CHAPTER XXVI. A SCOUT TO RICHMOND DEVELOPS IMPORTANT INFORMATION--NO FORCE IN FRONT OF M'DOWELL TO PREVENT HIS COOPERATING WITH M'CLELLAN--THE SECRETARY OF WAR RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FAILURE OF THE PENINSULA CAMPAIGN--OUR SPY AS A WAR CORRESPONDENT ANTAGONIZES THE WAR DEPARTMENT BY CRITICISM IN THE PAPERS--IS ARRESTED ON A TECHNICALITY AND SENT A SPECIAL PRISONER TO OLD CAPITOL BY THE SECRETARY OF WAR'S ORDERS.

I made a scout on my own account to the very outskirts of Richmond, which resulted in establishing the fact that there was no enemy in front of McDowell. On my return to our lines, I was, as had been my usual fate, coolly received by our own officers and suspected of disloyalty. In my impulsive way, perhaps, I had too freely criticised, in my letters to Mr. Forney's paper, our officers for their listlessness in permitting McDowell's army to lie idle, while McClellan was being forced to change his base on the Peninsula.

At the headquarters of the regiment, or picket guard, I had encountered, I was cross-examined by every officer who could get a chance to stick a question at me. To all I had the same story, with renewed emphasis each time, that there was no Rebel army between Fredericksburg and Richmond.

The detention at so many of these subordinate headquarters, or the halting at so many stages of our return, to answer these same stereotyped questions, began to annoy me. I had been scouting for hours without a moment's rest; my nerves were all unstrung, now that I had gotten safely back. I wanted to go to the real headquarters, and tell all I knew to the General, and then go to Mrs. Wells' house to see Geno and rest for the balance of my life. I was tired, hungry, nervous and irritable, which accounts for the unfortunate fact that I became at last resentful and, perhaps, insulting, to some of the higher officers about the headquarters and staff, who questioned my statements.

General McDowell was not present; he had been sent to Washington, or to the Shenandoah Valley I think, so that those in command had no authority, as I knew, and I felt in my nervous condition that they had insulted me by daring to doubt my story.

While yet smarting under this disagreeable reception of my report, I sat down and sent Mr. Covode a dispatch, over the military wire, giving him in brief the results of my recent observations, and asserting positively that the army could go to McClellan if they wanted to. Those are not the words of the dispatch, but it was in substance the same story that I had told, with the addition of some bitter comments. I did not stop to think at the time that such a dispatch could pass through the War Department Telegraph Office, and be subject to that censorship. My only object was to hasten the information to headquarters through Covode, because I realized that the officers of our own army would not act upon it.

I did not know then, neither did General McClellan, or anybody else in the armies, that Secretary Stanton had sometime previously positively ordered General McDowell not to reinforce McClellan.

My dispatch was unintentionally a criticism on the Secretary of War; and, coming as it did, in this outside and unofficial way, to Covode, whose committee were investigating these things, it no doubt put me in bad shape before the Secretary of War.

Undoubtedly, Major Eckert, who was then the official in charge of the telegraph office, but who in reality acted as a messenger to carry private news to the ear of the Secretary, gladly availed himself of the opportunity to place me in a bad light before the Secretary.

As I had previously made several visits to Washington and Baltimore while sojourning with the family, my short absence of one day and two nights was not noticed.

I may be permitted to say, parenthetically, that Miss Mamie Wells, the second daughter, had gone to her sister's home in Baltimore under my charge a few days previous to this. Her war history, I venture to say here, would present one of the most attractive yet written.

She was, during the bombardment and battles, a Florence Nightingale to both sides; and to her parents and family, in the subsequent terrible sufferings consequent upon their exposed position between the two armies, became a heroine in deed and in truth.

My personal acquaintance with this remarkable young lady was confined to the few days of 1862. The incident which is best remembered occurred while riding up the Potomac from Aquia Creek as her escort, en route to Baltimore. In reply to something that I had said on the subject that was uppermost in my heart, she took occasion to say to me in a kind, sisterly way about Geno, that produced a lasting effect upon me: "You must not trifle with that child."

