I did the next best thing, however, hastily writing a letter to Washington, which I stealthily dropped into the postoffice, hurrying away lest the clerk should discover who had dropped a letter addressed to a foreign government without payment of additional postage.

Of those yet living who were witnesses of the "Great uprising of the North," after the fall of Fort Sumter, none are likely ever to forget the scenes which followed so quickly upon this first attempt of the Southern fire-eaters to "precipitate the Cotton States into the rebellion."

Solitary and alone I held my little indignation meeting in Montgomery, the capital of the rebel government, where I was at the time, if not a stranger in a strange land, at least an enemy in a foreign country. When the news of Fort Sumter's fall reached Montgomery it was bulletined "that every vestige of the hateful enemy has been gloriously driven from the soil of the pioneer Palmetto State," and I recall, with distinctness, that the universal comment then was: "We will next clean them out in the same way from Florida," etc.

I felt that, in having failed to get this information to Washington in advance, I had neglected a great opportunity to do the government an important service, but in this I was mistaken, as events subsequently proved that the authorities at Washington were powerless to prevent the bombardment that was anticipated.

There was no person among that people to whom I dare talk, for fear of betraying myself by giving vent to my feelings, so I walked wildly up and down the one main street of Montgomery in a manner that at any other time would have been considered eccentric, but, as everybody was wild that day, my actions were not noticed. Feeling that I must blow off steam some way or I should bust, I continued my walk out on the railroad track beyond the outskirts of the town, in the direction of Charleston.

During my walk I met an old "Uncle," whom, from the color of his skin, I knew to be a true friend of the government, and into the wide-awake ears of this old man I poured a wild, incendiary harangue about what would surely happen to this people. This was not a very sensible thing to do, either, at that time, but I just had to say something to somebody, and this was my only chance. After having thus exhausted my high pressure on the poor old man, who must have thought me crazy, I discovered that my legs were "exhausted," too, and turned my face wearily back toward the city.

That night there were serenades and speeches, with the regular brass-band accompaniment impromptu processions up and down the main street, headed by the fife-and-drum music of the colored "boys," as all the "likely" colored men were called down South at that time, even if they were forty years old.

I had seen Jeff Davis once during the day, while in his room surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic friends, and, though I did not have occasion to speak to "the President," I was close enough to him on the day he gave the command to fire Sumter, to have killed him on the spot, and I was about wild and crazy enough at the time to have made the attempt without once considering the consequences to myself, if there had occurred at the instant any immediate provocation.

Mr. Davis' manner and appearance always impressed me with a feeling of kindness and even admiration. In the years following it became my fate to have been near his person in disguise, frequently while in Richmond, and I could at any time then have ended his career by sacrificing my own life, if the exigencies of the government had in my imagination required it.

I took note of the fact that a great deal was being said about what they would do next, at Fort Pickens, in Pensacola Harbor. To this point I directed my attention, determined that another such an affair as this at Charleston should not escape me.

One night, shortly after I had reached Montgomery, when my West Point companion and I had retired for the night, but were yet talking over the great future of the South, as we did every night, he almost paralyzed me by saying, "Well, stranger, you talk all right, of course, but do you know that you remind me mightily of the fellows at the Point, who are all the time meddling about the affairs of our Southern States."

Fortunately for me, perhaps, the room was dark at the time, which enabled me the better to hide the embarrassment that daylight must have shown in my face and manner. After recovering my breath a little, I put on an indignant air and demanded a repetition of the remark. This served to allay any suspicions that he may have been entertaining, for the young fellow, in his gentlemanly and courteous manner, was at once profuse in his explanations, which gave me the time to collect my thoughts. I told him that I was the nephew of an English gentleman, who lived away off in Western Texas, who owned any quantity of cattle and niggers; I was then on my way, from school at the North, to my Texas home, tarrying at Montgomery, _en route_, to meet some friends. This was more than satisfactory to the young man, who seemed to take especial pleasure after this in introducing me to any friends that we would come across while together so constantly in Montgomery.

This mother tongue "provincialism" was one of the greatest difficulties that I encountered in these Southern excursions, though at the time of which I am now writing strangers were not scrutinized so closely as became the rule soon after, when martial law was everywhere in operation, and provost-marshals were exceedingly numerous. I had endeavored to bridle my tongue as far as possible. My plan to quiet this apprehension was to play the "refugee" from Maryland, "my Maryland," or else, if the circumstances and surroundings were better adapted to it, I was an English sympathizer who had but recently arrived in the country.

