We sat all day in the front room, watching the splendidly equipped host as it marched by on its way to capture Lee. It soon became known that we were there. Within the next few days we had calls from old Washington friends. Among others my husband was visited by Elihu B. Washburne and Senator Henry Wilson, afterward Vice-president of the United States with General Grant. These paid long visits and talked kindly and earnestly of the South.
Mr. Lincoln soon arrived and sent for my husband. But General Pryor excused himself, saying that he was a paroled prisoner, that General Lee was still in the field, and that he could hold no conference with the head of the opposing army.
The splendid troops passed continually. Our hearts sank within us. We had but one hope—that General Lee would join Joseph E. Johnston and find his way to the mountains of Virginia, those ramparts of nature which might afford protection until we could rest and recruit.
Intelligence of the death of President Lincoln reached Petersburg on the 17th of April. As he had been with us but a few days before, manifestly in perfect health and in all the glow and gladness of the triumph of the Federal arms, the community was unspeakably shocked by the catastrophe. That he fell by the hand of an assassin, and that the deed was done by a Confederate and avowedly in the interest of the Confederate cause, were circumstances which distressed us with an apprehension that the entire South would be held responsible for the atrocious occurrence. The day after the tragic news reached us, the people of Petersburg in public meeting adopted resolutions framed by General Pryor, deploring the President's death and denouncing his assassination,—resolutions which gave expression to the earnest and universal sentiment of Virginia. I question if, in any quarter of the country, the virtues of Abraham Lincoln—as exhibited in his spirit of forgiveness and forbearance—are more revered than in the very section which was the battle-ground of the fight for independence of his rule. It is certainly my husband's conviction that had he lived, the South would never have suffered the shame and sorrow of the carpet-bag régime.
CHAPTER XXV
My condition during the military occupation of Petersburg was extremely unpleasant. I was alone with my children when General Sheridan demanded my house for an adjutant's office. Such alarming rumors had reached us of outrages committed by marauding parties in the neighboring counties that my husband had obtained an extension of his parole to visit his sisters in Nottoway County. His first information of them was from finding their garments in a wagon driven by German soldiers, who, challenged by the barrel of a pistol, made good their escape, leaving their plunder behind them. The fate of his sisters was not discovered for some time. They had found means to hide when the thieves appeared.
General Sheridan, meanwhile, kept me prisoner in two rooms for ten days, and very trying was the experience of those days. He called to "make his respects" to me the day he left, and although I received him courteously he was fully aware that I appreciated the indignity he had put upon me and the record he had made before I met him. He thanked me for the patience with which I had endured the ceaseless noise, tramping, and confusion, night and day, of the adjutant's office, and apologized for the policy he had adopted all through the war. "It was the best thing to do," he informed me. "The only way to stamp out this rebellion was to handle it without gloves."
I made no answer. "The mailed hand might crush the women and babes," I thought, "but never, never kill the spirit!"
However, they departed at last—leaving me a huge gas-bill to pay and a house polluted with dirt and dust. My husband, still a paroled prisoner, at the end of his leave of absence returned to me and reported to the authorities.
We had made the acquaintance of General Warren, who had been superseded by Sheridan and was now without a command. We grew very fond of him. He spent many hours with us. Tactful, sympathetic, and kind, he never grieved or offended us. One evening he silently took his seat. Presently he said:—