Chapter XV…

Chapter XV

SICK IN RICHMOND--CONCEALED BY A COLORED BOY AND UNABLE TO MOVE--AN ORIGINAL CIPHER LETTER SENT THROUGH THE BLOCKADE TO WASHINGTON THAT TELLS THE WHOLE STORY IN A FEW WORDS--MEETING WITH MARYLAND REFUGEES--THE BOY SPY SERENADED--"MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND"--JEFF DAVIS' OFFICE AND HOME--A VISIT TO UNION PRISONERS AT LIBBY PRISON, ETC.

Feeling my way along, to avoid guards that might be stationed in the principal roads entering the city, I was soon on Main street, Richmond, and I walked with an assumed familiarity in search of a boarding-house. Finding a place that I thought would suit me, located on the south side of Main street, not far from the market, kept by a widow lady, I applied for lodging, proffering her the cash in advance. She accepted the cash and me without question, and being tired, weak and anxious to get to rest, I was at once shown to a room, and in a very few moments later I was in bed, and, with a feeling of security, was soon sound enough asleep in the Rebel Capital.

There were two beds in our room, as in most other cheap boarding-houses, and waking early in the morning, I was surprised to see on the chair alongside of one of them, the too familiar gray uniform of a Confederate officer. I didn't take breakfast with the Madame, but hurried out into the street, and, after a hasty meal in a restaurant, I hunted up a Jew clothing shop on the Main street, where I invested a good deal of the church contribution in a snug suit of clothes, a pair of soft gaiters for my sore feet, a new hat, etc.

The next step was to a barber's, where I had most of my hair taken off, and in their bath-room I donned my new clothes, and I flatter myself I walked out of that barber shop so completely disguised that my recent friends and enemies would not have known me. I was feeling just good enough to have called on Jeff Davis that morning, and believing that, as my visit would be short, it was well enough to have a good time, I walked rather proudly up to a certain hotel office and astonished the young clerk by registering myself O. K. Wilmore, Baltimore, Maryland. I notified an attache of the hotel that I had but recently arrived via the blockade, and desired a small room for a few days, until I could meet with a lot more fellows who were coming over, you know, and was courteously welcomed by the affable clerk. The room to which I was shown overlooked the park, the Confederate Capitol building, the Governor's mansion, etc., and there I remained an unwilling guest (after that day) for three long, lonesome weeks, sick in bed.

Maybe it was a fortunate circumstance for me that I was thus taken off my feet, as it served to effectually hide or exclude me from sight, and frustrated any efforts that might have been put forward for my capture. In the meantime the sensation that was, perhaps, caused by my escape had died out and I had been forgotten.

As it was, that night I was taken sick and the next morning I was unable to get out of my bed. The trouble was principally dysentery, such as was epidemic in the Rebel Army at Manassas, and had probably been caused by the bad water, or change of water, greatly aggravated in my case by the nights of terror I had undergone. While in my weak condition, perhaps, I had overloaded my suffering stomach too much the first day of my arrival in Richmond. I can testify here to the fact that there was plenty to eat in Richmond in 1861, and it was not so very much more expensive at that time than in Washington.

The hotel people of Richmond were a little dubious about refugee boarders from Baltimore, as I soon learned, and were inclined to be rather disposed to refer their sick guest to a hospital. Fortunately, I was able to prevent this by a prompt advance of a week's boarding from my church-collection fund, which fully satisfied the Virginia Yankee hotel-keeper. It happened, too, that there was some change due me from the amount I had passed to him, which, in the princely style I had assumed, I graciously told him to keep for a credit on the next week's account. I still had some money left, but not enough to pay another week's expenses at that hotel, but it was best to keep up a good appearance.

The colored boy's name who served me with meals and who attended to all my sick wants, I regret, I have forgotten. He was indeed a good friend, and when my week was out and I was still so weak that it was impossible for me to move, he continued to serve me with three light meals a day in a room where I had been moved by him, which was located in a block of buildings which served as an annex to the crowded hotel.

The hotel clerks, or the people at the office, supposed when I left the room that I had gone from the hotel; at least, they did not give me any trouble, and I have always thought my presence in that room was overlooked or forgotten by them in the great rush of their business of those days. This colored boy was one of the regular waiters employed at the hotel, who had for the week or ten days previous to my change served me regularly, and had told me several times, in explanation or in self-justification, that he was told to serve me every day, and he was going to do it until he was told to stop. Though I had not dared to breath to the poor colored boy even a whisper of my true character, yet it was instinctively understood between us that I was a Yankee. I knew this from his manner, and I could see in every move he made that he was so carrying on his little game to aid me that he might not be detected in it, yet it was so shrewdly managed that, if he had been picked up, he would have readily cleared himself of all collusion by merely referring to his orders.

In talking with him one day, he remarked, with a significant grin: "You always say down here, and that your going to go up home; I thought you was going to stay in Dixie?" I took the ignorant boy's teachings thankfully, and was more careful in the use of the words after that lesson.

I might fill a chapter with interesting stories of Richmond life which the boy gave me that were a pleasant relief for me, and served to while away, in my solitary sick bed, my first weeks in Richmond.

I took the opportunity the leisure afforded me of putting in operation a plan for secretly attempting to communicate with my friends in the North. I realized that I should not be able soon to undertake any adventuresome travels, and I could not reach home by any easy stages.

While yet a school boy I had practiced with my playmates a simple system of a cipher; with this, which was the easiest form that I then knew for a basis, I worked out in the form of a letter, that I could pass through to Baltimore on the blockade runners, a secret communication reciting my discoveries at Manassas, etc.

It is an easy matter to arrange a system of cipher communication between any two persons, which will be readily and perfectly understood by them alone, or only by those who have been furnished with a key. In my particular circumstances, however, it was necessary that my letter should be a blind cipher, and so worded as not to excite suspicion, or distrust, and it must, besides, carry the key along with it, concealed of course, as I had not had an opportunity of making a preconcerted arrangement. I had intended to propose this to General Banks at the interview at Harper's Ferry, which, unluckily, did not take place, as I have explained.

The letter that was sent through the blockade is given herewith, as copied from the original, and I shall be glad to have the reader look for the secret information it contains before referring to the key, which follows:

"CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, POWHATTAN HOTEL, RICHMOND, VA., August, - - - - - 1861.

"My Dear Father: - - - . - -

"For three weeks I've been quite sick, but am all-right now, and hope, through the kind attention of Southern friends of ours in army, to soon be out again. - - - I will be greatly obliged if you will arrange to have money sent without delay, to pay my bills here, which were incurred on account of this most unfortunate sickness. . - - I am satisfied it's impossible to secure from our Confederate Maryland friends any cash advance, because I know they are all rather short, (having exhausted in getting here about half their money before joining Army. Since I have been absent from my regiment here sick, I have consumed what balance I had along. We are not at-all discouraged, or demoralized; on the contrary, we look forward to great things under Beauregard, who is in front of Washington. - -

"A greater portion of Marylanders stop at Blank's, where I am - - - the house is large and pleasantly situated on a street up on top of quite a hill, that overlooks the Railroad that runs out to Manassas Junction. We hope soon to march right on to Washington, and drive out the black abolition rascals, and will roll them back through Baltimore. Of course, all the Yankee papers give lying accounts, but official statements will give the proofs of our success. I wish some of the Northern Congressmen could see Ely or Covode, who are locked up secure in Libby prison; with them are a great lot, officers and prominent men who are looking quite disconsolate through their bars.

"I met, Sunday night, a couple of young students lately arrived from the Georgetown College, who expect to signalize their devotion to the South in some heroic way. From their talk would think the boys fresh from their dormitory dreams of war. I will write again soon; will be glad to hear from home often, please send money soon as possible same way as before, so that I can pay up."

The preparation of this letter had given me interesting employment while I was confined to my sick room. Though it is quite crude, and would hardly pass the scrutiny of the sharp censorship that was inaugurated later on, but considering the times, and the fact that letters of similar purport were being daily passed through the lines from Richmond by Baltimore refugees, it was worded so as to perfectly blind those who might see it, and it answered its purpose very well. I had calculated to submit it openly to certain Richmond authorities, at a risk of being picked up on their casual inspection. I had been careful to select a blank, headed Richmond. No real names were given except Covode and Ely. I knew very well Covode was not at Libby, but Ely was, and I could see no other way of getting Covode's name in, except to mix it with Ely's and assume ignorance, if corrected. This letter was not sent to my father's name and address, of course, but was directed to a certain telegraph operator who had been an office associate, and who was at the time in the employ of the military telegraph at Annapolis, Md.

There was a little risk in using his address, but I knew that the fact of the party named on the envelope being in the Government service would not be detected in Richmond, and the understanding with regard to these letters was, that for a consideration they had been taken into the United States and mailed at Baltimore. An additional reason for sending it to this telegraph friend was, that he would be sure to discover the key to the cipher, and would then translate and properly deliver it. If the reader will look at an apparent flourish under the words, "My dear Father," as if underscored, he will observe three little dashes like this, - - - and a little further on a careless looking scratch of the pen, resembling . - - This forms the key to the simple cipher, and the same characters are indifferently scattered about the sheet so as to attract only the eye of an operator. The three little dashes represent the Morse character for the figure five - - - (5), while the other signal, a dot and two dashes, is a W, which, when placed alone, is always understood to stand for word. Now the operator will be sure to see that 5, W, while the chances are that no one else but an operator would. The young friend to whom I had addressed this I knew would understand, from the tone of the letter, that it was a blind, and he would search for a different interpretation, and would soon discover the 5, W, which he would see referred to the fifth word. If the reader will read only every fifth word of this letter he will have the true meaning.

Translation.--Been all through Southern Army, again obliged to delay here account sickness Impossible Confederate advance are exhausted half army absent sick balance are demoralized look under front portion Blank's house situated on hill road Manassas to Washington black roll of papers official proofs wish Friend Covode secure them officers are there night students Georgetown signal South from the dormitory will be home soon as can.

The carefully studied phraseology of this crude letter, so that every fifth word which I would insert should properly read both ways had given me considerable trouble, because I was especially desirous that, as a whole, it should at the first glance impress any person to whom I might find necessary to submit it that it undoubtedly emanated from a Rebel and a Maryland refugee. This thought once established in the minds of those who I anticipated had the censorship of mail matter from strangers, I was satisfied would result in forejudgement, or at least serve the purpose of allaying any suspicion as to it being anything in the nature of a secret communication to the enemy.

What to do with my letter was the next important consideration. While yet so weak and thinned, as I was by the three weeks' illness and close confinement, I realized that I must yet continue to live in some such a quiet way as I had during my sickness. It would be folly for me to attempt to travel through the armies in the rough manner that would be necessary if I should try to reach our lines by the underground or by running the blockade.

The colored boy who had served me so kindly and so faithfully in the hotel annex, during these three weeks of sickness was partly taken into my confidence. When I began to feel like getting out, and my appetite had improved so as to make increased demands for his service to my room, I suggested to him one day that I hadn't enough money left to pay the bill at the office, and was especially sorry that I could not give him something handsome for his kindness to me.

"Don't you never mind me, as I don't want no money." It was then that I explained to him that I should like to be furnished a pencil and some paper so that I might write home for some money, etc. The stationery was at once supplied, and, as I had while lying on the cot bed during the long August days blanked out my proposed letter, I proceeded to work my cipher out on paper.

My faithful colored boy felt encouraged by my talk with him to offer me some good advice:

"You don need to give no money to me, an if I was you I'd not give no money to dem clerks, either. I'd jis tell de ole man, if I was you, and he wont let dem take all you money, and you sick hyar."

This advice, offered in his most friendly way, was none the less accepted thankfully, because it came from a slave boy and a waiter, in his own words, as near as I can give it. I learned that the "ole man" was the proprietor of the hotel, and from his further description I gathered that I had not seen him since I had been in the house. The man who had talked about sending me to a hospital, the first days of my illness, was only a clerk, though I had assumed him to be the owner, because he was quite old and had so much to say to me. He was easily "placated," anyway, by the cash I had tendered him, in payment for a week's board in advance. I have wondered often if I were indebted to his pocketing that money, for the fact that my presence was so completely overlooked. I would prefer, however, to give the colored boy the credit for having quietly "done as he was tole, and axed no questions."

The "ole man" was an invalid at the time of which I am writing, being confined to his room most of the day. I made some anxious inquiries also about the "ole woman," and was glad to hear that she was "So big an fat she doan go roun much."

I was solicitous about the proprietor and his wife, because, you know, a great deal depended upon how he was going to jump after he had found out that I had been in the house two weeks, apparently without the knowledge of the office, and certainly without having paid any board for the time.

One nice morning, while feeling pretty fair and bright, I decided to make the break, knowing that I had to do something soon. I gave my letter to the boy to deliver to the "ole man," first, for his information as to the prospects of his getting paid, and, secondly, asking his advice as to the best means to have it sent North. You will observe the apparent burden of my letter is for a remittance of money, and, in the second place, I wanted to get it suitably endorsed or vised by some one well known in Richmond, so that I would not have to show up personally in it.

With a good deal of anxiety and heartache I waited in my back room for the boy's return, which would bring me this verdict. I dreaded being suspected as an enemy in concealment more than to be sent out on the streets of Richmond, though I was so poor that I should soon starve, because too weak to attempt any kind of work. In anticipation of at least the latter treatment, I had dressed myself up carefully in my new suit of clothes, which I had bought the day before I took sick. They had become ever so much too large for me. A severe dysentery can waste a frail human frame considerably in three weeks. When I heard the footsteps of two persons down the long corridors--they had no carpet on that annex--my heart sank within me as they stopped before my door. In another moment my trusted colored boy had thrown open the door; and, as he stood aside to let the other person in, he said: "Dar he."

I felt sure for the moment that all was lost--that the boy had given me away. When the "ole man" got up close enough I am sure he was struck by my very pale face. I was trembling from the effect of the suspense and tension to my nerves, and could scarcely hold my head up. The "ole man" was not old at all, but a rather thin, benevolent-looking, middle-aged gentleman; he was lame and had apparently been very sick himself; his kindly manner reassured me in part, and when he bade me, "Lie right down and keep perfectly composed; we will take care of you, my boy," I did as he directed. I had to drop, and I turned my face into the pillow and sobbed like a big baby for a moment or two, so overcome was I in my weak condition by the breaking strain after and the reversal of feeling, it was so entirely different from anything I had expected.

The "ole man" had a few words more of comfort, and, turning to the colored boy, said, rather savagely:

"Sam, you damn black rascal, why didn't you tell me before that this young man was sick?"

Sam began to explain by saying: "I done thought you know'd dat."

But the "ole man" stopped him abruptly, with: "Get out; go and bring some brandy and water up here, quick!"

Sam was glad enough to get out; and when he came back, in a few minutes, with a couple of glasses on a tray, he was grinning all over as his eye caught mine, as much as to say, "I done tole you so."

The "ole man" administered the dose and, after a few more encouraging words, got up to leave, first giving orders to Sam:

"See that you attend to this young man right after this, you ugly nigger."

Sam seemed to be immensely enjoying the "ole man's" abuse.

I was assured that I should be made easy until such time as I should hear from my friends.

"Do you know Colonel Blank, of Baltimore?"

"No, I didn't, not by that name"--and I had to admit ignorance of quite a number of others that he mentioned to me, saying that his house was a sort of refugee headquarters; he would have some of the Maryland boys look in and see me. I didn't like that part of the visit, but there was no way now but to put a bold face on to anything that turned up. I felt that I was so thinned out and pale, my hair closely cut, and otherwise altered, especially by my new clothes, that I should not be recognized by anybody who had recently seen me so ragged in the Rebel Army at Manassas.

"In regard to your letter," he said, handing it back to me, "I will have some one see you who understands about getting mail to Baltimore. I only know that they do send them, and that answers come here to my house almost every day."

In another moment I was again alone, and so overjoyed by the agreeable turn affairs had taken--or by the dose of brandy and water--that I felt almost able to dance a jig. I was free again; that is, I was not burdened every moment by a fear that some one might drop in and discover my presence and begin to ask questions about my past history.

Feeling so much relieved in mind, I could not resist the temptation to go out of the room to have just one look at the sunshine outdoors. My boy provided me with a stick for a cane, and, with his aid, I walked out the long corridor and stepped boldly into the office. The first person I met was the old clerk who had collected my first week's boarding.

"You have treated me very badly, sir."

I began to ask an explanation, really not knowing what he meant by making it such a personal matter, when he interrupted me and hurriedly walked off as he saw the "ole man," who was pointing me out to his wife at the moment. I walked along without further interruption, except to attract the attention of people whom we met by my weak, sickly appearance, and, reaching the park, I sat down under the shadow of the Virginia State House, which was then the Capitol of the Confederacy. In one corner of the same grounds the Governor's mansion was pointed out, then occupied by Governor Letcher, while below, or on the lower side of the square, I was shown the building occupied by President Davis for an executive office.

I was within sight of it all at last, and for two hours I sat there taking everything in, only regretting that my legs wouldn't carry me around more lively, so that I might investigate more closely.

When I stumbled back to my hotel I was met at the office by a young clerk, who said he had been directed to introduce me to Colonel ----, and would I be seated a moment.

I had a right to believe, of course, that I was to meet the Maryland people of whom the proprietor had spoken, but I dreaded the interview nevertheless. However, when I saw the Colonel was quite an ordinary looking man, with a jolly, round face and pleasant manner, my fears subsided, and I was able to feel easy in his presence. I was introduced to several others as a Maryland boy who was unfortunately sick among strangers, and I didn't have to "make up" for the character of a sick youth. My appearance, probably, did have the effect of creating some sympathy, which was kindly expressed to me. The Colonel said: "You have a letter to send home I am told?"

"Yes, sir. I want to get some money very much. I don't want to go home, but would like to send for some money."

"Ah! yes, of course; that can easily be fixed. All you have to do is to put a United States stamp on your letter."

"But don't I have to pay something for the delivery?"

"Well, no; you don't have to; but, as it goes to a foreign country, you know, we generally pay the messengers a little for the risk."

Thanking the Colonel, I took my letter out of the envelope and begged that he would read it, so that the envelope would have the benefit of his endorsement. He did not think that necessary at all, but I insisted that he should learn of my affairs and my address, so that if anything should happen to me some Maryland people would know who I was. That was a good shot, and it took effect, too. He felt that I had given him my entire confidence as a brother exile from home and in distress, and he read my letter hastily--that is, he glanced at the address and the last paragraph, wherein I had especially asked for money. No doubt he was impressed with the truth of the statement I had made--that all Maryland refugees were hard up. Sealing the letter in his presence, I handed it to him with a tender of a fraction of the money which I had left, to pay the "foreign postage."

"Oh no," he said. "I will not take your money for this; it's not necessary. Where shall your answer be delivered?" This was something I had not thought about, and for the moment I was embarrassed. I remembered that I had referred to my regiment in my letter, and was about to say that the letter could be sent there; then the thought suddenly came over me, "What if I should be questioned on this regiment?" I did not want any talk of this sort, because it would be getting me into rather too close quarters. The Colonel, noticing my hesitancy as these thoughts passed through my brain and no doubt mistaking its true import, relieved me by saying:

"You had better go along over to Colonel Jones and be registered, if you have not already done so."

I had not attended to this matter of registering my name and address among the refugees from Baltimore, and, without knowing exactly what would come of it, I consented to have it done at once, as he had suggested. Pointing to a building on the opposite side of the square a little below where St. Paul's Church is located, he said:

"That's Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and if you can go with me I will introduce you to him, and you can have all your Maryland mail come to his care."

