I was a "prisoner of State" within the walls of the ugly old building during part of the months of August and September, 1862.

To one of my active temperament, the confinement at this particular time was made doubly annoying by the knowledge we, as prisoners, were permitted to obtain, in an unsatisfactory way, of course, of the important military movements that were then going on outside. We heard, in a half apologetic way, of the abandonment of the Peninsula by McClellan, or a change of base; and this news was received inside the prison by the inmates with cheers, that sent cold chills down my spine.

The locks and bars, which were always in sight, as well as the bayonets of the armed sentry, that were everywhere in view from the windows, seemed to sink deeper into my heart, when I realized that Fredericksburg was also necessarily abandoned, and Geno in the hands of the Rebels.

When the crowded inmates of the prison would form groups in the yard in the evening, and, in the wildest glee, openly congratulate each other on the prospect of their speedy release by Stonewall Jackson's men, when he should reach Washington, I felt, for obvious reasons, that I'd rather not be "released" by that sort of a crowd. This feeling was especially exhibited after the news of General Pope's disaster at the second battle of Bull Run, that occurred while I was locked up there. But I am getting over these three weeks in O. C. P., as we call it for short, a little prematurely.

Very few of the tourists who visit Washington are aware that within rifle-shot of the Capitol stands (in greatly altered shape, of course,) one of the most historic buildings about the city. A good-sized book might be printed about the Old Capitol, and yet not one-half the secrets the old walls could tell would have been told. It was within these walls that John C. Calhoun, in dreadful agony of mind and body, breathed his last on earth, and it is said that his last words were not those of peace and happiness. It seems a little odd that the same brick and mortar hid from the outside world the last dreadful agony of the arch-fiend Wirz. The Kit Carson G. A. R. Post, of Washington, of which I am a comrade, was organized over the same bier and in the same dungeon that contained the body of Wirz after execution, in the year of the assassination of Lincoln, and during the Presidency of Mr. Andrew Johnson.

[Illustration: IN OLD CAPITOL PRISON--I ADMIT THAT I BROKE DOWN COMPLETELY.]

I spent my first night alone in a prison on the only cot the little hall-room contained. I had thrown myself upon it when I realized that Colonel Woods had closed and locked the door on me, after a polite "Good-night," without undressing myself. I admit that I broke down completely, and cried myself to sleep. I was simply broken-hearted when I recalled my previous dangerous services for the Government; could not understand why I should be so ruthlessly and heartlessly treated by the Secretary-of-War. It was my sensitive feelings that were so cruelly hurt.

In the morning I wakened, a hardened, stubborn, and, if I had been given the least chance, I should have shown myself an ugly, vindictive _man_.

It seemed as if the _boy_ in my nature had parted from me with those bitter tears, and when I roused myself it was with a determination to "do something"--I didn't know exactly what, but it was anything but a surrender, or to beg for my liberty.

The unlocking of the doors and the tramping of feet along the hallways, with the voices of the attendants in boisterous conversation with the inmates of the other part of the Hotel de O. C. P., were the sounds that first awakened me to this new life, as it were. As I had not undressed, I was out before the crowd got around, and enjoyed the opportunity of surveying my surroundings in quietness. As I have tried to explain, my room was right at the head of the hall stairs, on the L-part of the building, facing on A street north. The only window the room contained looked north, and, as there were in those days no buildings at all, of any size, in that part of the city, my view extended away across the country to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum on the northern hills. In the low foreground were the numerous trains of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, that were constantly going and coming out, the tracks being in full view. This sight of loaded cars speeding away to the North--to home and liberty--was not, you may be assured, exactly the thing calculated to make the close prisoner, who saw them from his window, feel any better contented with his prison. My first thoughts at this sight were, that I should quietly leap down the short distance from that window on to the pavement below, as it was but one story above the walk, where I might quietly glide over the open commons and "catch a train."

