Mr. Johnson kept his word. Late in December I found myself on my way to Baltimore with the President’s autographed permit in hand, that would admit me to my husband’s prison. I left Washington on the afternoon of the 27th of December, going by train to Baltimore. Here, crossing the city in an omnibus with other passengers, to the wharf1 of the “New Line Steamers,” I was soon on board the boat, the George Leary, bound for Norfolk and Fortress2 Monroe. I was so keenly alive to my own lonely condition that I could not bring myself even to register my name among the list of happier passengers. Everywhere about me gaily3 dressed people thronged5. I saw among them General Granger and wife, his staff, and ladies of the party. As the George Leary pulled out from her moorings, the brass6 band of a company of soldiers bound for Norfolk began to play sweet, old-time airs. I had no desire to linger among the care-free throng4, and, calling the stewardess7, handed her a gold-piece, saying, “Can you sign for me or get me a stateroom? I only go to Fortress Monroe.”
In a few moments she returned, regarding me inquiringly.
“Lady!” she asked, “ain’t you the wife of one of those gentlemen down at the Fort?”
“Yes!” I answered. “I am the wife of Mr. Clay, the prisoner!”
Thereupon she opened her hand, displaying my gold-piece, saying, “The captain says he can’t take any fare 332from you. He’ll be here in a little while!” And she moved away.
In a few moments the tall, gaunt Captain Blakeman stood before me.
“Are you Mrs. Clay?” he asked. “Wife of the prisoner at Fortress Monroe?”
“Mrs. Clay, you have my deep sympathy. I’m a regular Down-Easter myself—a Maine man; but for forty years I’ve plied9 a boat between Northern and Southern cities; and I know the Southern people well. I think it is a damned shame the way the Government is behaving toward you and Mrs. Davis!”
For a moment the tears blinded me, seeing which the Captain at once withdrew, comprehending the thanks he saw I could not utter. However, when the gong sounded for supper, he returned, and with kindly10 tact11 led me to a place beside him at the table, though I assured him I wanted nothing. At my obvious lack of appetite he showed a very woman’s thoughtfulness, himself preparing the viands12 before me while he urged me “to drink my coffee. You must take something,” he said from time to time, whenever he perceived a lagging interest in the dishes before me. Nor did this complete his kindnesses, for on the following morning, as I left the boat, Captain Blakeman handed me a slip of paper on which was written:
“New Line Steamers, Baltimore, December 27, 1865.
“Will please pass free Mrs. C. C. Clay, rooms and meals included, to all points as she wishes, and oblige,
“S. Blakeman,
“Commanding Steamer George Leary.”
“I hope you will use this pass as often as you need it,” he said.
We arrived at Fortress Monroe at four o’clock the next morning. As I stepped from the gang-plank, the scene 333about me was black and bleak13, the air wintry. Save for a few dozing14 stevedores15 here and there, whom I soon perceived, the wharf was quite deserted16. It had been my intention, upon my arrival, to go directly to the little Hygeia Hotel just outside the Fort, but upon the advice of Captain Blakeman I accepted the shelter offered me by the clerk in charge of the wharf, and rested until daylight in his snug17 little room just off from the office.
Just before leaving Washington I had written to Dr. Craven, telling him of my intended visit to the prison, and asking him to meet me at the little hotel. I now, at the first streak18 of dawn, still acting19 upon the suggestions of the kind captain, found a messenger and sent him with a note to General Miles, telling him of my arrival with the President’s permit to see my husband, and asking that an ambulance be sent to convey me to the Fort; and I despatched a second to Dr. Craven to tell him my whereabouts. Unknown to me, that friendly physician, whose humane20 treatment of Mr. Davis and my husband had brought upon him the disapproval21 of the War Department, had already been removed from his station at the Fort. My messenger found him, nevertheless, and upon receipt of my message he came and made himself known to me. His words were few, and not of a character to cheer one in my forlorn condition.
“Look for no kindness, Mrs. Clay,” he said, “at the hands of my successor, Dr. Cooper. He is the blackest of Black Republicans, and may be relied upon to show the prisoners little mercy.”