I walked across the square on his arm, and was formally introduced to Colonel Jones as a worthy Maryland refugee, sick and in distress. I am giving the correct name here, because he became a well-known character in Richmond during the war. He impressed me as an agreeable, rather jolly, gray-haired gentleman of the old school, at the time. On the rather tedious and slow walk for me over the square, my companion had explained to me that Colonel Jones was himself a refugee, having been fired out of Philadelphia, where, if I remember aright, he had been printing a weekly paper which had been rather too outspoken in its sympathy for the South, and, as a consequence, it was, perhaps, violently suppressed. The Colonel informed me, as we walked along, that President Davis had organized the temporary bureau for the registration and general information of refugees and others who might, by the necessities of war, be driven from their homes. It was also understood that any persons desiring information in regard to Maryland refugees should apply at this bureau. This was not exactly the sort of a place that I had been hankering to register myself in, but I was in for it now and had to go through with it. Colonel Jones gave me his courteous attention for awhile, and apparently became interested in the little bit of my "history" that I dealt out to him. It is likely that my sickly, innocent-looking appearance had operated somewhat upon the generous sympathies of Colonel Jones. He assured me in his most agreeable manner that any time at all that I had a letter for my home to just drop it into his postoffice, and he would see that it went out on the "First Mail." This was quite satisfactory to myself and my companion, who had placed the letter in the Colonel's hands. I happened to recall that I had read a book over and over again, written by a J. B. Jones, that had made a great impression upon my youthful mind, and I had worshiped the name in consequence--the title of the book was "Wild Western Scenes." The Colonel laughed heartily, and taking my hand gave me a second jolly shake as he said: "He had met another of his boys--they were turning up every place--wherever he had been some one who had read his book had asked him that question."

I had accomplished one very important step--in this, that I had opened communication with Washington from my location in Richmond.

There was danger that my letters might fall into the wrong hands up North; but, as the person who carried them must, for his own protection, keep quiet, it was probable that no effort would be made to look after their destruction, once they were safely placed in Uncle Sam's postoffice somewhere. I was also liable to be picked up in Richmond almost any day by those who had known me at Montgomery, Pensacola, or, more recently, at Manassas, and in Beauregard's camp. Knowing that I could not travel in the rough manner as indicated, I felt wonderfully relieved to know that the letter just mailed would most surely go through more speedily than I could expect to travel at my best, and it contained in substance all that I could report by a personal trip, which was in effect that:

First--The Confederate Army could not advance, because thirty per cent. were sick, a great many absent on leave, and the rest as much demoralized after their victory as by our defeat.

Second--That the official documents of the Rebel Surgeon-General, addressed to Richmond, would be found under a certain house as described, where it will be remembered that I had placed them.

Third--That signals were being made from the dormitory of Georgetown College to Rebel outposts, or pickets who had been students at the College.

When this letter would reach my telegraph friend, he would, most assuredly, find the key to the cipher and properly communicate with Mr. Covode, and through him the information, and I hoped the papers I had deposited would be recovered. I could not have done more than this myself, and, feeling that it was enough for one day's work, I retraced my steps to the top of the hill, on which the hotel was situated, and finding my cot bed again I was glad enough to drop myself into it for a rest without the formality of undressing.

Soon after Sam found me half asleep, when he came up to my room with some supper; his face was covered all over with the happy grin, peculiar to a colored boy, who has only this means of expressing his pleasure. If he knew that I had made a successful explanation of myself, which had relieved us both of the fear of detection, he was too cunning to express himself in words. My Maryland Colonel, who had so kindly endorsed me to the refugee bureau and franked my contraband mail matter to Washington, came to see me in the room late in the evening, bringing with him another refugee whom he introduced as Mr. Blank, a lawyer from Elkton, Maryland. I have really forgotten his name, but remember distinctly that he was from Elkton, from this circumstance. When I had subsequently returned North, while traveling from Philadelphia to Baltimore one day, I heard the name Elkton called out by the trainman, as we stopped at a country station. I rushed out on the platform on hearing the words and, while the train stopped, inquired of the agent and expressman about this gentleman. They both at once assured me: "Oh, yes; he's a great Rebel, and had to leave town."

The train began to move off, as I was hurriedly telling them about my meeting him in Richmond, and the agent became quite interested, following the train along side as long as he could, to get some information of him for his friends, who were living in the town. I heard from them afterward, and, as this Elkton lawyer and I became associated somewhat intimately for a month or two in Rebeldom, I have mentioned this circumstance by way of an introduction, and so that we will know him hereafter as "Elkton."

The Colonel, I learned, had been a store-keeper in one of the "lower counties," and the twain had crossed the broad Potomac together from Maryland to Virginia one night, and had only been in Richmond a month or so. They were, of course, anxious to meet all the other refugees they could hear of, and so it came about that I made their acquaintance. Luckily for me, they were both from a section of Maryland distant from that which I represented, and neither of them for a moment doubted my "Loyalty," but, on the other hand, both of these gentlemen seemed to think it a part of their duty to take care of me; and I take this opportunity to say to Elkton, or any of his family who may read this, that his kindness to me has always been appreciated--but, I must not anticipate the story--I was invited to share a bed or cot in the same room these two gentlemen occupied. Their room was located like the one to which I had first been assigned--the windows overlooking the park. I could from my room see all who entered the Capitol building, also had an unobstructed view of President Davis' office, as well as that of other prominent officials. This "prospect" was indeed gratifying to me, and, as it may be assumed, much more satisfactory than anything I had yet encountered in the way of "facilities." From my window outlook I ran no risk of detection, as would be the case if I were on the streets all the time. I was naturally most anxious to see President Davis, and to my rather eager questions in regard to him--as I look at it now--I was told by the Colonel that "The President lives right around on the next corner on the next street. He walks through the grounds to his office every day; I'll show him to you, the first chance."

That night I lay down early, and had scarcely gotten into sound slumber, and was, perhaps, dreaming of home, when I was roused gently by the Colonel to listen to "the serenade." On the street or pavement in front of the hotel a large crowd had gathered, composed partly of a company of men without uniforms, who had marched in the rear of a band. I was informed that they were the nucleus of a company or regiment which was to be composed entirely of Marylanders, who were expected to arrive in Richmond by details of three and four at a time. The purpose of the visit that night was a serenade to Marylanders, the band having been furnished by kind sympathizers among the Richmond people, who took the opportunity to compliment the refugees. Now, if I were to say that a band had been known to serenade a Yankee Spy, the statement would have been laughed at as ridiculous, yet the facts are that the serenade was tendered in Richmond, in part at least, to a Yankee Spy, as the collection was raised for the same in a Virginia church. There were but three of us in the hotel that night--the Colonel, Elkton, and myself--and it was the presence of this trio that had brought the band under our window. They played in a highly effective style, considering the peculiar surroundings, all their own Southern airs, among which was "Maryland, my Maryland." This is a really beautiful air, which is familiar to all who ever associated with any crowd of rebels who could sing. The beautiful air--the significant words so full of pathos and sympathy, especially under the existing circumstances and surroundings--was rendered in a style so sweetly pathetic that the effect produced on my memory that night will never be effaced. After the band had played, all the crowd present, recognizing its appropriateness, gave them with a hearty good will round after round of applause. Cries were made for an encore, and, while the excitement it had created was still high, the entire company of Maryland recruits burst forth into a full chorus of their own good voices and sang, with even greater effect through, this sweet old war song, "Maryland, my Maryland."

After they had left our hotel, it was understood the band, with the crowd of followers and all the Marylanders in the city that had been gathered up, were to call on Jeff Davis and give him a serenade of "Maryland, my Maryland." I was not able to attend it, but I suppose the records of the rebellion will show somewhere that Jeff Davis made a fine speech of welcome to the persecuted exiles from Maryland--my Maryland. My room-mates had both gotten out of the room at the beginning of the uproar. I lay awake a long time waiting for their return that I might hear the talk of the further serenade at the President's and Governor Letcher's. They were both full of it, of course. Their conversation that night, if reported in shorthand by the Spy, who lay awake an interested listener, would make an amusing chapter--read by the light of the present day. I gathered one point from them that I had not thought of before, which gave me some food for reflection. They both intended to unite themselves to the Rebel Army, but each of them wanted to be officers. If I remember aright, there was some "constitutional" difficulty in the way of President Davis forming a Maryland battalion--at least, my impression now is, that he could not issue commissions, which was the duty of the Governor of Maryland, and it was necessary that some sort of a "Governor" should help him out of the new State-rights difficulty. They got over it in some way, however, as they did other State sovereignty questions. Elkton subsequently became a Lieutenant of the 3rd Battery of Maryland Artillery. I learned from their talk that night that they both expected, as a matter of course, that I would join their Maryland battalion. With them, it seemed to be only a question of time, or until I should be sufficiently recovered from my illness. I imagined that I saw in this scheme of theirs a way out of my difficulty to further serve the Union. Of course, when I should be able to move about it would be necessary to do something; that I could not stay at the hotel indefinitely without money was certain, and it was also equally certain that I should not get any money, even in answer to my letter.

I had expected to get back by using their underground system, as soon as I would be able to travel by that line. But, as I had opened communication, I realized the correctness of my theory--that I could best serve the North by not at once attempting to return, but by remaining in Richmond, to watch and report the progress of events there.

One of the first walks I took after getting out of my room was to the house of President Davis, which was, and is yet, beautifully located on the top of the hill; indeed, it is almost on the edge of a precipice that commands a view of the low country to the north.

The Colonel had not observed in my letter the reference to "my regiment." Now that it had been sent off without his, or anybody but the sick proprietor seeing it, I was glad to drop any reference to a previous connection with the army at Manassas. My story was, in brief, the same old thing, done over to suit the altered condition of things. I had told the Colonel about coming through Manassas; that I had been delayed there expecting to meet some of my Maryland friends, but was taken sick and had come on to Richmond for them. That, and the letter, and more especially my appearance, coupled with the greater inducement that he saw a recruit for their Maryland battalion, was to them all sufficient. No questions were asked by either him or Elkton; they were satisfied themselves, and their cordial introduction of myself to their other friends were enough to fix my status in Richmond for the time being. I was kindly treated by all with whom I was brought in contact, through the influence of my two newly-made friends. As I have stated, the first visit was, by courtesy, made to the President's House. I did not find it advisable to thrust myself on to Mr. Davis just then. The next point of greater interest to me was Libby Prison, where were confined a great number of the officers captured at Bull Run. I learned, upon cautious inquiries, that Libby was situated at the other end of the town, or about a mile distant from the hotel. This was quite a long walk for me to undertake, but I was almost sickened with the everlasting and eternal Rebel talk, which I had been forced to hear every day and hour for so long, that I felt in my soul that the sight of one true-blooded Union man would do my heart good, even though I saw him through iron bars. At the first favorable opportunity, on finding myself alone, I started out for a morning walk, leading in the direction of Libby Prison. Once on Main street, I began to feel a little apprehensive lest I should run against some one in the crowded throng who might recognize me. There were a great many soldiers in gray moving about the streets. It seemed, too, as if everybody I met was staring at me, and probably they were--as an object of pity. I became more accustomed to it, however, as I began to see that the interest being centered on me was probably due to the fact that I had been sick, and showed it in my appearance and walk. I felt more assured, too, when I saw, after awhile, that no person seemed to care much after all who I was, after they had once gratified their curiosity by a stare.

I wanted very much to gaze once more on a Union soldier, and one, too, who had fought in a real battle against these howling, blowing Rebels, even though he were defeated and was then a prisoner. I saw them, lots of them, through eyes that were pretty watery, and with a heart throbbing so hard with a fellow-feeling for them that I was almost afraid that I should lose control of myself, and I turned away. Through the barred windows of the prison I could see a room full of the boys in their ragged but still beautiful blue, as compared with the gray of the guard. They talked together in groups; some were laughing heartily, as though they were having a fine time among themselves; others walked up and down the floor with heads bowed and their arms behind them, as if in deep study. Occasionally I would catch the eye of some one looking through their bars at me; and, oh, dear, what wouldn't I have given at that moment for the privilege of being one of them--of making myself known with a shout. I felt that moment that it were far better to be a real prisoner of war, even though confined to the dreary walls of Libby, than to be as I was at the time, in truth or in anticipation, a prisoner already condemned to execution. Though apparently at liberty, I felt as Wordsworth writes, that I was not only

"Homeless near a thousand homes."

But, also, that,

"Near a thousand friends I pined and wanted friends."

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Chapter XVI

RICHMOND--HOLLYWOOD--JEFF DAVIS--BRECKINRIDGE--EXTRA BILLY SMITH--MAYOR, GOVERNOR, ETC.

It should be remembered that I am writing of Richmond, as I found it during the beautiful autumn months of September, October and November, 1861. The same conditions did not prevail in the years that immediately followed. It would no doubt have been impossible in 1864 to have overcome so easily the obstacles I encountered in 1861-2.

One other important factor in my favor is, that, after the success of Bull Run, the Southern people generally, and especially those about Richmond and Manassas, were so enthused as it were by the recent success that they became, for the time being, quite careless and were not disposed to closely scrutinize strangers who happened to be among them.

I realized these facts at the time, and profited by it. I began to feel so secure myself that I became quite careless about my own safety, and, as I became stronger each day, I spent pretty much all of my time either on one of the benches in the Capitol Square or leisurely walking over the streets of the city.

It became a daily custom with me to secure early a certain seat in the Capitol grounds, from which I could look directly into the front windows of the room which Jeff Davis occupied for his executive office. I had selected this bench because, from its location, which, by the way, to be exact, I will state was near the statue of Henry Clay, I could observe every person that either went into or out of the large hall door down stairs, which led to Mr. Davis' apartments. I was most anxious to get a glimpse of Mr. Davis, whom I had last seen at the Exchange Hotel at Montgomery during the bombardment of Fort Sumter. From my position in the grounds I could not, of course, see into the room in which I knew Mr. Davis was located, but I could imagine, from the number of people who were constantly going and coming, that he must have been kept pretty busy entertaining them. I did not find it advisable at that time to thrust myself upon his attention. It was only after several long waits and disappointments that I was one evening gratified to see my old Montgomery friend come out of the hallway in company with the present distinguished Senator from Texas, Hon. John H. Regan. They stood together on the steps a few minutes engaged in conversation, when Mr. Davis, with a courteous bow, turned to his carriage, which was waiting at the curb, the door was shut with a bang, the driver turned his horses, and in a moment more they had disappeared around the corner of the square, as they drove up the hill in the direction of the President's mansion.

It was generally understood by my refugee associates that, as soon as I was sufficiently recuperated, I would unite with the other Maryland refugees in the formation of a Confederate company of volunteers. They had taken me in charge, as it were, and, as they had voluntarily guaranteed my hotel expenses, I could do no less than to tacitly accept the situation. Even at that early day there was considerable rivalry in the matter of securing recruits for the newly-forming organizations of the Rebel Army. One reason of this was that, in their army as it was in ours, at the first of the war the commissions were generally given to those persons who were most active in securing the necessary recruits to fill out a company's quota. While these two Maryland gentlemen were quite kind to me and had personally helped me through my sickness, I saw that their object was not altogether disinterested. In vouching for my expenses they were perfectly safe themselves, as it was understood that I should secure the very best bounty that was being paid, and out of this fund it was known I should be able to pay all my sick bills. So you will see how it came about that, while my two guardians were busy most of the day in skirmishing about for their recruits, as well as looking out for their own prospects for commissions, I was indulged in every thing that they could at all assist me in, and was in general terms given the "Freedom of the City."

It became a favorite walk with me on pleasant afternoons to wander out to the beautiful Hollywood Cemetery, one of the most lovely spots in all Virginia. Hollywood has been so fully described, even before and after the war, that I need not attempt it here. With me Hollywood had a peculiar fascination during my first visit to Richmond, during that fall of 1861--the "melancholy months of that year." I found myself out there frequently, nearly always seeking out the one resting place, which was beautifully situated on the top of the hill, under a grove of large forest trees, close by the tomb of ex-President Monroe. The view from this point was superb. Directly underneath the hill, which overhung the river like a precipice, were the great falls of the James river, the water of which, coming from the Blue Mountains of Virginia, was splashing over the thousands of immense rocks standing up from the bed of the river, making a wildly-beautiful picture, extending for a mile or two up and down the river. Right beneath the cemetery, but out of sight of a rambler in the grounds, the railroad bed had been chiseled out of the hill-side rocks. Trains could continually be heard rolling and whistling along, which I knew went near my friends in a few hours at Manassas and Fredericksburg. Near this, on the water's edge, were located the immense Tredegar Iron Works, upon which the Confederate Government depended almost entirely for their supply of manufactured iron, and I believe they were also turning out at the time some large cannon for their fortifications and ships. I remember that I was impressed at the time, from overhearing a debate in the Confederate Congress, that the loss or destruction of the Tredegar Works early in the war would have been one of the most terrible blows that could have been inflicted upon their cause, and I had embodied this statement in one of my "dispatches."

One evening a brass band paraded the streets, gathering up quite a crowd of followers. Always anxious to see everything that was going on, and a lover of brass music, I "joined in" with the crowd and marched along with the band. We halted in front of the largest hotel in Richmond at that time--the Spottsword--since burned down--but then located on Main street. On inquiring, I learned that the excitement was occasioned by the recent arrival in Richmond of the Hon. John C. Breckinridge, recently the Vice-President of the United States and Pro-Slavery candidate for President. It will be remembered that there had been for quite a long time considerable doubt or uncertainty as to which side of the fence Mr. Breckinridge would eventually jump. He had remained in Washington City up to a very short time previous to his arrival in Richmond. One of the facts brought out during his speech that night, in answer to the serenade, was, that he was still a member of the United States Senate, he having so arranged it that his resignation would not take effect until he was safe inside of the Confederacy. I remember this portion of his talk very well, because at the time it impressed me as being very mean for a man of his standing, who had been so highly honored and trusted by his Government, to pretend so long to be neutral, yet knowing all the time in his heart of the purpose to gather information and then desert and betray his Government. I felt in my heart then that the numerous Southern gentlemen who held official positions and violated their oaths that they might betray their Governments, were cowardly spies whose methods were to be execrated, and anything I could do to frustrate them would be honorable in comparison with their service.

Another point of interest is the "old stone house," which is situated on Main street within a square of the Libby Warehouses. This old stone building, with the curled oak shingles on the roof, was General Washington's headquarters.

We will pass the Colonial and Indian periods, the wars of 1776, 1812, 1846-9 with this one sentence, and hasten up the Main street about a mile to headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief of the war of 1861-65.

From the windows of my room I had a close view of the City Hall building directly opposite, which fronted on Broad street.

One morning I observed an unusual excitement on the street in front of the City Hall. They were apparently preparing for what we would have thought up North was to be a bonfire. Of course I became an interested looker-on, but was almost afraid to ask any questions lest I should hear some bad news. I feared that the Rebels were about to celebrate some victory over our armies, when I saw them pile in the middle of the street a great heap of kindling wood.

The gray-headed man who was then the Mayor of the City was apparently overseeing these preparations.

I had been in the habit of sleeping late, and while all this was going on outside I was alternately dressing myself and running to the window to watch the proceedings.

Without waiting for breakfast, I went out on to the street to investigate. The first person I questioned happened to be the hotel proprietor, who said, laughingly:

"Oh, they are just burning the gamblers' stuff that the police captured on the last raid."

It seemed that Richmond had, and has yet, a law that compels, or at least authorizes, their Judge of Police Court to destroy by public fire in the open street any material or paraphernalia which has been used, or intended to be used, for gambling purposes.

The Mayor of Richmond in 1861 was a Mr. Mayo. He was certainly an efficient official, as some of the Maryland refugees will bear testimony.

Extra Billy Smith, who I think had been a Governor of Virginia, was one evening put into our room to sleep, the hotel being quite crowded, it being the occasion of some Virginia State gathering. He was full of talk and kept our crowd aroused and interested until late in the night.

He was living, I believe, somewhere in the neighborhood of where the armies were confronting each other.

One of his stories, which interested me more than anything else, referred to the death of the brother of the Secretary of War, Colonel Cameron, of the 79th New York Regiment, at Bull Run.

The body of Colonel Cameron, it seems, had been found after the battle inside of the Rebel lines.

The news of his death having reached the Secretary of War--the Hon. Simon Cameron--he was, of course, very anxious to have the remains sent back into the Union line for proper burial in his own State.

At that time there was a serious question about the recognition in any official form of the Confederate States of America. It was necessary that the Secretary of War should address a request in some form to an officer in the Confederate Army, requesting the "courtesy" of burying the remains of his brother at home. With Extra Billy Smith it was a question of "curtesy" to the Confederates, and he related with great gusto the amusement the Secretary of War's request for his dead brother's body caused in the Confederate officers' quarters, because it was addressed--"To whom it may concern." Mr. Cameron probably had nothing to do with the formation of the note or request, and it is likely that whoever did it for him was obliged to adopt this, simply because they were ignorant of the names of the proper persons in the Confederate Army to whom it should have been addressed. At any rate, it was a very contemptible piece of work to reply to the Secretary of War that: "The officers of the Confederate States of America did not know that his note, addressed 'To whom it may concern,' concerned anybody but himself."

