CHAPTER XXIV. ARRIVAL AT WASHINGTON--MEETS HON. JOHN COVODE--J. W. FORNEY AND SENATORS--TESTIMONY BEFORE COMMITTEE ON THE CONDUCT OF THE WAR--REMARKABLE INTERVIEWS WITH SECRETARY STANTON--A VISIT TO MR. LINCOLN, AT WASHINGTON--THE TELEGRAPH CORPS--AGAIN ORDERED TO THE FRONT, AT FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA.

It was my good fortune at the time of my return home to meet with the Hon. A. A. Barker, of Ebensburg, Pennsylvania, who had been a friend of the family all my life, who subsequently represented that district of Pennsylvania in Congress. Mr. Barker may be described as being in every sense a large man. He was one of those great six-feet, bone-and-sinew fellows, who, as he used to say, "come from way down in Maine, where I was bred and born." He was not only large in stature, but broad and liberal otherwise, with a head and heart in correct proportion. He lives yet, an honored citizen and a veritable Daniel in the politics of his adopted State, and will, I have no doubt, be glad to read in print the history of his protege of the early days of the war.

Mr. Barker took me in charge for the time being, accompanying me to Washington at his own expense, where I was to meet with my former friend, the Hon. John Covode. We went by way of Philadelphia, in order to again meet Parson Brownlow, who was then a guest of Mr. George W. Childs.

The purpose of the visit was to obtain from Mr. Brownlow some additional endorsement from him, of my being in Knoxville, that my friends desired to use in Washington.

In those days I cared but little for such matters, as proofs or evidence of work I had endeavored to perform, which, as a rule, we left to others to look after in my interest. It would have been better for me in those days, perhaps, if I had been blessed with a little bit of ordinary business management, but I confess here that I had but a small allowance of "business sense," as that term is applied to selfish interests. I am thankful, however, for a good memory, and really believe that, after a little quiet reflection, I can bring to my mind nearly everything that happened to me during the war—that is worth remembering.

I was induced to say that I had but little common sense, by the reflection, after a lapse of twenty-five years, that I must have shown a lamentable lack of policy, by traveling about so defiantly at this time in Pennsylvania and Washington, clothed in a dirty Rebel uniform. This in itself was bad enough, but I was frequently so indiscreet as to show some boyish resentment toward every person whom I imagined was showing an idle curiosity as to my history.

I became contrary, or, if you please, cranky, and indignantly refused to act upon the suggestion of friends, that I should make a change in my dress, declaring stubbornly that I should face the President in that uniform—and I did—at the War Department office in Washington; but it was a foolish thing to do, and gave me a heap of trouble subsequently, as we shall see.

One of the most unlucky or unfortunate changes that had occurred during my long absence in Richmond was, that Simon Cameron had been relieved, as the Secretary of War, by the Hon. E. M. Stanton.

The kind and clever old Pennsylvania statesman, who had been induced to take such an interest in my work, and to whom I was directly responsible, was, at the time of my return, away off in St. Petersburg, Russia, as Minister for the United States.

Colonel Thomas A. Scott, who had been an Assistant Secretary of War to Mr. Cameron, and whose personal endorsement to Mr. Cameron had first set me going, had also been relieved by a Mr. P. H. Watson, who was at the time Acting Assistant Secretary to Mr. Stanton.

My brother, Spencer, who, for some months previously, had been in the employ of the War Department as a telegraph operator, and whose relations with the Government officials were necessarily somewhat of a confidential character, took me to his room in a boarding-house on F street, where were living a number of War Department clerks. Spencer thought the fact of my wearing the Rebel uniform one of the best kind of jokes, and he, consequently, took great delight in calling the attention of all his War Department associates to the fact.

My old and constant friend "Glory to God," as the Hon. John Covode was called, was the only man of prominence in Washington that I knew, or who had any knowledge of my previous undertakings. He was a Member of Congress from a Pennsylvania District adjoining my own home, near Pittsburgh. Congress was in session at this time, and it so happened that, for some months previously Mr. Covode had been stirring things up in the House at a lively rate, by his persistent investigation of our military men and movements in Virginia. There had been an investigation of Bull Run, of Ball's Bluff massacre, of old Patterson, in Pennsylvania, and, more recently, a great hubbub had been raised all over the country about General McClellan's failure, or slowness, in moving "on to Richmond" via Manassas.

There was, indeed, a great deal of this sort of thing going on, the details of which had been ground up and sifted through the one joint "Committee on the Conduct of the War," of which Mr. Covode was chairman. To make a long story short, all will see—to use a vulgar term—that my arrival was "just nuts to Old Glory," as some one told me. If an angel had dropped down from the sky to corroborate the honest old man's assertion, it would not have been more opportune.

