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.
"BILL, AIN'T HE THE FELLOW?"
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 reöpening 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.