The South was now sadly crippled. Our bulwarks were demolished and our granaries emptied, our most fertile valleys occupied by the Northern army, and Confederate money was depreciated to such an extent as to make it practically useless.^[42] Our army was thinning daily, and even the news from Richmond, save from Mr. Davis himself, seemed to carry an undertone prophetic of coming collapse. “The enemy, yesterday and to-day,” wrote Mr. Mallory, from the capital, late in October, “is, in the graphic gorillaisms, ‘pegging away’ close at us; and the flash of his guns is visible and their roar was audible from my piazza yesterday. His approaches have been very slow, to be sure, but nevertheless, he has taken no step backward, but is ‘inching’ upon Richmond surely and methodically in a way that seems as gopherlike as it is certain; and he will keep up this system unless we can, by hard fighting, push him back.”

Supported by the hope of Mr. Clay’s return, and knowing he would seek me first among those of our kin who were nearest to the coast, I lingered on Beech Island until late in January, 1865, though I did so against the advice of Colonel Clay, who urged me to go southward, and the assurances of Mr. Davis that I might safely return to Richmond, which city, the President was confident, would continue to prove an impregnable refuge. In the last days of December two such messages, equally positive and each positively opposed to the other in its significance, sped to me by courier from the capital. Who was to decide when such correspondents disagreed? Yet the need for some move became more and more urgent. To return to Huntsville was out of the question. Northern Alabama was overrun with Federal soldiers, to whom the name alone of Clay, borne as it was by three men all actively labouring for the preservation of the Confederate States, was a challenge to the exercise of fresh authority. I heard distressing news of the contemplated transportation, to Nashville, of the aged ex-Governor Clay (our uncle, Mr. McDowell, a non-combatant full of years, had already died in that prison under most pitiful circumstances), yet I was powerless to send him even a line of comfort or encouragement. Mail routes in every direction were in possession of the enemy, or liable to be interrupted by them, and straggling companies of Union soldiers were on the lookout to intercept such messengers as might attempt to bear our letters from point to point.

My husband was in Canada, or on the seas, I knew not where; J. Withers Clay, the second son of the ex-Governor, was active with pen and press in lower Alabama; Colonel Clay was stationed in Richmond in the thick of the political battle. Our parents were left alone in the old home, to brave the discomforts put upon them by their sometimes cruel and sometimes merely thoughtless oppressors. A grandson, Clement, a mere lad, but a hero in spirit, venturing into the town to succour the old people, was promptly arrested. “I wonder,” wrote one who visited our parents, “that their heartstrings have not long since snapped!”

All through the Tennessee Valley dejection was spreading. “If Mr. Davis does not restore General Johnston to the army of the Tennessee,” wrote J. Withers Clay, “his friends generally out here believe that he will never recover his lost popularity, or be able to get back the thousands of soldiers (now) absent without leave. I wish you would tell the President this. You have no idea of the extent of demoralisation among soldiers and citizens produced by his persistent refusal to restore him!”

For now several months I had been secretly tortured by an indecision as to what course to pursue. Though urged by a hundred generous correspondents to share their homes (for I have ever been blessed by loyal friends), I had a deepening conviction that my interests were detached from all. I was homeless, husbandless, childless, debarred from contributing to the comfort of my husband’s parents, and I chafed at my separation from those to whom my presence might have proved useful. As time went on, all deprivations and anxieties were obscured by one consuming determination to join my husband at all hazards; but, despite every effort toward accomplishing this, I found myself swept helplessly along by the strong currents of the times. My sole means of communication with Mr. Clay was now through occasional “personals,” which were published in the Richmond Enquirer, coÖperating with the New York Daily News. One of these, which appeared early in November, 1864, indicates the indecision and anxiety which by this time was felt, also, by my husband in his exile:

“To Honourable H. L. Clay, Richmond, Virginia. I am well. Have written every week, but received no answer later than the 30th of June. Can I return at once? If not, send my wife to me by flag of truce, via Washington, but not by sea. Do write by flag of truce care John Potts Brown, No. 93 Beaver Street, New York. Answer by personal through Richmond Enquirer and New York News.”

