The morning of November 29, 1864, found me comfortably seated at my
breakfast table with my little boys and my small brother, Campbell
Pryor. My venerable father, Dr. Pryor, had departed on his daily rounds
to visit the sick and wounded in the hospitals, and my husband was
away on special duty for General Lee. John had reported early with
one cupful of milk—all that little Rose, with her slender rations, was
capable of yielding. This we had boiled with parched corn and sweetened
with sorghum molasses. With perfect biscuits well beaten but unmixed
with lard or butter we made a breakfast with which we were contented.
I indulged myself in a long letter to my dear aunt, telling her of our
comfortable home and the prospect of comparative quiet with the army
soon to go into winter quarters. I had addressed my letter and was
about to seal it when General Wilcox entered, and gently told me that
my husband had been captured the day before!
I remember perfectly that I sat for a moment stunned into silence,
and then quietly stamped my letter! I would spare my aunt the sad news
for a while. In a few minutes clanking spurs at the door announced the
presence of a staff-officer.
"Madam," he said respectfully, "General Lee sends you his affectionate
sympathies."
Through the window I saw General Lee on his horse, Traveller, standing
at the well. He waited until his messenger returned—I was too much
overcome to speak—and then rode slowly towards the lines.
I had small hope of the speedy exchange promised me by General Wilcox.
From day to day he reported the efforts made for my husband's release
and their failure. General Lee authorized a letter to General Meade,
detailing the circumstances of his capture and requesting his release.
General Meade promptly refused to release him.
We naturally looked to the enemy for all information, and although my
husband had written me a pencilled note at City Point on the inside
of a Confederate envelope, and had implored his guard (a Federal
officer) to have it inserted in a New York paper, I did not receive it
until thirty-one years afterward. We soon had news, however, through a
despatch from the Northern army to the _New York Herald_. The paper of
November 30, 1864, contained the following:—
"Yesterday a rebel officer made his appearance in front of our
lines, waving a paper for exchange. The officer in charge of the
picket, suddenly remembering that Major Burrage, of the Thirty-sixth
Massachusetts, was taken prisoner some time since by the enemy while on
a similar errand, 'gobbled' the rebel, who proved to be the famous Roger
A. Pryor, ex-member of Congress and ex-brigadier-general of Jeff Davis's
army. He protested vehemently against what he styled 'a flagrant breach
of faith' on our part. He was assured he was taken in retaliation for
like conduct on the part of his friends, and sent to General Meade's
headquarters for further disposition."
Press despatch to _Herald_, November 30, from Washington: "Roger A.
Pryor has been brought to Washington and committed to the old Capitol
Prison." Later a personal through the _New York News_ reached me: "Your
husband is in Fort Lafayette, where a friend and relative is permitted
to visit him, (signed) Mary Rhodes." From an enormous quantity of
letters, newspaper extracts, book notices, military reports, etc.,
describing his capture written by the men who made it and witnessed it,
I select an interesting one, not hitherto published, which my husband
received recently through my brother, the Mayor of Bristol.
"BRISTOL, TENN., July 10, 1908.
"HON. W. L. RICE, "BRISTOL, VA.
"_My dear Mayor_:—
"I very cheerfully comply with your request to give you a
short sketch of the circumstances which led to my selection
as the Officer to convey Gen. R. A. Pryor to Fort Warren,
Mass., in 1864. As an aid to my memory I have hunted over my
old Army papers, and have found the original Order from the
Military Governor of Washington, D.C., and also the receipt
given me by Gen. Pryor for money which I turned over to him,
on delivering him to the Commandant of Fort Lafayette, N. Y.
Harbor, to which place my orders were afterwards changed and
which papers I herewith attach.
"In November of 1864 my Regiment, the 39th Mass., was serving
in the defences of Washington, and I had been detailed as
an Aid on the staff of Gen. Martindale, then Commanding the
Military District of Washington. Having received a Leave of
Absence to visit my home in Mass., Col. T. McGowan, then Adjt.
