From the hour of my arrival in the capital, Friday, November 17th, my misgivings gave place to courage. I went directly to Willard’s, which, being near the Executive Mansion and the War Department, and my purse very slender, I believed would save me hack hire. I had scarcely registered when General Clingman called. He was followed shortly by Senators Garland and Johnson, of Arkansas, the vanguard of numerous friends, who within a few hours came to extend their sympathies and wishes for the success of my mission. During that first day I sent a note to Colonel Johnson, Mr. Johnson’s Secretary, asking for an interview with the President at the earliest possible date. To my great relief of mind, within a few hours there came an answer, telling me the President would see me the following Wednesday!

For the next few days I knew no moment alone. The list of callers noted in my small diary necessarily was but partial, yet even that is wonderfully long. Among them, to my surprise and somewhat to my mystification, were General Ihrie, Major Miller and Colonel Ayr of Grant’s staff. Their friendliness amazed me. I could imagine no reason why they should call. General Ihrie, moreover, assured me of his chief’s kind feeling toward my husband, and advised me to see the Lieutenant-General at an early date.

The Sunday after my arrival, callers began to arrive before breakfast, the first being Colonel Ogle Tayloe, bearing an invitation from Mrs. Tayloe to dinner the following evening. Before church hour had arrived, dear old Mr. Corcoran came, intending to give me welcome on his way to St. John’s. He forgot to leave again until services were over, and others returning from church crowded in. Mr. Corcoran’s manner was full of the old-time charm, as he bade me good-bye at last; and, as he took my hand in parting, he said, “You’ve not forgotten the little white house round the corner?” (referring to the banking-house of Riggs & Corcoran).

“No,” I answered, smiling sadly, “You are my bankers still, but, alas! where are my deposits?”

Mr. Corcoran’s glance was full of kindness. Laying his hand upon his heart, he replied, “They are here, my friend!” and he pressed my hand reassuringly.

I remember that Sunday as one in which tears of gratitude rose to my eyes again and again, until at last I exclaimed, “It is all very strange to me! There appears to be none of my husband’s enemies here! It seems to me as if everyone is his friend!”

The following morning, however, I had an experience calculated to arouse in me a feeling somewhat less secure. I was still in the bath when a tap came at my door.

“A lady wishes to see you,” was the reply to my question.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Don’t know, ma’am. She wouldn’t give her name!”

“Very well,” I answered. “Explain to her that I am dressing; that unless her business is imperative, I would prefer to have her call later.”

In a few moments I heard light tapping again. Upon my inquiry, a name was whispered through the keyhole, which I recognised as that of the wife of a well-known public official. I at once admitted her. The purpose of her visit was a peculiar one. She had come to warn me of the presence in the city of James Montgomery, alias Thompson, one of the hireling witnesses whose “testimony” against Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay had been registered with the Bureau of Military Justice. By some unfortunate connection of her own family with this miscreant, my visitor had learned that Montgomery, upon hearing of my object in visiting Washington, had been heard to make a threat of violence against me. The lady, who shall continue to be nameless, was so convinced some harm threatened me that she begged me to promise that while in the capital I would go armed, and especially be cautious with unknown callers. Montgomery, she added, was likely to disguise himself; but, further to aid me in guarding against some injury at his hands, she had brought with her a photograph of the wretched man. Whether or not some crime was projected against me by this man I never knew, but the wild nature of the times warranted me in exercising, thereafter, a prudence which otherwise would not have occurred to me. I took counsel with friends, and, with one exception, later to be mentioned, no occurrence during my stay in the capital served to arouse in me a further apprehension from that quarter.

In the days that intervened until my appointment with the President, my hours were spent in advantageous interviews with Judge Hughes, of Hughes & Denver, with Judge Black, Senator Garland, Frederick A. Aiken and others, during which I gleaned much knowledge of what had transpired since my husband’s incarceration, and of the public feeling concerning the distinguished prisoners at Fortress Monroe, whose trials had been so mysteriously postponed. It was now six months since the imprisonment of Messrs. Davis and Clay; but in so far as might be learned, definite charges against them had not yet been filed at the War Department. On every side I heard it declared that the situation was unprecedented in English or American jurisprudence. Leading lawyers of the country were ready and eager to appear in the prisoners’ behalf, but every effort made by friends to see them thus far had been futile. In those first weeks, reiterated proffers of legal aid continued to reach me daily from distinguished quarters.

Upon my arrival in the capital I had put myself at once into communication with Judge Hughes, as advised by Senator Pendleton. His kindness was unceasing, not only in the matter of legal advice to guide me through the intricacies of my undertaking, but in his generous placing at my disposal his horses and carriages, and the services of his coachman and footman. Mrs. Hughes was absent in the West, and the hospitality of their home, therefore, was barred; but all that a thoughtful nature could suggest was done by the Judge to facilitate success in my mission.