I had been inside the Rebel lines for months. I had obtained the Rebel opinions, officially, of Manassas, after the battle, and knew the exact strength of the Rebel Army was not one-half as large as McClellan's scare had represented it to be. I had heard the comments of the Rebel Secretary of War on Ball's Bluff massacre. Mr. Covode could, and did, endorse me as a "reliable devil," as he put it, in the committee room, and, of course, I was willing enough to be of service to my old friend, and was glad that I was able to substantiate nearly all of his statements.

The morning of my arrival in Washington, I hunted up Mr. Covode, and found him in his rooms at the old Avenue Hotel, the large, plain, old affair, that once stood at the corner of Seventh and Market Space. I was an early caller, and, without a card, knocked at his door before he was out of bed. To his sleepy growl of "Who's there?" I simply gave my name. There was only one word of reply, "Helloa," in a loud emphatic tone; then in a more moderate voice, he continued, as if talking to himself: "Wait a minute. I got word you were coming, and have been expecting you every day."

The door opened, and the great Pennsylvania statesman stood before me—in his robe de nuit—grinning all over, with his hair all mussed up and his bare legs sticking out under his shirt.

He was about as funny a looking object as anything I had met with in my travels. He wasn't embarrassed, but, as he shook hands, I was drawn inside, and the door closed with a bang. All that was said that morning would make quite a chapter.

The circumstance which remains strongest in my mind to-day is, that he sat on the edge of the bed, and asked question after question in such an interested way that he seemed to me to have forgotten all about dressing himself. I was for the time being more interested in seeing him get some clothes on than in the fate of McClellan's army.

After breakfast, Mr. Covode took me to the Capitol, and the first person I met there was Colonel J. W. Forney, then editor of the Philadelphia Press, and also Secretary of the Senate. Mr. Forney impressed me most favorably; in truth, I felt more at home with him than with my old friend Covode—probably because Mr. Forney had the tact of drawing out his subjects and was more able to practice the suave gentleman than was the sturdy, honest old John. I was for a time taken in charge by Mr. Forney, who, in turn, introduced me to several Senators, among them the Hon. Edgar Cowan, of Pennsylvania. I remember Mr. Forney saying, in an aside to Senator Cowan, and the others to whom I was introduced, "He is a capital subject." Mr. Forney did me another valuable service at this time. Of course I had no money; I had been depending upon the generous pocketbook of my good friend Barker. I made Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode acquainted with my circumstances, by a request for some immediate and active employment to enable me to earn my expenses.

Mr. Forney had a clerk make out some sort of a "voucher," which I think must have been for mileage and witness fees all over the Rebel country that I had traversed, another clerk cashed the paper for me, and, in this way, I was furnished at once with quite a nice little pile of crisp, new greenbacks from the Secretary of the Senate.

This was the first and only cash that I have ever received for all those months of service—of trial, distress and danger—excepting that which the good comrades who will contribute by subscribing for these "recollections of the unforgotten days to all of us."

Amongst the other members of the Pennsylvania delegation, to whom I was introduced that morning, was the Hon. S. S. Blair, then and now a resident of Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. As Mr. Blair is the sole survivor of those who were with me at that time, I desire particularly that his testimony should be added to establish the correctness of my narrative, or to serve as a review notice, if it ever attains to the distinction of a criticism or becomes the subject of a controversy.

The Hon. J. K. Moorehead, who represented Pittsburgh, was another of the delegation in my interest. Thus it will be seen that, through the management of Mr. Forney, the entire Western Pennsylvania delegation, including Senator Cowan, of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, had been interested in my "report."

As I have before stated, I paid but little attention to these details at the time. I had but the one request, and, as before, which was, that I should be commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the Regular Cavalry Service and detailed on the General Staff, in active field service. I wanted to go at once to the field, and cared but little for the "effect of my testimony" before the committee, or the pecuniary reward for the service.

Mr. Forney said, in his pleasant way, that was so grateful to me that I have not forgotten a word of it: "Why, certainly, you must have that at least, if not more;" but, turning to Covode, he continued: "Curtin can do better than that for us."

Covode thought anything whatever that I wanted could be done, but suggested, kindly, that it would be better for me not to take a commission in the Volunteers of Pennsylvania, because I should have to be put in over the heads of some others, and that would make it ugly for me personally.

