"Well, no; you don't have to; but, as it goes to a foreign country, you know, we generally pay the messengers a little for the risk."

Thanking the Colonel, I took my letter out of the envelope and begged that he would read it, so that the envelope would have the benefit of his endorsement. He did not think that necessary at all, but I insisted that he should learn of my affairs and my address, so that if anything should happen to me some Maryland people would know who I was. That was a good shot, and it took effect, too. He felt that I had given him my entire confidence as a brother exile from home and in distress, and he read my letter hastily--that is, he glanced at the address and the last paragraph, wherein I had especially asked for money. No doubt he was impressed with the truth of the statement I had made--that all Maryland refugees were hard up. Sealing the letter in his presence, I handed it to him with a tender of a fraction of the money which I had left, to pay the "foreign postage."

"Oh no," he said. "I will not take your money for this; it's not necessary. Where shall your answer be delivered?" This was something I had not thought about, and for the moment I was embarrassed. I remembered that I had referred to my regiment in my letter, and was about to say that the letter could be sent there; then the thought suddenly came over me, "What if I should be questioned on this regiment?" I did not want any talk of this sort, because it would be getting me into rather too close quarters. The Colonel, noticing my hesitancy as these thoughts passed through my brain and no doubt mistaking its true import, relieved me by saying:

"You had better go along over to Colonel Jones and be registered, if you have not already done so."

I had not attended to this matter of registering my name and address among the refugees from Baltimore, and, without knowing exactly what would come of it, I consented to have it done at once, as he had suggested. Pointing to a building on the opposite side of the square a little below where St. Paul's Church is located, he said:

"That's Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and if you can go with me I will introduce you to him, and you can have all your Maryland mail come to his care."

I walked across the square on his arm, and was formally introduced to Colonel Jones as a worthy Maryland refugee, sick and in distress. I am giving the correct name here, because he became a well-known character in Richmond during the war. He impressed me as an agreeable, rather jolly, gray-haired gentleman of the old school, at the time. On the rather tedious and slow walk for me over the square, my companion had explained to me that Colonel Jones was himself a refugee, having been fired out of Philadelphia, where, if I remember aright, he had been printing a weekly paper which had been rather too outspoken in its sympathy for the South, and, as a consequence, it was, perhaps, violently suppressed. The Colonel informed me, as we walked along, that President Davis had organized the temporary bureau for the registration and general information of refugees and others who might, by the necessities of war, be driven from their homes. It was also understood that any persons desiring information in regard to Maryland refugees should apply at this bureau. This was not exactly the sort of a place that I had been hankering to register myself in, but I was in for it now and had to go through with it. Colonel Jones gave me his courteous attention for awhile, and apparently became interested in the little bit of my "history" that I dealt out to him. It is likely that my sickly, innocent-looking appearance had operated somewhat upon the generous sympathies of Colonel Jones. He assured me in his most agreeable manner that any time at all that I had a letter for my home to just drop it into his postoffice, and he would see that it went out on the "First Mail." This was quite satisfactory to myself and my companion, who had placed the letter in the Colonel's hands. I happened to recall that I had read a book over and over again, written by a J. B. Jones, that had made a great impression upon my youthful mind, and I had worshiped the name in consequence--the title of the book was "Wild Western Scenes."

The Colonel laughed heartily, and taking my hand gave me a second jolly shake as he said: "He had met another of his boys--they were turning up every place--wherever he had been some one who had read his book had asked him that question."

I had accomplished one very important step--in this, that I had opened communication with Washington from my location in Richmond.

There was danger that my letters _might_ fall into the wrong hands up North; but, as the person who carried them must, for his own protection, keep quiet, it was probable that no effort would be made to look after their destruction, once they were safely placed in Uncle Sam's postoffice somewhere. I was also liable to be picked up in Richmond almost any day by those who had known me at Montgomery, Pensacola, or, more recently, at Manassas, and in Beauregard's camp. Knowing that I could not travel in the rough manner as indicated, I felt wonderfully relieved to know that the letter just mailed would most surely go through more speedily than I could expect to travel at my best, and it contained in substance all that I could report by a personal trip, which was in effect that:

_First_--The Confederate Army _could not advance_, because thirty per cent. were sick, a great many absent on leave, and the rest as much demoralized after their victory as by our defeat.

_Second_--That the official documents of the Rebel Surgeon-General, addressed to Richmond, would be found under a certain house as described, where it will be remembered that I had placed them.