That I was sincere and very much in earnest she soon discovered, because, from her charming manner, I was impelled to tell her right there much more of my love for her sister than I had told Geno herself. Her smiling approval, when I mentioned my ambition to make Geno an officer's wife, was: "You love like a boy, but I believe you would fight like a man."

Miss Sue was of an entirely different disposition. She was a born coquette, and flirting was natural to her. Her eyes were hazel, and, if I may be permitted to offer my advice to the sons of veterans, it is, don't attempt to flirt with a pair of hazel eyes, because it is a waste of time and dangerous. Perhaps they are less susceptible than black or blue, but once trifled with, or neglected, they do not pine away in grief, but rally for revenge and take it out in scorn.

I never made love to Miss Sue that I remember, after having met Geno; but she evidently felt that I was her legitimate game, simply because she was the oldest daughter. In fact, she told me plainly that Geno was entirely too young to be spending so much time with strange young gentlemen.

Naturally enough, I resented her advice, and talked to Geno about it, but my little girl only laughed sweetly at my earnestness, and not once, that I can recall, said a single word in reply that reflected on her elder sister's judgment. Geno's voice was mild, her method of speaking slow, with a charmingly hesitating manner, that made everything she said, or left unsaid, impressive.

The father being absent in exile, Miss Sue prevailed upon the mother to allow her to "manage this affair," as she haughtily termed it. We were being restricted somewhat arbitrarily by Miss Sue's management, and, to get around it, I had recourse to smuggling little notes to Geno through her little brother George and sister Jennie.

I recall now, with a laugh, with what slyness and caution Geno managed this little secret service of ours. There were not any ciphers used, but Geno had away of inserting quotations in French in her notes that embarrassed me, because I couldn't interpret them myself, and, of course, dare not appeal to any one else.

One day we all came to grief by Miss Sue getting hold of one of my notes to Geno, in which I impulsively intimated that the animus or motive of Sue's opposition was based on the fact that she desired all the attention bestowed on herself. That was a very indiscreet thing to put on a piece of paper; but, as I have said before, I think, I was twenty and Geno was sixteen.

Entering the parlor one afternoon, I found both the sisters sobbing and crying as if their hearts were breaking over some sudden intelligence of a dreadful character. I hurriedly asked if their father had been caught. But, to my eager interest, Sue replied through her tears by taking me to task about this note. I tried to explain, but she did all the talking for an hour, and I got no chance to say a word, until she said something about Geno being too young to take care of herself, when I blurted out: "Geno is better able to take care of herself than you are, and I know it."

That was putting my foot into it deeper than ever.

It took me a week to get this affair straightened out, and I verily believe the words uttered so thoughtlessly at this moment were treasured up against me in wrath by Miss Sue for twenty years, though she pretended to "make up," and I kissed both of the sisters that time before we broke up the conference or love-feast.

There remains in existence to-day a neatly-written, faded letter addressed to "The friend of an hour," which my sister Ruthie has preserved. The smart, sharp, stinging words of this letter have served as a model for more than one communication under similar circumstances.

There was this peculiarity about the Wells family: they were all loyal and true to each other, and to their parents. More than one outsider has learned to their sorrow—touch one, and all of them were touched.

As serving to indicate this, and to show the innocence and purity of Geno, I will relate at my own expense an incident.

Shortly after the Captain and father had "escaped" through my connivance, Geno, in her sweet, hesitating voice, said to me, in reply to something I had been saying or doing: "Father said to me, as he bid me good-by: 'Geno, look out for Mr. O.K.'"

I was stunned. Perhaps I was presuming too far on my being solid with the family, and, in my usual impulsive way, I earnestly resented the Captain's caution, probably because I realized that he was right, and said something harsh in reply. Geno looked up into my face in a surprised way, while she defended her father. I shall never forget the words and the manner in which they were uttered: "Why, father knows best. I would not have him angry with me for anything."