I agreed with Mr. Covode heartily in that. I had been in the Rebel service long enough to see that this sort of thing didn't work there, because Claiborne, the Mississippi Lieutenant, was really treated as a foreigner, or outsider, by the rest of us "refugees from Maryland." So it was arranged between them that I should have a commission in the Regular Army. In support of this, Mr. Forney kindly talked to Senator Cowan in my behalf, who expressed some doubts about getting a Lieutenancy, saying in his plain way:

"Why, we may just as well ask the Secretary to make him a Brigadier-General; he can do that, because they are making Generals every day, but they are not making any Lieutenants in the Regular Army."

But Mr. Forney insisted in his agreeable way: "But, my dear sir, here is a young man who has done our State—who has done the Government more service than some of our Generals; he has been all over Virginia, and knows all about the Rebel Army, and all about Richmond—from personal visits; why," with an expression of disgust, "his services are simply indispensable at this time; he should be sent down to the army, where the information he has gained will be of immediate use to us."

The only answer that Senator Cowan made to this appeal, as he looked me all over critically, as he would if buying a horse: "You have the right sort of grit in you, but I don't believe we can get it."

It was arranged between them all that I should first give my testimony before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. Mr. Covode and Mr. Forney quietly conferred among themselves (they were Republicans and Senator Cowan a Democrat), and concluded that only a small part of my history should be made public at present.

I don't know why this was thought necessary, but while Mr. Covode and I walked together over to the committee room on the House side of the Capitol, he cautioned me, in his fatherly way, not to talk too much, and to answer only such questions as he would suggest.

On page 480, volume 3, of the printed document containing the report of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, will be found only that portion of my testimony that Mr. Covode and Mr. Forney, as my political managers, thought advisable to put on record at the time. The full story was detailed at different times to Mr. Forney and Mr. Covode, and others, but has never been made fully public until the present time.

After I had finished my testimony to suit Mr. Covode, and had been severely cross-examined by some of the opposition members of the committee, I was told through my friend Covode, that I should make myself perfectly comfortable; that he and the rest of the delegation would see that I was properly cared for.

I felt that a great load had been taken off my shoulders in this one day—that the secrets of my trip, which I had been carrying around with me, among Rebels and friends for months, had been safely deposited with the Government, and that I was at last free, and could do as I pleased once more.

I had worn the Rebel uniform to the Capitol and into the committee room, and gave my testimony standing at "attention" in it.

In giving my full testimony to the Committee on the Conduct of the War, I had no thought of antagonizing the War Department. My secret service was, in a manner, "irregular," and, instead of reporting direct to the War Office or to a General in the field, I was induced to give the story to a committee that was investigating both. In this way it was not "suppressed" in anybody's interest, but afterward had the effect of antagonizing certain War Department detectives against my subsequent services, as will be shown further on.

The first thing that I did with some of the money which had been given me was to trim myself out from head to foot in the best suit of clothes that I could find in Washington, but I preserved the uniform for future use. The next number on the programme was to take my brother and some of his friends to "Gautier's"—which was then the celebrated French restaurant—or, Chamberlains, of to-day, in Washington, where we indulged in a generous lay-out. The third number on the programme, I will simply describe as "making a night of it." We all went to the Canterbury and had a pleasant evening together, while I told the party of similar experiences at night in the Rebel Capitol at Richmond.

While I remained in Washington waiting for an office, like the office-seekers that now hang about the Departments, I remember that I was continually worried with the dreadful thought that McClellan's great army of good-looking officers would get there while I was being tethered, like a young steer, in the Capitol.

My case was "left entirely in the hands of my friends"—that is, I had nothing whatever to do with it but to wait, which was about the most difficult part of the job. As I recollect it, Mr. Covode was not on such particularly good terms with Mr. Stanton as he had been with the Pennsylvania Secretary, General Simon Cameron.

It is likely, too, that Mr. Covode's disposition to be continually "investigating things," caused the new administration of the War Department some annoyance. Covode was naturally Cameron's champion, because they were both Pennsylvania politicians—if for no other reason. On account of some such feeling as this, perhaps, it was thought advisable among my "managers" that Mr. Covode should not personally bother Mr. Stanton—in my interest; that part of the contract was to be left to Senator Cowan and John W. Forney, while Covode was to see Mr. Lincoln.

I loafed about the Capitol a great deal during the session each day, and I reckon, in my persistence and restlessness, that I bothered these statesmen a good bit. I had assurances from Mr. Covode every day that "it was all right," but I remembered that this was the exact way in which he talked to me on the former visit, and I was blunt enough to remind him of this truth, when he promptly got it back on me by saying:

"It would have been all right, too, if you had come back here, but we all thought you were dead for so long."

He explained over and over again that the War Office was so crowded, on account of the spring campaign, that it was impossible to do anything there in a rush.

One day Senator Cowan, of Pennsylvania, handed me a very brief note, which read as follows, bluntly directing me to go to the War Department and watch my chance to present it personally to Mr. Stanton.