The Maryland racket was, however, the most popular, and it was also the easiest worked, because I had another uncle living in Baltimore, whom I had frequently visited, and, as has been stated, I was born almost on the Maryland line of English stock.

While in Montgomery it did not seem necessary to hang about the telegraph offices to obtain information. I availed myself however of this "facility" to learn something more definite about the programme they had laid out for Fort Pickens, in Pensacola Harbor, to which, after the fall of Fort Sumter, the attention of both the North and the South was being directed.

The "Government at Washington" which was at this time cut off from any communication with its officers at Pickens except by sea, had, after the manner of Major Anderson at Sumter, secretly withdrawn their little handful of troops, who were under the command of Lieutenant Slemmer, a native of Pennsylvania, step by step, as they were pressed by the arrival each day of detachments of quite fresh militia from the sovereign State of Florida, to Fort Barrancas first, then to Fort McRae, on the mainland, and from thence to Pickens, which is located on the extreme point of Santa Rosa Island, on the opposite side of the bay or harbor from Forts McRae and Barrancas.

I was able to learn from the general character of its extensive telegraph correspondence, which was being carried on over the wires, that President Lincoln had in some way expressed, in the hearing of the secret agents of the rebel government (who were in Washington and in constant communication with the conspirators at Montgomery) an earnest desire to reinforce Fort Pickens, with a view to holding possession of that one point in the "Cotton State" that had seceded from the Union; and the Navy Department at Washington, especially desiring to control the harbor and navy yards located there, had, if I remember aright, already dispatched by water a small fleet to their aid, but which would require a week or ten days to reach Pensacola, they having to go around by the ocean to Key West and up the Gulf of Mexico, doubling the entire Peninsula of Florida.

As I had left Washington some time before, and had not had any communication with the North while in Montgomery, all this information was derived entirely through Rebel sources, and more particularly by the noisy tongue of a telegraph sounder, which talked loud enough for me to hear whenever I chose to get within sound of its brazen voice.

I was exceedingly anxious to get back North, that I might take some active part in the coming struggle, but fate decreed otherwise; and, instead of getting out of this tight place, it was my destiny to have been led still deeper into the mire. I was within a day's travel of the beleaguered little garrison at Fort Pickens, with a positive knowledge that the government was coming to their assistance, and also the information that at the same time the Rebel government had some designs upon them, the exact nature of which I could not ascertain.

In this emergency, while I do not believe that I felt it a duty, I am sure that I did think it would be a good thing for the fellows at Pickens to be informed of the intentions of _both_ the governments toward them, and as I could not then communicate with Secretary Cameron, at Washington, I concluded to take the matter in my own hands, and find out, if possible, just what was proposed, and endeavor to communicate with Secretary Cameron.

By giving close attention to the guests at the hotel, who were mostly officials of the newly made government, I ascertained by mere accident that a certain gentleman was at that moment getting ready to leave the hotel for the boat, on his way to Pensacola as a bearer of dispatches or as a commissioner--there were lots of commissioners in those early days--to settle the status of affairs at that point. This circumstance decided my actions at once, and as I had seen enough of Montgomery, and was besides becoming a little uneasy about my status there, I concluded to accompany this commissioner and, if possible, anticipate him in bearing my own dispatch to Lieutenant Slemmer, so I shadowed the ambassador closely and walked up the gang plank at the same time he did; as I remember very well the plank was very springy and the ambassador of Jeff Davis and the secret agent of the Secretary of War kept step, and marked time on the gang plank, both bound for the same destination but on widely different errands.

CHAPTER III.

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA--IN REBEL LINES--FORT PICKENS--ADMIRAL PORTER AND THE NAVY.

The sail down the Alabama river from Montgomery to Mobile was most agreeable.

I do not now recollect any incident of the trip worthy of mention. I did not, of course, obtrude myself upon our ambassador's dignity, knowing that as long as the boat kept going he was not liable to escape from me.

There were some ladies aboard, and to these the gallant captain of the boat introduced his distinguished passenger, and among them they made up a card party, which occupied their attention long after I had gone to my room to sleep and dream of my home and "the girls I left behind me."

