The agreeable change in my surroundings that remains most grateful in my memory is, that the kind-hearted and motherly old landlady, seeing my wounded, bleeding arm, which had soiled the whole side of my already pretty dirty shirt, at once waddled off to fathom from the depths of some bureau drawer a nice, clean, white shirt, and with it across her arm she marched back to my room almost out of breath, because she was so stout, saying:

"My dear, you must take off that shirt, which seems to be soiled by your wound; here is some fresh linen that you will please use."

The old gentleman, who though not so rotund as his wife was fully as kind, approvingly observed: "Why, of course, mother, that's right;"

addressing me courteously, "Is there anything else we can do to make you comfortable, sir?"

Thanking them profusely and perhaps tearfully, I asked only for a little warm water, before retiring, that I might bathe and dress my wounded arm--to which request the old lady called out:

"Chloe, have some warm water brought here at once--you hyar?" She "hyard." While I was yet telling these dear old people some of the most bare-faced lies about myself being a wounded refugee from Maryland, etc., Chloe waddled into the room with a bowl of water in one hand and a couple of towels across her black arm.

Her appearance interrupted for the time the flow of yarns, as both the old gentleman and lady excused themselves, first directing "Aunty" to help the "young gentleman to dress his wound."

Aunty stood up in front of me with both sleeves rolled up, as if ready for a fight, when I should strip off the old shirt, which was sticking closer than a brother to the sore spots. But Aunty very kindly helped me as tenderly as she could, and when my torn, inflamed arm was exposed she could not refrain from uttering a cry of sympathy, and wanted at once to go down to bring up the "Missus" to see it. I would not allow her to do that, and, with her aid, I washed as well as I could, and was about to pull the shirt on over it, when, without asking my consent, old Aunty marched out of the room, saying: "Ise gwine get Missus put sothin on dat arm," and disappeared. Very soon the old lady embarrassed me by walking boldly into the room; and, after a few motherly words of sympathy, she took hold of me, as if I were a half-naked baby, and turned me around for her inspection. Then giving a few words of direction to "Aunty" to bring certain articles, she took motherly control of me, and for the time I became as a child in her hands, and was put to bed after my wound had been carefully dressed and wrapped by her own kind hands.

The old gentleman made an appearance, too, with some medicine for the inner man, which I swallowed like an obedient child.

We had, previously, had some supper. I was, of course, profoundly thankful for their kind attention, but was at last ordered, in the same kindly way: "Don't talk another bit, but go to sleep!" and I did not require much inducement to court the drowsy goddess. That night no unpleasant dreams disturbed my heavy slumber. The ghost of the horrible, unburied soldier, on which I had stumbled the previous night, did not haunt me. I was dead to everything for the time, and slept as soundly as a child.

The sun was shining brightly through the windows of my bedroom, on a beautiful Sunday morning, in August, 1861, when I was roused from this refreshing slumber by the voice of the old "aunty"--

"Missus says you'd better have some toast and egg, and a cup of coffee, den you can sleep some moah."

There is nothing that will rouse a sleeper so quick as the invitation to breakfast, especially if the sleeper has not been over-fed and surfeited. Toast and egg is a weakness with me even now, and when I heard the delectable words, "toast, egg, and coffee," I was wide-awake in an instant. But when I attempted to turn myself, so that I could see who had spoken these magic words that suggested such an agreeable aroma, I found that I was so sore and so much bruised that the attempt to move started through my whole frame twitches of sharp pain. "Aunty," seeing that I was awake, came closer to my bed, and, in a kindly way, asked:

"How is you dis mornin'?"

In attempting again to move, I was forced to cry out with the pain which the exertion caused. Aunty bade me, "Jis you lie dar; I'll fetch your coffee!" And walked out leaving me alone; and for the few moments all my distress and trouble came upon me like a sudden cloud, as I realized upon waking that I was yet in the enemy's country, far enough from home, while between us was almost the insurmountable obstacle of the Rebel Army. I saw, too, that the heretofore unexpected danger of a spell of serious sickness was now liable to be added to my other troubles and difficulties. These gloomy forebodings were dispelled for the moment by a gentle knock at my door and the kindly appearance of the mother of the house, upon my invitation to come in, who, with a pleasant "Good-morning," walked up to my bed and placed her hand upon my forehead. Without asking a question, she said:

"Why, you are ever so much better than I expected to find you this morning."

