All through the Tennessee Valley dejection was spreading. “If Mr. Davis does not restore General Johnston to the army of the Tennessee,” wrote J. Withers Clay, “his friends generally out here believe that he will never recover his lost popularity, or be able to get back the thousands of soldiers (now) absent without leave. I wish you would tell the President this. You have no idea of the extent of demoralisation among soldiers and citizens produced by his persistent refusal to restore him!”
For now several months I had been secretly tortured by an indecision as to what course to pursue. Though urged by a hundred generous correspondents to share their homes (for I have ever been blessed by loyal friends), I had a deepening conviction that my interests were detached from all. I was homeless, husbandless, childless, debarred from contributing to the comfort of my husband’s parents, and I chafed at my separation from those to whom my presence might have proved useful. As time went on, all deprivations and anxieties were obscured by one consuming determination to join my husband at all hazards; but, despite every effort toward accomplishing this, I found myself swept helplessly along by the strong currents of the times. My sole means of communication with Mr. Clay was now through occasional “personals,” which were published in the Richmond Enquirer, coöperating with the New York Daily News. One of these, which appeared early in November, 1864, indicates the indecision and anxiety which by this time was felt, also, by my husband in his exile:
“To Honourable H. L. Clay, Richmond, Virginia. I am well. Have written every week, but received no answer later than the 30th of June. Can I return at once? If not, send my wife to me by flag of truce, via Washington, but not by sea. Do write by flag of truce care John Potts Brown, No. 93 Beaver Street, New York. Answer by personal through Richmond Enquirer and New York News.”
“I inclose you a ‘personal’ from Brother Clement, published in yesterday’s Enquirer,” Colonel Clay wrote on November 11, 1864. “I consulted Mr. Mallory, Mr. Benjamin and the President, and then sent him the following: ‘Your friends think the sooner you return the better. At the point where you change vessels you can ascertain whether it is best to proceed direct or by Mexico. Your wife cannot go by flag of truce. She is well. I send you letters to-day by safe hands. H. L. C.’ The reason why the earliest return is advised is that the fleet off Wilmington is not yet increased to the degree intended; and during the rough weather, before the hard winter sets in, it is much easier for vessels to run the blockade. I shall tell him that the statistics kept in the Export and Import Office show five out of six vessels, inward and outward bound, safely run the blockade, but that he must himself consider the risk from what he learns after reaching Bermuda.”
Colonel Clay’s prompt decision, such was my distracted state of mind, by no means satisfied me. The suggestion contained in my husband’s words seemed feasible to my courageous mind. I despatched a note of inquiry at once to Richmond, begging Mr. Davis to write to Mr. Seward to secure my safe passage by land to Canada. I told him of my unrest, the increasing uncertainty that prevailed in the neighbourhood of “Redcliffe,” and my desire to join my husband. The President’s reply was reassuring and full of the confidence which sustained him to the end of the remaining days of the Confederacy. “There is no danger in coming here now,” ran his message from the capital, dated December 29, 1864. “When he (Mr. Clay) returns he will, of course, visit this place, and can conveniently meet you here.” But, when I proposed to try to make my way to this haven, Colonel Clay wrote excitedly, animated by an anxiety as great as my own:
“Don’t come to Richmond! Don’t send the President letters or telegrams. He is in a sea of trouble, and has no time or thought for anything except the safety of the country. I fear the Congress is turning madly against him. It is the old story of the sick lion whom even the jackass can kick without fear. It is a very struggle for life with him. I do not know that he has any reliable friends in Congress, who will sustain him upon principle, fearlessly and ably. He has less and less power to intimidate his enemies, and they grow more numerous every day.... If he were preëminently gifted in all respects, the present moment is perilous enough to call forth all his energies no matter how great.... Before this reaches you, you will have read my private letter to Hammond, in regard to the military situation in South Carolina and Georgia. I think as soon as Sherman reduces Savannah, he will move promptly up the Savannah River, and endeavour to capture Charleston by taking it in reverse. That success would be