I made a mental note of Extra Billy's share in this business, determined that old Simon should have him marked.

I presume that about the same general condition of things existed in Washington as in Richmond at the time I was there. There were undoubtedly Rebel spies, and plenty of them, running around loose in Washington, not only at that particular time, but constantly during the years of war which immediately followed.

The Confederates had a very great advantage over us in this regard. Washington City and the Departments were literally full of their sympathizers, who were able to carry on their work of assisting to destroy the Government, which was at the same time feeding them, as they were able to keep up an easy and safe communication through the country about.

Some of these Department Rebel spies remained in the Union Government service not only throughout the war, but even now, after twenty-five years of Republican Administration, are yet in the government service.

In Richmond and the country adjacent it was entirely different. If there were any sympathizers with the Union cause they were known and closely watched, and this was not a troublesome task for the Confederates, as there was not enough of it to occupy much of their attention. As a rule, the colored people were friendly to us, but they were at that time all poor, frightened, ignorant slaves, who dare not, under penalty of the most severe whipping, indicate by the slightest sign that they had any interest in a Union man.

The colored people in Richmond were forbidden to assemble in any number together. If a half-dozen slaves would accidentally get together to talk over the matters of life and liberty, that were so dear to them, it was the duty of any white citizen to order them to disperse. It is not generally known, and may be even doubted by the present generation of Virginians, that there was such a law, but it is a fact. Colored men were not permitted into the Capitol Square at certain times, being excluded by the same municipal law that applied to stray dogs.

It is but just to say that this rule did not apply to Richmond alone, but to Washington as well. In 1861, and previous to the war, the colored boys and girls, as they were all called, even though they were grandfather and mother, were not allowed to enter the Capitol or President's grounds at Washington. They were only permitted to peer through the bars of the great iron fence that then surrounded the grounds.

Every day, as regular as my meal-time occurred, I walked over into the Capitol Square and took my accustomed seat on the bench which gave me such good opportunities to see every person who entered President Jeff Davis' office, as well as a chance to observe the crowd that attended the proceedings in the Capitol building.

I did not give their Congress very much attention, because their business seemed to be to talk only. I was interested only in the War Office, and especially in President Davis.

The Virginia Legislature was also in session at the Capitol. We had a room-mate with us for several days who was a member of the State Legislature from somewhere in the mountain district. Our Maryland refugee, friend Elkton, and this Virginia delegate, who was inclined to doubt the power of the President as compared with that of the Governor of Virginia, were continually discussing the question among themselves at night after we had all gotten to bed, very much to the disgust of the Colonel and myself.

Governor Letcher seemed at the time to be a "bigger man" in Richmond than Jeff Davis. The Governor occupied an elegant mansion, which is beautifully situated in one corner of the Capitol grounds, while President Davis' "White House" was a large red brick building, situated right on the street, a few squares back of the Capitol, with only a small yard for grounds. It is a double house or a square building, with a hall through the middle and a number of rooms on each side. It was beautifully located in what may be called an independent position. I mean by this that there were no other houses immediately adjoining, but a yard or lot on each side as well as the rear. This lot or garden was enclosed by a brick wall.

I frequently strolled up there to get a glimpse of the President, whom I considered to be in my care and keeping, to a certain extent, so that I learned to know his habits or hours of arriving and leaving the house.

I am not competent to make a pen portrait of Mr. Davis. He appeared to me at Montgomery and at Richmond in 1861 as quite a pleasant, but ordinary looking gentleman of middle age. He was usually dressed in dark gray clothes of the frock coat or Prince Albert pattern. I think ordinarily in a dark steel gray. His face was rather thin; the jaws being firmly set gave him rather a dyspeptic appearance.

Jeff Davis has only one eye, which fact I learned quite early, and I always endeavored in my intercourse with the President to keep on the blind side of him. The one good eye was bright enough at that time, and I almost felt from his sharp glances toward me that he suspected me.

One day it was reported that the President would review a regiment of North Carolina cavalry which was then organizing and had been in camp at the Fair Grounds. This was a long walk for me, but I had become sufficiently strong to undertake almost anything--at least I so felt--and as it would never do to miss this opportunity to see Jeff Davis in a military capacity, I started out to the Fair Grounds early in the day reaching there a couple of hours before the review was announced to take place, and sat down under the shade of the fence to watch and wait. The cavalrymen and their officers were busy cleaning up their horses and dressing up for the occasion. One troop was drilling on a distant part of the field.

At the proper time the entire regiment were mounted, and, after a good deal of coaxing, and some cussing, they were formed into long lines, which a full regiment of horse makes.

The Colonel of this regiment was the present Senator from North Carolina, Hon. M. W. Ransom. I heard some of the lookers-on among the crowd, in which I had placed myself, say: "The officer did not dare attempt manoeuvering the cavalrymen, because they were all green tar-heels from North Carolina, mounted on fresh horses, and if they would get out of the line, in which they were placed with so much difficulty, there would be such a circus, or hippodrome, in the Fair Grounds that we would all have to climb the fence for safety."

We waited patiently and in crowds all the afternoon for the President to come. It was until after his office hours, or about five o'clock P. M., that a half-dozen horsemen rode through the gate, and, amidst a blast from a dozen buglers, the President and staff trotted up to the front. To return the salute due the President we have pretty nearly all been through an inspection, and know how it ought to be done, so I need not attempt to describe it here.

President Davis and his staff, dressed in plain, citizens' clothes, rode along the front of the line, his one sharp eye seeming to take in every man from horses' hoofs to their caps. He turned slowly around to the rear of the line, and rode close to where I happened to be standing at the time, and to this day I remember the sudden, sharp glance as his eye caught mine. Perhaps it was imagination or a guilty conscience that gave me the feeling at the time, but, whatever it was, I felt a shock.

After the ordinary forms of a review had been gone through with, to the accompaniment of a half a dozen or so bugles, the President and his party dismounted and held an informal reception to the officers and the crowd at the Colonel's headquarters.

I did not stay for this reception, because I was not, after that glance, particularly anxious to see Jeff at close quarters. I started back to the city on foot. I had gotten almost into town when I heard the Presidential party coming along the road behind me. As they came up, I stopped and was standing alone by the side of the road as President Jeff Davis passed. He was then talking pleasantly with some one who was riding along side of him. Seeing me, Mr. Davis turned away around, probably so his good eye could get me in range, and gave me another look, that pretty nearly convinced me that he had recognized in me the Montgomery Spy.

I do not suppose he gave the subject another thought, if he had at all entertained it, but I was made quite uncomfortable by the incident, which served to put me on my guard. I was becoming too careless.

Indeed, I went to Libby so often that I began to get acquainted with a couple of the Rebel guards, who had a little camp on some vacant lots on the opposite side of the street.

I had noticed that a few enlisted men from among our prisoners had been detailed by the Rebel officers to carry water and otherwise wait upon or assist in preparing the rations for the Union prisoners. Of course these men were always accompanied by a home guard, in gray clothes, who carried a loaded gun.

I had formed a rather foolish notion that it would be a great satisfaction to our prisoners if I could open communication with them, or, at least, that it would gratify them to let them know they had a friend who was at liberty in this city and anxious to serve them.

I gave this up after one trial. One day while loitering in that neighborhood, as usual, I passed on the pavement the customary Rebel guard accompanying a couple of fellows who carried a bucket of water in each hand.

It was about the time that Norfolk was taken by the Union troops, and, as it had been the only piece of good news that I had heard for so long, I was feeling quite elated over even that much, so, when I saw this procession of water-carriers coming up the street, I impulsively concluded at once to convey that information to our poor fellows inside the warehouse.

They had stopped and set down their buckets to rest. Picking out a big, good-natured looking fellow in the blue clothes, who was one of the water-carriers, to experiment on, I walked up to him; without stopping at all or even looking at him, I whispered to him as I went past: "Norfolk is taken."

Never turning my head, I was walking on hurriedly when the blamed fool sang out after me so everybody could hear:

"What?"

He didn't hear anything further from me. I had nothing more to say. Luckily the guard was as stupid as the prisoner, and no notice was taken of it.

Close by Libby Prison is Rockett's, or the landing point in the river below the falls for all the shipping that comes up the James river from the ocean. At these wharves ocean vessels drawing eighteen and twenty feet landed their cargoes in the piping time of peace. It is one of the busiest points about the city, but during the blockade, while the Union troops occupied Fortress Monroe, and subsequently Norfolk and the lower part of the James river, it was quite dull. There were, I believe, some gun-boats being fitted out here, and a few smaller-sized vessels were running irregularly up and down the James as far as they could go, without encountering their own torpedoes, Union batteries, and war-ships. My interest in this place was accidentally aroused (as was Newton's discovery of gravitation by the fall of an apple from a tree) by the reflection, while listlessly throwing sticks of wood out into the stream, that they would naturally float into the Union lines in a few hours--the river that goes on forever certainly reached the Union gunboats, and I reasoned that if the water went to the Union gun-boats, that, of course, I could do the same by simply going with the stream.

This was good logic if it was not good sense. I felt that the details for such a voyage would be easily enough arranged. I gave the matter my careful study, looking up all the maps that I could find bearing upon this river, and cautiously questioning every old colored cook, or seaman, that I could safely run against who had sailed up and down the river and could give me any information. In this way I was able to learn by detail pretty closely the location of the Rebel batteries along the river, and also to ascertain as nearly as was possible just where I would find a Union gun-boat or battery.

My experience on ships of war at Pensacola had not been exactly pleasant, but I knew very well that, once at Fortress Monroe, I could be quickly identified from Washington, and all would be safe enough.

I determined that, when I should return, it would be via the James river and the bay. I preferred the risk of drowning or being blown up by torpedoes in the river to another chase over the hills through the Rebel lines of Manassas, and, as I was in no condition for that long walk that night, I thought it would be more comfortable to have the water to float me out of rebellion into the Union and under the old flag.

Governor Letcher, of Virginia, frequently entertained great crowds of citizens at the elegant mansion provided by the State for her Governor. It seemed to me that the people of Richmond gave more attention to their Governor than to President Davis.

I could hear occasionally of some friction between the Confederate Government and the State Government. Of course, they did not allow this to become generally known, but there was certainly a good deal of this feeling at Richmond, even as early as 1861, which increased in bitterness as the years rolled on.

The State of Virginia had, before the war, a regularly organized standing army of its own. Of course, there were but a few of these "regular" troops, who were not at all like the militia of other States, but a permanent establishment, with a separate uniform of their own, and under the pay and control of the Governor of the State of Virginia. These few Virginia troops were distinct from the Confederates. Their principal duty seemed to be to act as a sort of "Pope's Guard" to Governor Letcher.

There were always several of them on duty about the Capitol grounds in the capacity of guards or police; and, as a consequence, there were numerous conflicts between the Confederate officers and soldiers, who were quite numerous in the city at that time, with this Governor's Guard. I saw one altercation which resulted in a shooting and running match--the Confederate winning over what he termed the "liveried hireling" Virginia Yankee.

I had been giving the telegraph office a pretty wide berth during the early part of my stay in Richmond, fearing that I should meet some one who had known me at Manassas. I began, however, to stop at the large glass windows of their Main street office, to stare in, like the rest of the curious loungers who were attracted by the mysterious tickings of the instruments, which were in sight from the street, the causes of mysterious movements and sounds of which were at distant points.

In those days operators who could read by sound were not so numerous as they are now, and it was never thought necessary to attempt to prevent any person from hearing the sounds of the instruments. I was always very careful to first scrutinize the faces of all the operators before any of them should have an opportunity to first see me. As I have previously stated, an expert operator can read by the sight of the moving armature, or lever, which makes the sound. This was the way in which I had to attempt to read those instruments from the pavement on the main street of Richmond.

To make this plainer to those who are not familiar with the mysteries of the telegraph, I will explain that the right and left motions, or swingings, of the signal flags, which were used in the army, represent exactly the same principle of reading characters by movement. This can be done through even so small a space as that usually taken by a ticking lever of a telegraph instrument, and its operation may be as light and quick in its action as the hand of a watch.

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XVII. RICHMOND--A CLOSE SHAVE

My telegraph operations were interrupted for a while by a personal incident, that occurred while I was still supposed to be on "sick leave." One night I was in the barber shop of our hotel, getting myself primped for an evening out with my Maryland boys. While lying back in the barber's chair, all covered up with lather and towels, I was startled to see through the glass, in my front, an apparition that had as great an effect on my nerves for the time as the traditional story of the devil looking over the shoulder of those who worship the looking-glass too much.

I beheld, like a ghost, walking right up to my barber the superintendent of the railway station at Manassas--the identical gentleman to whom I had been sent by General Beauregard, and who would, of course, at once recognize me.

My barber held his razor in his hand while he stopped to tell this gentleman that "his turn would be after me."

It will not be possible for me to describe the sensations that I experienced the day when startled by the apparition, which appeared as though looking through a glass window in front of my chair. Standing apparently in front of me was the one person, of all others, that I most particularly desired to avoid meeting in such a place as the Capital of Rebeldom at this time. Of course he must have learned, from the officers at headquarters, of my attempted escape to Washington, via Fairfax and Munson's Hill, and the subsequent chase through the woods the following night, in common with all the rest of the officials with whom I had been in contact about the telegraph offices at Manassas. He would, upon learning of this attempt to get away, recall all that I had been doing about the telegraph office during those few days; and, if careful examination were made into my past history, I knew that they must discover my true character.

While talking to my barber about his turn, this gentleman stood right behind my chair, so close to me that his arm almost touched my bare head, that was lying back on the cushions. He looked in the glass while talking, stroking his face which certainly needed the attention of a barber, as he had just come from the front. My face was entirely covered with the soapy lather.

The barber stood with his razor suspended over my head as he talked to the "customer." I am sure my face must have first turned as white as the lather. When I spied this gentleman, if I had not been already lying down, I am afraid that I should have suddenly collapsed, or have attempted to run off. As it was, being so muffled up in towels, and so completely disguised or masked by lather, and fastened, as it were in the stocks, by mere fright, I was prevented from making an exhibition of myself, and lay there for the time being as distressed as a wounded soldier on an amputating bench under the hands of surgeons, and as helpless as if under the influence of ether.

He was so much interested at the appearance of his own face, as he saw it in the glass over my head, that he did not closely scrutinize me; in fact, he could have only recognized me at that time, perhaps, by my eyes and upper portion of the face. And while he stood there I half closed my eyes, and purposely corrugated my brow. It was, of course, something of a relief to my suppressed emotions when, after an admiring stare at himself, he was sufficiently satisfied to go off and sit down among the other persons who were waiting their turn. I breathed a little freer, and gave such a great sigh of relief that the barber who was shaving me looked down at me with something of an expression of wonder in his black face. I quietly recovered myself, however, and began instinctively to plan to get out of that shop as quietly and as quickly as possible.

It would not do to get out of the chair, which had concealed me so well, until this dangerous apparition itself should be shrouded in a napkin and laid out on the chair, so that he could not have a free view when I should be ready to get out. He must not follow me in the chair I was occupying, as that would probably put us face to face, as when I should rise to give place to him. To prevent this, in an undertone I told the barber that I had been suffering with a toothache, and if he would give me a careful and slow shave and wash, that I would allow him double pay for the greater time he would have to put on me. This was a successful and cheap way of getting out of so great a pickle. I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Superintendent invited into a chair a little way over from where I was located, and he had no sooner got safely tucked in than, I fear, I rather abruptly told my man: "That will do; I will go now." The suddenness and celerity with which I crawled out of the chair and hauled on my coat and sneaked out of the door must have surprised that barber, and, if he had seen me get along the street and around the corner into the hotel office, he would have been puzzled still more. A glance at the hotel register showed not only the name of the superintendent at Manassas, but also that of another well-known railroad man, who had been about the station at Manassas nearly all the time I was up there. Without asking any questions, I stalked straight to my room, with a determination to gather up any valuables that had accumulated during this sick time, and to at once put as much distance as possible between myself and the ghosts that I had just encountered. I did not have the remotest idea, at that time, as to where I should go. My only desire was to get away from Richmond and out of Virginia as quickly as I possibly could.

I was homesick. There is nothing that will make a man or a boy so awfully homesick, when away from home and realizing that you cannot get there, as to meet with some such "unpleasantness" as this. It is a much more satisfactory thing, as I know from subsequent experience, to meet your enemy on a skirmish line, knowing the gun in his hand is cocked and loaded, than it is to run across him while unarmed on his own dunghill. I did not like the idea of being "caught" as a spy. I always had more dread of the attendant humiliation connected with the probable surroundings of a prisoner, who was a recognized Spy, than of the final danger.

When I reached my room, I found my two clever Maryland refugees there. Probably my manner and appearance still showed some signs of my agitation, as they both immediately became interested in me. The Colonel, who was the jolly fellow of this trio, said, laughingly:

"Hello, boy, what have you been up to?"

Fortunately for me, they both attributed my apparent embarrassment to a trifling matter, and did not pursue it further. Elkton, the older and more staid member of the refugee band, told me, with great glee and pleasure, that he had received an assurance from the Rebel War Department that his quota, or the detachment of refugees that he had been gathering up, would be specially provided for as a part of a Maryland company of light artillery which was then organizing. He would be the First Lieutenant of this company, and, as such, would, of course, see that his boys were well taken care of. It was further explained that his quota would be permitted to form a detachment of itself, or, at least, it would be so arranged that one section of this proposed battery would be in charge of his own men. This plan was not exactly what Elkton and the Colonel had calculated upon when they left their comfortable Maryland homes to join the forces of the Rebels. Elkton probably expected to be at least a Colonel, and the Colonel himself evidently considered himself entitled to at least a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the Confederate armies. They might have attained to this position if they could have furnished sufficient recruits themselves to have filled out a regiment. As it was, they were sadly and sorely disappointed in not finding the rush of refugees from Maryland which they had expected, and they were obliged to be satisfied with the best they could get, which was a lieutenancy for Elkton, and a sergeantcy for the Colonel. In all these talks and plans, it had been calculated by both of these gentlemen that I should, as a matter of course, join the army--as one of their detachment.

I never intended to do this. Under the peculiar circumstances under which I was placed, resulting in my sickness in the enemy's camp, and in order to further my own purposes and objects, which were solely to better collect information for the use of the Government, I had allowed them to think that I would at the proper time go with them.

Everything is fair in love and war.

This sort of artifice or scheme for deceiving a traitorous enemy in time of war, adopted on a large scale by the best generals, is termed by them "strategy"--but however disinterested the motives or inspiration of patriotism of a spy, who encounters for his country even an infamous death, his work has been recognized as something necessary, but "treacherous." While I am not attempting the writing of an essay, yet I may be permitted to insert here that "The work or the purpose of a spy is not more 'treacherous' than that of a general's 'strategy.' Both necessarily imply deceit. There is only a difference in rank or degree."

Very often the spy's "treachery" enables the general to apply his "strategy," and, perhaps, the poor spy has made the success of some of the greatest generals possible.

My desire was to stave off as long as possible this plan. I hoped, before the necessity for it should occur, to get away from them and return home.

So it came about that the time was approaching when I must either enlist or leave, and as I had that day so narrowly escaped an encounter, or detection in the barber shop, I decided very quickly in my own mind that I should leave.

As previously indicated, I had studied as far as possible from all the maps that I could get access to, and learned pretty well the topography of the James River country. My Maryland friends who had come over had fully explained their trip by the Potomac River crossing, and I gathered at once that their route was very like what fisherman call a set-net--it was a very easy matter to get into the net, but it was difficult to find the way out again. In fact, it was only the favored few who were in the service of the Confederate Government that were permitted to escape backward. I knew very well that I could offer no satisfactory reasons for going in that direction, and that, if discovered in attempting to do so, it could not help but lead disastrously to me.

I kept pretty close to my room, being taken conveniently "sick" for a day or two.

The leaves on the large trees in the park were beginning to take on their beautiful autumnal colors. The air itself seemed to be clearer and more bracing, and I again began to feel well enough--was ready to undertake almost anything in the way of adventure.

One evening, when the Colonel and I were alone, he told me that Elkton, who had been almost a daily visitor at the War Office--looking after his commission--had learned on direct authority that:

"The army under Generals Johnston and Beauregard will very soon advance, and we must get in at once, because," he added in great glee and with significant emphasis, as he tapped me familiarly on the shoulder as he uttered each word: "The plan is to march into Maryland, and capture Washington and relieve Baltimore."