This was pleasant news for me to be sure, as I had not speculated at all on being sick. When with a few more kind words she left me, I heard the landlord say:

"Mother, don't be in a hurry; wait till I give the young gentleman his medicine, before he takes breakfast." When he came into my room a moment later--I was trying to bathe my face--with a cheery "Good-morning, sir; I hope you rested well, sir; just take this if you please, sir;" and I had to obey; "We will send over after the doctor to come and attend you, sir."

I became alarmed at this, fearing that their kindly feeling toward the distressed refugee would cause them to introduce to me some Confederate surgeon from the neighborhood, who might make a correct "diagnosis" of my case and expose me. I begged that he would not put himself to that trouble; that I should go right into Richmond and would soon be among plenty of friends who would take care of me, etc. He rather insisted that it was their privilege to care for me, and that they could not consent to my undertaking to travel to Richmond until I had sufficiently recuperated. I thanked him; but am afraid that I did not convince the old gentleman that it was not necessary. He left me with the understanding that it should be "As mother says about it."

But the circumstances rather dissipated my appetite for the breakfast, as I saw at once that it would be necessary for me to get away from them as soon as possible. A new trouble seemed to rise from the kind attention of this old couple. While I feared capture and detection on my account, I actually think that I dreaded most of all lest an exposure should happen while I was enjoying their hospitality. I could not think of having to confront these kind people, if I should be brought to bay, so it was that I made up my mind that I must leave their house the very first opportunity. I had not been questioned in the least particular except as to my comfort and health. These people were too cultured and refined to pry into my history before granting any aid; it was enough for them that I had stated that I was a Maryland refugee, who had been wounded and was _en route_ to Richmond to find friends. They saw my crippled condition, and they gave me all the aid and comfort that was in their power.

Seeing an old-fashioned inkstand and quill on a small table in my room, I had the aunty draw it up close to my bed, from which I was to eat my breakfast. The drawer contained a supply of paper, and, taking advantage of the first favorable opportunity, I wrote, when alone, the form of a pass, such as I had seen in general use, and signed it in an official way with the name of a well-known Chief-of-Staff.

There was unfortunately no red ink with which I could further add to its apparent official character. Looking about the room in the hope of finding some, my eyes rested on the bandage on my still bleeding arm. In another moment the pen was cleaned of all the black ink stains. I gently dipped it into my own bandaged wound and drew enough blood on the pen to write across the face of the pass, in back-hand writing (to distinguish it from the other) the almost cabalistic words in those days: _Approved_, and signed it in red with my blood.

The red ink "took beautifully."

At the next visit of my host I took great pleasure in exhibiting to him my "papers." He glanced at it approvingly, and no doubt the red ink indorsement was sufficient. Not deigning to examine farther, he said: "I don't want to question the character of a gentleman in my own house, sir, especially the word of a soldier, by Gad, sir"--he laid it aside, as of no consequence. I had told the same old story of the refugee so often, had the character down so fine, that I almost believed it myself.

Of course, there were variations to suit the different circumstances, but it was nearly always a Maryland boy far away from home. I could not possibly disguise my voice and dialect sufficiently to pass in the South for a Southerner. I had been living in the South long enough to have learned the peculiarity of its people, and knew very well that I could not overcome the difficulty. So it was necessary, even at great risk to myself sometimes, to continue to play the dual character of a Maryland refugee and an English boy from Texas. There were a great many young people constantly coming over the line from Maryland into the South, and most of these, after a few days "outing," corresponded very well with my appearance or condition in this, that they were "busted," having sacrificed all but their lives for the cause, and were now hankering for a chance to offer that on the Southern altar. This immigration helped to further my projects.

I had told my kind host and hostess a tearful story of my sufferings; how my coat, and all the money that was in the pockets had been stolen while I was sick, and that I was now going to Richmond to replenish my wardrobe, just as soon as I could meet some friends, or hear from my home. This had the desired effect. Of course, I did not beg, neither did my kind friends see it in that light; but, all the same, when the good people attended their country church that Sunday they somehow interested the whole congregation, _and a collection was lifted in a Virginia church for the benefit of a Yankee Spy_. When they returned from church they brought with them several neighbors to dinner, and soon after I was waited upon by the old gentleman and his pastor, who, in the most considerate manner possible, presented me with an envelope, which he said: "Would be of service in making me comfortable until I met with friends."