“I inclose you a ‘personal’ from Brother Clement, published in yesterday’s Enquirer,” Colonel Clay wrote on November 11, 1864. “I consulted Mr. Mallory, Mr. Benjamin and the President, and then sent him the following: ‘Your friends think the sooner you return the better. At the point where you change vessels you can ascertain whether it is best to proceed direct or by Mexico. Your wife cannot go by flag of truce. She is well. I send you letters to-day by safe hands. H. L. C.’ The reason why the earliest return is advised is that the fleet off Wilmington is not yet increased to the degree intended; and during the rough weather, before the hard winter sets in, it is much easier for vessels to run the blockade. I shall tell him that the statistics kept in the Export and Import Office show five out of six vessels, inward and outward bound, safely run the blockade, but that he must himself consider the risk from what he learns after reaching Bermuda.”

Colonel Clay’s prompt decision, such was my distracted state of mind, by no means satisfied me. The suggestion contained in my husband’s words seemed feasible to my courageous mind. I despatched a note of inquiry at once to Richmond, begging Mr. Davis to write to Mr. Seward to secure my safe passage by land to Canada. I told him of my unrest, the increasing uncertainty that prevailed in the neighbourhood of “Redcliffe,” and my desire to join my husband. The President’s reply was reassuring and full of the confidence which sustained him to the end of the remaining days of the Confederacy. “There is no danger in coming here now,” ran his message from the capital, dated December 29, 1864. “When he (Mr. Clay) returns he will, of course, visit this place, and can conveniently meet you here.” But, when I proposed to try to make my way to this haven, Colonel Clay wrote excitedly, animated by an anxiety as great as my own:

“Don’t come to Richmond! Don’t send the President letters or telegrams. He is in a sea of trouble, and has no time or thought for anything except the safety of the country. I fear the Congress is turning madly against him. It is the old story of the sick lion whom even the jackass can kick without fear. It is a very struggle for life with him. I do not know that he has any reliable friends in Congress, who will sustain him upon principle, fearlessly and ably. He has less and less power to intimidate his enemies, and they grow more numerous every day.... If he were preËminently gifted in all respects, the present moment is perilous enough to call forth all his energies no matter how great.... Before this reaches you, you will have read my private letter to Hammond, in regard to the military situation in South Carolina and Georgia. I think as soon as Sherman reduces Savannah, he will move promptly up the Savannah River, and endeavour to capture Charleston by taking it in reverse. That success would be a feather in any general’s cap. We cannot hope to make fight on that river, I think, but must take the Edesto as our line of defense. Now, look upon the map and you will see that the whole of Beech Island lies between the two rivers, and in the event Sherman moves up (as he will do, to cut off supplies from Charleston and Virginia), the South Carolina Railroad will fall within the line of his advance. I only give you my personal opinion; for, of course, no one can speak assuredly of Sherman’s intentions. If I am right, I think you had better move in the direction of Alabama before there is any rush of travel, and as soon as you can well do so.... In Alabama or western Georgia there will be plenty of food; more, indeed, because of the inability to bring it east of Augusta. I write to advise you to go as far away from the line of the enemy’s march as you can... I dare not look into the future, after Hood’s battles in Tennessee, if the Yankee accounts are verified. God knows we are pressed hard on every side by the enemy, and have no wise counsellors to give proper direction to our weak, erring efforts for independence. Passion and prejudice and personal feelings govern in many instances where patriotism should rule. Congress is discussing questions of the smallest moment while the Confederacy is in the grip of the Yankees struggling for existence.... I fear the pending attack upon Wilmington will prevent Brother Clement from coming in at the Port (if he should conclude not to go to Mexico) for some time yet. Until the flotilla set sail from Fortress Monroe I looked for him to come in about the last of this month or the first of the next. Now I shall not know when to expect him, for no vessels will attempt the blockade there at Washington.”