_Third_--That signals were being made from the dormitory of Georgetown College to Rebel outposts, or pickets who had been students at the College.

When this letter would reach my telegraph friend, he would, most assuredly, find the key to the cipher and properly communicate with Mr.

Covode, and through him the information, and I hoped the papers I had deposited would be recovered. I could not have done more than this myself, and, feeling that it was enough for one day's work, I retraced my steps to the top of the hill, on which the hotel was situated, and finding my cot bed again I was glad enough to drop myself into it for a rest without the formality of undressing.

Soon after Sam found me half asleep, when he came up to my room with some supper; his face was covered all over with the happy grin, peculiar to a colored boy, who has only this means of expressing his pleasure. If he knew that I had made a successful explanation of myself, which had relieved us both of the fear of detection, he was too cunning to express himself in words. My Maryland Colonel, who had so kindly endorsed me to the refugee bureau and franked my contraband mail matter to Washington, came to see me in the room late in the evening, bringing with him another refugee whom he introduced as Mr. Blank, a lawyer from Elkton, Maryland. I have really forgotten his name, but remember distinctly that he was from Elkton, from this circumstance. When I had subsequently returned North, while traveling from Philadelphia to Baltimore one day, I heard the name Elkton called out by the trainman, as we stopped at a country station. I rushed out on the platform on hearing the words and, while the train stopped, inquired of the agent and expressman about this gentleman. They both at once assured me: "Oh, yes; he's a great Rebel, and had to leave town."

The train began to move off, as I was hurriedly telling them about my meeting him in Richmond, and the agent became quite interested, following the train along side as long as he could, to get some information of him for his friends, who were living in the town. I heard from them afterward, and, as this Elkton lawyer and I became associated somewhat intimately for a month or two in Rebeldom, I have mentioned this circumstance by way of an introduction, and so that we will know him hereafter as "Elkton."

The Colonel, I learned, had been a store-keeper in one of the "lower counties," and the twain had crossed the broad Potomac together from Maryland to Virginia one night, and had only been in Richmond a month or so. They were, of course, anxious to meet all the other refugees they could hear of, and so it came about that I made their acquaintance.

Luckily for me, they were both from a section of Maryland distant from that which I represented, and neither of them for a moment doubted my "Loyalty," but, on the other hand, both of these gentlemen seemed to think it a part of their duty to take care of me; and I take this opportunity to say to Elkton, or any of his family who may read this, that his kindness to me has always been appreciated--_but_, I must not anticipate the story--I was invited to share a bed or cot in the same room these two gentlemen occupied. Their room was located like the one to which I had first been assigned--the windows overlooking the park. I could from my room see all who entered the Capitol building, also had an unobstructed view of President Davis' office, as well as that of other prominent officials. This "prospect" was indeed gratifying to me, and, as it may be assumed, much more satisfactory than anything I had yet encountered in the way of "facilities." From my window outlook I ran no risk of detection, as would be the case if I were on the streets all the time. I was naturally most anxious to see President Davis, and to my rather eager questions in regard to him--as I look at it now--I was told by the Colonel that "The President lives right around on the next corner on the next street. He walks through the grounds to his office every day; I'll show him to you, the first chance."

That night I lay down early, and had scarcely gotten into sound slumber, and was, perhaps, dreaming of home, when I was roused gently by the Colonel to listen to "the serenade." On the street or pavement in front of the hotel a large crowd had gathered, composed partly of a company of men without uniforms, who had marched in the rear of a band. I was informed that they were the nucleus of a company or regiment which was to be composed entirely of Marylanders, who were expected to arrive in Richmond by details of three and four at a time. The purpose of the visit that night was a serenade to Marylanders, the band having been furnished by kind sympathizers among the Richmond people, who took the opportunity to compliment the refugees. Now, if I were to say that a band had been known to serenade a Yankee Spy, the statement would have been laughed at as ridiculous, yet the facts are that the serenade was tendered in Richmond, in part at least, to a Yankee Spy, as the collection was raised for the same in a Virginia church. There were but three of us in the hotel that night--the Colonel, Elkton, and myself--and it was the presence of this trio that had brought the band under our window. They played in a highly effective style, considering the peculiar surroundings, all their own Southern airs, among which was "Maryland, my Maryland." This is a really beautiful air, which is familiar to all who ever associated with any crowd of rebels who could sing. The beautiful air--the significant words so full of pathos and sympathy, especially under the existing circumstances and surroundings--was rendered in a style so sweetly pathetic that the effect produced on my memory that night will never be effaced. After the band had played, all the crowd present, recognizing its appropriateness, gave them with a hearty good will round after round of applause. Cries were made for an encore, and, while the excitement it had created was still high, the entire company of Maryland recruits burst forth into a full chorus of their own good voices and sang, with even greater effect through, this sweet old war song, "Maryland, my Maryland."