It was a lesson to me. I was angry at the moment, but I loved her all the more for this evidence of loyalty to her parents.

It may be worth while to add a word of advice to the boys and girls who may read this. The good and faithful daughter always makes a good wife. Don't forget it, boys and girls.

To pick up the tangled love-knot in the thread of this narrative, I will say during the pleasant evening spent with the Wells family, I was so happy and contented that I became wholly oblivious to everything that was going on in the army outside. It was late the next day when I walked down to the railroad office as usual, to see if there was any news for me. It was then that I received the note of warning from my brother Spencer, which had come during my absence, a reference to which has been made further back in this narrative.

While in or around this office or station, about which were always congregated a great crowd of officers and soldiers off duty, as well as sutlers, newsboys, etc., I was pleasantly approached by General McCallum, who had charge of all the military railroads, as the successor of Colonel Thos. A. Scott, and who, after talking agreeably about some of the work I had previously undertaken, told me in his gruff way: "Railroad and telegraph employÉs have been required by the Secretary of War to take the oath of allegiance. All have signed but you, and I have left a blank in the office for your signature."

I was an employÉ, and as such was perfectly willing to sign all the oaths they required, and expressed my willingness to comply at once. I found a written blank form had been prepared for me in the office. I signed it without thinking it necessary to read. When handing the paper back to the clerk, he remarked jocularly: "They have made you sign a mighty tight paper, haven't they?"

It was only when my curiosity was aroused by this remark that I thought of reading over the form of the oath. I think it was what was known in the year after as the cow-catcher bond or iron-clad oath. It was purposely made strong enough to catch any supposed case of disloyalty. It contained one simple clause that at the time seemed to perplex me a little. It read in substance: "I have never belonged to any organization, or borne arms against the Government of the United States, voluntarily or involuntarily."

I could not conscientiously or truthfully swear to that. I was willing enough to do almost anything to get around the ugly point, that seemed like a rock in my path, without being forced to explain that I had voluntarily united with the rebel army, and involuntarily borne arms against the Government. I dreaded very much putting my name to a paper which could in any event be brought up against me as a proof that I was "a perjurer."

I was loyal to the core, as everybody who has read this must know; but I had—I may say voluntarily—united myself with the Third Battalion of Rebel Maryland Artillery. To be sure, I was forced by the necessities of my peculiar work and the situation during my sickness in Richmond, as well as prompted by a desire to further and better aid the United States Government, to do this; but the stubborn fact was—I had taken their oath and I had in reality borne Rebel arms. I had not told anyone in Fredericksburg about this, and none of the railroad employÉs knew anything of my former experiences. Perhaps Geno had my confidence, but none of the family ever received any intimation from her of my true character. To them all I was, as Sue put it, "A nice little fellow from Pennsylvania, and that's all we know."

I saw at the first glance of this new oath that I was in a tight place; and, in a moment of hasty impulse, prompted solely by a desire to be truthful and honorable to myself, I scratched my name from the paper. Without a word of explanation to the astonished clerk, I took it to Gen. McCallum, and, in a few words, explained my action, and desired him to try and find some way out of the trouble for me. He had understood in a general way something of my experiences, and when I told him my action, he agreed with me, and said that it was right and honorable in me to protect my name. Further, on his return to Washington the day following, he said he would report the matter to the Secretary of War, and asked that I be permitted to remain in the service without being compelled to sign that iron-clad paper.

I thought then that the matter was settled, and in the evening went home from my office, to pass another—only one more—of the enjoyable, happy nights, in the company of the ladies.