Our interview was brief, and, as the Fort ambulance was seen approaching, the Doctor left me hurriedly. “For,” said he, “it will do neither you nor the prisoners any good if you are seen talking with me.” He had scarcely disappeared in the grey morning when the escort from the Fort arrived. The vehicle was manned by two handsome union soldiers, one, Major Hitchcock of 334General Miles’s staff, and the other Lieutenant22 Muhlenberg, a grandson, as I afterward23 learned, of the author of “I would not live alway.” Months afterward, when Mr. Clay left the Fortress, he carried with him the little volume containing Bishop24 Muhlenberg’s verses, a gift from the young lieutenant.
Arrived at the Fort, I was taken at once to the headquarters of General Miles, and conducted to a room commodiously25 and even luxuriously26 furnished. In a short time the General made his appearance. He was polite and even courteous27 in the examination of my passport, which he scanned carefully; but his manner was non-committal as he politely asked me to “be seated.” I seated myself and waited. The General withdrew. After the lapse29 of a few moments, an orderly appeared, bearing upon a salver a tempting30 breakfast; but I, who had spent months in seeking the privilege I had now come to claim, could touch nothing. I declined the food, saying I would wait and breakfast with my husband. The orderly looked perplexed31, but removed the tray; and now a dreary32 and inexplicable33 wait began, interbroken with first a nervous, then an indignant, and at last a tearful inquiry34. During the morning I affected35 a nonchalance36 wholly at variance37 with my real feelings. Picking up a book that lay at my elbow on the table, I was surprised to see a familiar name upon the fly-leaf. I commented upon the luxury of the apartment when next General Miles entered, and added, “These books seem to have been Governor Wise’s property.” The General was quick to defend himself from any suggestion that might lie in my words. He replied at once. “These headquarters were furnished by General Butler before I was sent here!”
DR. HENRY C. VOGELL
Fortress Monroe, 1866
335Midday came and still the President’s autographed permit, which to me had seemed so powerful a document, was not honoured. A savoury luncheon38 was now brought in, but a nausea39 of nervousness had seized me and I could not eat a morsel40. My excitement increased momentarily, until the distress41 of mind and apprehension42 were wholly beyond my control. I now implored43 General Miles to let me see my husband, if only for a moment; to explain this delay in the face of the President’s order. I begged him to allow me to telegraph to Washington; but to all my pleadings his only reply was to urge me to “be calm.” He assured me he regretted the delay, but that “his orders” were such that he could neither admit me to my husband’s room, nor allow me to use the Government wires at present.
By the middle of the afternoon, faint with pleadings and worn with indignation and fears at the unknown powers which dared thus to obstruct44 the carrying out of the President’s orders, not knowing what might yet be before me, my self-possession entirely45 deserted me. I remember, during my hysterical46 weeping, crying out to General Miles, “If you are ever married, I pray God your wife may never know an hour like this!”
In the midst of an uncontrollable paroxysm which seized me at last, Dr. Vogell, who has been variously designated as the private secretary and instructor47 of General Miles, entered. During the day General Miles had presented the Doctor to me, and, in his subsequent passing and repassing through the room, we had from time to time exchanged a remark. He was a tall, picturesque48 man, of possibly sixty years. At the sight of my culminating misery49, Dr. Vogell could bear the distressful50 scene no longer. He cried out impulsively51, “Miles, for God’s sake, let the woman go to her husband!”
Unhappily, this manly52 outburst, though it had its own message of sympathy for me, failed as utterly53 to move the commanding General Miles as had my previous urgings. In the months that followed, Dr. Vogell often called upon me clandestinely54 in Washington (announced as “Mr. Brown”), to say that “a friend of yours was quite 336well this morning, and desired his love given you!” The recollection of his kindnesses lives imperishable in my memory, but especially vivid is that first upwelling sympathy during the painful waiting at the Fort.
General Miles seemed not untouched by my pleadings, but, it was evident, he felt himself subject to a superior power which forced him to refuse them. His manner throughout, in fact, was courteous and apologetic. Despite my agony of mind, it was late in the afternoon ere the President’s order was honoured. Then General Miles entered, and, with an appearance of completest relief, consigned55 me, tear-stained and ill, to the care of Lieutenant Stone, who conducted me to Mr. Clay’s prison.