Now the Good Spirit of my Sainted Mother in heaven, who had so often taken care of her wondering boy, certainly sent that earthly angel to me again, while I was alone in the midst of enemies on the Sunday. There was nothing that I so much needed as money, as, with it, I could hope to find means of escaping by some other route back to my home, and I would _stay_ there, too. I was hardly allowed to thank the kind friends. After some further pleasant talk, which they indulged in to make me feel easy, I accepted their offer to the Rebel cause with the understanding that I should be able some day to repay it.

"Oh, no; some of our lady friends were anxious for an opportunity to show their devotion to the cause, and were pleased to be able to aid, above all things, a worthy refugee who is so far from home and sick."

Under the circumstances, what else could I do but take this advantage of the good people? With me it was a question of life and death; but I resolved in my heart, that if the time should ever come when our army entered that country, I should be on hand to plead for the protection of those who had unknowingly befriended a foe.

I began preparations to get away as soon as possible, by telling my kind people that it was necessary that I should "report" at once to certain officers in Richmond. I secured their consent to leave their care before I was able to travel.

It was agreed that I should be allowed to depart at once for Richmond, and, with as much feeling as if I were an only son being torn away from home to go to the war, I bade them all a hearty, thankful good-by, and walked slowly to the railroad station, which was some distance off, to get an evening train from Fredericksburg to Richmond.

The train came along in due time, and I got aboard with difficulty, because I was quite stiff and weak. Taking the first seat, in the rear of the car, I noticed at once, while being waited upon by the conductor, that there were in the forward part of the same car several officers in the Confederate gray uniform. This wasn't very reassuring, and rather unsettled my nerves, because, you see, I had, from my past few days'

experience, imbibed a holy terror of anything in gray clothes. It was a Sunday, and, as they were probably off on a leave, they were engaged in their own pleasures and were not likely to disturb me. The conductor informed me, when I offered to pay my fare to Richmond, that he was required to report all soldiers traveling to a certain guard, and asked my name and regiment.

I assured him that I had a pass, and with that he walked off, and, in looking it up, I discovered that my blood approval had almost faded out.

I watched him, expecting that he would go straight to the Confederate officers; but he didn't, and I was greatly relieved to see him go out of the car, slam the door behind him, and disappear in the next car ahead.

I began to wish that I had remained at the Hanover a little longer, and saw at once that the possession of the money had probably gotten me into a bad scrape, because without it I should have walked, even though every step was a pain. I reasoned correctly enough, however, that I should be safer in Richmond, in the midst of the crowded city, than alone among country people, who would soon become curious about my history, and I prayed that I might be allowed to pass in safety this new and unexpected danger of being reported by the conductor on arrival at Richmond.

While I was thinking over these uncomfortable prospects, the train was dashing along toward Richmond--only a short distance now--there was a whistle, and while the train perceptibly slackened I had time to decide that I better get off, and before the cars had stopped altogether I had slipped quietly out of the door and dropped myself down on the ties. I stood on the side of the track long enough to see a solitary passenger get aboard; the conductor jumped on, and the engine puffed off, leaving me standing alone on the track. I was again free--for how long I could not tell.

Still determined to take Richmond, I started on, wearily, to follow the train along the track, but being so weak and sore my progress was necessarily quite slow, but I persevered, and along about the time the evening lamps were being lit I walked into the outskirts of Richmond.

CHAPTER XV.

SICK IN RICHMOND--CONCEALED BY A COLORED BOY AND UNABLE TO MOVE--AN ORIGINAL CIPHER LETTER SENT THROUGH THE BLOCKADE TO WASHINGTON THAT TELLS THE WHOLE STORY IN A FEW WORDS--MEETING WITH MARYLAND REFUGEES--THE BOY SPY SERENADED--"MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND"--JEFF DAVIS'

OFFICE AND HOME--A VISIT TO UNION PRISONERS AT LIBBY PRISON, ETC.

Feeling my way along, to avoid guards that might be stationed in the principal roads entering the city, I was soon on Main street, Richmond, and I walked with an assumed familiarity in search of a boarding-house.

