Disguised in a new suit of clothes, I walked the streets of Washington an hour after having left the prison. The first place I desired to visit was the War Department. I felt that I had some urgent business with some of the officials up there, that I was anxious to relieve my mind of at once.
My brother and his companion objected. This mutual friend called my attention to the parole, which I had carelessly left in my old clothes in the barber shop. I was gently reminded that I had agreed to go north of a certain point at once, and was not to return south of that line until properly authorized to do so by the War Office.
Instead of going to the train that evening, I went to the "Canterbury Theatre," an institution on Louisiana avenue as well known by old soldiers who spent a day in Washington as any of the War relics.
While seated in the theater, which was crowded by officers, soldiers, citizens, adventurers, sutlers, clerks, politicians, army contractors, etc., I was immensely amused when a pair of country officers, dressed up in full uniform, each wearing belt, sash and saber, strutted down the crowded aisle, their accoutrements of war rattling at every step, making so great a noise that it disturbed Johnny Hart, a negro comedian then on the stage, who abruptly stopped his performance, stepped up to the footlights, and addressed the noisy incomers: "Say, why in hell didn't you bring your horses too?"
This brought the house down, and had the effect of silencing that part of the audience that brought their camp and garrison equipage to the theatre.
It was not so much of a joke, however, when a little later on an army officer led a Corporal's Guard, armed with loaded muskets and bayonets stuck into their guns, down the aisle, and at a lull in the performance, came to an "order arms," while this shrewd officer of the Washington Provost Guard demanded the passes of every one in the audience who wore a uniform. I felt quite uneasy when they actually arrested and took out of the same bench on which I sat two commissioned officers who could not show passes.
Fortunately I was not disturbed, but I lost all interest in the show, and soon retired to quarters where the Provost Guard couldn't find me.
The only thing I could hear from Covode in relation to our own embarrassing affairs was: "Oh, that's all right; just tell him that it will be all right."
It was true, though not much of a consolation for me, to be reminded by some kind friends that I was not alone a sufferer by Mr. Stanton's arbitrary orders. Even General McClellan had been not only relieved from command of the army, but had been ordered to proceed to Burlington, N. J., and there await orders. This I was told meant, in reality, exile for him in precisely the same manner as for my own humble self, though the phraseology of the order was a little different from that in my parole.
I went home, where I was affectionately received into my father's house by my sisters and my aunts—I had no mother then. Probably, if I had not so early in life been deprived of a mother, I would have been saved, by her teachings, from many of the hard knocks which I was receiving by way of bitter experience. My father, always kind and indulgent, seemed to think that it was our privilege and right to pitch in for ourselves, that we might learn from experience. He seldom gave his boys any of that "I told you so" advice, in the threatening manner which renders it so inoperative.