General Wilson’s request was scrupulously observed by us, and though friends came in numbers to sympathise with us and encourage us, we were silent on the forbidden topic of my husband’s surrender. A day or two later, word came that we must hold ourselves in readiness to leave Macon. Meantime, I had addressed a note to General Wilson, begging that I might be allowed to accompany my husband on his journey to his destination, wherever it might be. The Commanding General promptly acceded to my request, though, he assured me, the trip before us would be a rough and disagreeable one, and advised me to consider well before I took it.
Of course, I was not to be deterred. I made instant preparation for the journey. My available wardrobe was small, being limited to a few Perodi’s (which in those days served the same purpose as the shirt-waist of 1900) and a rusty black skirt, a veritable war-relic; but my friends in Macon, knowing the impossibility of getting my own possessions together, quickly came to the rescue. The results of their generosity were not in all cases strictly what donor or recipient might have wished, from the point of view of fashion or art. For example, Mrs. Lucius Mirabeau Lamar sent me a treasured foulard silk gown, of a pretty brown and white pattern; but she, being both shorter and stouter than I, the fit was not one that even the deliberately courteous would have ventured to call a good one; nevertheless, I received it gratefully and courageously adapted it to serve as travelling attire. Mrs. William D. Johnston, too, sister of our loved General Tracy, likewise urged a gift upon me of several changes of Parisian lingerie, which she had but just acquired. With this borrowed finery (which afterward carried its own penalty) stowed in my valise, when the announcement of the time appointed for our departure came to us, it found me ready.
It was set for the late afternoon. We arrived at the railway station a half-hour before train time. At the last, we hastened away from the friends whose sorrow and sympathy threatened to disturb the composure it was so necessary to preserve against our coming ordeals. We were surprised to find the city in a kind of uproar. Cavalry clattered through the streets and gazing sight-seers thronged the sidewalks. Our passage to the station proceeded without mishap or adventure of any kind; nevertheless, we had scarcely alighted from our carriage when, looking back, up the street we saw a company of cavalrymen approaching. There was an increasing activity in the gathered crowds, which were composed of silent citizens of Macon, elbowed by Freedmen and Union soldiers, who lounged among them.
As the cavalry approached the station, the significance of the scene became plain to us. They were a guard, flanking on each side an old “jimber-jawed, wobble-sided” barouche, drawn by two raw-boned horses. In the strange vehicle were seated Mr. and Mrs. Davis. Mr. Davis was dressed in a full suit of Confederate grey, including the hat, but his face was yet more ashen than was his garb. Behind them, completing the pitiful cortège, came a carryall, in which were Miss Howell, the Davis little ones and nurses; and, as the procession drove by, the alien and motley crowd along the walks yelled and hooted in derision. But not all—one heartless Union soldier tried the patience of a sorrowful “rebel” onlooker.
“Hey, Johnny Reb,” shouted the first, “we’ve got your President!”
“And the devil’s got yours!” was the swift reply.
As the procession arrived at the station, two soldiers approached Mr. and Mrs. Davis, and escorted them at once to the cars. The interest of everyone for the moment being centred on the party of the late President, my excitement grew. Wild thoughts filled my mind. I could not restrain them. “Oh! if they would only forget you!” I said impetuously, to my husband. Alas! scarcely had I uttered the words when two guards approached. “This is Mr. Clay, I presume?” and with a hasty farewell to our kind friends, the Whittles, we were soon aboard the cars.
As we entered, Mr. Davis rose and embraced me.
“This is a sad meeting, Jennie!” he said, as he offered me a seat beside him, for Mrs. Davis and my husband, already deep in conversation, had established themselves nearby. As I seated myself I became aware that the car had filled up with soldiers. I heard the doors slam, and the command, “Order arms!” and in the dull thud of their muskets as the butts struck the floor, I realised for the first time that we were indeed prisoners, and of the nation!