After they had left our hotel, it was understood the band, with the crowd of followers and all the Marylanders in the city that had been gathered up, were to call on Jeff Davis and give him a serenade of "Maryland, my Maryland." I was not able to attend it, but I suppose the records of the rebellion will show somewhere that Jeff Davis made a fine speech of welcome to the persecuted exiles from Maryland--my Maryland.

My room-mates had both gotten out of the room at the beginning of the uproar. I lay awake a long time waiting for their return that I might hear the talk of the further serenade at the President's and Governor Letcher's. They were both full of it, of course. Their conversation that night, if reported in shorthand by the Spy, who lay awake an interested listener, would make an amusing chapter--read by the light of the present day. I gathered one point from them that I had not thought of before, which gave me some food for reflection. They both intended to unite themselves to the Rebel Army, but each of them wanted to be officers. If I remember aright, there was some "constitutional"

difficulty in the way of President Davis forming a Maryland battalion--at least, my impression now is, that he could not issue commissions, which was the duty of the Governor of Maryland, and it was necessary that some sort of a "Governor" should help him out of the new State-rights difficulty. They got over it in some way, however, as they did other State sovereignty questions. Elkton subsequently became a Lieutenant of the 3rd Battery of Maryland Artillery. I learned from their talk that night that they both expected, as a matter of course, that _I would_ join their Maryland battalion. With them, it seemed to be only a question of time, or until I should be sufficiently recovered from my illness. I imagined that I saw in this scheme of theirs a way out of my difficulty to further serve the Union. Of course, when I should be able to move about it would be necessary to do _something_; that I could not stay at the hotel indefinitely without money was certain, and it was also equally certain that I should not get any money, even in answer to my letter.

I had expected to get back by using their underground system, as soon as I would be able to travel by that line. But, as I had opened communication, I realized the correctness of my theory--that I could best serve the North by not _at once_ attempting to return, but by remaining in Richmond, to watch and report the progress of events there.

One of the first walks I took after getting out of my room was to the house of President Davis, which was, and is yet, beautifully located on the top of the hill; indeed, it is almost on the edge of a precipice that commands a view of the low country to the north.

The Colonel had not observed in my letter the reference to "my regiment." Now that it had been sent off without his, or anybody but the sick proprietor seeing it, I was glad to drop any reference to a previous connection with the army at Manassas. My story was, in brief, the same old thing, done over to suit the altered condition of things. I had told the Colonel about coming through Manassas; that I had been delayed there expecting to meet some of my Maryland friends, but was taken sick and had come on to Richmond for them. That, and the letter, and more especially my appearance, coupled with the greater inducement that he saw a recruit for their Maryland battalion, was to them all sufficient. No questions were asked by either him or Elkton; they were satisfied themselves, and their cordial introduction of myself to their other friends were enough to fix my status in Richmond for the time being. I was kindly treated by all with whom I was brought in contact, through the influence of my two newly-made friends. As I have stated, the first visit was, by courtesy, made to the President's _House_. I did not find it advisable to thrust myself on to Mr. Davis just then. The next point of greater interest to me was Libby Prison, where were confined a great number of the officers captured at Bull Run. I learned, upon cautious inquiries, that Libby was situated at the other end of the town, or about a mile distant from the hotel. This was quite a long walk for me to undertake, but I was almost sickened with the everlasting and eternal Rebel talk, which I had been forced to hear every day and hour for so long, that I felt in my soul that the sight of one true-blooded Union man would do my heart good, even though I saw him through iron bars. At the first favorable opportunity, on finding myself alone, I started out for a morning walk, leading in the direction of Libby Prison. Once on Main street, I began to feel a little apprehensive lest I should run against some one in the crowded throng who might recognize me. There were a great many soldiers in gray moving about the streets. It seemed, too, as if everybody I met was staring at me, and probably they were--as an object of pity. I became more accustomed to it, however, as I began to see that the interest being centered on me was probably due to the fact that I had been sick, and showed it in my appearance and walk. I felt more assured, too, when I saw, after awhile, that no person seemed to care much after all who I was, after they had once gratified their curiosity by a stare.