"Hon. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War.

"Dear Sir: The bearer is the young man who has given important testimony to the committee, about whom papers have been filed for an appointment where he can do the most good. It is suggested that you may be able to learn something additional of value from him.

Yours truly,

Edgar Cowan."

The Senator didn't give me a chance to ask him any questions, but left me abruptly to talk to a group of persons who were waiting for him. I saw Mr. Forney and showed him the letter, which somehow or other was not satisfactory to me.

Mr. Forney folded it up and handed it back to me, saying, in his elegant way: "You just take that paper up to Stanton, and hang to him till he sees you. That's all he wants." Then, in a fatherly way, he gave me the advice to "let him do all the talking; you just answer his questions."

In an hour I was at the old War Department again. I first put on my gray jacket, but had covered it with a light spring duster or overcoat, at Mr. Forney's suggestion.

The War Department of 1862 was a desolate looking old affair, something after the architectural style of the "four story barracks," in a well-kept arsenal reservation. On the second floor a long corridor extended from one end of the building to the other, running east and west, on each side of which were the rooms of the principal chiefs. In the southeast corner, nearest to the White House, was the Secretary's apartments, with whose location I was somewhat familiar, because of some previous long "waits" and mighty short interviews with Mr. Cameron when he was Secretary.

On this visit, as before, I found in this corridor rows of people seated along the wall—ladies and gentlemen, officers, and a few sick-looking soldiers; big fat contractors elbowed the thin-faced, big-nosed, Jewish sutler, Congressmen, and, in fact, all sorts of people; and it is safe to say that every one of them had been there for hours, perhaps days and weeks previously, waiting their turn, or an opportunity to get to talk to the Secretary on their own business, which, of course, was more important to them than anybody else's.

There was a handsome soldier of the Regular Army in citizen's dress on duty at the outside door, as an orderly or messenger. When I saw all that were ahead of me, I was discouraged, but, profiting by past experience, I made a break for the Secretary's office, when I was stopped by the orderly, who demanded my business. I was in a Rebel uniform, but the soldier orderly didn't notice that; he said his orders were not to admit anybody at that time. I showed him my letter, saying, with an assumption of importance, that I was sent to the Secretary by Senator Cowan to present it personally. A Senator, especially a Democratic Senator's request, was really of greater weight than half a dozen common Congressmen, because it was important just then that the Government should conciliate the loyal Democrats in Congress.

The soldier took a card, wrote the Senator's name and my own on it, and invited me to a vacant chair in the Secretary's office. There were rows of people sitting alongside the wall, inside the room, just as there was out in the corridor; but I had gained one point; I was on the inner circle.

I had never seen Mr. Stanton before, and was not nearly so anxious to see him again, after the first time. I need not describe the great War Secretary's personal appearance. His face resembles the photographs, and has always struck me as being the best likeness extant of all those great men. He was not so tall as one would think from looking at a picture of his face; and when I saw him, he stood at a small, high desk, a little to one side of the room, very much to my mind in the position of a school-teacher before an old-fashioned desk. The desk itself was a plain, square, long-legged affair, precisely such as we used to see our teachers stand behind, or that are used more recently by auctioneers on street sales. The sitters on the anxious benches all around the front portion of his room, with their serious watchful faces, helped the illusion, that I was in the presence of a lecturer or judge, awaiting my turn for sentence, like the rest of the culprits.

The attendant found me a chair alongside of a natty-looking young officer in uniform on one side, and a big, fat Congressman on the other; he laid my card, with the Senator's name, on Mr. Stanton's desk.

The Secretary was then standing beside his pulpit, talking in his positive way to some old gentleman; he was so intent on this business that he never deigned to look at my card when it was left on his table. We did not overhear the conversation between the Secretary and his visitor, and being at a loss for something to do, I turned to the young officer beside me and said something as to the prospect for a talk with the Secretary. He replied in a very polite way, that he had been waiting for hours, for a single word; that, with him, it was a question of life and death; but he couldn't get any audience until the Secretary "called his name" from the cards on his desk.

The young man had so impressed me by his courteous manner that I became curious to know his errand, which he explained in a whispered conversation. He was just from the bedside of a dying father, on his way to rejoin his command, his leave having expired; he had stopped at Washington, and, upon the endorsement of influential Congressmen, he had called to ask the Secretary to extend his leave so that he might be at his father's bedside and bury him before leaving for the army. The officer told me all of this in a trembling voice, while his eyes were filled with tears. I felt so much sympathy for him that I offered to give him my time if my name should be called before his. At my urgent suggestion, when the old gentleman was about to leave the Secretary, the young officer approached Mr. Stanton, who bluntly demanded his name. Then looking over his file of papers to what his business was, while the young fellow in the most genteel and effective way stated his wishes to the Secretary. I shall never, never forget the words that Mr. Stanton spoke on that occasion; they "sank deeply into my heart," perhaps, as also into that of the young officer.