Finding a place that I thought would suit me, located on the south side of Main street, not far from the market, kept by a widow lady, I applied for lodging, proffering her the cash in advance. She accepted the cash and me without question, and being tired, weak and anxious to get to rest, I was at once shown to a room, and in a very few moments later I was in bed, and, with a feeling of security, was soon sound enough asleep in the Rebel Capital.

There were two beds in our room, as in most other cheap boarding-houses, and waking early in the morning, I was surprised to see on the chair alongside of one of them, the too familiar gray uniform of a Confederate officer. I didn't take breakfast with the Madame, but hurried out into the street, and, after a hasty meal in a restaurant, I hunted up a Jew clothing shop on the Main street, where I invested a good deal of the church contribution in a snug suit of clothes, a pair of soft gaiters for my sore feet, a new hat, etc.

The next step was to a barber's, where I had most of my hair taken off, and in their bath-room I donned my new clothes, and I flatter myself I walked out of that barber shop so completely disguised that my recent friends and enemies would not have known me. I was feeling just good enough to have called on Jeff Davis that morning, and believing that, as my visit would be short, it was well enough to have a good time, I walked rather proudly up to a certain hotel office and astonished the young clerk by registering myself O. K. Wilmore, Baltimore, Maryland. I notified an attache of the hotel that I had but recently arrived via the blockade, and desired a small room for a few days, until I could meet with a lot more fellows who were coming over, you know, and was courteously welcomed by the affable clerk. The room to which I was shown overlooked the park, the Confederate Capitol building, the Governor's mansion, etc., and there I remained an unwilling guest (after that day) for three long, lonesome weeks, _sick in bed_.

Maybe it was a fortunate circumstance for me that I was thus taken off my feet, as it served to effectually hide or exclude me from sight, and frustrated any efforts that might have been put forward for my capture.

In the meantime the sensation that was, perhaps, caused by my escape had died out and I had been forgotten.

As it was, that night I was taken sick and the next morning I was unable to get out of my bed. The trouble was principally dysentery, such as was epidemic in the Rebel Army at Manassas, and had probably been caused by the bad water, or change of water, greatly aggravated in my case by the nights of terror I had undergone. While in my weak condition, perhaps, I had overloaded my suffering stomach too much the first day of my arrival in Richmond. I can testify here to the fact that there was plenty to eat in Richmond in 1861, and it was not so very much more expensive at that time than in Washington.

The hotel people of Richmond were a little dubious about refugee boarders from Baltimore, as I soon learned, and were inclined to be rather disposed to refer their sick guest to a hospital. Fortunately, I was able to prevent this by a prompt advance of a week's boarding from my church-collection fund, which fully satisfied the Virginia Yankee hotel-keeper. It happened, too, that there was some change due me from the amount I had passed to him, which, in the princely style I had assumed, I graciously told him to keep for a credit on the next week's account. I still had some money left, but not enough to pay another week's expenses at that hotel, but it was best to keep up a good appearance.

The colored boy's name who served me with meals and who attended to all my sick wants, I regret, I have forgotten. He was indeed a good friend, and when my week was out and I was still so weak that it was impossible for me to move, he continued to serve me with three light meals a day in a room where I had been moved by him, which was located in a block of buildings which served as an annex to the crowded hotel.

[Illustration: YOU ALWAYS SAY _DOWN_ HERE, AND THAT YOU'RE GOING TO GO UP HOME.]

The hotel clerks, or the people at the office, supposed when I left the room that I had gone from the hotel; at least, they did not give me any trouble, and I have always thought my presence in that room was overlooked or forgotten by them in the great rush of their business of those days. This colored boy was one of the regular waiters employed at the hotel, who had for the week or ten days previous to my change served me regularly, and had told me several times, in explanation or in self-justification, that he was told to serve me every day, and he was going to do it until he was told to stop. Though I had not dared to breath to the poor colored boy even a whisper of my true character, yet it was instinctively understood between us that I was a Yankee. I knew this from his manner, and I could see in every move he made that he was so carrying on his little game to aid me that he might not be detected in it, yet it was so shrewdly managed that, if he had been picked up, he would have readily cleared himself of all collusion by merely referring to his orders.