In the meantime the leaven I had sent to Washington previously, in the shape of a telegram to Covode, had begun to work; so that when General McCallum got back to Washington City the next day, and reported my case to the Assistant Secretaries, P. H. Watson and General Eckert, these two officials put their wise heads together, and with only the evidence in their possession, which was additionally overbalanced by General Eckert's former prejudice, they came to the hasty conclusion, without giving me a chance to be heard, that "I was a very dangerous man," and so reported their conclusion to Mr. Stanton, whose attention was at the same time called to my reports to Covode.

The telegrapher at Fredericksburg at that time, was a Mr. Gentry, of Kentucky, a clever gentleman, as all Kentuckians are that I have ever met.

That afternoon, while lounging in the cool parlor with Geno and Miss Sue, I was called to the door by a visit from Mr. Gentry, who politely informed me that he had an intimation from my brother and friends in Washington that I would get into trouble unless I signed that oath. Mr. Gentry very kindly advised me, to use his own words, which made such a lasting impression on me that I have not forgotten them: "Now, don't you be carried away by infatuation for this pretty little girl; act sensibly for the present; why, I'd sign anything, and I'm from Kentucky."

He was very courteous, and I felt that he had been sent after me, and if there is any one thing that I abhor it is being "led" or coddled. He knew nothing of my reasons for declining the oath, and when he desired a reply from me to telegraph back to Washington, I merely said: "Just tell them I won't do it. They will understand that."

"But," Mr. Gentry interposed, "the Secretary of War sends this word—that you must do it."

"Well, I won't do it for the Secretary of War or anybody else."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him to go to ——."

"No," laughed Gentry, "I wouldn't like to do that."

"Well, tell the Secretary I said so."

I felt at that time that it was not Mr. Stanton personally who was insisting upon cornering me in this way. He certainly knew of my former services, and that I could not be disloyal if I wanted to. If he had given the subject a moment's consideration, he would have surmised the reason for my "recalcitrancy"—to call it by a big name.

I believed then, and I have always entertained the opinion, that Mr. Eckert, through Assistant Secretary Watson, was instrumental in creating this misunderstanding. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I shall die without changing my mind on this subject.

Mr. Gentry probably went direct to his office after his short interview with me and reported the failure of his effort to "reconstruct me."

I imagine that, in his jocular manner, common to all operators, he detailed the exact conversation with me over the wire to the War Department operators. I cannot think he sent my words as an official message to the Secretary of War, but undoubtedly the substance had been telegraphed, and, of course, the War Department telegraph spies made the most use of their opportunity to down one who was inclined to be so "independent and obstreperous."

In an hour or two Mr. Gentry returned to the house—they all knew where to find me—called me to the door again, and, in the most feeling manner, told me privately that he had received, and at the same time held in his possession, a telegraph order from the Secretary of War, E. M. Stanton, to Provost-Marshal-General Patrick for my arrest.

Mr. Gentry very kindly kept the fact that he had received such a message entirely to himself, considerately bringing to me first the ugly intelligence. He did not say so, but I have always believed his object was to give me an opportunity of escaping. I could easily have done so without leaving any suspicion attached to him of having advised me of this intention.

I had no thought of attempting anything of this kind. We sat down on the porch together while I read the order, which is to-day on file in the War Office, in these words: "Arrest and keep in the closest confinement, O.K., and send to Washington in charge of sufficient guard to prevent any communication."

Mr. Gentry endeavored to ease the "disagreeable duty," as he termed it, by saying that the receipt of such an order was a great surprise to him, and he felt sure there was some mistake, and that all would be righted when I should reach Washington.

When I realized the full purport of such an order from the Secretary of War, I was almost stunned at the direful prospect.

My first thoughts were of the distressing effect of such news on my father and relatives at home, who were expecting that I should receive soon a promotion from the Secretary of War to the Regular Army. How, then, could I explain this arrest to them? I don't know now whether or not I even thanked Mr. Gentry for his kind thoughtfulness at the time. I hope he may be living and see from this that, after the lapse of twenty-five years, I have not forgotten his generous and thoughtful consideration for me on that hot Summer day in 1862.