"I cannot extend your leave, but I will accept your resignation!" As he said this, he handed to the officer the papers he had filed. Looking him over in a contemptuous way, the Secretary turned to look after the next victim on his list. The officer mildly protested, saying: "Why, Mr. Secretary I do not want to leave the service; I merely want to spend the last days—"

Here he was roughly interrupted by Mr. Stanton who repeated in an angry tone, so that all could hear: "I'll accept your resignation, sir."

The poor fellow would not consent to be driven from the service in this way, even to attend his father's last wishes. When he returned to pick up his hat, which had been left on the chair beside me, his face was white, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely take hold of his hat. I assisted him, and together we left the Secretary's office in deep disgust. I had enough for one day. After reporting the incident to Mr. Covode and others, they mildly laughed at my indignation, while they expressed the cold-blooded opinion that it was only one of Stanton's ordinary jokes.

After this, I was more than ever anxious to get out of Washington, and began to feel that I should be willing to take anything at all, that savored of active service in the field, being perfectly content to leave my personal business with Mr. Stanton in the hands of my friends. It was decided among them all that I should be taken to the White House to see Mr. Lincoln, personally. All the arrangements for this visit were made, as nearly as I can recollect, without consulting me about it in any way at all. It was generally understood, I reckon, that I needed somebody to properly present my business affairs, and that it was hardly worth while to bother with me about such things. I only know that I was told by Mr. Covode to get ready to accompany him to the White House.

"We are all going up in General Moorehead's carriage and want you to be on hand sure, as it's hard to get them all together." I didn't know who "they" were, until I came down to his room rigged out in a grey jacket. While we were waiting for the carriage to come around for us, Mr. Covode explained further: "We're going to make a demand on the President for your pay out of the secret-service fund."

I had only heard in a general way that anything of this sort was contemplated. I can say here again, sincerely, that my only desire and aim was for a commission in the Regular Army, and a detail on the Staff, where I should have a chance for active service in the field. While we waited Mr. Covode explained more fully:

"You are entitled to this; the fund is being squandered shamefully by certain influences, who are making the President believe that they are giving him valuable information. We all know your service and experience has been of some practical use, and you are going to be paid for it, too, in cash as well as in promotion."

He had a way of saying things in a very emphatic style when he became interested, when I expressed my thanks for his interest and proffered a remuneration, he began to talk bad grammar at me in such a way that I had to beg off.

The carriage called; in it were Senator Cowan, General J. K. Moorehead, M. C., from Pittsburgh; Hon. S. S. Blair, of Hollidaysburg, and Hon. John Covode. I jumped up with the coachman, and we made a charge on the White House. Before we started off there was a short but pointed business consultation among them. Senator Cowan had suggested: "Now we had better have an understanding before we go up there."

General Moorehead agreed that this was necessary; and when I undertook to make a suggestion about getting Mr. Lincoln to give me a commission, Covode told me in polite terms but decided language, but in a fatherly way: "Now you've got to keep quiet."

The rest all thought this quite a funny remark. When Covode crawled into the carriage, Mr. Moorehead said, "Well, what's the programme?" Covode explained that it was to be a demand for pay from the President's secret-service fund. No one had even suggested the amount, and I reckon Mr. Covode's idea was to leave this discretionary with the President, but Mr. Blair and Moorehead, who were business men as well as statesmen, insisted that it would be better to settle a sum in advance.

"Make it enough," said Mr. Blair.

"Yes, we may just as well make it $10,000," observed the Senator.

Mr. Moorehead shrewdly suggested: "We have to appropriate this secret-service money anyhow, and our votes will go for this amount."

Covode admitted that, "We have given him hundreds of thousands of dollars for this use already."

This, in a general way was the plan and purpose of the visit to Mr. Lincoln on that date.

It failed—not that the claim was rejected by the President—it was never presented to him or anybody else. When we reached the White House we were informed on the threshold that "the President had that day gone to Fortress Monroe." That ended it for that day, and for all time. Soon after, I left Washington for another trip. The same crowd were never again brought together in this interest. As I have said, I was not a good manager, and perhaps neglected my own interests in this respect.

I have to show my children, however, that which is dearer to me than gold—a commission as a Second Lieutenant signed by Abraham Lincoln and E. M. Stanton. That will remain for all time on the war records of my country. If I had secured this money, I might have failed in obtaining this commission, and no doubt the $10,000 would have soon disappeared from sight forever and no record of it left.

