One of the first walks I took after getting out of my room was to the house of President Davis, which was, and is yet, beautifully located on the top of the hill; indeed, it is almost on the edge of a precipice that commands a view of the low country to the north.
The Colonel had not observed in my letter the reference to "my regiment." Now that it had been sent off without his, or anybody but the sick proprietor seeing it, I was glad to drop any reference to a previous connection with the army at Manassas. My story was, in brief, the same old thing, done over to suit the altered condition of things. I had told the Colonel about coming through Manassas; that I had been delayed there expecting to meet some of my Maryland friends, but was taken sick and had come on to Richmond for them. That, and the letter, and more especially my appearance, coupled with the greater inducement that he saw a recruit for their Maryland battalion, was to them all sufficient. No questions were asked by either him or Elkton; they were satisfied themselves, and their cordial introduction of myself to their other friends were enough to fix my status in Richmond for the time being. I was kindly treated by all with whom I was brought in contact, through the influence of my two newly-made friends. As I have stated, the first visit was, by courtesy, made to the President's House. I did not find it advisable to thrust myself on to Mr. Davis just then. The next point of greater interest to me was Libby Prison, where were confined a great number of the officers captured at Bull Run. I learned, upon cautious inquiries, that Libby was situated at the other end of the town, or about a mile distant from the hotel. This was quite a long walk for me to undertake, but I was almost sickened with the everlasting and eternal Rebel talk, which I had been forced to hear every day and hour for so long, that I felt in my soul that the sight of one true-blooded Union man would do my heart good, even though I saw him through iron bars. At the first favorable opportunity, on finding myself alone, I started out for a morning walk, leading in the direction of Libby Prison. Once on Main street, I began to feel a little apprehensive lest I should run against some one in the crowded throng who might recognize me. There were a great many soldiers in gray moving about the streets. It seemed, too, as if everybody I met was staring at me, and probably they were—as an object of pity. I became more accustomed to it, however, as I began to see that the interest being centered on me was probably due to the fact that I had been sick, and showed it in my appearance and walk. I felt more assured, too, when I saw, after awhile, that no person seemed to care much after all who I was, after they had once gratified their curiosity by a stare.
I wanted very much to gaze once more on a Union soldier, and one, too, who had fought in a real battle against these howling, blowing Rebels, even though he were defeated and was then a prisoner. I saw them, lots of them, through eyes that were pretty watery, and with a heart throbbing so hard with a fellow-feeling for them that I was almost afraid that I should lose control of myself, and I turned away. Through the barred windows of the prison I could see a room full of the boys in their ragged but still beautiful blue, as compared with the gray of the guard. They talked together in groups; some were laughing heartily, as though they were having a fine time among themselves; others walked up and down the floor with heads bowed and their arms behind them, as if in deep study. Occasionally I would catch the eye of some one looking through their bars at me; and, oh, dear, what wouldn't I have given at that moment for the privilege of being one of them—of making myself known with a shout. I felt that moment that it were far better to be a real prisoner of war, even though confined to the dreary walls of Libby, than to be as I was at the time, in truth or in anticipation, a prisoner already condemned to execution. Though apparently at liberty, I felt as Wordsworth writes, that I was not only
"Homeless near a thousand homes."
But, also, that,
"Near a thousand friends I pined and wanted friends."
CHAPTER XVI.
RICHMOND—HOLLYWOOD—JEFF DAVIS—BRECKINRIDGE—EXTRA BILLY SMITH—MAYOR, GOVERNOR, ETC.
It should be remembered that I am writing of Richmond, as I found it during the beautiful autumn months of September, October and November, 1861. The same conditions did not prevail in the years that immediately followed. It would no doubt have been impossible in 1864 to have overcome so easily the obstacles I encountered in 1861-2.