Asking to be excused for a moment, I briefly told Mrs. Wells of the sudden intelligence, which she received in her motherly, sympathetic manner, with both hands raised in astonishment. Without trusting myself to talk further to her or anyone else in my agitated condition, I rejoined Mr. Gentry, and we walked together up the hill to General Patrick's office, where Mr. Gentry handed the order to General Patrick while I stood by. After he had read the telegram, Mr. Gentry astonished the old man by introducing his prisoner. The General was kind, indeed he was very sympathetic, and explained that, as the order was direct from the Secretary of War, he should have to give it especial attention, and see that it was executed to the letter; but he would make it as pleasant for me as possible.

I was given one of the vacant rooms in the private mansion then occupied as Provost-Marshal's Headquarters; a sentry with a loaded musket stood guard in the large hallway at my open door, with positive orders, as I was courteously informed by the officer who placed him there, not to allow anyone to see me, and, under no circumstances, was I to communicate with any person, except through himself, as officer of the guard.

As there were no boats leaving for Washington City from Aquia Creek so late in the day, I was obliged to remain a solitary prisoner, under strict order of the War Department, until the following day.

I shall make the story of my imprisonment as brief as may be. During all my life, it has been a close secret with me, and for the first time, I am attempting to tell the entire story, which to many of my best friends has been as a hidden mystery.

The sentry in a blue uniform, with a loaded musket in his arms, stood within a few feet of me during the evening; and, while I slept on a cot, he faced about like a guardian angel, in a grum sort of way, however, that was not at all calculated to promote a feeling of sociability.

In fact, his bearing rather impressed me with an overwhelming sensation that the gun he carried was loaded, and the fellow who had command of it looked as if he were asking for a chance to try it on something.

He wasn't a companionable fellow, so I acted toward him as he did to me—with silent contempt; and that's the way I spent the evening. I knew very well that there were plenty of friends in town who would have called to see me in this, my time of need, if they had been permitted to do so. As it was, I was all alone in my glory, until late in the evening, when an officer, accompanied by a soldier, came to my prison door, the soldier carrying a little basket, which I was told contained my supper, which kind and motherly Mrs. Wells had sent to me, but not a word of sympathy or regret accompanied it. I don't know for sure, but I think that the contents had been, not only "inspected" by the officer of the guard on the lookout for contraband communications, but that the different little dainties had been sampled as well, probably to see if they did not conceal a poison.

This generous and thoughtful remembrance from Mrs. Wells, was the only indication I received in my solitary confinement, during all that beautiful but lonely long summer evening in Fredericksburg, that there were any persons outside of my four walls, except the grim old sentry. Of course, I well knew that at our house there would be assembled the usual crowd of happy young folks, and their conversation and thoughts would naturally be with me in my confinement. This comforting reflection was, however, somewhat disturbed by the fear that the entire family might either have been arrested or dispersed; so that, the discomforts of my close confinement were greatly increased by this fear, until I was in a manner assured of their safety by the arrival of the daintily-served lunch.

I slept that night—if I slept at all—on a bed of misery. At every turn I was made to realize that I was a prisoner—to our own side. Though the officers of General Patrick's Staff, who had charge of me, were accomplished gentlemen, and seemed apparently to sympathize with me, I could not conceal and they must have seen my distress, they were obliged, by the strict orders they had received—as was frequently explained to me—direct from the Secretary of War—to prevent any communication with me.

The morning following my arrest, after a hasty and solitary breakfast, I was personally visited by General Patrick, who was then Provost-Marshal for that Army, who, in the most kindly manner possible, expressed his regrets for the necessity of putting me to so much inconvenience, further explaining that, once in Washington, I could no doubt get everything fixed up. He then showed me two letters and a small pocket Bible that had been sent to me, but which he could not deliver to me, under the strict orders to permit no communication. When I recognized the address of one letter to be the well-known handwriting of my father, the very sight of it seemed to be like a thrust of a knife into my heart, as I at once realized how distressing to him would be the news of my arrest—my friends had been expecting in its stead a promotion, by way of recompense for my past services. The other note I knew was from Geno, while the Bible was the last, best gift of Mrs. Wells.