A few days after this visit—the date of which may be fixed by a reference to the books, which will indicate the time of Mr. Lincoln's visit to Fortress Monroe—I saw Mr. Stanton personally, but only for a moment; he was not such a dreadful person after all, as I expected to find him.

Since I had been a disgusted witness to the abrupt interview between Mr. Secretary Stanton and the young officer who desired his leave extended that he might visit his dying father, I was not particularly anxious to encounter the Secretary at close range. I had said as much so emphatically to Mr. Covode and the other friends, all of whom laughed at my earnestness, and consoled me with the remark that they had all suffered in the same way at the War Office, and that I must not expect to be welcomed with open arms by Mr. Stanton. It was no good to explain to them that I didn't want to be welcomed, or kicked out either. I was told that I must see Mr. Stanton; that they could do nothing for me without first securing his approval. I recall in this connection an old chestnut, which explains in reality pretty nearly the true status of affairs between the President and his Secretary of War. In conversation with a group of friends about my "case," Mr. Covode had expressed the conviction that for him to interfere with Stanton would only operate against my chances, as he was thought to be a meddlesome investigator; and another Congressman related the story about Mr. Lincoln telling an importunate office-seeker that he, the President, "didn't have very much influence with this administration."

I called at the War Office several times, and always found the same old crowd in the corridors, and, though I was somewhat "fresh" and impulsive, I could not raise the courage to face the grim old Secretary, because he was always engaged with somebody, and I feared to intrude or interrupt him with my personal affairs.

As I have said previously, I had a brother, who was employed in the War Department Telegraph Office, but as his hours for duty were at night, I could not avail myself of this opportunity to loaf with him. One day, however, after so much annoying delay, I put on my Rebel jacket, screwed up my courage, and determined to settle the matter by a bold dash on the War Office. My brother accompanied me, and, while waiting in the ante-room of the telegraph office, I had a long and quite an agreeable chat with General Anson Stager, who had charge of all the military telegraph. The General, in those days, was quite a jolly, good-natured gentleman; and, in this respect, almost the opposite to his subordinate, Major Eckert, who was very dignified in his bearing toward his subordinates. I was young and not unobserving, and I noticed that Major Eckert always lost his dignity and high-and-mighty bearing, when he had any dealings with his superiors. General Stager was alike to all.

General Stager became much interested in my secret service more especially in that part wherein I had attached myself to the Rebel telegraph office at General Beauregard's headquarters, from whence I could overhear all the messages between headquarters and Richmond. General Stager laughed heartily at my recital of these events. He looked at my rebel jacket with interest, took hold of my arm to critically examine the texture of the cloth, and wound up by saying:

"Well, you certainly are an acquisition to us, and I want you in our service."

When I explained my desire to obtain a commission, that I might get into active service, the General endeavored in a kindly way to persuade me saying:

"It wasn't worth while to do that; they could pay me more salary than a commission as Second Lieutenant would bring beside I should be allowed all the liberty I chose at the front, being at headquarters as a civilian, furnished with a horse or ambulance, and all the rations I could consume, and independent of the military."

He made it very attractive indeed; but I resisted the temptation, determined to stick to my plans. I had expressed a willingness to do or undertake any special service, but I wanted to be an officer. After consultation with some one in another room, who was either the Secretary himself or some of the high officials in the Adjutant-General's Department, General Stager came back to me and clinched that which came very near being a nail in my coffin. He proposed something like this:

"The army is on the peninsula, and Washington is cut off in a manner from telegraph communication with them, except by means of a dispatch boat to the nearest point on the Maryland side of the Chesapeake, from which the telegraph is open to Washington. If you could open communication for us, overland—say from Fredericksburg, or the outposts of our forces there, to connect with McClellan on the Peninsula by courier service—it would be a good thing for us, as we could hear from our army so much quicker."

Everybody will appreciate the anxiety of the officials to hear from the Army promptly and frequently. In other words, I was to operate secretly between our lines below Fredericksburg and McClellan's advance, only a gap of a few miles, but not occupied by either army but infested with "guerrillas."

I accepted the proposition without a moment's thought about the probable difficulties that were to be met with in carrying out the undertaking, and I had been over that country in Virginia and was familiar with it. I was anxious to do anything that would give me an opportunity for active service.

My brother interposed some objections, which General Stager thoughtfully considered, and, after admonishing me of the danger in my case, he again proffered service in the telegraph department. It was arranged between us that I should call again on the following day; meantime he would consult with some of the officers and ascertain their wishes in regard to the matter.

