The back stairway led out on to the porch of the L, that opened into the yard. Communicating with this wooden porch at one end was the front hall, which led through the center of the main building out on to First street, to the west. It was modeled precisely on the same old-fashioned plan of a large farmhouse or country hotel. A main building, divided in the center by a hall which opened on to the big back porch. As if to further complete the comparison with a country tavern, I found, on going down stairs that first morning, that the porch was provided with a number of wash-bowls and long towels on rollers, at which the guests were expected to make their morning toilets, assisted by that usual scraggy old comb attached to a yard of string, tied to each post of the porch, that contained, of course, a looking-glass which distorted one's face so that I imagined, at the first sight of myself, that a single night in jail had made me look like a horrible old murderer.
Meals were served by the proprietors, of course, but I was politely informed by an officer, in answer to some question about the rules and regulations of the house, that those who preferred it could select a caterer and have special meals served from the outside. I concluded to be a prisoner on the European plan, and joined a mess of two or three other hail-fellows-well-met, to whom I was introduced by the officer. There were no restrictions placed on my intercourse with this mess, though we were informed that the trio would not be allowed to have any communication with prisoners in the other part of the house.
I did not want to see anybody that I had ever known before—not even my brother, who was then at the War Department, and to whom I had secretly telegraphed to meet me with Mr. Covode. There is no other explanation of this feeling except an admission that it was a cranky freak I indulged in to the fullest extent. After my first breakfast, while in my little room engaged in looking out of the window at the shifting trains, I was surprised by a first call from a lady.
One of our mess, whom I will call English, because he was an English "Spy"—or had been arrested as being in communication with the Rebels—politely knocked at my half-open door, saying, in the most polite way, for he was a genuine English gentleman:
"Miss Belle Boyd desires to meet you, sir," and, before I could recover from my surprise, the door was darkened by the lithe and graceful figure of a neatly-dressed young lady, who had presented herself to my vision so suddenly as to suggest a spirit from the other world. It was Belle Boyd, the celebrated female Rebel Spy. I had heard of her in connection with her daring horseback raids about Winchester and in the Valley with Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart, but did not have any idea that she was to be a "fellow" prisoner with me. Without any embarrassment at all, and as if sincerely anxious to welcome me to the prison, she stepped forward smilingly and, with hands outstretched, took mine in hers, as she said: "I was anxious to see who it was that was here by Stanton's express orders."
I don't just remember now how I did act, but it's most likely that it was in an awkward, embarrassed manner, that caused Miss Belle to say, reassuringly: "Oh, you are among your friends now, and I'm glad to know you."
To my immediate relief the conversation was further carried on by English and Miss Boyd in a strain which, while it gave me an opportunity to recover myself, at the same time put the thought into my brain that I'd "catch on," as we say nowadays, and find out what this racket in the Spy line was. Here were two Rebel spies, with whom I had been put in confidential communication, and it flashed across my mind in an instant that I would make some good come of the unpleasant surroundings and put myself in such a position that the War Department would be glad enough to acknowledge my services. There was not a shadow of a doubt of Belle Boyd's sincere interest in me. She said:
"I was in C. I. Woods' office last night when I heard him tell the officers on duty: 'You must not overlook the fact that the young man in the hall room, by himself, is here under the express orders of Mr. Stanton.'"
As Miss Boyd made this observation in her own positive style, her lip curled with scorn at the mention of Mr. Stanton's name. She said further, in words that I have never forgotten:
"There was something else said in an undertone that I could not gather, but I determined that I would see the prisoner who was under Mr. Stanton's express orders."