There were no bars to the windows, and the sash was not even fastened down, because of the necessity for ventilation, so that I was able to stick my head clearly outside, but I was paralyzed to discover on the first inspection that, down on the pavement below my window, every inch was being closely patrolled by a double guard of armed sentries, while the commons, a little distance off, were occupied as the camp for the outside-guard. That's exactly the way they had it arranged in 1862, and, I also observed very soon after my arrival, that there was an inside-guard pacing up and down the hallway in front of our open doors.

The outside sentinels did not allow _any_ one except their own officers on the pavement or street, in their front, so that communication in any shape or form was out of the question.

The back stairway led out on to the porch of the L, that opened into the yard. Communicating with this wooden porch at one end was the front hall, which led through the center of the main building out on to First street, to the west. It was modeled precisely on the same old-fashioned plan of a large farmhouse or country hotel. A main building, divided in the center by a hall which opened on to the big back porch. As if to further complete the comparison with a country tavern, I found, on going down stairs that first morning, that the porch was provided with a number of wash-bowls and long towels on rollers, at which the guests were expected to make their morning toilets, assisted by that usual scraggy old comb attached to a yard of string, tied to each post of the porch, that contained, of course, a looking-glass which distorted one's face so that I imagined, at the first sight of myself, that a single night in jail had made me look like a horrible old murderer.

Meals were served by the proprietors, of course, but I was politely informed by an officer, in answer to some question about the rules and regulations of the house, that those who preferred it could select a caterer and have special meals served from the outside. I concluded to be a prisoner on the European plan, and joined a mess of two or three other hail-fellows-well-met, to whom I was introduced by the officer.

There were no restrictions placed on my intercourse with this mess, though we were informed that the trio would not be allowed to have any communication with prisoners in the other part of the house.

I did not want to see anybody that I had ever known before--not even my brother, who was then at the War Department, and to whom I had secretly telegraphed to meet me with Mr. Covode. There is no other explanation of this feeling except an admission that it was a cranky freak I indulged in to the fullest extent. After my first breakfast, while in my little room engaged in looking out of the window at the shifting trains, I was surprised by a first call from a lady.

One of our mess, whom I will call English, because he was an English "Spy"--or had been arrested as being in communication with the Rebels--politely knocked at my half-open door, saying, in the most polite way, for he was a genuine English gentleman:

"Miss Belle Boyd desires to meet you, sir," and, before I could recover from my surprise, the door was darkened by the lithe and graceful figure of a neatly-dressed young lady, who had presented herself to my vision so suddenly as to suggest a spirit from the other world. It was Belle Boyd, the celebrated female Rebel Spy. I had heard of her in connection with her daring horseback raids about Winchester and in the Valley with Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart, but did not have any idea that she was to be a "fellow" prisoner with me. Without any embarrassment at all, and as if sincerely anxious to welcome me to the prison, she stepped forward smilingly and, with hands outstretched, took mine in hers, as she said: "I was anxious to see who it was that was here by Stanton's express orders."

I don't just remember now how I did act, but it's most likely that it was in an awkward, embarrassed manner, that caused Miss Belle to say, reassuringly: "Oh, you are among your friends now, and I'm glad to know you."

To my immediate relief the conversation was further carried on by English and Miss Boyd in a strain which, while it gave me an opportunity to recover myself, at the same time put the thought into my brain that I'd "catch on," as we say nowadays, and find out what this racket in the Spy line was. Here were two Rebel spies, with whom I had been put in confidential communication, and it flashed across my mind in an instant that I would make some good come of the unpleasant surroundings and put myself in such a position that the War Department would be glad enough to acknowledge my services. There was not a shadow of a doubt of Belle Boyd's sincere interest in me. She said:

"I was in C. I. Woods' office last night when I heard him tell the officers on duty: 'You must not overlook the fact that the young man in the hall room, by himself, is here under the _express_ orders of Mr.

Stanton.'"

As Miss Boyd made this observation in her own positive style, her lip curled with scorn at the mention of Mr. Stanton's name. She said further, in words that I have never forgotten:

"There was something else said in an undertone that I could not gather, but I determined that I would see the prisoner who was under Mr.