This was the most interesting bit of news that I had heard for some weeks, and its dramatic recital set my nerves all up to a high tension. Eager to learn more, I questioned the voluble and confiding Colonel, who was eager enough to talk.

"Oh, I know it's true; and, my boy, I tell you truly that, before very long, we will march right into that portion of Maryland from which you came."

I was further encouraged to enlist with them, when the Colonel said: "Why, my dear boy, we will all soon march home to 'Maryland, my Maryland,' and be received by our friends in our gray uniforms."

This last part of the programme rather stumped me. I was not particularly desirous that any of my friends should "receive me in gray uniform."

I shared his enthusiasm in one respect, however--that it would be glorious to be doing something once more--and I even hoped they would move into Maryland, as that would serve to stir up McClellan and the North. I saw in this proposed advance into Maryland a good chance to again safely go through Beauregard's army, which I was willing to risk in this shape if, by so doing, I could learn of any proposed movement of the Rebels on to Washington, knowing very well that once in that country, in a Rebel uniform, I could safely "advance" into Maryland some hours, and perhaps days, before the Rebel Army, so that our friends could be prepared to suitably give their distinguished military visitors a warm reception, and entertain them in the proper form after they should arrive.

The Colonel went out to the bar to take a drink.

I sat down and built up another cipher letter, in the same key as I used in the former. It was about the same form as the preceding, being carefully worded, so as not to excite any suspicion. The real information which it conveyed to my Northern correspondent was to this effect, briefly, as each fifth word read:

"Proposed advance north via upper Potomac."

It was short and to the point, because I had not time--at least I thought I should not have--to "cipher out" a longer dispatch, as I wanted to get this through quickly. With this in my hands, I joined the Colonel down stairs, and together we walked along to Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and on the other side of the square.

The evening previous, while venturing out, I had first been careful to ascertain, by a cautious inspection of the people about the hotel, before I should approach any of the groups of men always loafing about the hotel, that my superintendent from Manassas was not among them.

I cautiously inspected the register, and, at a favorable opportunity, remarked to the gentlemanly clerk, as if I were surprised and delighted at the discovery:

"Why! is Mr. Superintendent here?"

The Richmond hotel clerks are like the same fellows every place else, and he did not deign a response to my inquiry as he was talking to another party. I looked, perhaps, rather inquisitively at him, finally attracting his attention, as he turned to a colored boy and said, apologetically:

"Show this gentleman up to 62."

"Oh, no! never mind; I'll not disturb him to-night; I'll see him again."

I didn't ask any further questions.

The next morning I was greatly relieved to learn from a colored porter that the Superintendent "Had gone off on de early cahs."

It was late in the evening when the Colonel and I called on Colonel Jones with my letter. I remember this, from the fact that the genial Colonel was preparing to close his office for the night, but he kindly took charge of my open letter, and, without a word of question, placed it in a pigeon-hole, in which were quite a number of other sealed letters. I asked, with an assumed expression of deep interest and anxiety in my manner, if the Colonel had any letters for me.

"Nothing at all undelivered," he said, as he politely expressed his regret at having to disappoint me. I felt so sorry, too, and with a sigh of relief and an uttered hope for better luck next time, bade the Colonel a good-night.

This information of the threatened invasion of Maryland, and the capture of Washington and Baltimore, had apparently put new and fresh blood into my veins. I felt that I must find out all about it, because I was in Richmond for that purpose, and if I failed or permitted so important an event to be planned and put into operation right under my own eyes, it would prove pretty conclusively that as a Spy, or scout, I was not reliable, and, after enduring so much hardship, I could not afford to fail in this important matter.

So I told the Colonel that I was most anxious to go with him and Elkton to Maryland as a Rebel soldier.

While they were arranging the details with the War Office, and some of the other Maryland refugees with whom we were to be consolidated, I put in my time scouring every avenue of information that I could think of, for some confirmation of the reported plan to advance. I was more deeply interested in this than I can explain; because, aside from my personal feelings and sympathies, I had, as will be remembered, a month or two previously advised our Government that an advance was impossible, on account of so much sickness and general laxity of discipline, etc.

But that information was based upon a condition of things which existed shortly after the battle of Bull Run.

It was now about the first part of October, I think, and during the time that had elapsed the condition of affairs at Manassas had changed very much, of course. The Rebel Army had been sick--like myself--but had now sufficiently recovered to carry the campaign further, and be in good shape for an offensive movement.

The Confederate authorities at Richmond were fully posted on all that was being done at Washington.

I am not sure but that there was a daily mail from the North. I wanted very much indeed to learn something about the manner of this system of communication, but I was always afraid to meddle too much about it while I was in Richmond, lest I should get picked up by some of the knowing ones among the Rebel spies and sympathizers, who were even in the employ of our own Government.

It was intimated in my hearing, while in Richmond, that the wife of President Lincoln was at heart in sympathy with the South; and that her brother, a Mr. Todd, who was in the Confederate service, was in communication with her. No person of good judgment ever believed in this story. I only mention it because some of the Rebel officers talked of the matter in a self-satisfied way.

One of my regular morning walks in Richmond was to go to the newspaper office, in Main street, to read their daily, which was posted on a file outside of their office. There was usually quite a crowd about the office early in the day, because paper was becoming quite scarce in Rebeldom and a daily paper was too expensive a luxury for every one to enjoy, especially in my circumstances. I found, too, while standing about in the crowds, that I could overhear a great deal of comment on the news--that was more satisfactory to me as a spy than the news the paper contained.

The Richmond press regularly quoted the principal New York papers of only a day or so preceding. Of course, all the unfavorable criticism of the Union military officers, and especially the opposition to the administration of Lincoln on the part of Northern Copperheads.

If some of these old Coppers could have been in Richmond while under the Confederate free government, and have experienced something of the "gratitude" extended to them in their words of comment, it would have been a benefit to the country, in this way--that it would have dried up a great deal of Northern sympathy.

It seemed to me to be the general sentiment among Southern people of the more intelligent class, in response to this exhibition of Copperhead sympathy, was oftenest expressed in words similar to this:

"Why don't they come over and help us now?" "What are they talking about so much; why don't they come on?"

If I heard that sentiment expressed once, I've heard it perhaps hundreds of times, in different forms; but it seemed to me, even then, that there existed a general contempt on the part of the better people South for those in the North who sent their sympathy and encouragement through the newspaper exchanges.

On Main street, nearly opposite the newspaper office, was the general telegraph office, through which all communications by telegraph was had to all parts of the Southern Confederacy.

Inside, the office was arranged pretty much in the same general way as a bank: There was a high counter dividing the room lengthwise; that is, from the front about two-thirds of the way back, where it turned in an L-shape across the room. The front door opened into this office. Around the walls were placed the usual conveniences for writing messages, which were to be handed in at the little windows through the glass counter. I called frequently at the office for a message, which I pretended to be expecting.

It never came.

But I was not discouraged, and kept up the visit until the delivery clerk got to know me so well that he would answer my question before I put it. I thought it would be well enough to try something through this channel, and every time I went inside the office, I lounged listlessly about long enough to hear the sound of the instruments, and I never failed to hear something from the sound of the brass-tongue tickers, but that something always happened to be of no consequence. It would usually be some private message, or perhaps a long order from the army headquarters office about some commissary stores.

I remember that I was impressed at the time, from the amount of telegraphing going on on that subject, that there was certainly a war between the Commissary Departments at Richmond and the officers in the front.

I did not dare tarry too long at a time, for fear that my constant attendance at the office might excite some suspicion.

It was only while I was on the alert to get something tangible about the proposed movement of the army that I was willing to take some extra risks to obtain official information.

It was evident, from the increased activity about the offices of the War Department, that something was up. Since I had heard of this proposed advance, I was giving the Departments considerable attention, and rarely missed an opportunity to see as far as I could from the outside what was going on inside.

From my bench, under the trees in the park, I could see that the office was being besieged almost constantly by crowds of people, mostly members of their Congress, who had to pass my seat on their way from the Capitol building to the War Department.

They went in groups of two to four at a time; sometimes a Congressman would be accompanied by an officer in the gray uniform.

As they passed me, their conversation seemed to be animated--in short, there was a general feeling among the crowd, as far as I could gather anything, that something important was pending.

Yet I had no facts--simply surmises, and gossip.

I could not learn much at the telegraph office, and had about abandoned the attempt in that direction, until I struck a plan that was a little risky, but, under the circumstances, I felt justifiable in undertaking almost anything.

Noticing a messenger leaving the War Department, I followed him at a respectful distance. He went straight to the telegraph office; so did I. I entered the door just a moment after him, and was carelessly edging toward the delivery clerk, to put my stereotyped interrogation to him, when he said in my hearing to the messenger:

"Shall we send dispatches from the President to Mrs. Davis at her home to-night?"

"There wont be any; he is expected back to-night."

Jeff Davis was at Manassas then. I felt really as if I had been derelict in my duty, in thus permitting the President to go out of town without my knowledge and consent. But he was coming back; that was comforting to me. I felt sure now that the rumors of an advance had been confirmed. I knew something was in contemplation, and I should not leave Richmond at that time--certainly not until I had ascertained what it was that they proposed doing, and when it was to be done.

I went straight to my room, wrote a short dispatch--a rather crude one--the translation of which was that:

"Jeff Davis had been to Manassas; something up." And before I slept it was in Colonel J. B. Jones' postoffice.

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Chapter XVIII

RICHMOND ON AN AUTUMN MORNING--A GROUP OF GOOD LOOKING SOLDIERS--JEFF DAVIS PASSED BY--THE BATTLE OF BALL'S BLUFF--RICHMOND NEWSPAPERS.

While I felt that my "dispatch" would ultimately go through to its destination at Washington all right, I was yet quite uneasy about this talked-of advance of the Rebels into Maryland, fearful that it might take place at once, or before my information could reach the North, through the blockade mail service, which was necessarily a little bit slow and uncertain. This fear kept me awake long after I had gotten into bed; and as I lay there alone in my room, in a Richmond hotel, brooding over the dangers of a Rebel invasion into Maryland and the humiliation that would attach to the capture or flight of President Lincoln and his officers from Washington, I became, I expect, somewhat wild and frenzied, and again resolved to myself, while in this disordered and disturbed frame of mind, that I would "stand by Jeff Davis"--for awhile--that for one, he should not go to Washington.

I had been away from home now since July, during which time I had heard only of the Union Army through the Rebel sources, and, of course, everything favorable had been suppressed, while all the weaknesses or shortcomings of our Northern forces had been greatly exaggerated.

I had heard so much of this sort of talk during these three months that I had, perhaps, come to believe in a great deal of it. I was young but not inexperienced.

We soon learned how to interpret the numerous war rumors and gossip of the soldiers of both sides--a little later on. Every recruit, perhaps, has suffered--in anticipation--more from the "chin" of old veterans about a camp-fire, who always knew more of the proposed movements of the generals than they did themselves.

So it was that I was compelled to listen to the wild talk of the enthusiastic refugees, my Colonel and Elkton, after they came into the room that night. It was late--they had been having some fun, and were feeling greatly exhilarated over the street rumors of the coming fight. I do not mean to insinuate that they were tipsy, just because the Colonel got in bed without taking his clothes off, for he was able to talk plainly and volubly until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

The talk of those two fellows that night, about the dreadful things that were going to happen soon, had about set me wild, and I felt as if I should get out of bed and walk right straight up to Washington before daylight and tell Uncle Abe all about it. But I fell asleep, too, and dreamed, perhaps, as wildly as I had been planning.

There was one point settled in my mind, and that was that it was my best plan to remain in Richmond, at least, until something sure was discovered about the Rebel plans. Another was, that if I kept up my friendship with these two lively old boys, who thought they were taking care of me, that I should more easily get fuller and more satisfactory information. I was obliged, in order to prolong my stay, to go with them into their Maryland artillery. I could also more safely reach our army through the cover or disguise of a gray uniform. As they were to go to the front at once, I was willing to do anything that was necessary for the good of the Government, but I wanted very much to avoid as long as was possible the approaching necessity for joining the Rebel Army as a means to further my ends and objects.

I had already staved it off a long time. I could have returned to the North via the James river without trouble, and I had all my arrangements completed to do so, when the reported advance of Beauregard reached my ears, and I had delayed purposely to learn something about this.

While there had been no active operations, I had worked hard and faithfully in secret.

I had opened and kept up communication with our Government--through the rebel channels--that was one great success.

I was also on hand in their territory, and on the alert to discover and report any further information.

I had probably at last discovered something important was pending, and I decided to stay and see it out.

The next morning I was out of my bed early, and in the park before my two comrades were out of their beds. I wanted to see if Jeff Davis had returned to Richmond, and, after breakfast, I took my accustomed walk, from which I could obtain a view of his office door.

I can recall that beautiful Autumn day on the Capitol Grounds as distinctly as if was but a day or two ago. The trees were putting on their most beautiful shades of color, the air was fresh and bracing, and I, having fully recovered from my recent weakness, was again so well and bright that I almost felt in my youthful, impulsive way, that it would be an easy task to go right up to Manassas that day to see what Mr. Davis was doing, and, if his movements were not satisfactory, I could continue my walk on to Washington.

There were at all hours of the day a great many people in the park. They were of all kinds, from the provisional Congressman and Virginia State Assemblyman, Confederate Government, down to refugees, citizens, soldiers and spies.

As I have previously said, there was always to be seen in this beautiful square any number of people, and on this October morning it seemed as if every person who wanted to go any place in the city were making it convenient to walk through the square to their destination.

There was eternally some Confederate soldiers and officers loafing about on the benches. I had become so accustomed to the boys in gray, in the streets, that I had forgotten to be at all afraid to meet with and to talk to them. This morning in particular I was perhaps unduly reckless, because I was so eager to obtain some further information about this advance.

Seeing a group of three nice looking soldiers talking together, a little distance from where I stood, I determined on the spur of the moment to join them, and, if an opportunity was afforded me, I would try to learn from them what they knew of the Rebel plans.

A group of three soldiers on a lark is not exactly the source that I would have applied to for information of an army's proposed movements six months later, but, as I have said, I was young then and fresh in the war service.

I approached, and addressed the boys a mild and meek inquiry as to a good place to enlist in "our army." This was a question that interested them all, and every fellow was at once eager to give me the desired information, which was to the effect that they had the very best Captain in the army.

They belonged to Louisiana, they said, and were recruits from New Orleans, and were on their way then to join the army at Manassas, having arrived in Richmond the day previously, and were laying over until the officer in charge secured some necessary transportation or other authority at the War Office.

I was urged to go with them. They declared that there was to be some great fun soon--that their officer knew all about it and had told them of the plan for the campaign.

The story they had did not differ materially from that I had heard from our own boys, and I judged safely enough that, as they were but recently from New Orleans, they could not know much more about the army at Manassas than I did. While we talked together these few moments, we all stood in a close group on one of the broad walks, the conversation being carried on with such a degree of earnestness on their part that we scarcely noticed the persons who were constantly passing us, until one of the Virginia police-soldiers came up to us with his gun and politely ordered the crowd not to block up the way. We moved off a little and sat down to finish the contract they had undertaken--of inducing me to join them.

The police-soldier walked off a little piece, and then, taking a position where two paths joined, he stood like one of the statues for a moment; then, as if suddenly imbued with life, his arms flew about as he brought his gun to a "present." Passing him were two gentlemen--one quite portly and red-faced, the other a slender thin-faced gentleman in a dark suit of steel gray. As they came closer, we all watched to see who they might be, as the guard had saluted. The big-faced gentleman was doing all the talking--the thin-faced one was close to me before I recognized him. He was so intent on hearing the old man's talk that he did not look toward us at all; and, after they had passed, I said to the soldiers: "That's President Davis!" They were, of course, all anxious to get another glimpse of their great man, and one of them hastily followed after while one of the others said in his slow, deliberate way:

"I thought so; because he looked just like a Confederate postage stamp."

At that time Mr. Davis' picture was on the stamps recently issued.

I took this opportunity to get away from them, by saying that I must join one of our own Maryland regiments, and started off as if I must find one right away.

Jeff Davis was back in Richmond, as I had discovered with my own eyes.

In my daily rounds, the next source of information I sought was the newspapers offices, because the crowd that was always to be found about them seemed to do more satisfactory blowing than any that I could strike elsewhere. They commented pro and con upon the bulletins that were sometimes put out; or, in fact, it seemed as if this daily gathering at the Examiner office, a few doors around the corner from Main, was a sort of a news clearing-house, where a great many of the citizens of the better class came to tell all they knew and to hear all that any others had to tell.

It was through this channel that I obtained some important clues.

While I was in Richmond, the Ball's Bluff, or Leesburg, disaster occurred, and most eagerly did I read all that appeared in Richmond about that distressing affair.

The Examiner and Whig articles on this "great victory," if reproduced to-day, would make some interesting reading, of a character that would stir up the blood of the old soldiers, even now, about as quickly as anything I know of.

The prevailing sentiment or feeling in Richmond at the time seemed to be, that this "great achievement of the Confederates" merely confirmed the opinions that had been previously uttered, based on the battle of Bull Run, "that one Southern was equal to five Yankees."

The patronizing and superior manner with which those Richmond people talked of the battle of Ball's Bluff, which, in fact, was almost a massacre, made such an impression on my mind that time has not and never can efface.

The Richmond papers, too, in those days, I recall very distinctly, found it necessary to apologize for, or defend, General Stone, for his part in the affair.

It was through this press channel that we heard of General Butler's operations in North Carolina. The old man had evidently done something down there that hurt very much, which they did not print, as the city press was filled almost every day with abuse of him and the Yankees.

I gathered that it was about Henry A. Wise, who had a son or a brother killed by Butler's operations. One would think, from the manner in which the Virginians went on about this "outrage," that the Yankees had no right to kill a Virginia gentleman under any circumstances.

While I am on the subject of the Richmond press, I must not forget to explain that, as printing paper was becoming quite scarce in the South, they were obliged to economize, and frequently the Richmond Examiner and Whig appeared in half-sheets and letters; the quality of the paper became so inferior as to resemble in appearance the reverse side of the cheapest wall-paper.

I sent to the North, through the blockade, several times, marked copies of the Richmond papers.

The Pittsburgh Chronicle actually published, while I was yet in Virginia, an extract from one of those papers, in which were some caustic comments on a case of a certain well-known Presbyterian clergyman of Allegheny, who had been dismissed by his church there for some harsh expressions of sympathy for the South.

I was thanked by name for the "courtesy" in sending the paper, which was exhibited at the office as a great curiosity, and am thankful even now, on reflection, that the Pittsburgh papers were not on the Richmond exchange list.

There were no earthworks of any description around Richmond in 1861. This is a fact that is not generally known.

When I was before the Committee on the Conduct of the War, some months after the date of which I am writing, there was an effort being made by some of the Congressmen to prove to the country that McClellan's inactivity during the fall and winter was wholly inexcusable. This truth was fully brought out at the time and the facts proven.

There was probably not a day from August to November, 1861, that General McClellan could not have easily entered Richmond, with a very small force, from the Peninsula or via the South.

It was also fully established by the official papers of the Rebel authorities themselves that twenty-five per cent. of their army was incapacitated on account of the prevailing epidemic in August and September, and that twenty-five per cent. more were absent, while the rest of the Rebel army was as badly demoralized by their victory as we were by our rout.

I do not attempt to criticise General McClellan in mentioning these facts. I refer simply to my own personal observations on this point, as testified to before the Committee of Congress, after I had gotten home again. I beg to refer the reader to volume 3, page 380 of the printed Government Record for a part of my sworn testimony referring to these dates.

After a long day's hunt for news, visiting about every place in the city, like a reporter, where I thought I could learn anything--among the rest, Libby Prison guard--I returned to the hotel in the evening.

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Chapter XVIII

A NARROW ESCAPE--RECOGNIZED BY TEXAS FRIENDS AT A RICHMOND THEATRE--PERSONNEL OF THE MARYLAND BATTERY--REFUGEES FROM IRELAND--CAMP LEE, NEAR RICHMOND--OUR CAPTAIN--LIEUTENANT CLAIBORNE, OF MISSISSIPPI--OUR SECTION-DRILLS--HORSES FOR OUR USE IN TOWN AND ADJOINING COUNTY--VISITS OF LADIES--CAPITOLA--POPULARITY OF REFUGEES--THE ENTERTAINMENT FOR MARYLANDERS--TABLEAU--JEFF DAVIS STRIKES THE CHAINS FROM THE ENSLAVED MARYLAND BEAUTY.