I became quite homesick that night, and would very much rather have been aboard a steamboat on the Mississippi river headed up stream than penned up in this queer-looking craft, loaded with rebels, which was carrying me, I imagined as I half slept, down to perdition.

There was a steam music machine on the boat somewhere, called a calliope, which made the night and day both hideous.

They played "Home, Sweet Home," among other selections, but even to my feelings, at that time, the musical expression was not exactly such as would bring tears to one's eyes.

The machine, however, served to rouse the lazy colored people all along the high banks of the river, who flocked to the shores like a lot of crows.

We reached Mobile in due time, and my dignitary and his "confidential companion," as I might be permitted to term myself, may be found properly registered in the books of the Battle House at Mobile, some time in the latter part of April, 1861.

I will mention how, also, that an account of this trip and its object was written on the blank letter-heads of this hotel, addressed in a careless handwriting to Mr. J. Covode, Washington, D. C., unsigned by myself, and secretly dropped into the postoffice at Mobile. I imagined that Mobile being a large city and having several routes of communication with the North, my letter might, by some possibility, get through, and, strange to relate, _it did_, and was subsequently quoted by Mr. Covode in the Committee on the Conduct of War.

I lost sight of my "traveling companion" while in Mobile. You know it would not have been either polite or discreet to have pressed my company too closely on an official character like this, so it happened that he left the hotel without consulting me, and I supposing, of course, that he had left for Pensacola, made my arrangements to follow. To reach Pensacola there was a big river or bay to cross from Mobile. When I got aboard the little boat, the first thing I did, of course, was to look quietly about for "my man." He was not aboard, as I found after the boat had gotten out into the stream, when it was too late to turn back.

An old stage coach or hack was at that time the only conveyance to Pensacola, except by water. The thing was piled full of humanity inside and out--young and old men, who were fair representations of the different types of the Southern character, all of whom were bent on visiting the next battle-scene--then a point of great interest in the South since the curtain had been rung down at Sumter.

They were all "feeling mighty good," too, as they say down there; every blessed fellow seemed to be provided with an individual flask, and during the dreadfully tiresome drag of the old coach across the sandy and sometimes swampy roads of that part of Florida and Alabama our party became quite hilarious.

Among them was a prominent official of one of the rebel military companies, then located about Pensacola, who was quite disgusted at the tardiness of their "Government" in not moving at once on Fort Pickens.

He and a fat old gentleman, who was more conservative, and defended the authorities, discussed the military situation at length during the trip; and as both had been over the ground at Pensacola, and were somewhat familiar with the situation, they unintentionally gave me in advance some interesting points to look up when we should reach there. Among other things, they talked about a "masked battery" of ten-inch Columbiads. Now, I didn't know at that time what a "masked battery"

could be, and had no idea that ten-inch Columbiads meant big cannon that would throw a ball that measured ten inches in diameter.

I had formed a plan of procedure in advance, which was to pretend, as at Montgomery, to be the nephew of an Englishman, on my way from school in the North to my Texas home, and was just stopping over at Pensacola to gratify my desire to see the "Yankees cleaned out" there. I had been carefully advised early in this undertaking not to attempt to gather information by asking questions, but, as a rule, to let others do the talking, and to listen and confirm by observation, if possible. This was good advice, volunteered by a discreet old man, who had bid me good-by at Washington some weeks back; and that beautiful spring evening, as I was being driven right into the camps of the rebel army, accompanied by men who were the first real soldiers I had seen, I recalled with a distinctness almost painful the words of caution and advice which at that time I had scarcely heeded.

When the old hack reached Pensacola all were somewhat toned down, and after a hearty supper and a hasty look around the outside of the dirty little tavern at which we stopped, I went to bed, to sleep, perhaps to dream of home and friends two thousand miles away. The distance seemed to be increased ten-fold by the knowledge that the entire territory between me and home was encompassed by a howling mob that would be only too glad to tear me to pieces, as a stray dog among a pack of bloodhounds, while the other path was the boundless ocean.

The soldiers who in the early days were not so well disciplined as in after years, took possession of the hotel, at least all the down stairs part of it, where there was liquor and eatables, and kept up such a terrific row that sleep was almost impossible. Early next morning I was out of my cot, and before breakfast I took a walk around the place.

