By September I had reopened correspondence with many Washington friends. As will have been seen by a perusal of certain preceding letters, the question of giving me permission to return to the capital already had been broached to the President and Secretary of War, by Judge Black and others. It was now again brought to the attention of Mr. Johnson, by Mr. Duff Green, a long-time friend of ex-Governor Clay, of my husband, and of the President’s. It was the first application of all that had been sent to the Government to bring a response. The Executive’s reply was couched as follows:

“I am directed by the President to say that an application for permission to visit Washington, made by Mrs. C. C. Clay, Jr., over her own name, will be considered by him.

In forwarding this communication to me, Mr. Green wrote:

“We think there is nothing to prevent your coming at once. To wait for permission may delay you weeks, and perhaps months. Your coming would not prejudice either yourself or your husband, and you can do more by a personal application to the President than by an application ‘over your own name.’”

Two months dragged by, however, ere I could complete arrangements for the journey and detach myself from our clinging parents, who, deprived of all of their other children, now placed their dependence upon me. Notwithstanding their hearts ached for some assurance of Mr. Clay’s safety, they were ill-disposed to look upon my projected trip with favour. Huntsville was in complete subjugation to the Federal representatives. We had numerous reasons to realise the pitiless and cruel policy that had been inaugurated by our conquerors, and few to lead us to look for kinder things at the hands of the powers at Washington. The reports that reached us of the treatment accorded to those Southerners who had already proceeded to the capital, even allowing for the prejudice of editors unfriendly to us, were not of a kind to encourage a hope for clemency or justice there. The efforts of the wives of other prisoners to communicate with their husbands, their applications to the Government to grant them the right of trial, not only had been of no avail, but, in some instances, had made them the direct objects of attack from those inimical to them. “I have had a weary time,” one wrote late in October, “but of that, if you knew how weary, you would cry out ‘No more an’ you love me,’ rather than bear the infliction of the retrospect, so I will not torment you.”... President Johnson’s remarks to the South Carolina Delegation, concerning Mrs. Davis’s efforts, became the talk of the country. I was astonished when I learned that she had never written a line without consultation with Mr. Schley and his, in turn, consulting General Steedman upon the tenor of her letters, and receiving the approval of both on the manner of presenting the subject. It was the old fable of the lamb whose grandfather muddied the stream.

Such news served further to convince my husband’s parents of the futility of the trip I was contemplating. They urged that I would be attacked on every side so soon as I entered the Federal capital; they pleaded, too, alas! the stringency of our present means, a very vital objection just then to us whose every possession had either been “confiscated” or otherwise rendered useless to us. Nevertheless, every moment anxiety was consuming me. I resolved to act while I had the strength, and made known my resolve to our parents.

The middle of November had arrived ere, by the aid of Mr. Robert Herstein, a kindly merchant of Huntsville (“may his tribe increase”), who advanced me $100 in gold (and material for a silk gown, to be made when I should reach my destination), I was enabled to begin my journey to the capital. Under the escort of a kind friend and neighbour, Major W. H. Echols, of Huntsville, who, having in mind the securing of a certain patent, arranged his plans so as to accompany me to Washington, I bade father and mother “good-bye” and stepped aboard the train. My heart sometimes beat high with hope, yet, at others, I trembled at what I might encounter. Fortunately for the preservation of my courage, I had no forewarning that I had looked, for the last time, upon the sorrowful face of our mother. Her closing words, in that heartbreaking farewell, were of hope that I would soon return bringing with me her dearest son. With the desire to cheer them both, I wrote back merrily as I proceeded on my way; but, indeed, I had small need to affect a spirit of buoyancy; for, from the beginning, I was the recipient of innumerable kindnesses from fellow-travellers who learned my identity. In many instances my fare was refused by friendly railroad conductors.

“I have paid literally nothing thus far,” I wrote from Louisville, Kentucky, which city I reached early in the morning of November 15th. “At Nashville,” my letter added, “we took sleeping cars, which were as luxurious as the bed that now invites me. I had, however, an amusing, and, at first blush, an alarming nocturnal adventure. I was waked by the rattling of paper at my head, and, half unconsciously putting out my hand, it lighted on the hairy back of some animal! I sprang out of bed, raised the curtain, and there sat, in the corner of my berth, the most monstrous coon you ever saw! The black around his eyes at first made him appear like an owl, but he proved to be a genuine old ‘zip coon.’ So I got out one of ‘Mammy ’Ria’s’ nice biscuit, which have been greatly complimented by my friends, and asked him please to come out of my bed and eat some supper. But he wouldn’t! And I had to wake Major Echols in the gentlemen’s apartment, who forcibly ejected him after a good laugh at me!”