Richmond hotels during the war were very like those in Washington City during the same period. Every evening the offices, billiard rooms, and even the bar-rooms, would be filled with that class of a city's population that usually congregate in these places. As the crowded hotel lobbies in Washington City nowadays are just the places the newspaper men seek to obtain news for their papers, so it was in Richmond as well as Washington during the war.

Everybody agreed on one point--that something was up, but just what it was nobody seemed able to tell, and I was unable to find out. But I had a night's adventure, which served to dispel any scruples I had entertained about the propriety of entering the Rebel Army.

I met at the hotel office my companion, the Colonel, who, upon seeing me, rushed over the office floor to say:

"Why, where the devil have you been? We have been hunting you every place."

I explained that I had been poking about the city all day, and was so tired that I was going straight to bed.

"No you ain't; we are going to initiate you to-night. We got our orders to-day. Elkton has his commission, and has authority to enlist his men--you know we have nearly all we need for our section. I am to be Sergeant in charge of the piece and you are to be Corporal."

Then, with a slap on the shoulder, he hauled me to one side, and whispered: "We have got it all fixed for our big bounty, and we want your papers right away."

I was cornered. I must go along or get out of town. There could be no possible excuse for further putting off this step.

I asked only the one question--"Where do we go?"

"Why, into Maryland, of course!"

Being further assured that this battery was to be at once sent to the front, I agreed to go along with him--to get the money. We found Elkton in our room, attending to the papers of some of the other recruits, and, at a favorable opportunity, I, with a trembling hand and a doubting heart, signed my assumed name to the papers, and by that act became a Rebel soldier. There was one great relief to my mind while performing this necessary act. It was distinctly understood that I was to be made the Corporal, and, as such, it would be my duty to sight and fire the gun of our section. I determined that if the occasion should arise before I could get away from them, when it would become my duty as a Rebel soldier to sight that gun, that it should never be pointed in a way to do any damage.

My object was to use this scheme as a disguise to again get to the front at Manassas, and find out what had been done there. I could not learn anything at Richmond, and once more in the Rebel Army at Manassas, disguised in a gray uniform, I would find some way to anticipate any forward movements. I would also be "handy" to our army, and be able to reach our pickets quickly.

If I were caught going over to the enemy, with a Rebel jacket on, I'd be shot as a deserter; but I had the consolation of knowing that, if I were caught in any other clothes, I should be hung anyhow. While this was not a very comforting thought, I knew it was true.

I did not care much for the money that was to be paid to me; and authorized Elkton to settle my bills at the hotel and to retain the balance for me. He furnished the Colonel and me some spending money, and together we went out to "make a night of it" in Richmond.

The Colonel and I went first to a theatre, located on the street on which stood the Exchange and Ballard Hotel.

One of the players sang with dramatic effect some words suitable to the time and people, which was adapted to the French air of "La Marseillaise." He waved in one hand a French flag and in the other the Confederate bars. At a certain point in the song, the fellow threw to the floor and stamped upon--old glory--the Stars and Stripes. The wild cheers of approval and howls of applause from the large audience that went up at this dastardly exhibition of American treachery sent the cold chills down my marrow bone. I wondered then, and have never ceased to wonder, at the frequent exhibitions of contempt and dishonor for their old flag that were so freely and heartily indulged in by the Southern people during the war.

It did not occur to me at the time that I might accidentally meet or, at least, be seen--in a crowded theatre--by some person who would know something of my past experiences.

As we were slowly edging through the crowd, after the curtain had fallen, I noticed a tall fellow in front of us, who turned around to look back. I thought I had seen his face before, but I had been seeing so many faces lately, that I paid but little attention to him. I observed that he said something to his companion, as both turned around facing me, but, as the crowd kept pressing down the narrow aisle, they did not have a good chance to scan me too closely.

Becoming aware of their scrutiny, my suspicions became aroused. I began to hasten along, and nervously nudged the Colonel to push ahead more rapidly. We passed the two men--one of whom was in uniform--and as we did so, I heard one of them, say:

"That's him, ain't it?"

I didn't linger to hear what reply the other made, but shoved on toward the door, and had reached the vestibule when the voice behind called out--my right name! I was startled, but did not turn, being intent only on getting to the street as quickly as possible.

The Colonel, who was with me, had not noticed the affair at all; and the calling out of my real name had not attracted his attention, as I was known to him only by the fictitious name that I had assumed.

As I reached the door, and was about to hurry down the front steps, a hand was laid on my shoulder. I have no doubt that it was a pale face which turned around, expecting to meet some one that I certainly did not desire to see at that time.

I did not know him, though his pleasant face, which was covered with a broad grin, seemed familiar.

"Ain't you Mr. O. K., that was out in Texas with Major J----?"

I suppose that my surprised appearance was misunderstood for an expression of offended dignity I had assumed. This had the effect of putting him in doubt as to my identity, as he eyed me more closely, and gave me his name, and remarked he was one of a regiment that had been organized in that part of Texas in which I had spent the winter preceding the war, and had probably known me there, as a stranger naturally becomes an object of curiosity in that country.

As I did not want to run the risk of meeting any of my Texas uncle's friends, who might know of my interest in the affair at Fort Pickens--as the Texas boy--I mildly resented the proposed acquaintance. His companion relieved the embarrassment by suggesting, politely, that it was simply a mistake. When I had recovered sufficiently, I gave my fictitious name and introduced the Colonel, as a sort of endorser for my statement.

It was accepted with hesitancy, and we parted without stopping to further explain the matter.

I was now, seemingly, to all intents and purposes, a bona fide "rebel." The position in which I had almost involuntarily placed myself was such, that it put me in a dangerous attitude toward both sides, and would necessitate considerable explaining in certain events. It was, in fact, a "straddle," that caused me a good deal of annoyance and trouble that I had not counted on before I entered into the arrangement.

After the little incident at the theatre, the Colonel and I went straight to our room at the hotel. He wanted to run around town a little longer, but I was not in the humor for taking any further risks of meeting any more of my Southern acquaintances, and I prevailed upon him to go with me to bed. After the lights were out, I had an opportunity to think over the day's doings before I slept. It was arranged between us that we should travel together as a pair, or as a team of fresh Maryland colts, wherever we should go. We were both to be attached to the one gun of the Third Maryland Battery of Artillery. That is the name of the organization, as will be found upon a reference to the records, and I have no doubt my name is also set down there among the members of the company. Elkton was made the Lieutenant, while the "Colonel" was promoted to be Sergeant in charge of the piece, while I was Corporal and gunner.

A majority of the other "refugees" belonging to this patriotic band of exiles were composed principally of recruits who had been recently drawn to Richmond from their shovel and pick employment on a railroad contract, on what is now the Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad. This sense of duty to the suffering and abused South of their adoption, was due to the fact, as we all understood it then, that the bounty and pay of the Maryland refugee was very much greater than that of a laborer in a ditch while the work was not nearly so fatiguing. In fact, and in brief, the refugee business was very much of a fraud on the Confederacy in our company. To be more explicit, I will enumerate, from memory, the several nationalities which were attached to our "piece," which may be considered a representative of the Maryland refugees in the Confederacy.

Our No. 1 and No. 2--which all old soldiers will remember, are the figures that represent the two men who stand at the muzzle of an old-fashioned gun, one of whom swabs her out, while the other rams the charge home--were two stalwart Irish brothers, Mike and Terry by name. The former had been a boss of a wheelbarrow gang somewhere out on the railway in Virginia--one of those blustering Irish fellows who are so full of extravagant and positive talk. He was eternally and forever complaining about something or somebody, and I remember that he gave the officers and men more trouble on this account than all the rest. He had, as the leader of his gang, brought a dozen of his Irish recruits into our organization at one draft, and felt as if he must continue to be their boss. His men were also disposed to recognize "Mike's" authority, as being superior to that of the military officers. A good deal of discipline was necessary to explain to them the changed condition in their affairs. His brother Terry was a strapping big fellow, whose position at the gun was alongside of his brother. In disposition and temperament, Terry was the very opposite of Mike, being a quiet, sullen fellow, whom I do not remember to have heard speak a dozen words beyond mere monosyllables. He was, however, a tricky, treacherous fellow, and the pair of big gray mules gave the team of Maryland colts any amount of trouble and fun.

The man whose duty it was to prick the cartridge and attend the vent was a native of Richmond--a fat, boyish fellow of eighteen full of fun and laugh all the time. My recollection is, that he had been a butcher's clerk somewhere. He represented what may be called the "poor white trash," as it was termed by the Southern people.

He was probably attracted by the bounty and the chance to ride on a gun-carriage, as we found out very soon he was too blamed lazy to walk. Another peculiarity of this recruit, that we subsequently discovered, and which made it interesting to the rest of us, was, that he was subject to epileptic fits, and probably for this cause he had been rejected by the more respectable Virginia regiments.

When he first took one of those spells, during the excitement occasioned by the drill-master hustling him around a little, we all felt that something dreadful had occurred in our midst, and every man in the camp was crawling over the other in their efforts to wait upon and assist the poor fellow. He lay on the ground, gnawing and twisting himself in the most horrible way, frothing at the mouth in the meanwhile in a frightful manner.

It was on such occasions as this that big Mike showed his usefulness in the company. He would grab the big Virginian lubber by each hand and hold him "steady," as if he was a mere baby in his hands, giving orders meanwhile, as if he was a captain on a man-of-war in a great storm.

The other fellow, who pulled the lanyard, was a slender, good-looking man, who had been a sailor who had traveled around the world, and did not seem to have any nationality. The war had found him blockaded at Norfolk, and, being unable to get out to sea, he had gravitated into Richmond, where he was induced to join the refugee band by the hard logic of an empty pocket, a hungry belly, and a show of money as bounty. He and I became fast friends, and, as a singular coincidence, I mention here that we both joined that battery with the same intent--i. e., to use it as a means of escape North; and though we were together and slept together every night for months, neither knew the other's thoughts on the subject until the morning we met, accidentally, while both were escaping through the Rebel pickets.

Our No. 5, whose duty it was to carry the cartridge from the caisson to the gun, was a queer character. He was a man of about forty-five years of age, tall and angular, with that odd cast of countenance that one often sees among the lower order of Germans. He was not exactly a German, but had an accent similar to the German; his face was broad and square, the lower part of it being apparently broader than the upper. I think he must have been a Russian or a Polander. He was not a successful No. 5, because his motions were too stiff and lumbering for that position; and, in consequence of his stupidity, he was being prodded all the time when on drill. He became, however, a very useful member to the company.

By some mysterious expressions from the officers, we were led to believe at first that he might have been a disguised "juke" or count, exiled from his native land, and who desired to serve his adopted home with this band of devoted refugees. We learned, however, that he had simply been a professor in his own country in--a barbershop. We were all glad enough to ascertain this fact; also, that he served his time as a tailor--to be sure his "time" as a tailor had been "put in" at a certain penitentiary--but he was a good and useful refugee all the same, because he was detailed to shave the company and, also, to do over the baggy gray uniforms which were furnished us.

The "Colonel" and I were the first to take advantage of this information, as to the "juke's" accomplishments, to have him refit the gray blouses and trousers which we were to wear. We procured some black stuff for trimming the cuffs of our coats, because one of the Lanyards' lady friends had told him that the black and gray matched nicely together. We also had our Sergeant's and Corporal's stripes of bright red stitched on to our sleeves, and a narrow binding of red was sewed down in front of the coat. It was in this rather neatly-trimmed Rebel uniform that I boldly walked the streets of Richmond, and secured entrance to houses and places of interest, from which I had heretofore been excluded, during the rest of my eventful stay in that city.

It will be seen that, in this account of the personnel of one section of the so-called Maryland Battery, there was but the one genuine Maryland refugee in its outfit, outside of Elkton, and that was the Sergeant, who is the "Colonel" of our story. I was, of course, supposed to be another Marylander, but it will be seen that the much-vaunted "flower of the South," which composed the Confederate armies, was very much like the "flower of the North" in its actual composition.

The other sections of our battery were composed principally of the aforesaid "recruits" from the railway laborers, who were mostly refugees from Ireland and Germany.

Our other lieutenant was a Mr. Claiborne, one of the genuine sons of the South, a native of Mississippi, and as clever and courteous a young gentleman as it has ever been my pleasure to meet. I recall my acquaintance with Lieutenant Claiborne, though formed in this surreptitious way, as one of the most agreeable in which I have ever shared. If it shall so happen that this writing may meet his own eye, or that of his family or friends--and I have given the correct name--he will understand some of my actions toward him, which were at the time, to say it briefly, inexplicable. Lieutenant Claiborne, I think, followed the Confederate fortunes to the end--I am sure he did so if he lived to see the end--for, without a doubt, he was earnestly, though quietly, sincere in his devotion to the cause of the South.

The Captain of the company had been, as I understood it, a lawyer from Baltimore. He was a small man in stature, small in mind, and about as little and trifling in every way as any soldier that I have ever met.

Perhaps some allowance should be made for the Captain on account of the fact that he was a cripple. He was born, I believe, with one leg shorter than the other--wore what is known as a club foot; that is, one shoe was filled with a cork sole, which raised his foot three or four inches from the ground. He walked with a cane, and sometimes used two, and apparently walked with difficulty. His face wore an expression of pain or sourness that is peculiar to many persons whom I have met that are similarly afflicted.

In justice to the Captain, it may be inferred that, on account of his bodily infirmity, he had been reared in such a way that every whim was gratified, and he was petted and spoiled until he became in nature and disposition a veritable tyrant, as all pets are. We understood that he came of a first-class Maryland family, and that he had been highly educated at his home, where he had become a successful attorney. Our impressions in this regard were amply confirmed by our association; and the fact that our Captain had great influence at the Rebel War Department was undisputed. The Captain himself recognized his importance, and was of the temperament that inclined to make the most of his advantages.

There was a disposition on the part of our first Lieutenant, Elkton, to resist the Captain's severe exercise of his authority and overbearing manner; and in this rebellion within a rebellion, we of this section unanimously sustained our Lieutenant. Mr. Claiborne, the second Lieutenant, was also in constant friction with the Captain, and, as his squad sustained him, also, we were in hot water right along.

The Captain became a cross, surly, revengeful man. He knew nothing whatever of military drill and the requirements, and was narrow-minded enough to meddle and interfere with the trifling details, which should have been left to the subordinate officers.

Big Mike, of our section, was one of the fellows who had a grievance, because he had not been made sergeant in charge of the gun, with his own squad of Irish to work it, instead of my Colonel. He took every complaint to this sour-faced, crippled Captain, who, in an unmilitary manner, entertained his private growling complaint against the officers and the rest of the company. He would invite Mike into his quarters, where he would discuss with him the minor affairs of the company. Any old soldier will see how this sort of thing would work; and if any imagine for a moment that all the Southern soldiers were a "band of brothers," harmoniously bound together, fighting only against the Yankee invaders, they are very much mistaken.

I have seen more of the ugly, bitter jealousy between Rebel officers, and severe criticism of Jeff Davis and his generals, in an association of nine months among them, than I did subsequently in three years between Stanton and Halleck and all the commanders of the armies of the Potomac.

Our company was quartered in the Fair Grounds, on the outskirts of Richmond, which in after years became widely known as "Camp Lee." A high board fence enclosed several acres of ground; inside this enclosure were a number of temporary wooden sheds, which had been turned into barracks for the Confederate soldiers.

Troops were arriving at this camp from the South every day; and as fast as they were organized or suitably provided with arms and clothing, they were shipped on the cars, which ran right by the grounds, to the Rebel Army at Manassas or thereabouts. I was always glad to see the trains stop to load up some of the troops for the North, because I felt, every time I saw it, that our turn to go would soon come, and I should soon be at the front again, from whence I could easily skip over the line into Washington City.

The time, during these days, was usually occupied in a daily routine of military life. Officers and men occupied comfortable quarters at Camp Lee, in the barracks. There was a roll-call every morning, a very good breakfast, then a couple of hours' drill at the one old iron cannon, which was all that the entire camp possessed. Each of the sections took turns at this one piece. So it was, that, between us all, we managed to keep it hot pretty near all day. This drill was a regular circus. As the gunner, I did not have very much exercise. Lanyard, who stood by me, and I, had so much fun together over the two big Irishmen, who would so violently ram home the imaginary charges of powder and ball and swing the big swab around as wildly as if it was a little shilleleh. Fatty, the Virginia refugee, whose place was across from us, was full of fun himself, and kept us all amused by his antics during the drill--holding his fingers to his ears and winking and jumping as if a charge had actually been fired and the rebound was dangerous. The two big Irish brothers were always in a sweat and swearing at the disguised "juke," because he was so dignified in his bearing that he could not be made to see the necessity of rushing frantically from the limber, holding an imaginary cartridge in his hand. It, perhaps, seemed too absurd for a man of his dignity, age and clumsy bearing to be compelled to run around the gun holding out his empty hands, as if carrying a ten-pound shot in them, which he was supposed to deliver in like imaginary manner.

My duty was to sight the piece, and I learned to get that part of the drill down so fine that I was able, on short notice, to hit the same knot-hole in the fence, twenty feet distant, every time.

The number of Yankees that we killed with that gun--in imagination--far outnumbered all that were afterward slaughtered by all of General Alexander's Rebel Artillery. The Captain somehow got a notion that I was the only person in the company who could use pen and ink. This was not very complimentary to the rest of the company, because I've not, in all these years, learned how to write properly; but I was, in consequence, detailed as a company clerk, or as a private secretary to the Captain, and from this assignment, until we took the field, I had what is vulgarly called--a snap.

I was quartered thenceforth in the Captain's room, except when off duty, when I would quickly join the Colonel and Lanyard in their barracks. My duties were not at all onerous; on the other hand, I became relieved from all details for drill guard, police duty, and a hundred and one other little "turns" that catch everybody in the ranks, both in the Rebel and Union armies. It was my business to do all the company's clerical work: I filled out requisitions for commissary supplies, kept the roster, made a daily report for the Captain to somebody who was the General in command at the camp at that time.

One day the Captain notified the men, as we were at evening roll-call, that he had engaged a doctor for the exclusive benefit of the company, who would accompany us as our surgeon. Everybody was glad to hear this, as we had experienced a good bit of sickness already while in camp. The Captain wound up his speech with the incidental observation that a dollar or two would be retained from each man's pay to compensate this private surgeon. There was surprise, and the parade was dismissed and the men reassembled to growl. Big Mike then took a turn at making a speech, inciting rebellion against the Captain's arbitrary orders. It resulted in a regular Irish row upon the Captain ordering Mike's arrest and imprisonment in the guard-house. Before we got through with it, the whole of the bold refugees were under the guns of some of the other troops, that had been called upon to quell the disturbance.

It was lots of fun to Fatty and Lanyard, but for my part I'd rather get into a real battle than to become mixed up in an Irish fist fight.

There were some horses in camp belonging to the several officers who were quartered out there. Our Captain had his own, a finely-bred animal, which he rode to town and back every day. On account of the deformity of his limbs or hips, it was necessary that he should be almost lifted into the saddle, which was made of a particular shape suited to him. Because of this necessity for having someone always with him, I was selected by the Captain, with whom I had become a favorite, to accompany him nearly every day on a second horse. He almost always rode straight to the War Department, and I went along with him as far as I could. In this way I was able to keep up safely my silent watch on the Rebel War Office, rarely missing a day during our stay in Camp Lee on which I did not get to town with the Captain.

My gray uniform had been neatly fitted by the "juke," and my way of wearing my blouse coat-tails tucked inside my trousers had so pleased the Captain that he had ordered every man to wear his clothes as I did. This style of dress gave me a sort of Garibaldi appearance, and I fancy that, as I rode my horse fairly well, from an early training in Western Texas, I made a pretty creditable appearance on the streets of Richmond as a Rebel soldier boy.

It was in this disguise that, I may safely assert, I openly visited every single point of interest in and around Richmond.

I felt so perfectly secure and safe, that I had again become reckless and careless.

By reason of my close association with the Captain, as his private secretary or company clerk, I was able to secure from him his written permit to visit town in the evening. The Colonel (or Sergeant), Mr. Lanyard and myself had naturally gravitated toward each other, and visits to town after dark were usually made by this congenial trio in one group, but we didn't always return together.