General of the District, kindly offered to place a prisoner
in my charge and thus save to me my transportation. I did not
know who my prisoner was to be, until my orders were received,
and naturally felt pleased to find that my charge was to be
Gen. Roger A. Pryor, whom I had known by reputation from my
boyhood up.
"Though my Orders read that I was to assist Brig. General
Wessels, I saw nothing of that gentleman until after
General Pryor and myself had reached and taken seats in the
train. Then Gen. Wessels made himself known, and asked an
introduction to Gen. Pryor.
"It was 9.30 at night when left Washington, and we did not
reach New York until daylight next morning. When I received my
prisoner at the Old Capitol Prison, I recall that the Supt.,
one Colonel Wood advised me to iron my charge, alleging that
he was a dangerous man; but this I refused to do, taking only
Gen. Pryor's verbal parole that he would not attempt to escape
while in my custody. This Gen. Pryor cheerfully gave, and
religiously kept while with me. On arrival at Jersey City we
became in some way separated from Gen. Wessels, and crossed
over by the Cortlandt Street Ferry to New York. As the hour
was early we stopped for breakfast at the Courtland Street
Hotel, then quite a pretentious Hostelry. After breakfast,
and while preparing to leave the Hotel for the Qr. Mas. Gen.
Dept. where I was to find my orders and transportation, I was
surprised to find that the Rotunda of the Hotel was packed,
evidently with friends of Gen. Pryor and for a short time
it looked as if my prisoner would be taken from me, but the
Gen. directing me to take his arm, we passed through without
trouble. At the Quarter Master Genl's I found my orders
changed, and I was directed to convey my prisoner to Fort
Lafayette New York Harbor in place of Fort Warren Boston
Harbor. On arrival at Fort Lafayette we found Brig. Gen.
Wessels awaiting us, and with him we proceeded across the
ferry turning over our prisoner to Major Burke, Commandant at
that Fort, taking his receipt therefor.
"At this distance of time (44 years) it would seem that these
occurrences must have passed from my memory, but I remember
with distinctness the appearance of the General, the incident
at the Old Capitol, the crowd in the Rotunda of the Cortlandt
Hotel, the miraculous passage through the sea of 'Red' faces
therein, and the appearance of Major Paddy Burke (a very old
Officer of the Old Army) to whose custody I transferred my
charge. I recall also the kind expressions of regard uttered
by General Pryor as we shook hands at parting and the promise
he extracted that should it be my fate to be wounded or a
prisoner in Richmond, during the war, that I would make myself
known to his family there residing, who would respond to
any appeal made by me. It was my fortune to pass through the
remaining months of the war without being captured, and never
severely wounded, so I did not have to call on the generosity
of a gallant foe, and I presume the memory of that journey
to New York, and the memory of the stripling Officer who
accompanied him on that journey, long ago passed from Judge
Pryor's memory, but I recall it as a pleasant episode in a
boy's life and I would wish, that in writing to the Judge,
you would kindly convey to him my sincere congratulations on
the honors he has attained, and the respect and love which he
has received in his declining years, and with kindest wishes
to yourself, believe me,
"Very truly yours,
"WM. G. SHEEN."
WGS-OMH
Mr. Sheen kindly sent my brother the order to which he alludes:—
"HEADQUARTERS MILITARY DISTRICT OF WASHINGTON
"PROVOST MARSHAL'S OFFICE
"WASHINGTON, D.C., Nov. 29th, 1864.
"Special Orders
_No. 217_
"_Extract_
"It is hereby Ordered! That _Brigadier Gen'l, H. W. Wessels_
assisted by _Lieut. Wm. G. Sheen_ will proceed to Old Capital
Prison and taken in charge the following named prisoner:
"_Roger A. Pryor 7th Va: Car_
and deliver him together with the accompany papers to the
Commanding Officer at Fort Warren Boston Harbor take a receipt
therefore and report action at these Head Quarters.
"The Quartermaster Department will furnish the necessary
transportation.
"By Command of Col. M. N. WISERVELL,
"Military Governor.
"GEO. R. WALBRIDGE,
"Capt & Asst Pro. Marshal."