General Eckert, who was in the room, had overheard part of my story—he had not been consulted at all by General Stager—to my mind, showed in his manner some little resentment toward me, probably because of the interest that General Stager had seemingly taken in my affairs.

He felt impelled to make some remark, intended to be jocular, about a Rebel uniform being in the War Department. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time, and probably would not have observed the circumstance had not several others, who were present, made it a subject of conversation among themselves at our dinner-table that day.

In leaving the War Department Building that day, I walked out by the basement or east door, nearest the White House, intending to take the short cut, through the White House grounds, to our boarding-house on F street.

Just as I passed out of the door my quick eye detected President Lincoln coming up the few stone steps into the doorway; as he slowly walked or shuffled along, he was apparently reading the contents of a paper, which he held before his eyes with both hands. I had seen Mr. Lincoln inaugurated, and frequently since. I recognized him at a glance, and to get a closer look, I respectfully stood to one side of the steps to let him pass. A gentleman was walking alongside of the President, and as the two passed the President became crowded quite close to me, and actually touched or rubbed against my Rebel uniform. Mr. Lincoln apparently did not see me; he was too deeply immersed in reading, or trying to read, the letter he held in his hand as he walked, while the gentlemen with him was gabbling in his ear in a very earnest manner.

So it happened, as I had predicted, when my home friends had shown their opposition to my wearing the gray, that I saw Mr. Lincoln while dressed in my Rebel uniform. I had shaken hands with "the other President"—Jeff Davis—in Richmond, only a short time previously, while attired in the same court dress.

This "interview" wasn't exactly as satisfactory to me as it might have been, if I had been presented by the delegation that had called with me a few days sooner. But I had "seen the President," and, as there had been such a great opportunity presented for some further secret service in my line, I didn't care very much just then whether I should again get the crowd together for another call or not.

That evening I saw Mr. Covode, to whom I related my interview with General Stager, telling him of the plan upon which I had agreed to make the trip to Richmond again. The old man put on his specks, looked over the top of them at me in a curious sort of way, and said, rather savagely: "You beat hell, you do." Then in a more moderate tone he protested earnestly against it, saying: "You mustn't let everybody make use of you that way."

When I explained that I was only desirous of getting out of Washington, and anxious to be on hand in the field when Richmond was taken, and intimated further that Mr. Stanton and the President would give me the commission on sight if I should come in first with some good news, he remonstrated earnestly: "Oh, yes; you go down there again in that shape, and you wont need any commission; they will hang you, sure, to the first tree."

I had to leave the old man without getting any encouragement from him, but had given him a promise, before saying "Good-night," that I would not do anything further in the matter until I saw him again; in the meantime he urged me to see Mr. Stanton.

I went to bed that night very much disturbed in mind. While I was not so very anxious to continue the secret-service work, I felt so worn-out and disappointed at the dilatoriness in getting anything settled in Washington toward a commission, that I was about ready to both give it up and to try again. We were continually hearing so much that was exciting from the front, that I was really half wild and in a fever of impatience to be on hand among the boys.

The next day I called at the War Office early, determined to see Mr. Stanton, or at least make a sure thing of his seeing me before I should again leave.

I had preserved Senator Cowan's letter and with it in my hand I made an onslaught on the regular orderly at the door. He had gotten to know me, and pleasantly suggested:

"If you hang to it with your teeth, you will get all you want."

With his assistance I got my card in to the Secretary, and was again shown a seat inside the Secretary's room, to wait until my name was called.

In addition to the regular crowd, there seemed to be a delegation of some kind in an adjoining room, as I judged from the loud talking. The Secretary came out of the room, but, before he could reach his pulpit, he was called back; then, in a few minutes, he again made his appearance in the doorway, talking back to those inside in his usual vigorous style. Feeling desperate, and always impulsive, I made a bold break and handed the Secretary my letter before he reached his desk, being careful to prelude my intrusion by saying: "Senator Cowan directed me to hand you this personally."

With a sharp glance of impatience at me, he took the letter, walked to his desk, and, without opening it, began to deliberately look over his pile of cards. I stood my ground, right in front of him, feeling very much like a guilty school-boy who had been called up by his teacher for punishment.

When Mr. Stanton raised his eyes from the cards and spied me, still standing in front of him, he looked towards me then as if remembering the letter, and said to me: "Where is the note from Senator Cowan?"

"I gave it to you, Mr. Secretary," said I tremblingly.

He looked around, found the envelope, and, while he read it, I felt in my soul that I would rather face Jeff Davis and the whole Rebel Army again than the Secretary of War. I resolved, if I ever got out of that alive, I'd risk anything in the front rather than go back into that room and face the Secretary of War.

When he finished reading the letter, he looked me over earnestly as he folded it up slowly. It will be remembered that this paper referred to me as having been every place in the South; that I had a most valuable experience, etc.