I was assured by General Patrick that they should be sent along with me to Washington, in the care of the officer in charge, and he hoped and expressed the belief that I should soon be free and get possession of them.

With a kind "Good-by," he introduced me to Captain ——, whose name I have forgotten, and a Lieutenant, who would kindly accompany me to Washington. The Captain very considerately observed that it had been arranged that we should get out of town quietly, without attracting any attention from the crowds about the streets, who had, no doubt, heard of my arrest.

To better accomplish this and avoid the depot, we crossed the river together at a ferry, in order to take the train for Aquia Creek from the other side, and, in so doing, we passed within a half block of Geno's house, but not within sight of it.

The Captain who accompanied me, though always by my side or, at least, close by me, considerately made it a point to act toward me—his prisoner—as if I were merely a companion. Not any of the crowd that took the train that day with us suspected that I was a prisoner. And, by the way, there was a great crowd leaving for Washington about that time, caused, if I remember aright, by some bad news from General Banks in the Valley, or McClellan.

It was the Lieutenant who was acting as the silent partner of the Captain, who kept the closer eye upon me, while, at the same time, he discreetly kept himself aloof from us and did not appear at all as one of the party. I mention all this minutely, merely to show that, notwithstanding the strict orders of the Secretary of War, and the close watch of the two officers, I succeeded in communicating with my friends at Washington.

When the overcrowded train of open freight cars and one or two passenger coaches cautiously crawled over the big trestle-work bridges, constructed by details of soldiers, between Falmouth, on the opposite side of the river from Fredericksburg, and reached "You-be-dam" Station, near Aquia Creek, though only twelve or fourteen miles, it was late in the day. There was a long temporary pier at Aquia Creek, and a number of rough board-sheds had been erected for the accommodation of the Quartermaster, commissary and other officers at this base of supplies. Among these offices was located the railroad telegraph offices, which were then in charge of Mr. Wm. Emerick, at the present time the efficient manager of the Gold and Stock Telegraph Company in New York City. In the management of the business in hand, it so happened that my Captain was obliged to call in a business way upon the Quartermaster, stationed here, to secure the required transportation for his party, on the boat up to Washington City; and while he was showing his papers and explaining his errand, I occupied a seat that I discovered to be convenient to the telegraph office, or desk, which was located in the same room. Mr. Emerick did not at that time suspect that I was an operator, neither did he know that I was under arrest; so, when the attention of the Captain was drawn, Mr. Emerick was eating his lunch outside, I sat on the edge of the rough table that was used for the telegraph instruments. Without speaking a word and apparently intent on watching the Captain's business, as my face was toward him, quietly, with one hand I touched the telegraph key, and deftly making use of my education as an operator, I signaled for attention. Quickly, and as all operators will readily understand, in shorter time than it takes me to tell it on paper, I was recognized by the answer, I, I, g-a., which means, Yes, go ahead. I sent a few words nervously to my brother operator, in effect for Mr. "John Covode—Call at Old Capitol Prison to see me," and signed my name.

This was all done so quickly, and so quietly and effectively, that not one person present suspected that I was occupied in anything of the sort.

Lest I should be suspected, I left the telegraph desk abruptly, but I had the satisfaction of hearing the acknowledgment of my dispatch, in the familiar telegraph sound: "O.K."

In the year following, I rode in an ambulance one day with Mr. Emerick from Aldie to Washington during the Gettysburg campaign, and was amused beyond my power of description to hear Mr. Emerick detail the trick that a Rebel Spy had played on him at Aquia Creek. He did not detect, in my hearty laugh at his recital of the story, that I was in any way an interested party because, at that time, I was on the Headquarters Cavalry Corps, Army of the Potomac Staff, and wore the blue uniform.