It will be perceived by the above that the Federal officers
granted their captured private the honor of escort by a Federal
general—Brigadier-general H. W. Wessels—and were inclined to confer upon
him the further distinction of "irons."
While he was detained in Washington, Major Leary (or Captain) discovered
a plot to assassinate him, which he revealed to the prisoner, arranging
for his greater safety. Before he reached Fort Lafayette it appears
he was threatened with assassination and also rescue. Some kind
friend in Washington thrust into his overcoat pocket a bottle of
brandy. It was taken from him when his pockets were searched, along
with his letters and pistols, but returned by a Federal officer, who
remarked,—recognizing the touch of nature which establishes the kinship
of all men in all nations,—"Keep it, General! There's an almighty sight
of comfort in a bottle of brandy." The pistols were not returned and,
along with an army cape, are preserved—I have understood—in a museum of
war relics at Concord, Mass.
A month elapsed before all the forms required by military law could be
observed in sending the letters of prisoners through the lines. At last
Colonel Ould forwarded to me a brief assurance of my dear captive's
welfare. He was confined in a casemate with twelve other prisoners.
A grate held a small quantity of coal, and on this fire the captive
soldiers cooked their slender rations of meat. Their bread was furnished
them from a baker. They lay upon straw mats on the floor. They were glad
of the rule compelling them to fetch up their fuel from the coal cellar,
as it gave opportunity for exercise. Once daily they could walk upon
the ramparts, and my husband's eyes turned sadly to the dim outlines of
the beautiful city where he had often been an honored guest. The veil
which hid from him so much of the grief and struggle of the future hid
also the reward. Little did he dream he should administer justice on
the supreme bench of the mist-veiled city.
The captives had no material except coal and water, but of the former
they manufactured seal rings (to be set when they regained their
liberty), inlaying a polished ebony surface with bits from a silver
coin to represent tiny Confederate flags. One of these was given to
my general, and lost in the great hour of losses. With the coal as a
pencil, the prisoners indulged in caricatures of the commandant. Every
morning a fresh picture on the whitewashed wall met his eye: "Burk as a
baby," "Burk in his first pants," "Burk in love," etc., etc. The reward
was the commandant's face when he saw them.
After my husband's release, his place in the casemate was filled by
a "stylish" young officer who refused, absolutely, to submit to the
degradation of bringing up his quota of the coal.
"And so," said "old Burk," "you are too great a man, are you, to fetch
your coal? I had General Pryor here. He brought up his coal! I think,
sir, you'll bring up yours!"
Before I take leave of my dear captive for the winter, I must record
his unvarying fortitude under much physical discomfort, cold, and food
which almost destroyed him. On the 20th of December, I received a brief
note from Fort Lafayette: "My philosophy begins to fail somewhat. In
vain I seek some argument of consolation. I see no chance of release.
The conditions of my imprisonment cut me off from every resource of
happiness."
I learned afterward that he was ill, and often under the care of a
physician during the winter, but he tried to write as encouragingly as
possible. In February, however, he failed in health and spirits.
"I am as contented as is compatible with my condition. My mind is
ill at ease from my solicitude for my family and my country. Every
disaster pierces my soul like an arrow; and I am afflicted with the
thought that I am denied the privilege of contributing even my mite
to the deliverance of—. How I envy my old comrades their hardships
and privations! I have little hope of an early exchange, and you may
be assured my mistrust is not without reason. _Except some special
instance be employed to procure my release, my detention here will be
indefinite._ I cannot be more explicit. While this is my conviction,
I wish it distinctly understood that I would not have my government
compromise any scruple for the sake of my liberation. I am prepared for
any contingency—am fortified against any reverse of fortune."
The problem now confronting me was this: how could I maintain my
children and myself? My husband's rations were discontinued. I sent my
general's horse far into the interior, to be boarded with a farmer for
his services, as I had no possible means of feeding him. My only supply
of food was from my father's ration as chaplain. I had a part of a
barrel of flour which a relative had sent me from a county now cut off
from us. Quite a number of my old Washington servants had followed me,
to escape the shelling, but they could not, of course, look to me for
their support. My household included Eliza Page, Aunt Jinny, and Uncle
Frank (old people and old settlers), and our faithful John. I frankly
told John and Eliza my condition, but they elected to remain.
