Seeking Pardon for Those Imprisoned on That Island.
Washington, February 16, 1867.
The reticence of General Grant covers the future with a haze of obscurity. Different Cabinet combinations appear before the public vision, like so many dissolving views of a midsummer night’s dream. The President-elect appears at a dinner party and escorts one of the gentlemen home, and the latter fortunate individual is decided to be an embryo Cabinet minister, and the lobby cries, “Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!”
It is very quiet in Washington, but it is the sultry calm which precedes the storm. All are waiting for the secret which is locked in General Grant’s mind as securely as the genie was fastened in the copper box under the seal of the great Solomon. In the meantime President Johnson is busy providing for his friends, as well as other unfortunates, who are not clamoring at the door of the Executive chamber in vain. Day after day, for months, a few fearfully bereaved women have haunted the White House. Among the number might have been found the wife of Sanford Conover, alias Charles A. Dunham, who perjured himself on the trial of John Surratt, and since his sentence has been serving out his term in State’s prison. Day after day this pale-faced, indefatigable woman has been haunting Mr. Johnson; haunting every man whom she supposed could have any influence in her behalf. At last her unwearying efforts have been crowned with success. Judge Advocate Holt and Honorable A. C. Riddle (one of the counsel on the trial) have said that Conover “without solicitation gave valuable information to the Government, which was used to assist the prosecution, and that he is entitled to the clemency of the Executive on the principle that requires from the Government recognition of such service, and that he has already served two years of his term.”
Another smitten woman’s feet have pressed the costly Wiltons of the Executive Mansion as sorrowfully as Hagar’s did the parched sward of the wilderness. It is the wife of Dr. Mudd, the man who was tried with the other conspirators, and is now serving out his life term at the desolate “Dry Tortugas.” During the last dreadful yellow fever epidemic, our officers on the island testify to the almost superhuman efforts of Dr. Mudd in behalf of the prisoners and soldiers. He seemed to have a charmed life among the dead and dying. There was no duty so loathsome that he shrank from it, and when he could do no more for the sufferers in life he helped to cover their remains with the salted sands. Armed with this testimony of the officers, for months Mrs. Mudd has attended Andrew Johnson like a shadow.
One day last summer a personal friend of the President’s was admitted to the Executive presence. As he took the lady’s hand, he smilingly remarked: “I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”
She replied, “There is another lady who has been waiting longer than I have.”
“Do you know her?” asked the President.
“I never saw her before,” said the lady.
The President called a messenger, saying, “See who is in the ante-room waiting.”