father's elders—were in their own
houses, very near my temporary shelter.
Our father, I learned afterwards, was with the hospital service of his
corps, and had been sent to the rear.
The hospitals under Dr. Claiborne were ordered off early in the day,
a significant indication of General Lee's accurate estimate of the
probabilities of the hour. Dr. Claiborne had three thousand sick and
wounded men to move. Among them was Colonel Riddick, from Smithfield,
the brother of the spirited girl I had known there. She had come to
Petersburg to nurse her wounded brother, and had left, in a wagon, with
the hospital train. Part of this train was captured, and the wagons
were ordered to be burned; but Miss Riddick positively refused to leave
her seat, and as they could not burn the wagon with her in it, she was
suffered to proceed with her brother in her own equipage. Miss Riddick
was not a young lady who need fear. "There's a divinity doth hedge" some
women. She was courteously treated and passed through the lines to her
friends.
[Illustration]
In the evening the little boys came in with confidential news. The day
had gone against us; the city was to be surrendered after the retreat
of the army at midnight. Their father would come in with the last.
I remembered with anguish that I had lost my chance to save the
important papers of the family. In a trunk in my room I had locked all
my one lover's beautiful letters, all the correspondence—so rich I had
meant to print it—of his residence in Greece, of his travels in the East
and in Egypt; all the letters from statesmen and authors of the years
preceding the struggle. There they were. They would be sport for the
enemy in a few hours. My eldest son, Theodorick, and Campbell Pryor, my
husband's twelve-year-old brother, agreed to return to the farm, draw
the trunk out to the rear of the kitchen, break it open, set fire to
the contents, and not leave until they were consumed.
In due time the boys returned, having accomplished the burning of the
letters, but bearing between them a huge bundle—a sheet full of papers.
"Father's sermons," explained Campbell.
When the time came for my tired little brood to go to bed, I found
three upper rooms prepared for us. In one of these I put the boys, first
placing the large silver tray between two mattresses. A hamper filled
with soiled towels and pinafores stood in a corner. Therein I bestowed
the six pieces of the service, covering the whole with the soiled linen.
A smaller room I reserved for my husband, into which I locked him,
putting the key in my pocket—for he had returned in such an excited
frame of mind, and in such physical exhaustion, that I was uneasy about
him, lest he might, when the army passed, yield to his feelings and go
along with it.
Then I took my seat at the window and listened. The firing had all
ceased.
A ring at the door-bell startled me. There stood Mayor Townes, come to
ask if General Pryor would go out with the flag of truce and surrender
the city.
"Oh, he cannot—he cannot," I declared. "How can you ask him to surrender
his old home? Besides, he is worn out, and is now sleeping heavily."
About two o'clock, General Lee passed the house with his staff. It is
said he looked back and said to his aide: "This is just what I told them
at Richmond. The line has been stretched until it snapped." Presently
there was a loud explosion—another—another. The bridges were being blown
up. Then fires announced the burning of warehouses of tobacco.
And then! As the dawn broke, I saw the Federal pickets entering
silently, watchfully. Finding no resistance, they threw their muskets
over into the yard and hurried down town to plunder!
I awoke my boys. "Get up, boys! Dress quickly. Now remember, you must
be very self-controlled and quiet, and no harm will come to you."
Immediately the door of my room was thrown wide open, and Robert ushered
in three armed, German-looking soldiers.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To search the house," they answered.
"You will find nothing worth your while. There is my shawl! I have just
run in from the lines. Here are my children."
"We don't want your clothes," said one; "we want your prisoner."
My husband had heard and knocked at his door. He had not undressed.
"Here I am," he said, coming out and fastening his collar; and, before
I could think, they had marched him off.
I was left alone with the boy Robert, who had betrayed him. He stood
trembling, not with fear—with excitement.
"Leave this house!" I ordered him.
"What for?" he asked sullenly.
"Because you are no friend of mine. This is now my house. You are not
to set foot in it again."
Strange to say, he left.
He had admitted into the house more soldiers than these three. I had
brought with me from the farm a little negress, Lizzie, who had been
hired by Eliza "to amuse the baby." Lizzie had obeyed the instinct which
always leads a child's Southern nurse to the kitchen, and had gone below
with my baby. I heard the most tremendous stamping and singing in the
basement kitchen, and from the top of the staircase I called to Lizzie,
who ran up, frightened, with the child in her arms. A soldier looked up
from the bottom.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Getting breakfast," he replied.
"You'll get none here," I told him.
He set his bayonet forward and started up the steps. I slipped back and
luckily found a bolt on the door. Quick as thought I bolted him out.
But I was burningly indignant. I saw the street full of troops standing,
and a young officer on horseback. I ran out and said to him:—
"Is it your pleasure we should be murdered in our houses? My kitchen is
full of soldiers."
"Where, where?" exclaimed the young fellow, dismounting and running in.
I conducted him to the bolted door, unfastened it, and had the
satisfaction of seeing him lay about with the flat of his sword to
good purpose. He placed a guard around the house. Moreover, his action
sustained me in my position, and the old woman in the kitchen greeted
me respectfully, apologized for her son, and promised faithful service
in the future.
But another and most bitter trial was in store for me. An approaching
army corps was hailed with shouts and cheers as it passed down
the street. At its head was borne the trophy that had aroused this
enthusiasm: our own sacred banner, given by the women of Petersburg
to the young colonel at Smithfield, and inscribed with the names of
the battles into which he had proudly borne it. It was coming back—a
captive! How grateful I felt that my husband had not seen it! "Ole Uncle
Frank's at the bottom of that business," said Alick,—and alas! we had
reason to suppose the polite old colored gentleman had purchased favor
by revealing the hiding-place of our banner. My husband soon returned.
He had presented Mr. Lincoln's card, on which the President had written
his "parole until exchanged." Thereafter he was arrested and released
every time the occupying troops moved and were replaced by new brigades
and divisions.
We sat all day in the front room, watching the splendidly equipped host
as it marched by on its way to capture Lee. It soon became known that
we were there. Within the next few days we had calls from old Washington
friends. Among others my husband was visited by Elihu B. Washburne, and
Senator Henry Wilson, afterward Vice-President of the United States with
General Grant. These paid long visits and talked kindly and earnestly
of the South.
Major-General Warren had been relieved of his command and superseded by
Sheridan. His old friend, Randolph Harrison, lay ill and wounded near
us, and General Warren introduced himself to General Pryor and asked
to be conducted to his friend's bedside. From that time he was with us
every day, and, indorsed warmly by "Ranny," our old friend, he too was
admitted into our friendship.
Mr. Lincoln soon arrived and sent for my husband. But General Pryor
excused himself, saying that he was a paroled prisoner, that General
Lee was still in the field, and that he could hold no conference with
the head of the opposing army.
The splendid troops passed continually. Our hearts sank within us. We
had but one hope—that General Lee would join Joseph E. Johnston and find
his way to the mountains of Virginia, those ramparts of nature which
might afford protection until we could rest and recruit.