One day John presented himself with a heart-broken countenance and a
drooping attitude of deep dejection. He had a sad story to tell. The
agent of the estate to which he belonged was in town, and John had
been commissioned to inform me that all the slaves belonging to the
estate were to be immediately transferred to a Louisiana plantation for
safety. Those of us who had hired these servants by the year were to be
indemnified for our loss.
"How do you feel about it, John?" I asked.
The poor fellow broke down. "It will kill me," he declared. "I'll soon
die on that plantation."
All his affectionate, faithful service, all his hardships for our sakes,
rushed upon my memory. I bade him put me in communication with the
agent. I found that I could save the boy only by buying him! A large
sum of gold was named as the price. I unbuckled my girdle and counted
my handful of gold—one hundred and six dollars. These I offered to the
agent (who was a noted negro trader), and although it was far short of
his figures, he made out my bill of sale receipted. Remembered to-day,
this seems a wonderful act on my part. At the time it was the most
natural thing in the world!
John soon appeared with smiling face and informed me with his thanks
that he belonged to me!
"You are a free man, John," I said. "I will make out your papers and I
can easily arrange for you to pass the lines."
"I know that," he said. "Marse Roger has often told me I was a free man.
I never will leave you till I die. Papers, indeed! Papers nothing! I
belong to you—that's where I belong."
All that dreadful winter he was faithful to his promise, cheerfully
bearing, without wages, all the privations of the time. Sometimes when
the last atom of food was gone, he would ask for money, sally forth
with a horse and a light cart, and bring in peas and dried apples. Once
a week we were allowed to purchase the head of a bullock, horns and
all, from the commissary for the exclusive use of the servants—I would
have starved first—and a small ration of rice was allowed us by the
government. A one-armed boy, Alick, who had been reared in my father's
family, now wandered in to find his old master, and installed himself
as my father's servant.
The question that pressed upon me day and night was: "How, where, can I
earn some money?" to be answered by the frightful truth that there could
be no opening for me anywhere, because I could not leave my children.
One wakeful night, while I was revolving these things, a sudden thought
darted, unbidden, into my sorely harassed mind:—
"Why not open the trunk from Washington? Something may be found there
which can be sold."
At an early hour next morning John and Alick brought the trunk from the
cellar. Aunt Jinny, Eliza, and the children gathered around. It proved
to be full of my old Washington finery. There were a half-dozen or
more white muslin gowns, flounced and trimmed with valenciennes lace,
many yards; there was a rich bayadere silk gown trimmed fully with
guipure lace; a green silk dress with gold embroidery; a blue-and-silver
brocade,—these last evening gowns. There was a paper box containing
the shaded roses I had worn to Lady Napier's ball, the ball at which
Mrs. Douglas and I had dressed alike in gowns of tulle. Another box
held the garniture of green leaves and gold grapes which had belonged
to the green silk, and still another the blue-and-silver feathers for
the brocade. An opera cloak trimmed with fur; a long purple velvet
cloak; a purple velvet "coalscuttle" bonnet, trimmed with white roses;
a point-lace handkerchief; valenciennes lace; Brussels lace; and in
the bottom of the trunk a package of _ciel_ blue zephyr, awakening
reminiscences of a passion which I had cherished for knitting shawls
and "mariposas" of zephyr,—such was the collection I discovered.
I ripped all the lace from the evening gowns and made large collars and
undersleeves then in vogue. John found a closed dry-goods store willing
to sell clean paper boxes.
My first instalment was sent to Price's store in Richmond and promptly
sold. I sold the silk gowns minus the costly trimming; but when I had
stripped the muslin flounces of lace, behold raw edges that no belle,
even a Confederate, could have worn. I rolled the edges of these
flounces—there were ten or twelve on some of the gowns—and edged them
with a spiral line of blue zephyr. I embroidered a dainty vine of blue
forget-me-nots on bodice and sleeves, with a result simply ravishing!