At the regular hour for the daily boats to leave Aquia Creek for Washington, we—the Captain, Lieutenant and myself—were aboard and comfortably seated in arm-chairs on the hurricane deck.

About 6 P. M. we ran up past the Arsenal and finally fastened to the wharf. Here I realized fully, for the first time, that the Captain and Lieutenant were both strictly attentive to me, insisting on giving me a helping hand to almost every step through the crowds that were then rushing off the boats as soon as they touched the landings. I realized, with a sickening sensation at my heart, that I was not now free to go as I pleased, as had been my habit on many former trips up the river to Washington.

The officer in charge, not knowing the location of the Old Capitol Prison, in Washington, it became my duty to pilot my guard to my own prison. I believe we went along Maryland avenue, or, at least, to the south side of Washington, on what was known as "the Island"—below the canal—and got up through one of the stone-yards that then surrounded the unfinished Capitol.

In 1862 there were no beautiful Capitol Grounds to the north and south of the building, but, instead, the whole country thereabout was occupied by the gang of stone-cutters and their piles of marble or stone debris, similar to that which surrounded the Washington Monument within the last few years.

I steered the way in a direct course to the Old Capitol. When we got there, we were stopped by an armed sentry on the pavement, who called an officer that escorted us inside the hallway.

Here we were again detained, to wait until the Commandant had been heard from. After a most unhappy wait of half an hour we were ordered to the "office." Here, for the first time, I saw Colonel W. P. Woods, who is, I understand, a resident of Washington. Colonel Woods was rather a young, sharp-looking man, if I remember correctly, with side-whiskers, or, as we term them, short Presbyterians.

He was evidently accustomed to receiving guests at his hotel, and at first seemingly paid but little attention to the new arrivals, being at the time engaged in conversation with some lady visitors. The Captain produced a letter, which a young fellow, with all the airs of a hotel clerk, graciously deigned to open and read. He left his seat and whispered a word to Captain Woods, who left his talkative lady friends and turned his attentions to us, with as sudden an interest as if he had discovered a millionaire guest among the recent arrivals. I never knew what were the contents of the letter delivered to the Captain. I presume it is on record in the War Department among the Rebellion Records. Only this much I am sure. I am not mistaken in saying that I was a special guest, and at once became the center of attraction for Captain Wood and his force of attendants.

He gave us his personal attention, and himself took the records, and entered my arrival on his register, where they will be found to-day.

The walls of the Old Capitol Prison of the War of the Rebellion are still standing on the corner of First and A streets, North-East Washington, but in so altered a shape as to be scarcely recognized by the oldest inhabitants. In 1862 this famous building was a plain, oblong structure, more closely resembling a warehouse after the style of the Richmond Tobacco Libby, than anything else that I can think of just now by way of comparison.

The old building was what was known as a double house, with a large, very broad hallway running through the center of the house, extending to the back porch or yard, on the L-shaped wing—a back building on A street.

In one of the four rooms that opened out of the hall, located nearest the door I think, was Captain Wood's office. Here I was "detained" for, well, probably an hour, after the Captain had bidden me a cordial "Good-by," promising that when he reported my safe arrival to the Secretary, on the following morning, he would endeavor to say a word of commendation of my good conduct.

My heart sank within me when I realized to the fullest extent that I was a prisoner. I sat in a chair near Mr. Wood's desk, while he, with some others, arranged suitable quarters for me. In due time I was shown to my room, which was located in the L, immediately at the head of the back stairs that led up out of the porch. I am living in Washington on the same square with the celebrated old building, now occupied as a princely residence by Chief Justice Field, General Drum, Senator Spooner, and, during my daily walks to and fro, I frequently pass the old window, and never once fail to look at it, almost expecting to see a ghost of my former self looking out at me.

I was shown to my little eight by ten hall-room, furnished only by a soldier's cot and a chair, and being so tired, sick, and broken-hearted I lay down, and, after bitter, scalding tears, soon dropped into the sleep of innocence.

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