I wanted very much to gaze once more on a Union soldier, and one, too, who had fought in a real battle against these howling, blowing Rebels, even though he were defeated and was then a prisoner. I saw them, lots of them, through eyes that were pretty watery, and with a heart throbbing so hard with a fellow-feeling for them that I was almost afraid that I should lose control of myself, and I turned away. Through the barred windows of the prison I could see a room full of the boys in their ragged but still beautiful blue, as compared with the gray of the guard. They talked together in groups; some were laughing heartily, as though they were having a fine time among themselves; others walked up and down the floor with heads bowed and their arms behind them, as if in deep study. Occasionally I would catch the eye of some one looking through their bars at me; and, oh, dear, what wouldn't I have given at that moment for the privilege of being one of them--of making myself known with a shout. I felt that moment that it were far better to be a real prisoner of war, even though confined to the dreary walls of Libby, than to be as I was at the time, in truth or in anticipation, a prisoner already condemned to execution. Though apparently at liberty, I felt as Wordsworth writes, that I was not only

"Homeless near a thousand homes."

But, also, that,

"Near a thousand friends I pined and wanted friends."

CHAPTER XVI.

RICHMOND--HOLLYWOOD--JEFF DAVIS--BRECKINRIDGE--EXTRA BILLY SMITH--MAYOR, GOVERNOR, ETC.

It should be remembered that I am writing of Richmond, as I found it during the beautiful autumn months of September, October and November, 1861. The same conditions did not prevail in the years that immediately followed. It would no doubt have been impossible in 1864 to have overcome so easily the obstacles I encountered in 1861-2.

One other important factor in my favor is, that, after the success of Bull Run, the Southern people generally, and especially those about Richmond and Manassas, were so enthused as it were by the recent success that they became, for the time being, quite careless and were not disposed to closely scrutinize strangers who happened to be among them.

I realized these facts at the time, and profited by it. I began to feel so secure myself that I became quite careless about my own safety, and, as I became stronger each day, I spent pretty much all of my time either on one of the benches in the Capitol Square or leisurely walking over the streets of the city.

It became a daily custom with me to secure early a certain seat in the Capitol grounds, from which I could look directly into the front windows of the room which Jeff Davis occupied for his executive office. I had selected this bench because, from its location, which, by the way, to be exact, I will state was near the statue of Henry Clay, I could observe every person that either went into or out of the large hall door down stairs, which led to Mr. Davis' apartments. I was most anxious to get a glimpse of Mr. Davis, whom I had last seen at the Exchange Hotel at Montgomery during the bombardment of Fort Sumter. From my position in the grounds I could not, of course, see into the room in which I knew Mr. Davis was located, but I could imagine, from the number of people who were constantly going and coming, that he must have been kept pretty busy entertaining them. I did not find it advisable at that time to thrust myself upon his attention. It was only after several long waits and disappointments that I was one evening gratified to see my old Montgomery friend come out of the hallway in company with the present distinguished Senator from Texas, Hon. John H. Regan. They stood together on the steps a few minutes engaged in conversation, when Mr.

Davis, with a courteous bow, turned to his carriage, which was waiting at the curb, the door was shut with a bang, the driver turned his horses, and in a moment more they had disappeared around the corner of the square, as they drove up the hill in the direction of the President's mansion.

It was generally understood by my refugee associates that, as soon as I was sufficiently recuperated, I would unite with the other Maryland refugees in the formation of a Confederate company of volunteers. They had taken me in charge, as it were, and, as they had voluntarily guaranteed my hotel expenses, I could do no less than to tacitly accept the situation. Even at that early day there was considerable rivalry in the matter of securing recruits for the newly-forming organizations of the Rebel Army. One reason of this was that, in their army as it was in ours, at the first of the war the commissions were generally given to those persons who were most active in securing the necessary recruits to fill out a company's quota. While these two Maryland gentlemen were quite kind to me and had personally helped me through my sickness, I saw that their object was not altogether disinterested. In vouching for my expenses they were perfectly safe themselves, as it was understood that I should secure the very best bounty that was being paid, and out of this fund it was known I should be able to pay all my sick bills. So you will see how it came about that, while my two guardians were busy most of the day in skirmishing about for their recruits, as well as looking out for their own prospects for commissions, I was indulged in every thing that they could at all assist me in, and was in general terms given the "Freedom of the City."