It now became apparent that to wait at our exposed Island was no longer prudent. A family council was called, and it was decided that, upon the first sign of a suitable escort, I should make my way to Macon. I had not long to wait. Within a few days we learned of the presence of General Howell Cobb in Augusta. I wrote to him at once, telling him of my contemplated exodus and of my desire to place myself under his protection upon his return journey to his headquarters at Macon. He replied with the gallant cordiality which was ever a characteristic with him, and which I think would never have deserted him even in the midst of the roar of cannon:

“Augusta, Georgia, January 21, 1865.

“My Dear Friend:... I assure you that your threat to cling to me like the old man of the sea to Sinbad is the most agreeable threat that ever was made to me, and it shall not be my fault if it is not executed. I am here under orders from Richmond, which leave me in doubt whether I am to remain a day, a month, or a year. My opinion is that I will be ordered back to Macon in a very few days, and there is no telling at what hour I may receive the order. To make it certain, however, that I can give you timely notice, you ought to be in Augusta. I am ready to receive the acceptable trust and devote my best efforts to your comfort and happiness.

Very truly your friend,

“Howell Cobb.”

Early in February I arrived in Macon without misadventure, and here, on February 10th, my husband joined me, having learned of my whereabouts from our friends in Augusta.

Mr. Clay’s experiences since leaving Nassau had been exciting. The Rattlesnake, a hitherto skilful blockade runner, on which he had taken passage, was bound for Charleston; but, finding an entrance at that port impossible for the moment, she had crept cautiously up to Wilmington, only to be obliged again to show her heels to the wary and enlarged blockading fleet. After numerous efforts to find a friendly harbour, the little ship, reconnoitering about the South Carolinian coast, ran aground four miles away from Fort Moultrie, grounded, it was rumoured, by the pilot. Here the little craft, which quickly became the target of the enemies’ guns, was abandoned, her timbers ablaze, while passengers and crew, taking to the life-boats, bore with them such baggage as might be gathered in their haste; and now, to cap the climax of their disasters, the life-boats, too, ran aground, and sailors and passengers were compelled repeatedly to wade through the waves, which dashed throat-high about them, in an effort to rescue the pieces of baggage they had been able to save from the ship. On that cold, blustery day in early February, in garments saturated with brine, Mr. Clay was taken in a yawl to Fort Moultrie, whence, ill from the exposure he had undergone, he was carried in a sail-boat to Charleston by the Reverend Mr. Aldrich, an accidental visitor to the Fort. By that kindly man he was put to bed and to sleep under the stimulus of orange-leaf tea, while his clothing and few rescued belongings were undergoing a drying.

Upon awakening, Mr. Clay’s first effort was to forward to Richmond to the care of Colonel Clay, to be held until his own arrival in the capital, a small hand-trunk addressed to Judah P. Benjamin, and to General Lee, his restored pet; his second, to find me. This accomplished, it was his intention to proceed at once to Richmond, to deliver in person his State papers, the most important of which he had carried in an oil-silk bag suspended about his neck. To the complete frustration of his plans, however, my hapless husband found the railway route between Augusta, where he supposed me to be, and Charleston, now effectually closed. It was by a roundabout road, therefore, made partly by carriage, that he reached the desired point on the seventh of February, only to learn of my departure a few days before under the escort of General Cobb. By the 10th, when Mr. Clay arrived at last in Macon, he had informed himself of the grave plight of our armies, and of the lamentable political differences existing in the capital, to which Colonel Clay, in his letter to me, had alluded. A few hurried conferences with General Cobb and others, and together we took our departure for Richmond. Everything which might become an impediment to the rough travel that lay before us was dispensed with, even my invaluable maid, Emily, being left behind at the home of Major Whittle. We proceeded first to Washington, Georgia, going, upon our arrival, to the home of General Toombs, where was sojourning Mr. Stephens, our Vice-President. The hearts of all were heavy as the gentlemen conferred together upon the outlook of our country and arms. Letters from Richmond which reached our hands at this point were excited in tone, and added to our apprehension and sorrow.