After I had converted all my laces into collars, cuffs, and sleeves,
and had sold my silk gowns, opera cloak, and point-lace handkerchiefs,
I devoted myself to trimming the edges of the artificial flowers, and
separating the long wreaths and garlands into clusters for hats and
_bouquets de corsage_.
Eliza and the children delighted in this phase of my work, and begged
to assist,—all except Aunt Jinny.
"Honey," she said, "don't you think, in these times of trouble, you
might do better than tempt them po' young lambs in Richmond to worship
the golden calf and bow down to mammon? We prays not to be led into
temptation, and you sho'ly is leadin' 'em into vanity."
"Maybe so, Aunt Jinny, but I must sell all I can. We have to be clothed,
you know, war or no war."
"Yes, my chile, that's so; but we're told to consider the lilies.
Gawd Almighty tells us we must clothe ourselves in the garment of
righteousness, and He—"
"You always 'pear to be mighty intimate with God A'mighty," interrupted
Eliza, in great wrath. "Now you just run 'long home an' leave my mistis
to her work. How would _you_ look with nothin' on but a garment of
righteousness?"
When I had stripped the pretty silk gowns of their trimmings, what could
be done with the gowns themselves? Finally I resolved to embroider them.
The zeal with which I worked knew no pause. I needed no rest. General
Wilcox, who was in the saddle until a late hour every night, said to me,
"Your candle is the last light I see at night—the first in the morning."
"I should never sleep," I told him.
One day I consulted Eliza about the manufacture of a Confederate candle.
We knew how to make it—by drawing a cotton rope many times through
melted wax, and then winding it around a bottle. We could get the wax,
but our position was an exposed one. Soldiers' tents were close around
us, and we scrupulously avoided any revelation of our needs, lest they
should deny themselves for our sakes. Eliza thought we might avail
ourselves of the absence of the officers, and finish our work before
they returned. We made our candle behind the kitchen; but that night,
as I sat sewing beside its dim, glowworm light, I heard a step in the
hall, and a hand, hastily thrust out, placed a brown paper parcel on
the piano near the door. It was a soldier's ration of candles!
Of course I could not find shoes for my boys. I made little boots of
carpet lined with flannel for my baby. A pair lasted just three days.
A large bronze morocco pocket-book fell into my hands, of which I made
boots for my little Mary. Alick,—prowling about the fields to gather
the herb "life everlasting," of which we made yeast,—found two or three
leather bags, and a soldier shoemaker contrived shoes for each of my
boys.
My own prime necessity was for the steel we women wear in front of our
stays. I suffered so much for want of this accustomed support, that
Captain Lindsay had a pair made for me by the government gunsmith—the
best I ever had.
The time came when the salable contents of the Washington trunk were all
gone. I then cut up my husband's dress-coat, and designed well-fitting
ladies' gloves, with gauntlets made of the watered silk lining. Of
an interlining of gray flannel I made gray gloves, and this glove
manufacture yielded me hundreds of dollars. Thirteen small fragments
of flannel were left after the gloves were finished. Of these, pieced
together, I made a pair of drawers for my Willy,—my youngest boy.
The lines around us were now so closely drawn that my father returned
home after short absences of a day or two. But we were made anxious,
during a heavy snow early in December, by a more prolonged absence.
Finally he appeared, on foot, hatless, and exhausted. He had been
captured by a party of cavalrymen. He had told them of his non-combatant
position, but when he asked for release, they shook their heads. At
night they all prepared to bivouac upon the ground; assigned him a
sheltered spot, gave him a good supper and blankets, and left him to
his repose. As the night wore on and all grew still, he raised his head
cautiously to reconnoitre, and to his surprise found himself at some
distance from the guard—but his horse tied to a tree within the circle
around the fire. My father took the hint and walked away unchallenged,
"which proves, my dear," he said, "that a clergyman is not worth as much
as a good horse in time of war."