A day later and we reached Cincinnati, where, owing to the late arrival of the boat, the St. Nicholas, on which we had travelled from Louisville, through banks of fog, we were delayed some twelve hours. Our trip on this river steamer was, in its way, a kind of triumphal progress, very reassuring to me at that critical moment. As I wrote back to father, “We found the captain a good Southerner and a noble old fellow! Had one son in the Federal Army and lost one at Shiloh! Mr. Hughes, of the Louisville Democrat, was aboard; he said his paper had been suppressed, but he would now be permitted to go South. He is a rabid secessionist, and promised to copy the News^[53] articles concerning my husband.” On board, too, was Mrs. Gamble, of Louisville, a wealthy woman whose name was associated with innumerable kindnesses to our soldiers, and generous gifts to our cause. She was a sad woman, but sympathised greatly with Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay, and begged that upon my return from Washington we would make our home with her “until better times.”

Upon learning the length of time we must spend in Cincinnati, I went at once to the Spencer House, whence I wrote and immediately despatched notes to my old friends, Mrs. George E. Pugh, wife of the ex-Senator, and to Senator and Mrs. George H. Pendleton (the first a resident of the city, the last-named residents of Clifton, a suburb), telling them of my unexpected presence in the city, and hoping to see them during the day. On my way to the hotel, I had looked about the city with increasing interest and pleasure. How different it was from our devastated country!

“You never saw the like of the fruit!” I wrote enthusiastically to mother. “Grapes, oranges, apples; such varieties of nuts—cream, hazel, hickory, and English walnuts—as are on the beautiful stall just at the entrance of the hotel! The Major has just entered, laughing heartily at Yankee tricks and Yankee notions! He says a man said to him, ‘Insure your life, sir?’

“‘For what?’ says the Major.

“‘For ten cents!’ replies the man. ‘And if you are killed on the cars, your family gets $3,000 cash!’

“‘Three thousand?’ rejoins Major Echols, contemptuously. ‘What’s that to a man worth a million!’ at which all stare as if shot. I laugh, too, but tell him I fear we will be made to pay for his fun, if they think us millionaires!”

The day was half gone when dear Mrs. Pugh, only a few years ago the triumphant beauty of the Pierce and Buchanan administrations, but now a pale, saddened woman, clad in deep mourning, appeared. God! what private sorrows as well as national calamities had filled in the years since we had separated in Washington! The pathos of her appearance opened a very flood-gate of tears, which I could not check. But Mrs. Pugh shed none. She only put out a restraining hand to me.

“No tears now, I beg of you. I can’t endure it. Tell me of yourself, of your plans. Where are you going? What of Mr. Clay? How can I aid you?” she asked, turning away all discussion save as to the object of my journey.

The afternoon was already nearly spent when Senator and Mrs. Pendleton arrived, having driven in from their suburban home upon the receipt of my note, sent at mid-day. Their welcome was cordial and frank as in the old days. They had come to take me home to dinner, where, they assured me, we might talk more freely than at the hotel. They would take no refusal, but agreed with Major Echols, who was unable to accompany us, to see me safely to the station in ample time to take the midnight train for Washington. In the hours that followed, I learned somewhat of the experiences in the North, during the bloody strife of the four years just closed, of Southern sympathisers, even where their sympathy was restrained from announcing itself by an open espousal. Senator Pendleton’s known friendliness for Clement L. Vallandigham, whose fearlessness and outspoken zeal in our behalf had cost him so dearly, had brought its own penalties. At times, he told me, when feeling ran highest, neither his home nor that of Senator Pugh had escaped certain malodorous missiles of the lawless!

We spent much of the evening in scanning the problems that lay before me. I told my host of the numbers of brilliant men who had volunteered their aid to Mr. Clay, mentioning among others the name of Judge Hughes, of Washington, whose friendly proffer of counsel had reached me just previous to my departure from Huntsville.

“By all means,” said Senator Pendleton, as we drove at last to the station, “see Judge Hughes first! He is strictly non-partisan, is a friend of the President’s, and, moreover, is under obligations to Mr. Clay, which I know he would gladly repay!”

It was already a late hour when we rejoined the waiting Major Echols. With a warm “God bless you, dear friend!” Senator and Mrs. Pendleton bade me “good-bye,” and I stepped aboard the train for Washington. What that name called up, what my thoughts were, or what my sensations, as I realised our approach to the city once so attractive, but now seeming to represent to me a place of oppression and the prison in which for six months Mr. Clay had been incarcerated, may better be imagined than described. Early the following morning our train began to thread its way through familiar country. By mid-day we had reached war-scarred Harper’s Ferry, and passed over into old Virginia! A short journey now, and I found myself once more driving up Pennsylvania Avenue in the company of tried friends, en route to Willard’s.