Camp Lee was on that side of the city furthest from the Libby Prison and Rockett's Wharf, and those places in the neighborhood of which I had spent most of my time in the first days of my visit, after recovering from my illness.
I had neglected to visit my early friends, the guard at Libby during these later days, because of the long distance of our camps from them, and not that I had forgotten or lost interest in our prisoners at Libby.
One Sunday morning, the weather being rather more agreeable than any we had enjoyed for some days previously, I obtained permission and a pass from our Captain to go to the city early in the day to attend church. The Captain pleasantly granted the request. Some of the officers, who were near by when I asked the privilege of attending church, facetiously recommended the Captain not to refuse anything that would tend to improve the morals of his corporal or clerk. I went off alone on foot, intending to make a visit to the prisoners before I should return.
Perhaps I may have been feeling a little bit homesick and disgusted with Richmond on this Sunday morning, because on the evening previous our beautiful Capitola had—to put it vulgarly—gone back on me for our Lieutenant.
I walked into the city via Franklin street, which is the aristocratic residence street of Richmond. There are on this thoroughfare some old Virginia homes and families that the city and State may well be proud of. General Lee's family lived on this street in a large, plain, double brick house, on the south side, one or two blocks from the Capitol Grounds. The house is quite ordinary-looking as compared with that of some of the large private residences in the neighborhood, but it will always remain to Southern people one of the historic houses of their city, because it was here on the street, on a Sunday morning after the surrender, that General Lee, accompanied by a few members of his staff, rode up to his door, dismounted from his war horse—Traveler—and, with a silent wave of the hand, parted with his personal staff, entered his house and closed the doors forever on his hopes of a Confederacy.
It is not written what occurred behind the closed doors, but there is gossip, which has, perhaps, been confirmed, that the staid, reserved, dignified old General, once inside his own hall at his home, completely broke down and fell to the floor, from which he was carried to his bed by the servants and that part of his family who were present.
The home of General Lee is more sought out by tourists in Richmond nowadays than is that of President Jeff Davis.
A block below, or nearest the Capitol, and directly opposite the grounds, stands St. Paul's Episcopal Church, in which both President Davis and General Lee worshiped. On the Sunday morning of which I am writing, in 1861, I took a position at the Fountain Hotel, directly opposite the church, to await the arrival of President Davis. There had been a good bit of talk about Mr. Davis' intentions of joining this church. Though he was a regular attendant during his early days in Richmond, it was not until some months after—and, I think, during the day of which I write—that he was formally baptized and confirmed into that church.
I did not have to wait long for the appearance of Mr. Davis. He came on to the steps so suddenly that I nearly missed seeing him. He was alone, and dressed in his usual plain way—had walked up from the direction of his office, when I had looked for him coming down through the grounds from his house. He spoke pleasantly to the few people whom he passed on his way, and disappeared inside the church.
Mr. Davis, whatever may be said of his public character, and a great deal has been written against him by his own Southern people, always impressed me at sight as being an agreeable, honest gentleman. I was frequently close to him, and always felt his presence, impressed with the feeling that he was having a great deal of serious trouble. I have often wondered if Mr. Davis ever entertained, for a moment even, the thought or fear that his life was in danger. I hope he may live long, and perhaps read the poor story of the Yankee Spy, who dogged his very footsteps in Richmond from after the battle of Bull Run until the winter following, and prevented any attempt at invasion of the North.