The old Colonel and Lanyard were the real Philistines, and I may safely put all their night raids upon them. Whenever the Colonel or Lanyard wished to go to town, one of them would come to me, as the "Adjutant of their Corps," as the Colonel used to say, and in their seductive manner ask me to write out a pass for three and get the "old man" to sign it. The Captain had gotten into the way of signing so many of the blank forms, that it was my daily duty to submit to him, his signature was easily obtained to further our little schemes.

Of the great number and variety of troops, probably the most popular, as a general thing, were the refugees from Maryland.

For some months after the first battle, the ladies of the very best old families of Richmond were in the habit of making daily visits to the camps of the troops about the city.

There was a crack battalion of "gentlemen" soldiers from South Carolina that came to town during my stay, whose regiment I've forgotten, but my impression is that it was Hampton's South Carolina Battalion. Their presence created quite a furore among the ladies of Richmond, and the dress-parade in the evening seemed to bring half the town out in carriages and in droves of pedestrians. These fellows wore a fancy uniform, and, without a word of exaggeration, I may say every private in the battalion was provided with a body servant--in most cases a likely boy, perhaps one of the slaves with whom the soldier had played as a child, was now sent along with him to the war to take care of the young master.

Our Colonel didn't like the attention that was being given to the South Carolina boys; perhaps he felt a little bit envious or jealous, as he observed to a lady:

"These fellows have brought along their niggers to carry umbrellas over them while they fight."

While Lanyard thought: "It's most likely the nigger is there to fix up their cocktails."

I have, myself, seen refined ladies in our camp, with sleeves rolled up and huge aprons covering their fine dresses, assisting the troopers to bake their biscuit and bread. The younger and better-looking ladies were often to be seen at camp, with baskets in hand, laying out bountiful spreads in the barrack "dining-room."

The appearance of these ladies at camp always put the Colonel on his mettle--he would go about our part of the quarters, his actions totally altered from his usual slow and quiet manner.

Our sailor-boy chum, whom we called Lanyard, had not enjoyed the society of ladies so much as the Colonel, probably on account of his sea-faring life, and was rather inclined to resent the intrusion of the ladies. Through the Colonel's gallantry and cheek, our little mess was pretty well remembered by the visiting sisters.

It was through visits of this character that we became acquainted with a nice young lady, whom we will call Capitola, because that wasn't her name. She was a typical Southern girl. I can not describe her, except to say that she was a beautiful brunette, who had attended boarding school somewhere near Baltimore, and probably through this fact she became interested in the Maryland refugees. As I have said, the Colonel was a gallant fellow, and also a good manager, who was not slow to take advantage of the opportunity this pretty girl's visits to our camp afforded. She, of course, made her visits in company with a bevy of other pretty girls, some of whom were equally as handsome as herself, but Capitola is the girl of this part of our story.

One day our fair visitors made a special call on our officers to notify us, in their charming way, of an entertainment which was to be given at one of the halls in the city, to which Marylanders especially were invited. The Colonel in his courteous way accepted the invitation for us.

When the ladies were ready to return, the Colonel persistently escorted them to the gate--as he always did--while we bashful boys stood back and envied his easy manners, as he escorted them away from us. He always came back to us with a broad grin on his face, but, kept a taunting silence as to the conversation that seemed to be so interesting and amusing.

We put in the balance of that day preparing for the evening's entertainment. As a general thing, we were demoralized after the visit and could do nothing else. It so happened that it rained one of those cold, misty, half-rain and half-sleet storms, that are so disagreeable always, and especially so when they interfere with one's efforts to get himself up in his best shape. The storm did not, however, prevent a full attendance at the ball, for it was a sort of ball or reception, after some introductory addresses, accompanied by the music of "Dixie" and "Maryland, my Maryland."

Mrs. President Davis was present. Though I had frequently seen her, she never looked to my eyes other than a very ordinary matronly lady.

It was a tableau, in which our girl was representing "Maryland enslaved." She was attired, not exactly in the costume of the Greek slave, but in a sombre mourning garb, with her head bowed as if in great sorrow and distress. She walked on to the stage, and, with a pathetic appeal, lifted toward heaven as beautiful a face as I have ever seen, stretching out her bared arms, which were shackled by chains. It was a beautiful and a striking picture, presented with great effect, and I don't suppose there was a person in the vast crowd who did not feel ready to make a desperate effort to release the pretty Maryland girl from those dreadful chains. I'm quite sure I should have done so if I'd had the opportunity, and would have been glad to have picked "Maryland" up and carried her away from such dreadful people, but we were not to be given this privilege.

At the proper moment, Mr. President Davis stepped forward, and, like an accomplished actor, played his part excellently well, wrenching the chains from "Maryland" and setting her free. "Maryland" horrified all the battery boys by immediately throwing her arms around her rescuer.

"We three roughish chaps together," came away from that show with our empty heads in a whirl. It was still sleeting and quite cold. Lanyard, with an assumed shudder, proposed that we go to some saloon to get something hot to prevent our taking cold.

I have never been drunk in my life. I say this here, because a good many persons who will read this will naturally think that any person who has "been around" as much as I, must at some time have been full. Especially as I am an old soldier, I know that some persons will laugh at this statement as a joke; but it's a sober fact. I never was drunk, but I came mighty near it that night in Richmond.

Lanyard was familiar with all the best places to "get something," and took us into a cozy, warm room, where there was a good, cheerful fire blazing. On one side of the room was the bar--one of those old-fashioned high counters--but you all know what a bar is like, so I won't attempt a description of such a place to old soldiers. On this counter was a large china bowl beautifully decorated on the outside, while within was floating a mixture that I had never seen before. On inquiry, I was informed by the bartender, with a significant grin at the Colonel, which I afterward recalled, that the mixture was Virgina apple-jack.

You don't know what that is? No, I think it has gone out of date, or perhaps its concoction is one of the lost arts. There were apples--roasted apples--floating in a sea of foam, that gave forth a most delightful fragrance. I was curious about the stuff, and being assured by Lanyard that it was a sort of cooked cider, that was made in Virginia as a temperance drink for those who were opposed to hard cider, I, in my unsuspecting innocence, partook of a mug full of the hot stuff. It was not hard to take, being quite pleasant to the taste, and, the evening being so cold and wet, I was prevailed upon to poke my nose into another mug of the apple tea, "just to keep from taking cold."

We all sat down at an adjoining table to await our order of fried oysters, the two companions becoming quite hilarious over their gin, in a way, which I recalled afterwards, as quite significant.

The room was quite warm, and, as I began to dry out in its atmosphere, I became, I thought, too warm, and said as much, which my companions passed off in their careless way with a laugh.

When I attempted to get on to my feet, for the first time in my life my head felt a little bit dizzy, and I had to support myself as I stood to get a proper balance. The table began to move, as if impelled by some unseen power; in looking up, the fire had grown into three or four different fires in as many different places; there were several hundred bottles behind the bar, and realizing in an instant what was coming, I made a sudden rush for the door, staggering through the room, amid the laughter of the Colonel and Lanyard, who urged me to sit down; but I had not yet lost my head, and refused to stop until I got outside, when I leaned against the door until I cooled off.

It was a close call, but the Federal Spy didn't lose his head in Richmond that night.

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Chapter XIX

RICHMOND, FALL, 1861--DAILY VISITS TO THE WAR OFFICE, MECHANICS' HALL--EVENINGS DEVOTED TO VISITS IN TOWN--MIXED UP WITH MARYLAND LADIES--FORT PICKENS OPENS FIRE ON PENSACOLA BATTERIES--GENERAL WINDER, OF MARYLAND--JEFF DAVIS INAUGURATED PRESIDENT--SHAKE HANDS WITH JEFF DAVIS.

While it may very often become expedient for a spy, while perambulating in an enemy's country, to drink socially with those with whom he desires to communicate, it is always a dangerous expedient, because, of all persons, a spy requires a cool and clear head.

Although these Confederate soldiers, with whom I was that night associated, had not the slightest suspicion of my true character and purposes, yet, if I had been made foolishly drunk by them, there is no telling what my loosened tongue might have done for me. We were--all three of us--very much "gone" on the enslaved beauty, and under such softening influences, at this particular time, a very light dose of Virginia "apple-jack," added to the "Maryland" influence, would have completely upset us all.

In fact, I was in greater danger of losing my heart than my head. The beautiful tableau which we had just witnessed, coupled with the presence of refined and lovely ladies, accompanied by the sweet music of Maryland, had more effectually intoxicated my senses than the seductive "apple-jack."

It will be remembered that in our set was the Lieutenant, who was supposed to have been a staid married man at home in Maryland, and it would hardly be fair now to print his desperate efforts to cut out the boys of his company, simply because he was an officer. We were only able to defeat his intrigue by bringing to our aid the gallant and handsome Second Lieutenant, a dark-eyed Mississippi gentleman, but he, with base ingratitude, took unfair advantage of the opportunities we had afforded him and used his big black eyes and seductive smiles to capture our girl--and she, the beautiful but uncertain Capitola, the friend of the Maryland refugees, surrendered to our Mississippi Lieutenant, and there was great trouble and heart-burning in that Rebel battery ever after.

My undertakings and surroundings in Richmond were not exactly adapted to the production of humorous or funny effects, but I had lots of fun, all the same, though I was not sent there for that purpose.

I went about the city during daylight in the garb of a Confederate soldier, carrying in my pocket the pass of the commanding officer at Camp Lee, which was furnished me freely through my Maryland Captain's influence.

General Winder, who became afterward notorious as the Provost-Marshal-General of Richmond and keeper of Libby Prison, was a Maryland man, and it so happened that he had known our Captain intimately while the two lived together in Baltimore. This was a most fortunate circumstance for my schemes, as the first endorsement I had taken General Winder was of a personal character from his friend, our Captain, and thereafter I became solid with General Winder as long as I remained in Richmond.

I was frequently tempted to go home; indeed, I had several times come to the conclusion, from my own observation, that there was to be no advance into Maryland, and that I might as well quit and go home; but, again, I really felt as if I must accomplish something first. I had stayed away so long, and had done nothing of importance, that I began to feel that it would be a degradation to crawl back home and have to explain to every person I knew where I had been and why I had been there.

I wanted to go back when I should be made welcome. I confess right here that, since our pleasant acquaintance with the ladies of Richmond had been formed, I was becoming more content to remain longer in exile. The presence, and particularly the bright smiles and winning ways of our "Capitola" was a very great attraction.

I did not go about Richmond as a tramp or a peddler, as is the usual method of spies we read about in novels, but, instead, I personated a high-toned Maryland youth--dressed myself in the grayest of gray uniform, adding all the red trimmings that my rank as Corporal permitted. I rode a good horse, and, in my capacity of Private Secretary or Orderly to our lame Captain, enjoyed unusual facilities. During the daytime I took advantage of all these circumstances, and had my eyes and wits about me, while the night, in the company of our trio, was usually spent "about town," where I met some of the best people, who welcomed us to their houses as Marylanders exiled from our homes. I also encountered among others some of the very worst class of citizens.

As I have before stated, our Captain frequently visited the War Office, and I was nearly always taken along him, as he, on account of the stiffness of one of his legs, was unable to mount or dismount his horse without assistance. I learned, through this association with him, that the influence which he controlled at headquarters, and which enabled him--a cripple--to obtain such a good and much-sought-after position in the army over the heads of others, was derived, in part at least, from some relationship with Mr. Judah P. Benjamin, the Secretary of War for the Confederates.

Mr. Benjamin, it will be remembered, was a close friend of Mr. Davis.

As the fall was now well advanced into winter, the weather was daily becoming colder, the rains were more frequent, and once or twice we had some signs of snow, and occasionally that most disagreeable of all weathers--sleet, rain and cold, all at the same time. We understood, generally, that it was now getting too late in the season for a fall or winter invasion of Maryland.

I had not learned enough of the art or science of war at that time to know that there were any seasons for Army operations.

One day, while standing in the hall door of the War Department Office, waiting, as was my custom, for the Captain to come around, I was aroused from the indifference, which had grown upon me, by overhearing two persons, who were passing me, talking together excitedly about Fort Pickens and Pensacola. As we had been hearing nothing at all about Fort Pickens during these summer and fall months, I had almost made up mind that the place had been overlooked.

As may be imagined, I was not anxious on my own account to have the subject revived during my stay in Richmond. When I heard the word "Pickens," which to my ears was like a shot in the rear, I was instantly on the alert, and watched most eagerly the movements of the two gentlemen, whose discussion had attracted my attention. They passed along out of the building and together walked up the street and were gone out of my sight. It was evident from their not paying any attention to my presence, that their conversation about Pickens did not have any reference to me or my connection with the affairs.

I felt the least bit uneasy, however, and, while I stood about the War Office in Richmond that day, the terrible thought passed through my brain, "Had I in any manner given myself away, and was I being taken to the Department by our Captain for the purpose of entrapping or identifying me?"

It does not take very long for these dreadful thoughts to get possession of one's brain, and they do grow most wonderfully into the wildest fears and fancies in less time than it takes to write the words that will explain the incident. I waited and watched most anxiously about the square in front of the office, where our horses were tied, for the appearance of our Captain. He was not in the building at that time, I learned upon inquiring of some of the clerks. He was most likely further down town, or with General Winder. It was our custom to hitch our horses at this same place every day, when, after dismounting, the Captain went his way, while I did as I pleased also, it being understood always that at or near a certain time we were to remount at this place and together return to Camp Lee.

That evening he was unusually late getting around, and when I saw him limping along, his cane pounding the pavement with more than ordinary vigor, I knew I should have to lift the old man bodily on to his horse. He was always more communicative at such times, and ready to tell all that he had learned during the day. To my own surprise I blurted out, without thinking of my words, so engrossed was my mind on this subject, as if determined to hear the worst at once:

"How about Fort Pickens?"

"Oh," he growled out in his thick, guttural tones, "the Yankees have opened fire on our fellows from that damned Fort Pickens."

"Is that all," said I, with great a sigh of relief, which he must have noticed had he been sober enough.

"That's enough, ain't it? The President and the Secretary are both disgusted with General Bragg for not capturing the damn place last spring."

"Too bad!" my thoughts were, though I did not dare express them. I had prevented the capture of Fort Pickens in April.

As we rode along in silence for the remainder of the way out to camp, I had the opportunity to recall the Fort Pickens service, and I wondered and planned in my own mind just how that duel would be carried on there. I should have liked so much to have witnessed the booming of guns from Pickens, and the exploding of the great shells over the exact spots in which I had located the masked Rebel batteries down there.

My fears having been relieved by this explanation of the conversation I had overheard, I felt very much as if I'd like to go off by myself and yell for the old flag, just once, but I dare not; I must continue to suffer and enjoy, in the silence, that was becoming almost a second nature to me.

It will be remembered that I had been at Montgomery, Alabama, at about the time the provisional Government of Jeff Davis was being initiated at that place. I was at the same hotel for about a week at which Mr. Davis then occupied rooms. I had several times been close to his person--indeed, so near that I was able to overhear the conversation in which he always seemed to be engaged.

Through the fortunes of war, and an adventurous, reckless disposition, I was again, in the winter of the same year, at the Capitol of the Rebel Government in Richmond, Virginia, in a position to witness the formal inauguration of Mr. Jeff Davis as President of the "permanent" Government of the Confederate States of America, for the term of six years.

I saw Mr. Davis inaugurated, attended his public reception on the same evening, and, with all the rest of the callers, I was introduced to him, shook his hand, looked into his one eye, and passed out into the darkest night that I ever remember to have seen. The inauguration ceremonies were intended to be imposing.

We all know now that, even at the early stage of the war, there was much serious trouble among the Confederate leaders. During my experience among them there was scarcely a day that I did not hear expressions of discontent, and witness other evidences of a bitter feeling between the extreme Southern men and what they termed "Virginia Yankees."

My observations were, of course, principally among the rank and file, but I had also an eye and an ear for what was occurring among the higher classes. Though they were able to conceal their bickerings at the time, to a certain extent, we all know now, from the testimony of such men as Generals Joe Johnston, Beauregard and Longstreet, that there were always the smoldering embers of a volcano in the very heart of the Rebellion, and this cause alone would have prevented their success in the end, even if General Grant and the Army of the Potomac had been defeated in the field.

Though Mr. Davis had been elected President without any contest, the fact remains that there had been hostile opposition to him from various sources, probably the most noted being that of Howell Cobb. We, of the Maryland Battery, were given to understand by our Captain that we would be expected to do our share, individually and collectively, in making the inauguration a success.

The Secretary of War was a personal friend of our Captain, as will be remembered, and we all know now, if we did not suspect it then, that Mr. Benjamin was the Mephistopheles of Mr. Davis' Cabinet, such was the peculiar character of his services to his chief.

Of course, we were all glad enough of an opportunity to display ourselves in Richmond as Marylanders who were exiled from home; we had been accustomed to receive the "ovations" of our Richmond lady friends, and we were all glad enough of another opportunity to secure all the attention we could command from them.

There were some fears, too, that the inauguration might be of such a quiet character as to reflect somewhat, in this way, upon the administration of Mr. Davis. In brief, Mr. Benjamin and our side were to take an active part in making it a "popular" ovation. I was in for this, as I had been for anything at all that would add a little spice to the daily routine of camp life, that was becoming tiresome to me.

A couple of days previous to the inauguration day, we were all kept pretty busy drilling our awkward squad in marching and in burnishing up our uniforms. We had received no arms as yet. The one old condemned iron cannon we were using to practice on was all that we refugees could boast of in the way of arms, for the proposed invasion of Maryland.

The trio before mentioned had been dubbed the "Three roguish chaps together," comprised the Colonel (our Sergeant), Lanyard, the sailor, and myself had promised the Captain our hearty cooeperation. We determined to assist him and his friends in every way we could in "creating a demonstration," leaving for ourselves the evening following the reception of the President.

The eventful morning came at last, ushered in by a slowly-drizzling, cold rain. Indeed it promised about as inauspicious for a street display as could have been imagined. Later in the day the rain increased, and about the hour set for the ceremonies it had settled down to a steady pour.

It was, indeed, a dreary day in Richmond overhead as well as under foot. We marched to the city through slop and mud, that added to our personal misery and discomfiture, as well as it detracted from our intended gay appearance.

The ceremony took place in the Capitol Grounds--a stand had been erected in the neighborhood of the Henry Clay statue. On account of the pouring rain, it was necessary at almost the last hour for a gang of workingmen to erect a temporary roof or shelter over the place from which Mr. Davis was to deliver his inaugural address.

I did not get to hear a word of it, but I was not caring a scrap about it just then. I saw Mr. Davis, though, through all the proceedings--we were stationed at some distance down the hill and looked up over a sea of umbrellas.

After the ceremony was over, we three were permitted by our Captain to remain in town, and the trio at once found shelter in the same comfortable restaurant in which I had first tasted the apple-jack. Here we were permitted to dry out our wet clothing and enjoy a good old-fashioned Virginia dinner, which mine host had prepared in honor of the day. The great china punch-bowl was still on the high bar, filled almost to the brim with the sweet-smelling, seductive apple-jack, in which floated some roast apples, which were garnished with cloves, so they looked like great pine balls, but I felt that they were as dangerous as porcupines.

I was urged to drink several times indeed, but one taste was enough for me. The landlord was rather hurt, or pretended to be, that I should refuse to accept from his own hands the courteously proffered mug of the delicious compound, to be drunk in honor of the day, etc.

The Colonel, who had been such a good friend since we had met while I was sick in the hotel, had formed apparently the utmost confidence in me. In fact, our relations became of the most intimate character, as far as was possible between any two persons who were so unlike in disposition and purposes. The Colonel was my senior by several years; perhaps, because of this, or maybe from the fact that he had nursed me out from my illness and led me into the company, I felt that he had an oversight or care over me, and acted toward me in the kindly way of an elder brother.

In the love affairs, in which we all became so absurdly mixed up with our Maryland slave, Capitola, the Colonel had taken it upon himself to act in my behalf and for my good. I had taken him into my confidence about Capitola, and told him all about my trouble in that direction; how our officers had taken undue advantage of their uniform to cut me out, etc. He agreed with me that it was an "outrage," and admitted, with a smile, that I now recall as significant, that it was due entirely to the uniforms.