From the first, too, Judge Jeremiah S. Black, ex-Attorney-General, and Secretary of State under President Buchanan, with whom I now became, for the first time, personally acquainted, proved a bulwark of sympathy that thereafter never failed my husband and self. He was a peculiar man in appearance, with shaggy brows, deep-set eyes, and a cavernous mouth, out of which invincible arguments rolled that made men listen. This feature was large when he spoke, but when he laughed, the top of his head fell back like a box cover, and looked as if it must drop over the other way. Happily for the unfortunate, his heart was modelled on a scale as large, and for months he gave his time and advice unstintedly to me.

On the Wednesday appointed by the President, accompanied by Judge Hughes, I proceeded to keep my appointment at the White House. One of the first familiar faces I saw as I entered was that of Mrs. Stephen A. Douglas, now widowed. A wait of some moments being imminent, with the affectionate warmth so well-known to me in other and happier days, Mrs. Douglas at once volunteered to accompany me in my call upon “the good President,” and in a few moments we were shown into his presence. Mr. Johnson received us civilly, preserving, at first, what I learned afterward to know was an habitual composure, though he softened somewhat under the ardent appeal of Mrs. Douglas when she urged upon him the granting of my request.

My first impression of the President, who, while a Senator, in the fifties, had seldom been seen in social gatherings in the capital, was that of a man upon whom greatness, of a truth, had been thrust; a political accident, in fact. His hands were small and soft; his manner was self-contained, it is true, but his face, with “cheeks as red as June apples,” was not a forceful one.

From the beginning, as Judge Black had declared he would do, Mr. Johnson clearly wished to shirk the responsibility of my husband’s case, and to throw it upon the shoulders of his Secretary of War. His non-committal responses to my reasons why I should have access to my husband, why he should be tried or liberated, disheartened me greatly. When Mrs. Douglas perceived this, she added her pleadings to mine, and, as the President’s shiftiness became more and more apparent, she burst into tears, and, throwing herself down on her knees before him, called upon me to follow her example. This, however, I could not comply with. I had no reason to respect the Tennesseean before me. That he should have my husband’s life in his power was a monstrous wrong, and a thousand reasons why it was wrong flashed through my mind like lightning as I measured him, searing it as they passed. My heart was full of indignant protest that such an appeal as Mrs. Douglas’s should have been necessary; but that, having been made, Mr. Johnson could refuse it, angered me still more. I would not have knelt to him even to save a precious life. This first, memorable one of many, unhappy scenes at the White House, ended by the President inviting me to call again after he had consulted his Cabinet. At the same time he urged me to see Mr. Stanton.

“I think you had best go to him,” he said. “This case comes strictly within the jurisdiction of the Secretary of War, and I advise you to see him!”

Realising the futility of further argument with Mr. Johnson at the time, I followed his advice, going almost immediately, and alone, to the War Department. It was my first and last visit to Secretary Stanton, in that day of the Government’s chaos, autocrat of all the United States and their citizens. Varying accounts of that experience have appeared in the press during the last thirty-seven years. The majority of them have exaggerated the iron Secretary’s treatment of me. Many have accused him of a form of brusque brutality,^[54] which, while quite in keeping with his reputation, nevertheless was not exhibited toward me.

The Secretary of War was not guilty of “tearing up in my face and throwing in the waste-basket,” as one writer has averred, the President’s note of introduction, which I bore him, even though I was a declared “Rebel” and the wife of a so-called conspirator and assassin. He was simply inflexibly austere and pitiless.

Upon arriving at the War Department, I gave my card and the President’s note to the messenger in waiting, which, from across the room, I saw handed to the Secretary. He glanced at them, laid them on the desk at which he sat, and continued in conversation with a lady who stood beside him. In a second the messenger returned, and desired me to take a seat on a sofa, which, as it happened, was directly in line with Mr. Stanton’s desk. In a few moments the lady with whom he had been in conversation withdrew. As she passed me I recognised her. She was Mrs. Kennedy, daughter of ex-Secretary Mallory, then a prisoner in Fort Lafayette. Her face was flushed and very sad, which I interpreted (and rightly, as it proved) as meaning that her request had been denied. The sight filled me with indignation. I resolved at once to retain my seat and let the Secretary seek me, as a gentleman should do. I was strengthened in this determination by the conviction that he would ignore my plea also, and I was resolved to yield him no double victory.

After a delay of a few moments, in which the Secretary adjusted first his glasses and then his papers, he slowly approached me, saying, “This is Mrs. Clay, I presume?”

“And this Mr. Stanton?” I replied.

I at once briefly, but bravely, proceeded with my story. I told him that my object in visiting Washington was to obtain the speedy release of my husband, who was dying hourly under the deprivations and discipline of prison life; or, failing this, to obtain for him an early trial, which he desired not to shirk, but to hasten; of the result of which we had no fear, unless “he be given up to that triumvirate called the ‘Military Bureau of Justice,’ of which you are one, Mr. Stanton!” This I said with inward trembling and with eyes brimming, but looking him fully in the face. His own gaze fell.