Stanton's express orders."

This was my introduction to Belle Boyd, and to this indorsement of Colonel Woods and Mr. Stanton I am probably indebted for the very warm and kindly interest this famous female Spy afterward showed toward me.

As I remember her appearance at that time, she was of light, rather fair complexion, and I think her hair was inclined to be a strawberry blonde.

While she was not strictly a handsome woman, there was something in her manner that was very attractive. She reminded me of Maggie Mitchell in her younger days. She was graceful, and, if I remember her right, has been accorded much praise for her winning ways and easy bearings. Though she was older than myself at that time, and the center of attraction among the distinguished prisoners, all of whom seemed anxious to win her favor, I flatter myself that the famous female Spy took quite a fancy to me.

The gentleman whom I have called Mr. English was rather older than either of the little coterie that I had been invited to join. He was one of those fellows who have been everywhere and know everything; in short, a regular adventurer, after the style of the English novel. He was educated--at least, we all thought so--because he talked so glibly and knowingly about every conceivable thing, and incidentally mentioned some of the palaces he had visited, how he had been entertained by royalty.

This, with an occasional hint as to the character of his family friends, and the accidental exhibition of a genuine coat-of-arms, convinced Miss Boyd and myself, in our inexperience with this sort of thing, that our friend was, of course, a disguised "juke," and from that time forth he was treated with the greatest deference by us, and ate the best part of our rations. Fortunately for me, he and Miss Belle Boyd did all the talking for the first few days. I became a quiet and admiring listener, had plenty of time in which to gather myself up, so as to be able to formulate my own story, when it should be called for.

But this everlasting Englishman talked so incessantly, and so agreeably, too, about his wonderful adventures, "in the bush, you know," while in the East India service, and in the Crimea, that, as I said, even Belle Boyd, who was a great talker, had but little show.

Our friend could sing, too, as well as talk; each evening the prisoners assembled in the "court-yard," while our glee club, on the balcony above, which was something like a stage, led by the Englishman, who bossed everything, you know, furnished entertaining music. We had every song in the whole list well rendered. It is easier to mention what was _not_ sung than to begin to tell all that were given by this improvised club. Among those we never heard was the Star Spangled Banner, and kindred airs. We had Dixie for reveille, dinner and tea, and it was Dixie for a doxology at taps.

We had regular taps and hours in O. C. P. just as they have in camp outside. At bed-time everyone was made to "douse his glim" with as much strictness as if we were all aboard a man-of-war at Fort Pickens.

While I played the Rebel inside the prison for a purpose, because, as I have said, I determined the first day not to beg off, and it came sort of natural for me to ventilate a little against Stanton, I became awfully bored by the everlasting Rebel talk, and especially so at the Englishman's predictions, that we would all become willing "subjects of Her Majesty before long."

I must do the most violent Rebel prisoner the credit for resenting this sort of talk, every time it was broached in O. C. P.

One evening the Englishman was, as usual, entertaining the assembled crowd with his melodious bellowing of "Brittania Rules the Waves;" he could do that song up in the most approved operatic style; indeed, my later judgment is that the fellow must have been an opera singer among his other accomplishments. He sang this beautiful song standing before the prisoners in the most effective stage style, expecting, as a matter of course, to be applauded and encored at the end of the act. Instead of that, however, in a quiet, slow-speaking voice, I suggested involuntarily: "How about the Monitor and Merrimac?"

The question seemed so apt, and put in such a sly way, that it seemed to act as a match that exploded a slumbering mine. The Englishman never before had such applause, accompanied with loud laughter. It was a continuous "howl" for a few minutes. We retired that night, laughingly discussing the Englishman and the Monitor.

The incident served to break up the singing services, and after that we heard less of England. It also shows that, even among the United States Rebel prisoners in the Old Capitol Prison, in 1862, there was a smoldering or banked-up fire of genuine patriotism yet burning, that only needed a little stirring or poking up, to cause it to break out into a great flame.