I had accepted his offer to make things all right for me. I had consented most reluctantly to the Colonel's disinterested and brotherly advice--not to have anything more to do with Capitola.

On inauguration day, being in town and feeling in pretty good trim, I yielded to the impulse, and concluded to meet Capitola just once more, to say "Good-by," provided I could do so without letting the Colonel find it out.

While trying to fix up a scheme to get away from him and Lanyard that afternoon, so that I might make the proposed call undetained, I was delighted to hear the Colonel ask Lanyard and I, to excuse him for a couple of hours, as he had an important engagement with the Lieutenant that afternoon--business must be attended to.

I was not long in getting away from Lanyard, and quickly skipped around to the well known residence of our Capitola. She surprised me by meeting me cordially and, all in one breath, demanded to know why I had stayed away so long.

"Why," she said, in her smiling, innocent way, "all the rest of your boys have been to call on us."

"Indeed," thought I; and when I had sufficiently recovered to ask who had been there since I had been gone, she smilingly said:

"Why, your friend, the Colonel, calls frequently; also that Mississippi Lieutenant of yours. Isn't he just too nice?"

This was not exactly what I expected or desired to hear from Capitola, but it was enough. The Colonel, my brotherly friend, was deceiving me, too. One purpose of my visit had been to request her company to the reception at the President's that evening. I had formed the impression that it would be a great scheme for the Spy to escort the Maryland slave to Jeff Davis' reception. When I had intimated the object of my visit, she burst into a hearty laugh as she said, cheerily:

"Oh, that is too funny. I believe every soldier from Maryland in your company has made that request already, and I had to decline them all, because I had engaged to go with the Lieutenant, you know."

I was preparing to take my leave when the door bell rang. After a few more words and a sad "Good-by" to Capitola, I was about to leave the room when I ran against my disinterested, brotherly Colonel, who had been trying to replace himself in the affections of my girl--while advising me to stay away. He was not at all embarrassed, but at once broke out into a hearty laugh, and, pulling me over to a sofa, we had a talk about the affair, which amused Capitola so much that her merry laughter rang through the house as she gathered the situation from our "explanations."

The Colonel proposed going out with me, but I noticed that he had cunningly slipped Capitola to one side and whispered in her ear something which had the effect of causing her cheery laughter to break out in a fresh place. She rushed over to me and, placing both hands on my shoulder, said:

"There is another--he wants me to go with him to the reception."

So I had my turn to laugh on the Colonel. We were about to leave. Capitola, smiling, suggested that we march the whole company down to her house and she should go along with all of us--as the Fille de Regiment.

Despite the weather and some gloomy forebodings of friends, the reception of President Jeff Davis was a success--in the way of a crowd, at least. It seemed to me at the time that everybody was there. There were all kinds of people present during the evening--the very best class of the citizens of Richmond and, perhaps, some of the very worst element, along with the numerous army officers and soldiers.

Richmond, in the winter of 1861, may justly be termed, at that time, the wickedest city in America. Adventurous gamblers and bad citizens of every conceivable description had flocked to the Rebel Capital from New Orleans and all parts of the South and North. One portion of Main street was abandoned almost wholly to gambling houses, which, at night, were inhabited by the worst kind of characters, in Rebel uniforms. These people and their associates, who were in the city for sport and to ply their vocations, flocked in great numbers to all places where crowds were gathered, such as theatres, receptions, etc.

The Mayor of the city, a Mr. Mayo--whose name I remember so well because it lacked but the final letter "r" to spell the name and position in the same word--was a dignified, gray-haired, old Virginia gentleman, who did the best he could to preserve the peace and order of the city. I saw him frequently on the street and at the City Hall, on Broad street. I never had any dealings with him in his official capacity that prevents my bearing this testimony to his good intentions. He was on hand at the reception, as the city official, as was also Governor Letcher, who was another Virginia gentleman and official who I can remember with feeling of respect. General Winder, who had been a police inspector, or something of the kind, in Baltimore, was, in reality, the Governor, the Mayor, and the Provost-Marshal combined in one, as well as Military Governor, with absolute authority from the Confederate Government. He had, as a Baltimorean, imported into Richmond a number of the Baltimore ex-police, or plug-uglies, whom he had employed as special detectives in his service.

We went to the President's house together, early; and we stayed around the neighborhood as long as we could stand the storm, in hope of getting a sight of Claiborne and Capitola.

The Colonel and I took our places in the line, to be presented in our turn. I had some slight misgivings on the outcome of this adventure, because I knew that Mr. Davis had frequently seen me while in Montgomery with him, and I feared that the subsequent notoriety I had obtained from the Fort Pickens episode would have served to have placed me in his mind. It will be remembered, too, that the press all over the South, as well as the North, had fully described my visit from Montgomery to Pensacola. So, it was with something of a nervous quivering at the heart that I saw myself being slowly advanced to the President. I watched his face closely from my place in the line before I reached him, and saw him courteously and smilingly take each one by the hand as he was presented.

As I have said before, Mr. Davis' face was thin--his cheeks somewhat sunken. His pictures do not properly represent his face, as it was only when he smiled and spoke in his low, soft, gentle manner, that he was so fascinating to those who knew him best.

He was, of course, severe and unbending to his enemies, but he was always the same to friends.

The Colonel was ahead of me, and, as his name was mentioned, he said to Mr. Davis, as he turned to me:

"A couple of Maryland boys have come to pay their respects to you, Mr. President."

Mr. Davis held his hand for a moment, saying, pleasantly, to the Colonel:

"Why, I'm right glad to see you."

At the same time he reached his other hand to me, and, for a moment, he grasped us each with a hand saying, as he looked at me with that one mighty bright eye:

"I'm glad to see you both."

We passed on, my heart fluttering terribly; but, once, in the crowd again, I felt that I had passed another danger. We lingered in the crowd for a short time; saw all who came and left in that time, and not being able longer to stand the storm, while waiting for a glimpse of Capitola, I turned away from the crowd into the darkness of a stormy night and wandered out to camp, so much absorbed in my own thoughts that I lost all care for my appearance--trudging blindly along through the darkness into the mud and slush until I reached camp, tired, where I quickly tumbled into the bunk and was quickly lost to all consciousness of the day's doing.

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Chapter XX

ONE SUNDAY IN RICHMOND--JEFF DAVIS' AND GENERAL LEE'S HOMES AND CHURCH--RECOGNIZED AT LIBBY PRISON--VISIT TO TEXAS CAMP--A "DIFFICULTY" RENEWED--THRILLING EXPERIENCE--A NIGHT IN RICHMOND WITH TEXAS BOYS.

From the subsequent questionings of our people North about how things looked in Richmond during the war, I gathered that they all entertained erroneous impressions about the conditions of affairs in that city at that time. I have been trying to describe them from a Unionist's standpoint. Though it had been in a state of siege at the time of which I write, and was apparently cut off from the balance of the world for a year, yet there was absolutely nothing in the general appearance of things in the streets to indicate that the city suffered in the least from the blockade.

It may be said that Richmond was very much like Washington at the same period, the principal difference being that the soldiers who thronged the streets and filled the saloons and houses of one city were in a gray uniform, while those in the other wore a blue. There was probably more of the blue boys loose in Washington than of the gray in Richmond, because the Confederate officials and, particularly, Provost-Marshal-General Winder, of Maryland, was able, with the despotic power granted him by the War Office, to prevent a great deal of straggling.

The weather was now settled into the regular Virginia winter, alternating into rain, snow, slush and sleet. Under these conditions it was impossible for either army to move, and, as a consequence, the city was soon filled full of officers from Manassas, who were on leave from their command, or of soldiers on furlough, or straggling deserters. No one will attempt to claim that the city at this time was orderly; in fact, the oldest citizens are ready to assert, even now, that, during the early winter months, the respectable portion of the community were in truth besieged in their own houses. It was scarcely safe for a lady to venture alone in certain portions of the town during the daytime, while at night the straggling furloughed officers and soldiers, under such conditions, on the same equality, had entire possession in the streets and certain parts of the city.

There was apparently no scarcity of money--such as it was--and there was not, that I can recall, any limit of the supply of whisky and all the other little attachments that the soldiers either in gray or in blue will have.

Main street, 1886, looked to me very much as it did in 1861 and 1862, except, perhaps, that on the occasion of my last visit the city presented to my eye somewhat the appearance of Sunday, in its general orderly and quiet bearing, as compared with the noisy, boisterous crowds that we saw on the streets daily in 1861 and 1862.

Camp Lee was on that side of the city furthest from the Libby Prison and Rockett's Wharf, and those places in the neighborhood of which I had spent most of my time in the first days of my visit, after recovering from my illness.

I had neglected to visit my early friends, the guard at Libby during these later days, because of the long distance of our camps from them, and not that I had forgotten or lost interest in our prisoners at Libby.

One Sunday morning, the weather being rather more agreeable than any we had enjoyed for some days previously, I obtained permission and a pass from our Captain to go to the city early in the day to attend church. The Captain pleasantly granted the request. Some of the officers, who were near by when I asked the privilege of attending church, facetiously recommended the Captain not to refuse anything that would tend to improve the morals of his corporal or clerk. I went off alone on foot, intending to make a visit to the prisoners before I should return.

Perhaps I may have been feeling a little bit homesick and disgusted with Richmond on this Sunday morning, because on the evening previous our beautiful Capitola had--to put it vulgarly--gone back on me for our Lieutenant.

I walked into the city via Franklin street, which is the aristocratic residence street of Richmond. There are on this thoroughfare some old Virginia homes and families that the city and State may well be proud of. General Lee's family lived on this street in a large, plain, double brick house, on the south side, one or two blocks from the Capitol Grounds. The house is quite ordinary-looking as compared with that of some of the large private residences in the neighborhood, but it will always remain to Southern people one of the historic houses of their city, because it was here on the street, on a Sunday morning after the surrender, that General Lee, accompanied by a few members of his staff, rode up to his door, dismounted from his war horse--Traveler--and, with a silent wave of the hand, parted with his personal staff, entered his house and closed the doors forever on his hopes of a Confederacy.

It is not written what occurred behind the closed doors, but there is gossip, which has, perhaps, been confirmed, that the staid, reserved, dignified old General, once inside his own hall at his home, completely broke down and fell to the floor, from which he was carried to his bed by the servants and that part of his family who were present.

The home of General Lee is more sought out by tourists in Richmond nowadays than is that of President Jeff Davis.

A block below, or nearest the Capitol, and directly opposite the grounds, stands St. Paul's Episcopal Church, in which both President Davis and General Lee worshiped. On the Sunday morning of which I am writing, in 1861, I took a position at the Fountain Hotel, directly opposite the church, to await the arrival of President Davis. There had been a good bit of talk about Mr. Davis' intentions of joining this church. Though he was a regular attendant during his early days in Richmond, it was not until some months after--and, I think, during the day of which I write--that he was formally baptized and confirmed into that church.

I did not have to wait long for the appearance of Mr. Davis. He came on to the steps so suddenly that I nearly missed seeing him. He was alone, and dressed in his usual plain way--had walked up from the direction of his office, when I had looked for him coming down through the grounds from his house. He spoke pleasantly to the few people whom he passed on his way, and disappeared inside the church.

Mr. Davis, whatever may be said of his public character, and a great deal has been written against him by his own Southern people, always impressed me at sight as being an agreeable, honest gentleman. I was frequently close to him, and always felt his presence, impressed with the feeling that he was having a great deal of serious trouble. I have often wondered if Mr. Davis ever entertained, for a moment even, the thought or fear that his life was in danger. I hope he may live long, and perhaps read the poor story of the Yankee Spy, who dogged his very footsteps in Richmond from after the battle of Bull Run until the winter following, and prevented any attempt at invasion of the North.

After the President had entered the Church, I lounged outside while the great organ gave the beautiful Sunday morning an impressive salute. When the tones had died away, feeling more homesick and blue than ever, I started off on my walk down Main street toward the Libby and the Warehouse prisons. As Libby is in the lower end of the city pretty close to Rockett's Wharf, it was a long walk, though it was Sunday, and the shops along the way were open and dispensing refreshments to the crowds.

My early Rebel friend was not on guard that morning, but some of his friends said he would be around after dinner, so, under pretense of waiting for him, I sat around in such shape that I could get a good view of the "animals" as they called the prisoners.

The tobacco warehouses in which the prisoners were confined have been so often described that any attempt of mine would be superfluous. It will be remembered, however, that, even before the war, all these large barn-like buildings were constructed pretty much after the form of our modern bonded warehouses. All the windows were made with iron bars, presenting the appearance of cages.

Groups of our poor fellows were easily to be seen through the bars, some of them having become pretty ragged; others were standing by the windows peering through the bars; a few walked or promenaded in pairs up and down the large barn-like floors. There were always two sentries and an officer at the main door, while on the pavement in front other sentries paced their silent beats, so that it was impossible for me to have any communication with them.

I desired for a particular reason to ascertain the names of some of the prisoners, and, if possible, to get the address of their friends in the North, that I might test my mail communication, by sending some word direct to them. Perhaps, for my own good, I was not successful.

I may be permitted to say here that, in case we had another war, the benefit of the Signal Service Code will be made apparent in this, that a silent communication may be carried on between friends of the same side under just precisely such conditions as I have described here.

If there had been a prisoner inside the bars who had been familiar with the Telegraph Code, as adapted to the motions of the hand, I could have spelled out over the head of the guard, without his knowledge, quite as rapidly as I can write it, messages that would have been a relief and pleasure to the prisoners inside, if not otherwise beneficial.

It was while standing in front of the Warehouse Prison, on Main street, thinking and planning over the possibilities in this direction, looking intently, from where I stood on the inside of the pavement, through the windows at the prisoners, that I felt a slap on my back that caused me to jump like an india-rubber ball. The voice, which was not a familiar one, said, loudly enough for even the prisoners to hear, using my own, my right name:

"Hello, Blank!"

When I turned to see who had "struck" me, I am sure that I presented a very flushed and, perhaps, angry face. I did not at once recognize the person, probably because he was in a gray uniform, but the smiling face of his companion, in the full black beard, I at once recognized as Doctor ----, of San Marcos, Texas, whom I had known familiarly as the young son of my uncle's neighbor.

I saw that I was caught at last, as I fully believed, and determined to make the most of my short time.

The tall young fellow, who had first approached me, I was able to recall, as the doctor mentioned his name and a visit we had made together to his house.

I was assured somewhat, and recovered from my surprise by the doctor extending his hand, and in the most agreeable and hearty manner, said:

"Well, Blank, I'm damn glad to see you are on the right side."

I hardly knew what to say to them, the surprise was so great, but this remark served to bring me to my senses, and I replied in a somewhat embarrassed manner, by asking what they were doing in Richmond?

"Oh! we are all here. Our regiment is encamped just out here. We have been in town to church, but are going out to camp now." Then taking my arm, familiarly, said: "Come along, the boys will all be glad to see you?"

Their invitation was so cordial, and I was being urged with such earnestness to join them, that I could see at once that they did not suspect my true character. It was evident that neither of them had heard of my Fort Pickens affair.

The one difficulty I saw before me in renewing this Texas acquaintance was, that I should have to represent in Richmond two different characters, under the two different names. I might be able to keep up this dual character if the two crowds were distinct or separated, but there was, of course, a great risk in this.

I did not, under any circumstances, want to become known by the name in Richmond by which I had been so widely published as the Pensacola Spy. All the Rebel detective force, which was made up principally of Baltimore police and detectives imported by General Winder, had undoubtedly been furnished with instructions to look after spies, and perhaps I had been specially honored by their notice as being the first on record during the war.

But I could not well resist the demand to accompany these two Texas boys out to their camp; and when they suggested that I must see my old friends from Texas, and seemed to take it as an affront that I should hesitate, there seemed to be no way out of it--especially as they had proposed furnishing me a horse to return to my own camp in the evening.

I reluctantly started to walk out to their camp, talking familiarly and cordially on the way, as they did about their delight at finding me on the "right" side. I could not entertain the thought that these honest-hearted Texan youths, who had never before been so far from home, were capable of any trick--they were sincerely glad to see me. I felt instinctively that they were old friends and neighbors of my Texas uncle, who did not suspect me of being a Yankee Spy.

The road to the camp of the Texans led in the direction of Seven Pines (or Fair Oaks), where Johnston attacked McClellan's left in the following May, and the camp itself was not far from that point.

As we tramped along a pleasant chat was kept up, and though I was on the alert to hear if any suspicion attached to me for the Fort Pickens matter, nothing was said to indicate that either one had ever heard of the affair. They were, undoubtedly, sincere in their cordiality, and only desired to gratify their companions in camp with their success in having found one whom they all knew, so far away from their Texas homes.

In the talk, I gathered that one company in their regiment came from the neighborhood in which my uncle lived, and was composed principally of the very set of young fellows with whom I had been associated there only the previous winter. They gave me the names of a good many of the boys, and amused me with the accounts of the journey they had made from Texas to Virginia in search of the war. The fact of my having an uncle in the South would of itself have been sufficient indorsement for my "loyalty" with most of these fellows, but I recalled to myself that, while amongst them in Texas, I had got into trouble several times by my outspoken Northern sentiments during the Presidential campaign, which was then going on. The doctor probably referred to this when he congratulated me so heartily on having found me on the right side.

We finally reached the camp. I was marched up to the company quarters, and was generally recognized by the boys, who were as sincerely glad to see me as if I was just from their home. I was at home among them--everything was all right there, and I enjoyed renewing the friendship of a year previous. Among the boys was one fellow, to whom I referred in the introduction of this story, as having a difficulty with--the grandson of David Crockett, the hero of the Alamo. Young Crockett, like most of his class, had been taught to presume a little on the glory of his ancestors. This had made him somewhat personally disagreeable to his associates; but he kept away from me that day.

I remained in camp until after dress parade. It was a regiment of as fine a looking set of truly American men and boys as I have ever seen in either army. Their war record, as the Texas Rangers, will bear me out in this opinion. Their Colonel was afterward the famous General John B. Hood.

I was urged to stay for camp dinner. The boys, with whom I had so often before been in camps in Texas, while "rounding up" their stock, were all well up to the use of the camp-kettles and pots, and, with the advantages of the city close by them, they were able to get up in good style, first-class shape, one of the good old-style Western Texas dinners. We were having a good time all around. I was being urged to get a release from my Maryland Battery and join the Texas Brigade.

I saw that I could not very well keep up this dual character, the very cordiality of these fellows would lead to their visiting me up in the Maryland Battery, and, once there, things would become badly mixed up. I would never be able to explain to these Maryland fellows that I was in reality another fellow altogether, and it would cause some confusion in the Texas camp to have to explain the other way to my Texas friends.

These thoughts, however, detracted but little from the pleasure of my visit, for, as I felt that somehow or other I would get out of the difficulty, I did not concern myself for a moment.

It was a mistake to have accompanied the Texans to their camp. It was, to say the least, when there, very indiscreet to place myself on exhibition among the hundreds of other spectators who were grouped in front of the Texas regiment while they were having their Sunday dress parade.

In the society of the earnest and cordial Texas acquaintances whom I had found--or who had found me--I had wholly overlooked the little circumstance that had occurred during the night at the theater, when, it will be remembered, I had been pleasantly approached after the dismissal by a couple of Confederates who said they had met me in Texas the preceding winter. I was then that evening in the company of the Colonel, who knew me only as a Marylander, and by an entirely different name than that by which the Texans addressed me, and it will be remembered that I then declined to be recognized as ----, and had, perhaps, rather curtly repelled their courteous advances.

As I sat at camp dinner on an improvised bench in front of the tent with my friends, with consternation I saw approaching me the very chap whom I had snubbed in the vestibule of the theater. The appearance of this tall fellow at the time, in his gray clothes, had about such an effect on me at the dinner table in that company in broad daylight as a ghost might produce when alone somewhere near midnight. He had his staring eyes fixed right on me. There was no mistaking it.

My dangerous predicament rushed to my mind at once. Luckily for me, perhaps, we were all seated at the table, so the fellow had politeness enough not to intrude himself upon the crowd, but walked on past us keeping his eye searchingly, and I felt sternly, fixed on me. I lost my appetite, which a moment previously was ravenous, and, as soon as I could decently do so, meekly suggested that, as I had a long way to go, I'd better leave them at once.

"O, no; we are going to escort you back to your camp on a horse, as we agreed to do."