It became a favorite walk with me on pleasant afternoons to wander out to the beautiful Hollywood Cemetery, one of the most lovely spots in all Virginia. Hollywood has been so fully described, even before and after the war, that I need not attempt it here. With me Hollywood had a peculiar fascination during my first visit to Richmond, during that fall of 1861--the "melancholy months of that year." I found myself out there frequently, nearly always seeking out the one resting place, which was beautifully situated on the top of the hill, under a grove of large forest trees, close by the tomb of ex-President Monroe. The view from this point was superb. Directly underneath the hill, which overhung the river like a precipice, were the great falls of the James river, the water of which, coming from the Blue Mountains of Virginia, was splashing over the thousands of immense rocks standing up from the bed of the river, making a wildly-beautiful picture, extending for a mile or two up and down the river. Right beneath the cemetery, but out of sight of a rambler in the grounds, the railroad bed had been chiseled out of the hill-side rocks. Trains could continually be heard rolling and whistling along, which I knew went near my friends in a few hours at Manassas and Fredericksburg. Near this, on the water's edge, were located the immense Tredegar Iron Works, upon which the Confederate Government depended almost entirely for their supply of manufactured iron, and I believe they were also turning out at the time some large cannon for their fortifications and ships. I remember that I was impressed at the time, from overhearing a debate in the Confederate Congress, that the loss or destruction of the Tredegar Works early in the war would have been one of the most terrible blows that could have been inflicted upon their cause, and I had embodied this statement in one of my "dispatches."

One evening a brass band paraded the streets, gathering up quite a crowd of followers. Always anxious to see everything that was going on, and a lover of brass music, I "joined in" with the crowd and marched along with the band. We halted in front of the largest hotel in Richmond at that time--the Spottsword--since burned down--but then located on Main street. On inquiring, I learned that the excitement was occasioned by the recent arrival in Richmond of the Hon. John C. Breckinridge, recently the Vice-President of the United States and Pro-Slavery candidate for President. It will be remembered that there had been for quite a long time considerable doubt or uncertainty as to which side of the fence Mr. Breckinridge would eventually jump. He had remained in Washington City up to a very short time previous to his arrival in Richmond. One of the facts brought out during his speech that night, in answer to the serenade, was, that he was still a member of the United States Senate, he having so arranged it that his resignation would not take effect until he was safe inside of the Confederacy. I remember this portion of his talk very well, because at the time it impressed me as being very mean for a man of his standing, who had been so highly honored and trusted by his Government, to pretend so long to be neutral, yet knowing all the time in his heart of the purpose to gather information and then desert and betray his Government. I felt in my heart then that the numerous Southern gentlemen who held official positions and violated their oaths that they might betray their Governments, were cowardly spies whose methods were to be execrated, and anything I could do to frustrate them would be honorable in comparison with their service.

Another point of interest is the "old stone house," which is situated on Main street within a square of the Libby Warehouses. This old stone building, with the curled oak shingles on the roof, was General Washington's headquarters.

We will pass the Colonial and Indian periods, the wars of 1776, 1812, 1846-9 with this one sentence, and hasten up the Main street about a mile to headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief of the war of 1861-65.

From the windows of my room I had a close view of the City Hall building directly opposite, which fronted on Broad street.

One morning I observed an unusual excitement on the street in front of the City Hall. They were apparently preparing for what we would have thought up North was to be a bonfire. Of course I became an interested looker-on, but was almost afraid to ask any questions lest I should hear some bad news. I feared that the Rebels were about to celebrate some victory over our armies, when I saw them pile in the middle of the street a great heap of kindling wood.

The gray-headed man who was then the Mayor of the City was apparently overseeing these preparations.

I had been in the habit of sleeping late, and while all this was going on outside I was alternately dressing myself and running to the window to watch the proceedings.

Without waiting for breakfast, I went out on to the street to investigate. The first person I questioned happened to be the hotel proprietor, who said, laughingly:

"Oh, they are just burning the gamblers' stuff that the police captured on the last raid."

It seemed that Richmond had, and has yet, a law that compels, or at least authorizes, their Judge of Police Court to destroy by public fire in the open street any material or paraphernalia which has been used, or intended to be used, for gambling purposes.

The Mayor of Richmond in 1861 was a Mr. Mayo. He was certainly an efficient official, as some of the Maryland refugees will bear testimony.

Extra Billy Smith, who I think had been a Governor of Virginia, was one evening put into our room to sleep, the hotel being quite crowded, it being the occasion of some Virginia State gathering. He was full of talk and kept our crowd aroused and interested until late in the night.