I will not burden this narrative with this Englishman's story. His history, and especially his secret services for the Rebellion, as he related it every day in the three weeks that I was obliged to listen to his everlasting talk, would, to use a common term, fill a book.

He was evidently enamored of Miss Boyd, and the plans of these two Rebel Spies, after they should be released, were from day to day discussed in my hearing.

Belle Boyd's operations as a Spy, had been carried on principally in the Valley, where I was not at all known. During our many hours of confidential chat together, I learned from her, under pretense of expecting to use the information in getting South, when I should "escape," the names and location of those people along the Upper Potomac and in Washington, who could be depended upon as "our friends," or as we called them in those days, "Rebel sympathizers."

The list was extensive, and embraced some Washington "officials."

If my services had not resulted in anything else, this information alone, which I gained as an involuntary Spy, was of sufficient importance to compensate for all my troubles. Of course, it will be understood here that Belle Boyd never once suspected my true character.

She had heard me denounced by the officials of the prison as a "dangerous man." Indeed, without egotism, I may be allowed to say that, at that particular time, I was looked upon by the prisoners and attendants as a "remarkable character," to put it modestly.

I did not suspect at this time that I was the object of so much quiet Rebel homage and attention, else I might have conducted myself differently, and exhibited some vanity over the reputation I then enjoyed. As it was, I was set down as one of the quietest, least troublesome of all Colonel Woods' guests. That was my Old Capitol Prison record in brief; and I don't know now whether I should boast of it or not. Probably I do not deserve any credit at all for the simple facts were, that I was so sick at heart, and yet so stubborn in disposition, that I had neither inclination or desire to speak a word to _anybody_, and wanted to be let alone.

My brother called to see me the second day after my arrival, accompanied by some officious fellow from General Eckert's War Department Office, whose name I have forgotten.

When Colonel Woods personally called me down to his office, he said, in a kindly way, that my brother and a friend had called, and that, out of respect for us all, he would permit us to have a quiet interview, without any show of guards or the usual censorship of official attendants. I thought at the time that this was very kind in Colonel Woods, but I changed my mind after the interview had ended.

As I walked into the room, my brother stepped up to shake my hand, but the poor fellow broke down completely and could not utter a word. His exhibition of feeling surprised and, of course, affected me, and for the moment I more fully realized the effect that imprisonment was even then having on my father and friends in the world outside. With this came a reaction in an intense bitterness, engendered by the knowledge that I was being at least outrageously treated, so that I became in a moment, even in the presence of my heart-broken brother, as cold and apparently as indifferent as the worst Rebel inside. It will be seen that this unjustifiable imprisonment had changed my whole nature for the time being. It had soured me, as it were, with the War Department Administration (but not with the country), as completely as a thunderstorm would have turned a glass of sweet cream into a cold thick mass of clabber.

The young fellow who accompanied my brother commenced to do the talking, expressing in his kindliest way, but in a drawling nasal tone, peculiar to a Down-east man who affects the moral-reform style, that has had the effect of setting me on edge ever since against this class of men, his "sincere regret at my unfortunate condition." His tone and manner not only put me on nettles, but his first proposition was, "Now, my dear boy, the best thing you can do, for your brother and yourself, is to freely confess to----."

That's all he said; he didn't get any further, because I snapped him up abruptly, saying, "Confess _nothing_; I'll do nothing of the kind, because there isn't anything to confess."

"But, my dear boy, why did you refuse to take the oath of allegiance?

Surely if you----."

"Oh you go to ----. I'm not going to make any further explanations to you."

Then, turning to my brother, I quietly told him that Mr. Covode would explain matters; that I would not, if I stayed there forever, ask any favors from the War Office. My brother said that this man had been sent down as a witness to my denial, and it was only necessary for me to say in his presence that I would take the oath.

But, I could not honorably do that. I could not swear falsely to get out of prison, that "I had never borne arms nor belonged to an armed organization against the United States." And I would not perjure myself, even with the orders of Secretary Stanton, with a long imprisonment threatening me for disobedience.

And I did not. To make the long story short, I went back to prison.