a feather in any general’s cap. We cannot hope to make fight on that river, I think, but must take the Edesto as our line of defense. Now, look upon the map and you will see that the whole of Beech Island lies between the two rivers, and in the event Sherman moves up (as he will do, to cut off supplies from Charleston and Virginia), the South Carolina Railroad will fall within the line of his advance. I only give you my personal opinion; for, of course, no one can speak assuredly of Sherman’s intentions. If I am right, I think you had better move in the direction of Alabama before there is any rush of travel, and as soon as you can well do so.... In Alabama or western Georgia there will be plenty of food; more, indeed, because of the inability to bring it east of Augusta. I write to advise you to go as far away from the line of the enemy’s march as you can ... I dare not look into the future, after Hood’s battles in Tennessee, if the Yankee accounts are verified. God knows we are pressed hard on every side by the enemy, and have no wise counsellors to give proper direction to our weak, erring efforts for independence. Passion and prejudice and personal feelings govern in many instances where patriotism should rule. Congress is discussing questions of the smallest moment while the Confederacy is in the grip of the Yankees struggling for existence.... I fear the pending attack upon Wilmington will prevent Brother Clement from coming in at the Port (if he should conclude not to go to Mexico) for some time yet. Until the flotilla set sail from Fortress Monroe I looked for him to come in about the last of this month or the first of the next. Now I shall not know when to expect him, for no vessels will attempt the blockade there at Washington.”
It now became apparent that to wait at our exposed Island was no longer prudent. A family council was called, and it was decided that, upon the first sign of a suitable escort, I should make my way to Macon. I had not long to wait. Within a few days we learned of the presence of General Howell Cobb in Augusta. I wrote to him at once, telling him of my contemplated exodus and of my desire to place myself under his protection upon his return journey to his headquarters at Macon. He replied with the gallant cordiality which was ever a characteristic with him, and which I think would never have deserted him even in the midst of the roar of cannon:
“Augusta, Georgia, January 21, 1865.
“My Dear Friend: ... I assure you that your threat to cling to me like the old man of the sea to Sinbad is the most agreeable threat that ever was made to me, and it shall not be my fault if it is not executed. I am here under orders from Richmond, which leave me in doubt whether I am to remain a day, a month, or a year. My opinion is that I will be ordered back to Macon in a very few days, and there is no telling at what hour I may receive the order. To make it certain, however, that I can give you timely notice, you ought to be in Augusta. I am ready to receive the acceptable trust and devote my best efforts to your comfort and happiness.
Very truly your friend,
“Howell Cobb.”
Early in February I arrived in Macon without misadventure, and here, on February 10th, my husband joined me, having learned of my whereabouts from our friends in Augusta.
Mr. Clay’s experiences since leaving Nassau had been exciting. The Rattlesnake, a hitherto skilful blockade runner, on which he had taken passage, was bound for Charleston; but, finding an entrance at that port impossible for the moment, she had crept cautiously up to Wilmington, only to be obliged again to show her heels to the wary and enlarged blockading fleet. After numerous efforts to find a friendly harbour, the little ship, reconnoitering about the South Carolinian coast, ran aground four miles away from Fort Moultrie, grounded, it was rumoured, by the pilot. Here the little craft, which quickly became the target of the enemies’ guns, was abandoned, her timbers ablaze, while passengers and crew, taking to the life-boats, bore with them such baggage as might be gathered in their haste; and now, to cap the climax of their disasters, the life-boats, too, ran aground, and sailors and passengers were compelled repeatedly to wade through the waves, which dashed throat-high about them, in an effort to rescue the pieces of baggage they had been able to save from the ship. On that cold, blustery day in early February, in garments saturated with brine, Mr. Clay was taken in a yawl to Fort Moultrie, whence, ill from the exposure he had undergone, he was carried in a sail-boat to Charleston by the Reverend Mr. Aldrich, an accidental visitor to the Fort. By that kindly man he was put to bed and to sleep under the stimulus of orange-leaf tea, while his clothing and few rescued belongings were undergoing a drying.