All day my husband, to whom there had penetrated56 a rumour57 of my coming, had been waiting for me, himself tortured by fears for my safety and by the mystery of my delay. The gloomy corridors, in which soldiers patrolled night and day, guarding the two delicate prisoners of State, were already darkening with the early evening shadows when, at last, I saw my husband, martyr58 to his faith in the honour of the Government, standing59 within the grating, awaiting me. The sight of his tall, slender form, his pale face and whitened hair, awaiting me behind those dungeon60 bars, affected me terribly. My pen is too feeble to convey the weakness that overcame me as Lieutenant Stone inserted and turned the key in the massive creaking lock and admitted me; nor shall I attempt to revive here the brief hours that followed, with their tumultuous telling over of the happenings of the past months and our hurried planning for the future.
I returned to the capital full of sorrow and indignation. My adventure at Fortress Monroe had revealed to me, far more fully28 than I previously61 had suspected was possible, the struggle for power that was now going on between the Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, on the one side, and 337on the other, President Johnson, by whose courtesy or timidity this official still retained his portfolio62. I resolved to relate my entire experience at Fortress Monroe to the President at the first opportunity.
In the meantime, my husband, with whom I had left a digest of Holt’s report, upon a careful perusal63 of it, had been greatly aroused. By the courtesy of a secret friend, he hastened to send me a list of persons who could, if called upon, readily testify to his whereabouts during certain periods described in the charges against him. He urged me to see the President, and not to cease in my efforts to obtain his release on parole. His condition of mind as expressed in this communication was, it was evident, one of intense excitement.
“You must not get discouraged!” he wrote. “My life depends upon it, I fear! Since the days of Cain and Judas, men may take life for money or some other selfish end. As innocent men as I am have been judicially65 murdered, and I do not feel secure from it, although God knows I feel innocent of crime against the United States or any citizen thereof. As to my declaring my purpose to surrender to meet the charge of assassination66, my unwillingness67 to fly from such charge, my preferring death to living with that brand on me, my desire to exculpate68 Mr. Davis, myself and the South from it, you know as well as I do.
“Judge Holt is determined69 to sacrifice me for reasons given you.[68] He may do it if I am not allowed liberty to 338seek witnesses and prepare my defense70; or, if I am subjected to the mockery of trial by Military Court, when all the charges he can make may be brought against me in a great drag-net.”
As a step toward securing an early interview, and also because the President’s daughters, Mrs. Stover and 339Mrs. Patterson, now presiding at the White House, had been courteous to me, I resolved, as a stroke of policy, to attend the Presidential reception to take place on the ninth of January. Naturally, since my arrival in Washington, I had not participated in the social life about me. In acknowledgment of Mr. Johnson’s concessions71, and, with my husband’s life at stake, with a desire further to win the President’s good offices, I now prepared to attend his levee. My toilette was complete save for the drawing 340on of my gloves, when, while awaiting the call of my hostess Mrs. Parker and her daughter Mrs. Bouligny, whose preparations were somewhat more elaborate than my own, I broke the seal of some letters from home. The news they contained was of a nature well calculated to divert me from the thought of appearing at a public gathering72, even at the Executive Mansion73.
The first told me, in hurried lines, of the illness of my husband’s mother; the second, posted a few hours later, announced her death. “I write beside mother’s dead body,” began my sister, Mrs. J. Withers74 Clay. “Her constant theme was brother Clement75, and the last thing I remember hearing her say was ‘What of my son?’ in so distressed76 a tone that her heart appeared broken.... I trust you have seen your dear husband ere this. I hope he will be released before poor father leaves us. He is very distressed, very gentle and subdued77 in his trouble.... I can never forget mother’s heart-thrilling question ‘What of my son?’ She was very unhappy about your last letter—it was rather low-spirited—and said, ‘I have no hope; I shall never see my son!’”
Within the next day I called upon Mr. Johnson. He received me with his usual urbane78 manner, quite in contrast with my own indignant mood.
