Since I had been a disgusted witness to the abrupt interview between Mr. Secretary Stanton and the young officer who desired his leave extended that he might visit his dying father, I was not particularly anxious to encounter the Secretary at close range. I had said as much so emphatically to Mr. Covode and the other friends, all of whom laughed at my earnestness, and consoled me with the remark that they had all suffered in the same way at the War Office, and that I must not expect to be welcomed with open arms by Mr. Stanton. It was no good to explain to them that I didn't want to be welcomed, or kicked out either. I was told that I must see Mr. Stanton; that they could do nothing for me without first securing his approval. I recall in this connection an old chestnut, which explains in reality pretty nearly the true status of affairs between the President and his Secretary of War. In conversation with a group of friends about my "case," Mr. Covode had expressed the conviction that for him to interfere with Stanton would only operate against my chances, as he was thought to be a meddlesome investigator; and another Congressman related the story about Mr. Lincoln telling an importunate office-seeker that he, the President, "didn't have very much influence with this administration."
I called at the War Office several times, and always found the same old crowd in the corridors, and, though I was somewhat "fresh" and impulsive, I could not raise the courage to face the grim old Secretary, because he was always engaged with somebody, and I feared to intrude or interrupt him with my personal affairs.
As I have said previously, I had a brother, who was employed in the War Department Telegraph Office, but as his hours for duty were at night, I could not avail myself of this opportunity to loaf with him. One day, however, after so much annoying delay, I put on my Rebel jacket, screwed up my courage, and determined to settle the matter by a bold dash on the War Office. My brother accompanied me, and, while waiting in the ante-room of the telegraph office, I had a long and quite an agreeable chat with General Anson Stager, who had charge of all the military telegraph. The General, in those days, was quite a jolly, good-natured gentleman; and, in this respect, almost the opposite to his subordinate, Major Eckert, who was very dignified in his bearing toward his subordinates. I was young and not unobserving, and I noticed that Major Eckert always lost his dignity and high-and-mighty bearing, when he had any dealings with his superiors. General Stager was alike to all.
General Stager became much interested in my secret service more especially in that part wherein I had attached myself to the Rebel telegraph office at General Beauregard's headquarters, from whence I could overhear all the messages between headquarters and Richmond. General Stager laughed heartily at my recital of these events. He looked at my rebel jacket with interest, took hold of my arm to critically examine the texture of the cloth, and wound up by saying:
"Well, you certainly are an acquisition to us, and I want you in our service."
When I explained my desire to obtain a commission, that I might get into active service, the General endeavored in a kindly way to persuade me saying:
"It wasn't worth while to do that; they could pay me more salary than a commission as Second Lieutenant would bring beside I should be allowed all the liberty I chose at the front, being at headquarters as a civilian, furnished with a horse or ambulance, and all the rations I could consume, and independent of the military."
He made it very attractive indeed; but I resisted the temptation, determined to stick to my plans. I had expressed a willingness to do or undertake any special service, but I wanted to be an officer. After consultation with some one in another room, who was either the Secretary himself or some of the high officials in the Adjutant-General's Department, General Stager came back to me and clinched that which came very near being a nail in my coffin. He proposed something like this:
"The army is on the peninsula, and Washington is cut off in a manner from telegraph communication with them, except by means of a dispatch boat to the nearest point on the Maryland side of the Chesapeake, from which the telegraph is open to Washington. If you could open communication for us, overland—say from Fredericksburg, or the outposts of our forces there, to connect with McClellan on the Peninsula by courier service—it would be a good thing for us, as we could hear from our army so much quicker."
Everybody will appreciate the anxiety of the officials to hear from the Army promptly and frequently. In other words, I was to operate secretly between our lines below Fredericksburg and McClellan's advance, only a gap of a few miles, but not occupied by either army but infested with "guerrillas."