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.