The town of Pensacola is situated on the low, sandy mainland, on the bay, and lies some distance from the navy yard, or that portion of Pensacola which is occupied by the government for the Forts Barrancas and McRae. This government reservation is quite extensive, including the beautiful bay, navy yard and grounds, with officers' quarters, and shell roads on the beach for some distance beyond the yard; on the further extremity were built Forts Barrancas and McRae, which were at this time in possession of the rebel soldiers.

Lieutenant Slemmer a short time previously moved his little force of regulars across the bay to Fort Pickens, which was on a spit or spur of Santa Rosa Island, almost immediately opposite, but I think about four miles distant.

This sombre old Fort Pickens is built upon about as desolate and isolated a spot as will be found anywhere on the coast from Maine to Texas, but viewed as it was by me that morning, from the camps of the rebels, standing behind their great masked batteries, in which were the immense ten-inch Columbiads, I felt from the bottom of my soul that I never saw anything so beautiful as the old walls of the fort, on which the Stars and Stripes were defiantly floating in the breeze, right in the face of their big guns, and in spite of all the big blustering talk I had listened to for so many days.

How glad I was to see that flag there. I felt as if I could just jump and yell with delight and then fly right over the bay, to get under its folds once more. I had not seen the flag since leaving Washington, and had heard of its surrender at Sumter in the hateful words of the Rebels.

I am not able to describe the feelings which came over me at this time, and after a lapse of twenty-five years, while I am writing about it, the same feelings come over me. Only those who have witnessed the picture of the Stars and Stripes floating over a fortress, viewed from the standpoint of an enemy's camp, can properly appreciate its beauty. All my homesickness and forebodings of evil vanished at the sight, and with redoubled energy I determined to discover and thwart any schemes that might be brewing in the Rebel camp to bring down that beautiful emblem.

I became apprehensive lest I might be too late, and fearful that these immense Columbiads, if once they belched forth their ten-inch shells, would soon batter down the walls, and I determined that the presence of this masked battery must be made known to the Commandant at the Fort. It was upon this battery that the Rebels depended for success, as they had said it was erected secretly, and the big guns were mounted at night.

Fort Pickens had not been built to resist an attack from the rear, as none such had ever been contemplated; and the Rebel officers knowing the weakness of this inside of the Fort, had erected their masked battery of great guns to play upon that particular point. They were all positive, too, that Lieutenant Slemmer and his men were in total ignorance of the existence of this battery, which was correct, as subsequently demonstrated.

I became so much interested in the exciting and strange surroundings, in the very midst of which I found myself one morning at Pensacola, that I had almost forgotten about our commissioner, who must have left Mobile by way of the gulf in one of the old boats that plied between the two cities. Anyway, I had no further use for him now, as everything was right before my eyes, and I saw at once that they meant war.

It was understood, in a general way of course, that all these great preparations opposite Fort Pickens was for the purpose of driving off the "invaders" and capturing the old fort. That afternoon, after having tramped about over the sandy beach until I was thoroughly fatigued, I sat down in the rear of some earthworks that were being constructed under the directions of some of their officers. After waiting for a favorable opportunity, I ventured to ask one of them if there wasn't enough big cannon already mounted to bombard that fort over there, pointing toward Pickens. To which he replied curtly, "If you are around here when we begin the job you will find out all about that." I did not press the inquiry further just then, but I kept my eyes and ears open, and made good use of my legs as well, and tramped about through that miserable, sandy, dirty camp till I became too tired to go further.

The navy yard proper, which included the well-kept grounds around the officers' quarters, about which were growing in beautiful luxuriance the same tropical plants of that section, was between, or in rear of, the rebel batteries and the town of Pensacola.

In my walks about the camps I strutted boldly through the open gates, before which stood an armed sentry, and walked leisurely about the beautiful grounds. I took occasion to try to talk to an old invalid sailor who had been left at the hospital at that point by some man-of-war. The conversation was not exactly of such a character as would invite one to prolong a visit in the place, as all I could get out from him was "Just mind what I tell ye, now, youngster, will you? The Yaller Jack is bound to clean out this whole damn place before very long; you better go home, and stay there, too." After this pleasant conversation he hobbled off, without waiting for any further remarks from me.