The guard at the door refused me access to General Dana. Driven by a nearby hackman to the General’s residence, and, boldly asking for Mrs. Dana, I was more successful. I introduced myself as a teacher of music seeking to return to my friends in the North, working in a word about the old Washington days, not forgetting “Charley” and “Mamie.” The dear little woman was heartily responsive. Both were there, including a pretty girl from Philadelphia, and she called them down. “Here is your old friend, Henry Waterman,” she joyfully exclaimed. Then guests began to arrive. It was a reception evening. My hope fell. Some one would surely recognize me. Presently a gentleman entered, and Mrs. Dana said: “Colonel Meehan, this is my particular friend, Henry Waterman, who has been teaching music out in the country, and wants to go up the river. You will give him a pass, I am sure.” It was the provost marshal, who answered, “certainly.” Now was my time for disappearing. But Mrs. Dana would not listen to this. General Dana would never forgive her if she let me go. Besides, there was to be a supper and a dance. I sat down again very much disconcerted. The situation was becoming awkward. Then Mrs. Dana spoke. “You say you have been teaching music. What is your instrument?” Saved! “The piano,” I answered. The girls escorted me to the rear drawing-room. It was a new Steinway Grand, just set up, and I played for my life. If the black bombazine covering my gray uniform did not break, all would be well. I was having a delightfully good time, the girls on either hand, when Mrs. Dana, still enthusiastic, ran in and said, “General Dana is here. Remembers you perfectly. Come and see him.”
He stood by a table, tall, sardonic, and as I approached he put out his hand and said: “You have grown a bit, Henry, my boy, since I saw you last. How did you leave my friend Forrest?”
I was about making some awkward reply, when, the room already filling up, he said:
“We have some friends for supper. I am glad you are here. Mamie, my daughter, take Mr. Watterson to the table!”
Lord! That supper! Canvasback! Terrapin! Champagne! The general had seated me at his right. Somewhere toward the close those expressive gray eyes looked at me keenly, and across his wine glass he said:
“I think I understand this. You want to get up the river. You want to see your mother. Have you money enough to carry you through? If you have not don’t hesitate, for whatever you need I will gladly let you have.”
I thanked him. I had quite enough. All was well. We had more music and some dancing. At a late hour he called the provost marshal.
“Meehan,” said he, “take this dangerous young rebel round to the hotel, register him as Smith, Brown, or something, and send him with a pass up the river by the first steamer.” I was in luck, was I not?
But I made no impression on those girls. Many years after, meeting Mamie Dana, as the wife of an army officer at Fortress Monroe, I related the Memphis incident. She did not in the least recall it.