“Mr. Johnson,” I began, “Who is the President of the United States?”
“I am supposed to be!” he said.
“But you are not!” I answered. “Your autographed letter was of little more use to me when I reached Fortress Monroe than blank paper would have been! For hours it was not honoured, during which time your Secretary of War held the wires and refused to allow me either to see my husband or to communicate with you!” Then, in as few words as possible, I related the circumstances of my 341visit to the Fort. Mr. Johnson, though constrained80 to preserve his official reserve, was unable to repress or disguise his anger at my recital81.
“When you go there again you’ll have no difficulty, I assure you!” he said.
“When may I?” I asked eagerly.
“When you wish,” he answered.
I now pictured to him my husband’s position; I related the sad news I had just received, and which, under present conditions, I knew I dared not tell Mr. Clay. I implored the President, by every argument at my command, to exercise his Executive power and release Mr. Clay on his parole. Every moment of his incarceration82 under the discipline invented by the unscrupulous military authorities, I felt his life to be imperilled. As our interview proceeded, however, I perceived the old indecision of manner returning. The President’s replies were all to one effect; viz.: that the Secretary of War must decide upon the case. He freely made out another permit to the prison, this time to cover a longer stay, but about a parole for Mr. Clay, or the naming of a day for an early trial, he could promise nothing. He would consult his Cabinet; he would see Mr. Stanton. At last, my importunities for an authoritative83 action growing greater, the President burst out with every evidence of deep feeling:
“Go home, woman, and write what you have to say, and I’ll read it to my Cabinet at the next meeting!”
“You will not!” I answered hotly.
“Because,” I replied, “you are afraid of Mr. Stanton! He would not allow it! But, let me come to the Cabinet meeting, and I will read it,” I said. “For, with my husband’s life and liberty at stake, I do not fear Mr. Stanton or any one else.”
The President assured me I need have no misgivings85; 342if I would write my plea and send it directly to him, he would, he promised me, have it read at the next Cabinet meeting (on the morrow). Actuated by the hope, however meagre, of gaining a possible sympathy from the President’s Governmental associates, even though the dictator Stanton was so coercing86 a personality in that body, I prepared my letter. I afterward secured an official copy of it. It ran as follows:
“Washington City, January 11, 1866.
“To His Excellency, President of the United States:
“... How true it is that all conditions of life, however seemingly extreme, are capable of augmentation! I have thought and so told you, that for eight months past I have been, and God knows with what cause, at the Nadir87 of despair; that my cup, bitterer than the waters of Marah, was brimming, my heart breaking. A letter received two evenings ago announces the death of my husband’s beloved mother, wife of ex-Governor Clay. Deeply distressing88 to me; oh! Mr. Johnson, what a blow to my husband, your unhappy prisoner! He was her idolised son, her first-born; bears the name of her lover-husband, and upon whose lineaments she had not rested her longing89 eyes for three long, weary, desolate90 years.
“On the morning of the first she swooned, and expired on the second, inquiring, ‘What of my son?’ Oh, Mr. President, what an agonising reflection to my husband! How can I summon nerve to tell him the news? I cannot write so great a grief, nor can I tell it and leave him in his gloomy prison to struggle with it alone! Will you not pour in the oil of healing? I beg of you, permit me to bear with me, along with my ‘weight of woe,’ the antidote91. Issue the order for my husband’s release on his parole d’honneur, with bail92 if desired, and let him once more see our father, who lies (now) on a bed of illness. My sister writes, ‘Father cannot long survive.[69] God grant that he may see dear brother Clement ere he goes. Cannot he come?’—I repeat, cannot he come?
“Mr. President, you hold many noble prisoners in your forts, but Mr. Clay’s case is sui generis. General Grant, the whole-souled soldier, in his letter to you in his behalf, says, ‘His manly surrender is to me a full and sufficient guarantee 343that he will be forthcoming at any time the civil authorities of the land may call for him.’ Even Mr. Stanton, who is not considered partial to so-called ‘Rebels,’ told me, in my only interview, that ‘he was not my husband’s judge,’ as if he, Pilate-like, were willing to wash his hands of innocent blood. I replied tremblingly, ‘I would fain not have you for his accuser, Sir.’ To which he rejoined, not unkindly, ‘I am not his accuser, Madam.’ I thanked God for even that cold comfort as harbinger of better days.
