When I left the office of Trenholm Brothers, a man on the sidewalk signaled to another on the opposite side of Pine street, and one of these men sat opposite me on the ferry-boat. Whether or not they were shadowing me I never knew. I saw nothing more of them after leaving the boat, and had no further adventures till I reached Turner's, where trains stop for supper. In the restaurant, I recognized a number of friends, and my only prudent course was to go without my supper or seek it elsewhere. I chose the latter, and got what I could at a bar near by.
I had no baggage—not even an overcoat—and the night was cold. I was in an ordinary day-coach on my way to Hamilton, Canada. Through trains were not so frequent then as now, and in Buffalo I had to wait some time, much of which I passed in seeing the town. While walking in a retired part of the city, I just escaped meeting an officer of the army whom I knew, by turning down a cross street.
At Hamilton I purchased clothing for the voyage, and was disappointed to find that I should have to wait several days for the next steamer from Montreal; I therefore decided to sail from Portland, but delayed purchasing my ticket till I could take the last train that would reach that city in time to board the steamer. This train went only to State Line on the day it left Hamilton, where I stopped over night. I remember the place from the fact that, although late in April, I was obliged to break the ice in my pitcher the next morning, when I started on what proved to be my last journey in the United States for several years. At nearly every stopping place on the way to Portland, men in uniform and fully equipped entered the cars. We were picking up a regiment under orders for the front.
We finally arrived, and my ship was in sight at anchor. I confess to a feeling of relief when I stepped on board from the tug, and that feeling was enhanced when we weighed anchor and the screw began pushing us out into the neutral territory of the broad Atlantic.
There were few passengers, and the voyage was without incident save one of no importance except as tending to confirm the theory of transmission of thought without language. My table-neighbor was a young sea-captain from Maine, who was returning to his vessel, which he had left in Liverpool some weeks before, to confer with the owners.
One day at dinner, without any previous conversation whatever to lead even indirectly to such a remark, he said: "I believe you are going to Europe to buy arms for Jeff. Davis."
I was in the act of taking a piece of potato on my fork, and, to gain time before answering, I passed the potato to my mouth and then made about as foolish a reply as was possible, saying, "If he wanted arms he would be likely to select a man who knew something about arms." The captain immediately remarked, "Sometimes those fellows that know the most, say the least." I could think of nothing to say to advantage, and said nothing; the matter was never referred to again.
On arriving in London I went to what was then a favorite hotel for Americans,—Morley's in Trafalgar Square. The remark of the ship-captain interested me, and I resolved to probe the matter a little by calling on a gentleman with whom I had conversed more freely than with any other passenger. He was a lawyer from Portland, who in his younger days had taught school in Mississippi. He was stopping at a near-by hotel on the Strand. On meeting him, I asked if he knew the object of my visit to Europe. He replied he had not the slightest idea why I was there. I then told him of the captain's remark, and that his surmise was correct. I am very sure that, during the voyage, I said nothing from which the nature of my business could be inferred; and as for papers, I had received none since leaving Montgomery.