“On every side,” wrote our sister, “the city rings with the cries of Rachels weeping for their children!”

“Don’t come to Richmond!” urged Colonel Clay, “[or] if you think it necessary to come on, do so at once; don’t delay. Leave sister; don’t undertake to bring her in the present uncertain condition of the railroad connections between here and the Georgia line.... Our armies have been dwindling, until none is large enough to withstand an attack in the open field. There is a collapse in every department, and, worse than all, there is an utter lack of confidence by the people, in the administration, in Congress, and in the success of the cause itself.... Campbell will go out. He cannot see any benefit to be derived from his longer continuance in office as the drudge of the War Department, especially when the Treasury is bankrupt, and Congress cannot devise a new scheme for reËstablishing faith in the currency. That department is $400,000,000 in arrears, it is said. I know it is enormously in debt to the War Department ($32,000,000), and that the Quartermaster General and the Commissary General cannot obtain the means to pay current expenses. If we cannot have transportation and bread for the soldiers in the field, to say nothing of clothing and pay,... what becomes of our army?... As I see the present and argue thence what the future has in store for us,... I see nothing but defeat and disaster and ruin!”

Characterised throughout his life by a punctilious observance of everything which in his eyes appeared a duty, Mr. Clay was not to be deterred by even such grave news from carrying out his intention to deliver in person, to the President and Mr. Benjamin, an account of his stewardship in Canada. Late in February, therefore, he resumed his journey, mounted upon General Toomb’s grey mare, and accompanied by the General’s man, Wallace. He had not proceeded far, however, when, overtaken by an illness, the result of his exposure at Charleston, he was obliged to return to Washington. A month elapsed ere he was able again to set out for Richmond, the city which was so soon to be the theatre of our national collapse.

The roads now, in many places, were impassible. The number of Union soldiers was increasing daily in the States which Mr. Clay must cross in his northward journey. My husband, with his precious documents, would have been a rich prize to any who might have seized him. Through many vicissitudes he made his cautious way toward the capital, securing a horse, when he could, or a mule team, or following the railroad tracks where necessary. Much of the journey he made alone, but he sometimes found himself in company, and that not always wholly desirable. On one occasion he fell in with two straggling Confederate soldiers, and, being near the home of a distant kinsman, Robert Withers, upon the arrival of the trio he asked Mr. Withers’ hospitality for them all. Consent was promptly forthcoming, but my husband’s feelings were somewhat less cordial toward his whilom companions when one was allotted to him as a bedfellow. “Had to sleep with ——,” reads his diary, “much to my dread of camp-itch!”

Eight days were consumed in that journey to the capital, by this time the scene of an excitement truly anarchistic. Mr. Clay was probably the last man in the Confederate service to seek to enter Richmond. The trend of Confederate travel just then was in an opposite direction.

Making at once for Colonel Clay’s headquarters, my husband secured the trunk destined for Mr. Benjamin, to whom he shortly afterward transferred his papers. The transaction was a hurried one, and Mr. Clay pushed on to the apartment of Mr. Davis. In after days I often heard him describe the scene which there met him. He found the President engaged in hastily packing a valise, his clothing and papers scattered in little heaps about. I think he assisted his hapless friend in these preparations. An hour or two later and Mr. Clay was en route for Danville, on the last of the over-laden trains to draw out from the once dear but now desolated city. Of the sad journey of the President through the Carolinas, with his company of legislative friends, of which, for a portion of the way, my husband was one, I remember no particulars. I recall a hasty return to Macon, where Mr. Clay joined me, whence we hurried on in a few days to the home of former Senator B. H. Hill, at Lagrange, in western Georgia. The remembrance of the days that immediately succeeded the evacuation of Richmond, followed, as that event was, by the murder of Abraham Lincoln, is a confused one. A kind of horror seized my husband when he realised the truth of the reports that reached us of this tragedy. At first he had refused to credit them. “It’s a canard!” he said; but when, at last, he could no longer doubt, he exclaimed: “God help us! If that be true, it is the worst blow that yet has been struck at the South!”