The Secretary astonished me by saying, in the most agreeable and gentle tones, as he looked benevolently through his glasses: "I would like to talk with you, but I'm engaged, and I will have to refer you to the Assistant-Secretary to-day."

I was too scared to make an immediate reply. The Secretary, calling the orderly to him, said to him, as he endorsed something on the bottom of my letter: "Take this gentleman to the Assistant-Secretary."

That was all, but that was enough for me for one day. If there was any one person in all Washington City for whom, or against whom, I entertained an unjust prejudice—I might say, a deep-seated hatred—it was Mr. P. H. Watson, the Assistant-Secretary of War.

I had never met him; in fact, I had never seen him; but the simple fact that he had taken the place of my old friend Colonel Thomas A. Scott in the War Office, since Cameron's removal, was of itself sufficient to turn me against him; but, in addition to this fact, I had gathered from Mr. Covode and the rest of the Pennsylvania delegation, as well as the telegraph boys in the War Department, that Mr. Watson, and his clique of friends, had scandalously maligned Mr. Scott personally and abused Mr. Cameron politically.

I was ushered into the presence of a large, red-headed, sandy-complexioned man, to whom I was introduced, as the young man Mr. Secretary had "directed to present to you."

Mr. Watson, at the moment we entered, was busy with some papers. He was surrounded by clerks, occupying other desks in his room, but at once dropped everything to receive us. Upon reading the Senator's letter and the Secretary's endorsement, he at once became very gracious toward me. And, as he shook hands and drew me to a chair near him, and began some complimentary remarks about my "valuable services," I was not only disappointed at the Secretary in having said not a word about the matter which was uppermost in my mind, but I was also really angry at being handed over to Mr. Watson in a second-handed manner to be pumped by him. Therefore, I didn't pump worth a cent. I was dry. Mr. Watson made it worse for me by the first question he put. "I presume you are in Mr. Pinkerton's service." That was adding insult. I resented this insinuation by asserting emphatically: "I am not a detective at all."

The interview did not last long, so there is not much to say about it here; in fact, it ended rather abruptly, when Mr. Watson further suggested that I should put myself in communication with Mr. Pinkerton, who had charge of all these things. I want to make it as plain right here to all who may read this story as I did to Mr. Watson twenty-five years ago, that I reject with scorn and contempt the intimation that I was a detective, working for money. I declined positively to have any communication with the Chief of the Secret Service, and told Mr. Watson, as my friends had all frequently suggested, that I had done important secret-service work for the Secretary of the War Department, direct, and I wanted something now wherein I could make available my past experiences.

As I had promised Mr. Covode not to make any engagements with any one, and had fulfilled my agreement to see the Secretary, I retired from the War Office in disappointment and disgust.

I saw Mr. Covode and the other friends, to whom I related my experience with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Watson, and, at the same time, declared my intention to leave the city for the front, and enter the army as a private soldier, and work my way up to position by meritorious service in front of the enemy, instead of in the rear.

The day following, before I could get an opportunity to again see General Stager in regard to his proposal, or take any action myself, Mr. Covode sent for me. When I reached his room he said, in his blunt way:

"If you are bound to be in the field, I'll give you a letter to General Haupt, who has charge of the railroad between Fredericksburg and Aquia Creek, and he will give you something to do to keep you busy down there till we can get something fixed up here."

I eagerly accepted this proposal; it was not what I wanted exactly, but it admitted of my going to the front, and that, too, in an official position, wherein I could be on hand and, unmolested, see everything that was being done. I had known General Haupt well, as the accomplished Chief Engineer of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Mr. Covode had been assured by him, it seems, that he would be delighted to have me in his Military Railroad Service, as I had experience in that direction in Mr. Scott's service.

We were going to rebuild that road right into Richmond the next week, and I consoled myself with the thought that, if I did not reËnter Richmond on a horse as an officer, that I might get there all the same on a locomotive.

I was to be paid a good salary and expenses. All my friends thought it just splendid, and I imagine now, though I didn't think so at the time, that the position was created for me just to prevent my getting into trouble again. In a few days I took a morning steamer, armed with an official pass and a bundle of good clothing, and sailed with the greatest anticipations of quickly seeing Richmond. We reached Aquia Creek in a few hours—this, as all the boys will know, was then the leading place or connecting point between the steamers and the railroads to Richmond. After strolling about there for an hour, I got aboard the first train, which was made up of open truck cars, and we rolled over the ten or twelve miles past the straggling camps of our forces then thereabouts, crossing the high and hastily-improvised trestle of bridges that had been built by "sojers," in the place of those destroyed.

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