During the morning of the day made memorable by the visit of the Government’s searching party, General Miles and his staff boarded the Clyde. It was my first meeting with the handsome young officer who was destined to incur so much odium in the near future for his treatment of the unfortunate ex-President of the Confederate States. I can recall no particulars of that first meeting with my husband’s jailor, save that he and his staff made an impressive group as they stood bowing respectfully, while a few civil words were spoken by their leader.
Upon the question of the latter, as to whether he might serve me in any way, I answered, “Yes! let me know, from time to time, whether my husband lives or is dead. If you will do this it will relieve me from an insupportable suspense!” To this he kindly agreed.
In the interim, I had sent to my husband his valise, containing some gold and my Bible, which, being set in a specially large type, I knew he would be glad to have. These were brought back to me shortly after General Miles’s visit, by an officer who found us still at the mess table. My Bible was returned to me because of the following “communication from Mrs. Clay, written on the fly-leaf.”
“2 P. M. Ship-board. May, ’5. With tearful eyes and aching heart, I commend you, my precious husband, to the care and keeping of Almighty God. May He bless you, and keep you, and permit us once again to meet, shall be my unceasing prayer. Farewell,
Wife.”
As the officer dropped the gold upon the table beside me, he said, “Please count it, Madam!” I instantly declined to do this, however, saying, “If General Miles sent it, I presume it is correct,” and swept it into my lap without further examination.
CHAPTER XXI
Return from Fortress Monroe
By the second day after the incarceration of Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay we were a heartsick company, and I was glad when, in the late afternoon of the twenty-fourth of May, our sailing orders came. During the last day we were anchored off Fortress Monroe, two hundred paroled prisoners had been taken aboard the Clyde, a small and stuffy boat at best, and the five days spent upon the return trip added to our anguish of mind by much physical discomfort. The sea was exceedingly rough. Often during the voyage a hundred or more passengers at a time were confined below. Those who were well found their cabins unendurably warm. In mine, the gossip of the negroes and sailors on the lower deck was clearly audible; and, as their themes ran principally upon the probable fate of the prisoners, questionable as I knew the source to be from which flowed the conversations, the gossip did not serve to lessen my melancholy, though it keyed my alertness to a higher pitch.
Some hours previous to our departure from Hampton Roads, in sheer exhaustion from the experiences that had crowded upon us, I lay down in my cabin, a prey to mingled heart-aching and bitterness; when, looking toward the door, I perceived a sentinel on guard. What I took to be an added indignity made me resentful. I spoke to him.
“You are a brave man, standing there with bayonet in hand to terrorise a wretched woman!” I said. He turned slightly, “Mrs. Clay,” he answered, “You ought to be glad to have me here guarding you, for this boat is full of rough soldiers!” In a moment my wrath was turned to gratitude. I thanked him, and I felt that in him, thereafter, I had a friend; indeed, we had reason to feel that all aboard who dared to show it felt pity for and kindness toward our desolate party.
During the trip, as Mrs. Davis, Miss Howell and I sat at night on deck, looking out over the seas, I thought the swish of the waters against the Clyde’s side was as melancholy a note as I had ever heard. One evening we had sat thus, discussing our situation and the dangers that surrounded us, when, rising to return to my stateroom, I felt my dress slightly pulled. Thinking my skirts had become entangled in the rope coils or rigging near us, I reached out to detach them, when, to my alarm, I found my hand in contact with another, and into mine was thrust a bundle of newspapers. I could not have thanked the sailor who handed them to me had I had the presence of mind to do so, for, passing swiftly on his way, he was lost in the darkness ere I could identify him. The roll was in my hand, however, and I made my way quickly to the cabin with it. They were the first newspapers we had had since arriving at the Fortress. By the light of the dim cabin lamp I read them. The aggregation of “opinions of the press” was so awful in its animosity that they stunned my very power of thought. One extract burnt itself into my brain. It ran, “We hope soon to see the bodies of these two arch traitors, Davis and Clay, dangling and blackening in the wind and rain!”