“Madam,” he answered. “I am not your husband’s judge——”

“I know it!” I interrupted. “And I am thankful for it; and I would not have you for his accuser!”

“Neither am I his accuser!” he continued. I could scarcely believe I had heard him aright. His manner was gravely polite. I remember thinking at that moment, “Can this be the rude man of whom I have heard? Can I have been misinformed about him?”

“Thank you, Mr. Stanton, for those words,” I said. “I had not hoped to hear them from you. I thought you were the bitterest of my husband’s enemies! I assure you your words give me fresh hope! I will tell the President at once of this cheering interview!”

At these expressions Mr. Stanton seemed somewhat confused. I wondered whether he would modify or recall his words. He did not, however, and thanking him again for even that concession, I withdrew.

The legal friends to whom I gave an account of this conversation were less confident as to its significance. If Mr. Stanton was neither Mr. Clay’s judge nor accuser, who was? Some one was surely responsible for his detention; some one with the power to obstruct justice was delaying the trial, which the first legal minds in the country for months had sought to bring about. If not Mr. Stanton, could it be Mr. Holt, whose name was already become one of abhorrence among the majority of Southerners? Judge Black felt sure it was. But accusation against the Judge Advocate General without proof was impolitic, with my husband’s safety still in the balance. In a situation so serious as the present, I should, have preferred to conciliate him.

“Have you tried to interest Judge Holt in your husband’s behalf?” wrote our old friend ex-Speaker Orr. “Would not some little kind memory of the past steal over him when you revive the morning reminiscences of the Ebbitt House, when his much-adored wife was a shining luminary in that bright circle? He would be more or less than man if such a picture did not move him. Will you try it?”

Great, indeed, was Mr. Orr’s surprise when he learned that I had written to Mr. Holt three times, only to meet with complete silence at his hands!

Under such circumstances it was wiser to adhere to my first purpose; namely, to sue for the privilege of seeing Mr. Clay and for his release on parole, or for a speedy trial. I was urged by Judge Black not to cease in my appeals to the President; to tell the Executive of my interview with his Secretary of War, and in the meantime to secure from General Grant, if possible, a letter to the President, advocating my plea. I had already been assured by General Ihrie of his chief’s ability and willingness to serve me. On the evening of the second Sunday after my arrival in Washington, therefore, I drove from Willard’s at seven o’clock, accompanied by Major Echols, to Lieutenant-General Grant’s headquarters in Georgetown. I found these to be established in what was formerly the home of our friend Mr. Alfred Scott,^[55] of Alabama, now deceased. Soldiers guarded the entrance, as became a military headquarters, and one came forward to take my card as we drove up. Upon his return, Major Echols and I were shown at once to the General’s reception parlour. Dismissing the officers in uniform who stood about, General Grant received me courteously, tendering his hand frankly. I at once presented Major Echols, saying that “my friend, like yourself, is a graduate of West Point; but, feeling bound to offer his allegiance to his native South, he had served with distinction at Fort Sumter,” which introduction, I imagined, pleased the General, though it disconcerted my modest escort.

I now briefly, and in some trepidation at finding myself face to face with the “Hero of the Hour!” the “Coming Man,” “Our next President” (for by these and many other titles was the hero of Appomattox already crowned), explained as succinctly as I could my motive in calling upon him, closing my remarks with the assurance that the one circumstance prompting me to ask his aid was not his army victories, but his noble conduct to our beloved General Lee in his recent surrender. I was convinced, I added, that the man who had borne himself so magnanimously toward a brave soldier whom he had vanquished, possessed the soul to espouse and sustain a cause, if just, though all the world opposed. It was in this faith I had come to him.

The Federal General listened very gravely. When I had finished he responded in his characteristic, quiet way: “If it were in my power, Mrs. Clay, I would to-morrow open every prison in the length and breadth of the land. I would release every prisoner unless——” (after a pause) “unless Mr. Davis might be detained awhile to satisfy public clamour. Your husband’s manly surrender entitles him to all you ask. I admire and honour him for it, and anything I can say or do to assist you shall be done. I heartily wish you success.”

I asked him, in the course of our conversation, if he would go with me to the White House the next day, at any hour, day or evening.

“That is impossible,” he said. “I leave at midnight for Richmond.”

“Would you be willing to write what you have spoken?”

“With pleasure!” he replied. Going to the door he called, “Julia!”

In a moment Mrs. Grant entered the room. She shook my hand with the cordiality of a friend, saying, as she did so, “We have many mutual friends in St. Louis.” She then expressed her deep sympathy for me, and hoped her husband could serve me with the President.

In a few moments General Grant returned with the promised letter. I thanked him from a grateful heart. Upon rising to go, he accompanied me half down the steps, where, with a hearty shake of the hand, we parted.