That was very kind, of course, but if there was any one thing that I did not want to happen just then, was any farther attention to be paid to their guest. I declined the proffered kindness with so much earnestness that it might have had the effect of quieting the matter had not one of the fellows observed:

"Well, I'm going to town to-night anyway, and you can wait awhile and ride that far."

I have no doubt that the conversation between myself and the Texas Confederates that evening (in the light of subsequent events), would be interesting to any of them yet living who may see this narrative, and if I were able to put it down here in detail it might also be interesting to the ordinary reader.

I remember all that occurred during the half hour that followed the dinner hour. Could I forget that banquet?

While my newly-found old friends were arranging among themselves a programme to spend the evening in Richmond with me as their guide, my searching glances detected that my tall theatre acquaintance had gathered a group of half a dozen of his comrades around himself, and, as I imagined, he was earnestly explaining to them his experience with me at the theatre door.

Of course, I must have imagined the worst; who would not have done so under the same conditions? He probably did not suspect my true character at all, and was, perhaps, only entertaining his associates with an account of what he, no doubt, termed the shabby treatment that I had accorded him, as compared with what he was witnessing in my intercourse with the other boys. It had, however, another dangerous effect of calling the attention of a great many of the regiment to their visiting comrade in gray--the Maryland refugee--who was, by a stretch of the imagination, almost as far from home as were the Texans, because, as they said, in their sympathetic way, when speaking of their absence and distance from home:

"We can get home if we have occasion to go, but you cannot, because, you live in a foreign country that's at war with us, you know."

While talking together, the doctor came up to the group of which I was the center, and remarked in a half-quizzical way, his face wearing a smiling expression:

"Say, Blank, Jim Haws says he met you one night at the theatre, and you wouldn't speak to him."

Right here I made another mistake that day, by denying that I had refused to speak to any one.

"That's what I told him, but he swears that he and Bill Williams both saw you there."

I realized that I had again put my foot into it; but, I suppose, on the principle that a lie well stuck to will answer for the truth, I deliberately thrust myself deeper into the mire by insisting that I had not met any one at the theatre. This was satisfactory to the friends near me, who had become somewhat interested in the talk, and it all might have passed off without any further questioning or investigation if my former enemy, Davy Crockett, Jr., had not meddled with the affair. He had, as it subsequently appeared, been volunteering his sympathies and comments unfavorable to me to the two comrades whose story of the "insult" at the theatre had reached him. Of course, the motive that prompted young Crockett was simply a desire to get even with me, for presuming to promptly accept a challenge from him while in Texas to fight a duel.

As I have said, the one thing that I most desired just at that time was to get away from that crowd. If this intention had not been so fixed in my mind, or if I had at all thought of being delayed, perhaps I should have conducted myself with more discretion, and not have committed the blunder of denying a matter that would so soon and so surely react on me and endanger my life.

When we were about ready to leave the camp, and as I was flattering myself that once out of sight I should be out of mind, and have another opportunity to get away, I was confronted by the identical Jim Haws, who had brought to our part of the camp "a few friends," among whom was Billy Williams. In a voice trembling with suppressed rage, he said, looking savagely at me:

"Didn't you see me at the theater the other night?"

I have before stated, not with egotism, but as an explanation for some of my statements, that it is or has been one of my good points to always have been able to meet a sudden danger coolly, while at the same time I confess that I would tremble with apprehension and fear if I were anticipating or expecting the same danger.

Looking him straight in the eye--for I was riled by his savage manner--I answered, resentfully and boldly:

"I don't know whether I did or not. I've seen so many fellows like you around town that I've not minded them much."

For the moment my defiant manner served to give me the advantage, and the fellow was so badly stumped that he couldn't answer at once, but turning to his friend and companion, Williams, whom he had brought along as a witness to prove to the boys that he was right in his assertion of my having insulted him, he said:

"Bill, ain't he the fellow?"

Whether it was a disposition on the part of Bill to prevent any outbreak (a crowd was collecting), he mildly answered:

"Well, it looks mighty much like him, but you know we might be mistaken," and, turning to me, said, politely:

"My friend felt sure you were the man we met that night, but, as I had never seen you at home, and it was so dark and crowded there, I can't be certain myself."

At this stage, while I had become too much excited to talk coolly, my friends stepped in and interfered in my behalf, and Bill and Jim walked off with their friends, the latter muttering threats of vengeance.

The little ruffle on the surface, which looked like a "difficulty" on this quiet Sunday evening, created quite a commotion about the quarters. All know how quickly a fight will gather a crowd in camp, and how soon the officers become aware of it.

The serious part of this threatened fight was in the fact, that it served to call general attention to me individually--would bring to the scene not only the officer of the day, but other officers of the regiment, who had been attracted by the gathering crowd.

Explanations followed freely in our own crowd, to the effect that it was a case of mistaken identity, which was generally accepted good-naturedly. The fact that I was a visitor, and a friend of some of the best men in the regiment, who were ready to vouch for me (as the "Nephew of my Uncle")--had been inhospitably or ungenerously treated by any of their men while a guest--had the effect on these good, generous-hearted boys of completely turning the tide of feeling to sympathy for me. In the general exchange of courtesies, which resulted from the officers coming down to see us, it so happened that I was introduced to a Captain Somebody, who, not hearing distinctly, had asked for my name a second time, and on my repeating it with some little pride on my uncle's account, he said, turning to his companion, who was also an officer:

"Why, isn't that the name of the Yankee Spy that was at Pensacola?"

I have often, often thought, in the years that have since passed, of that one terrible moment of my life. Here I was just emerging from one difficulty, resulting from my dual character as a spy, while I was in Richmond, and on the precipice of another greater danger directly in my path. A single word improperly spoken at that time would have condemned me to the scaffold in less than twenty-four hours.

I felt for the moment that the fates were against me and determined to crush me at last. Realizing that the mere reoepening of my difficulty with the Texas boys must now result in an investigation, and that would lead in the one direction, only to the gallows, I said nothing. Perhaps I was too much stunned for an instant to speak; but I have often thought that my flushed face was misinterpreted by those who must have seen it to indicate resentment at the coupling of my name in such a way.

My friend, the doctor, relieved my temporary embarrassment by speaking up for me, saying, in a laughable way that seemed to change the subject:

"Come on, let us get away from here, or somebody will swear they saw you some place else."

Thus relieved, I quietly suggested to the Captain that I had been wearing a gray uniform up in Virginia since I left Texas.

I was again temporarily out of danger and breathed a little freer, but became nervously anxious to get away, and hurried up the boys who were to accompany me into town.

While still talking to these officers, the younger one, to whom the Captain had addressed the inquiry as to the name of the Pensacola Spy, incidentally volunteered the information that their company, which was a part of the regiment, had been organized about Galveston in the early days of April and May, and, while waiting for the enlistment of the regiment's full quota, they had been ordered to New Orleans, and from thence were assigned to duty at Pensacola, Florida, and were actually there about the time of my adventure to Fort Pickens.

I did not feel like pursuing the conversation much further in that direction. I quickly changed the subject, so as to make an impression on their minds that I had been in active service in Virginia right along. This was not difficult, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that my gray uniform had been of service again. It saved my bacon that day, sure.

It seemed, in my nervousness, that the boys would never get ready to leave camp for town. When I learned the delay was caused by some disappointment about securing enough horses for all who wanted to go along, I urged with much earnestness that horses would only be an encumbrance--that we could easily walk and have more fun if not encumbered with their care. They abandoned them reluctantly, as a Texan thinks he can not go a square without a horse. We all started off at last, light-footed. There was not one of that crowd of hearty boys who walked out of that camp in the gloaming of that Sunday evening who suspected my true character. My heart was heavy enough as I walked along with them, brooding inwardly over the troubles which I saw must result from this Sunday visit; but my feet were light, and I verily believe that I could have double-quicked it all night in almost any direction that would lead me away from there.

I dared not take any of these boys to our Maryland Battery and introduce them to my friends there, who knew me as a different person. They were, for this time, only expecting to put in a night sky-larking in Richmond, but I knew very well the time would come--very soon, too--when I must expect a return visit from them. I realized, too, that in the meantime my old enemy, Davy Crockett, would keep stirring up the two boys who had been only temporarily put down; and if the Captain could hear of their story, and be made to believe that I was playing double with them, it would surely awaken his Pensacola recollections and direct his attention to me. So I did not want to see anybody from Texas any more.

In attempting two different characters on the one day, in Richmond, I ran a foolish risk, and had probably stirred up an investigation that would be fatal to me. This was about the situation of affairs on this Sunday evening, when I was actually reckless enough to risk again mixing myself up, by acting as a guide or cicerone to a party of Rebel soldiers about their own Capital at night for fun. Notwithstanding the previous encounters, I enjoyed the night off fully as much as any of the boys of the crowd.

I was somewhat heavy-hearted when we first left the Texas camp, but the hearty, joyous, unsuspecting behavior of the crowd had the effect of reassuring me, as it were; and seeing that they, at least, would stand by me in their own camp, I entered with them into the spirit of the fun in such a way that I am surprised at myself when I think of it now.

We walked into town over what is known as Church Hill, above Rockett's, on the road leading out to Seven Pines and Fair Oaks.

It was about dark when we reached the colored settlement in the outskirts, and, as we began the descent of the long hill (the same on which the colored troops first entered Richmond in 1865), we heard the church bells of the city. There is, in many souls like my own, a sympathy with sounds of this character. In our crowd was the doctor, an educated as well as a polished gentleman and scholar. When the tones reached his ear he stopped, lifted his hat reverently as he stood on the sidewalk, and recited in a manner that so impressed me that I shall never forget these words:

"Hist! When the church bell chime, 'Tis Angels music."

Some of the boys, inclined to poke fun at the doctor's seriousness, to which, in his absent-minded, thoughtful way, he responded: "Have you never been where bells have tolled to church?"

He continued in this serious strain, while the jangle of the bells lasted; and as he and I were walking side by side, he kept pouring into my ear the beautiful thoughts about church bells, home, and all its attendant happiness, that I began to feel quite homesick.

"Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime."

The doctor suggested that we all go to church, but seeing that his recommendation did not meet with a very eager second, he amended it by adding the word "first," observing by way of explanation, that it would be a good way to put in the time for awhile. There were objections: one said he was an Episcopalian--their church did not have services at night; he was supported in this evasion by another who declared he was a Catholic. The doctor, appealing to me, asked if I were not an Episcopalian, too; I assented to it, when he mildly observed:

"I thought so; you and the other Episcopalian swear and lie alike so superbly."

Of course the boys wanted to get into some of the "society" of Richmond, and, as I had been there during the winter season, they expected me to introduce them.

I had entertained them about my experiences, which naturally aroused their curiosity, and excited their interest to learn more, and, perhaps, they desired to participate a little in the social enjoyments.

There was a great deal of society in Richmond in the winter of 1861, as I have said heretofore--people of all classes and all kinds were there in throngs, from every portion of the South, principally New Orleans, Baltimore, and other large cities. To my mind, unsophisticated as I was, there was but one--the beautiful little brunette, our Capitola--the Maryland slave.

I had talked to these fellows about Capitola so much that I was urged in the most seductive way to permit them to make her acquaintance, on my account. That sort of talk was all very nice, but it didn't have exactly the desired effect. I'd been fooled that way once before, twice before by being inveigled into introducing the Mississippi Lieutenant, who was anxious to see her on my account, and also who had cut me out entirely, on his own account. I didn't tell the Texas fellows this part of the story, though.

A spy who allows himself to get mixed up with a lady in his work, and loses his heart and parts with his judgment, is worse, decidedly worse, than one who loses his head with drink.

Personally, I wanted very much to call on Capitola, and would have been delighted with the excuse that was offered to present my friends, but for the fact that she knew me only as Mr. B----, while my friends called me Mr. A----.

In my eagerness to meet with her again, as I felt that now I must leave town, I was willing to take some risk. It was explained to the boys that I had assumed a fictitious name in my intercourse with Capitola, and, after giving them the blind, it was arranged that I should first see our enslaved beauty alone, and obtain her consent to present the Texans at her court that evening.

A soldier will risk a good deal for the sake of meeting his girl, as we all know. It was with the earnest desire to accomplish the purpose of seeing my girl--just once more--to say "Good-by" forever, that I was willing to meet another danger.

I saw Capitola alone, and nervously explained that a few of my Texan acquaintances, who had heard so much of her beauty and accomplishments, were clamorous for an opportunity to kneel at the feet of "Maryland." I did not attempt to say a word for myself, because it was understood that, since the Mississippi Lieutenant had been paying his addresses to her, we were, all of us, entirely out of the question. This disagreeable fact did not, however, prevent the handsome girl from entertaining me in a heartily cordial manner during my preliminary visit that evening in the interest of the other boys.

I could not say "Good-by," because, don't you see, I dare not tell anybody--not even my best girl--that I must go away; so I was denied even the poor satisfaction of a farewell with Capitola.

I do not remember whether I have said so before in this narrative, but, at the risk of a repetition, I will write down here what I believe to have been the truth--that Capitola was attracted more by the Mississippi Lieutenant's uniform and position than by his superior personal appearance. That she became convinced that the blue-eyed and light-haired Maryland Corporal of Artillery was the most devoted of her lovers, if not as handsome as many others, I have every reason to know.

It was pleasantly agreed that I should introduce to her my Texas friends. She, in her fascinating manner, considerately proposed to have with her one or two lady friends as her companions, who would help to pleasantly entertain my friends, the Texans, who were as she expressed it, "Thousands of miles from their homes."

While all these fascinating interviews were being held, I, like a love-sick boy, became wholly indifferent to the dangers and complications which I was rapidly bringing about myself.

I subsequently escorted my three friends around to Capitola's residence on ---- street--I can not give the name of the street. I know the location very well, however, from frequent visits. It was popularly known among us as "Poplar Grove," as it is the custom in Virginia to give names to residences. This was given to Capitola's house, because one solitary and sickly Poplar shade tree stood before it.

That we were pleasantly and cordially received by Capitola, goes without saying. She had, with bewitching taste and consideration, dressed herself for the occasion in her "Maryland, my Maryland," robes, as nearly as she consistently could, and, of course, she looked to my eye more beautiful than ever. Not to my eye alone, either, as I saw at once that our boys were most favorably impressed, not only with her appearance, but by the ease and cordiality of her manner, which served, in some mysterious way, to make everybody feel so much at home in her presence.

The doctor was particularly pleased--of all our crowd the most affable and gentlemanly and winning in conversation, being able to sustain himself creditably in any company, he was, of course, very soon at home, as we all found out to our sorrow. With him it was apparently a case of love at first sight--at least he tried to make Capitola think so. As I was out of the field myself, it was something of a gratification to me to see a prospect of some one of my friends being able to shove Lieutenant Claiborne off the stool. Some such thought as this was in my mind when, to my utter consternation, a black servant announced to Capitola that "Lieutenant Claiborne was at the door."

Jumping to my feet and rushing across the room to where Capitola was seated with the doctor, I begged her so earnestly not to admit Lieutenant Claiborne that I suppose I made myself ridiculous. She misunderstood my motive; but, with her quiet tact, she said to me, laughingly:

"Why, of course. I will arrange that your company shall not be interrupted."

She passed out to the hallway closing the door after her, while she held a consultation with some one, whom I knew to be my Lieutenant. If he had come into the room just then introductions would have ensued, and, of course, explanations must have followed; and, as I have so often said in these sketches, if there was any one thing that I desired to avoid more than another, it was any necessity for "explanations."

Capitola returned to the room, laughing heartily as the outside door closed with a bang, and saying to the doctor and the rest of us, as we rose to go: "Oh, no! seat yourselves and be at home here this evening."

There was not a word of reference to the visitor on her part until, in my eagerness, I found an opportunity to ask quietly if she had told Claiborne who we were.

"Why, yes; I merely told him some of your friends had called by a previously arranged agreement to spend the evening."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at all, except that he would call later, and when I said that you would probably remain all the evening, he left me in a towering rage."

Then she added, laughing heartily as she spoke:

"Didn't you hear him slam the door?"

I was safe for a little while longer, and, without caring what the next hour would develop, we proceeded to enjoy ourselves as freely as if we had nothing else to do, and not a fear to trouble us.

How long we remained with Capitola and her one friend is not material. When we were ready to leave this pleasant society, it was discovered by some one that it was then too late to get home to camp, unless by running the gauntlet of the city guard and patrol, who lifted everybody's pass after a certain hour.

This annoyance was fully compensated for by the sympathy which the ladies expressed for us. When we were, after a good many failures, at last ready to say a final "Good-night," all were made happy by pressing invitations to call again.

I noticed then, and have not forgotten in these twenty-five years, that the doctor was the last to say "Good-night" to Capitola; that he held her hand in his while he whispered, as he spoke in a low tone, some words that we did not hear, which seemed to amuse her immensely, as she only laughed in reply.

My acquaintance with the city streets and the haunts of the patrol at night enabled me to steer the party safely up to my old hotel on the Square, where we engaged one room and two beds. The quartette went to bed, but not to sleep. The doctor raved like a mad man about his agreeable evening in my company, and as his talk was altogether on the subject uppermost in my mind and heart, I enjoyed it as much as he did. We occupied the same bed, and before sleeping I detailed to him the whole story of Capitola, Claiborne and myself, without giving myself away.

I saw there was going to be trouble between the Doctor from Texas and the Lieutenant from Mississippi, on account of my Maryland girl; just where I was to appear, or where I was to come out of this affair, did not concern me so much as the hope that, somehow or other, when these two would get to quarreling over Capitola, that it would result in neither of them obtaining her, and the end would come about--like it should in all good stories--that I would yet march into Richmond some day in a Federal officer's uniform and claim her by reason of my devotion, and convince her that I was as plucky as any of the Southern men, worthy of a Federal officer's uniform, and of her love, etc., etc.

In the morning, after a hasty breakfast at the hotel, I escorted the boys down to Jeff Davis' office, in hopes that we might get a chance to see him come down through the square.

We were disappointed in this, as he had gotten in before we arrived. My companions were interested in having me point out to them some objects and persons of interest about the Capital, but the day was cold and dreary, compelling us to separate early.

The Texans were accustomed to the snow and slush of a Virginia winter, which interfered so much with their enjoyment that day.

I was the least bit uncertain about my status with our old Captain, as I had overstayed my leave all night, especially as I knew that Claiborne would be sure to let him know that I was in the city that night.

With the return of blue Monday morning, while out of sight of Capitola and away from the Texas boys, my small supply of common sense began to assert itself, and I saw that I was not only standing on a scaffold but the rope was about my neck. That something must be done at once was evident to the dullest sense. While pondering over what must be done, what might be the best course to pursue, having made up my mind not to return to the company at all, but to add desertion of the Rebel cause to the probable charges and specifications against me, by making a desperate effort to get North that night, I was hailed on the street by the Captain himself, who inquired rather savagely:

"Where in hell have you been?"

He interrupted my explanations abruptly by saying:

"We have orders to march, and all hands are getting ready; you go right out and pack up the papers."

This was news--good news, I thought--and, saying as much to the Captain, I ventured to ask if we were to go to Manassas.

"No, no; there is enough up there doing nothing; we are to go down to hunt for those damned Tennessee Unionists that are burning bridges."

This wasn't so satisfactory, but I was glad to hear that we were to leave Richmond at once, and I hastened to Camp Lee. Here I found everybody packing up, everything was in commotion, and I entered with zest into the preparation to leave Camp Lee.

Lieutenant Claiborne and one section of the battery were to remain in Richmond.

It appears that a sudden demand had been made on the Rebel War Department for troops to protect the railroad bridges in East Tennessee, and as our old Captain happened to be on good terms with the Secretary, he volunteered his company for this service, temporarily, as the Government seemed unable to supply them with guns to take to the field at Manassas.

So it happened that, on the evening of the same day, in company with the Colonel and Lanyard, we carried our bundle down street, stopped a moment at the familiar old restaurant to taste apple-jack once more, and, without an opportunity to say "Good-by" to Capitola, we spent the night on the railroad train, reaching some town for an early breakfast.

I had taken the precaution to drop in to see Colonel Jones, who had oversight of the mail service to the North as well as the general exchange of prisoners, and left with him a brief cipher dispatch for my friends North, explaining my change of base from Richmond; also, a note to some Texas friends, telling them our command had been ordered to Manassas, and expressing a hope to meet them there soon. I had been careful enough not to designate the battery explicitly or to name the officers.

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