“And now, Sir, may I ask you who are those opposed to my husband’s release on parole? I have yet to find the first man, Federal or other, who does not express admiration93 at the high sense of honour and chivalric94 faith, in the prompt and manly surrender; and astonishment95 at the detention96. To-day we might have been far away in some peaceful spot, united at least, and happy, but for that sense of unsullied honour, which ‘feeling a stain like a wound,’ remained to wipe it out. Can you longer refuse him the privilege?
“The law supposes all men innocent till proven guilty, and if it will allow me, I, alone, can disprove, in toto, the testimony97 of the conspiracy98 case, implicating99 him. Mr. Clay, always delicate, is dying daily. He told me he was resigned to God’s will and perfectly100 willing to perish in those four walls if his country would be benefited thereby101. Mr. President, my husband is my world, my all, and ‘dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit this sad heart.’ Give him to me for a little while, at least long enough to glad the dim eyes of the eager and aged64 watcher at home and close them; and he shall return to you, on his honour and my life, at any moment called for by the Government. Let me bring him to you to prove to you the truth of my statement in point of health, and to afford him the right of personal appeal.... That God may incline you to grant my prayer and soften102 ‘the hearts of our enemies,’ restore Peace indeed to the land, and bless and guide and guard you in public and private life to your journey’s end, is the prayer of her who hopefully, trustfully, and truthfully subscribes103 herself,
“Your friend,
(Signed.) “V. C. Clay.”
I sent this epistle to Mr. Johnson, but, despite the haste in which I had written and despatched it, I was too late for the promised reading, which fact I learned from the 344following message, that reached me the next day. It was written on the back of the President’s card in his (by this time) familiar, scrawling104 hand.
“Your letter,” it read, “was too late yesterday. It does your heart and head credit. It is a most powerful appeal. You have excelled yourself in its production!”
At the next Cabinet meeting Mr. Johnson made his promise good. The letter was then read, by Mr. Evarts, too late, however, even had it produced immediate105 results, to enable me to carry the parole I had hoped for to my husband. I was again with Mr. Clay at the Fortress when this meeting took place, but, having no balm to soothe106 the wound, I could not tell him of the blow that had befallen him, nor did he hear of it until, nearly four months later, he left the prison. In the interim107, in order that my husband should not remark upon the sombreness of my attire108, I wore a red rose in my bonnet109 and red ribbon at my throat whenever I visited the Fort.
I learned the particulars of that (to me) eventful Cabinet reading from Mr. Johnson later. Upon the conclusion of the letter Mr. Stanton asked for it. He scanned it closely and put it into his pocket without comment. Nor was the missive again returned to Mr. Johnson until weeks had elapsed and several requests had been made for it.
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronged
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brass
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stewardess
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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kindly
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tact
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viands
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bleak
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dozing
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stevedores
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| n.码头装卸工人，搬运工( stevedore的名词复数 ) | |
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deserted
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snug
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streak
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acting
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humane
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disapproval
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lieutenant
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afterward
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bishop
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commodiously
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luxuriously
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courteous
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fully
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lapse
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tempting
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perplexed
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dreary
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inexplicable
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inquiry
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affected
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nonchalance
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variance
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luncheon
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nausea
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morsel
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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apprehension
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obstruct
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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47
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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48
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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51
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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52
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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56
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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57
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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58
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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66
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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67
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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68
exculpate
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| v.开脱，使无罪 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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75
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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81
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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86
coercing
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| v.迫使做( coerce的现在分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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88
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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89
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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90
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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91
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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92
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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93
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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94
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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95
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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96
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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97
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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98
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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99
implicating
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| vt.牵涉，涉及（implicate的现在分词形式） | |
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100
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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101
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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102
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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103
subscribes
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| v.捐助( subscribe的第三人称单数 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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104
scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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105
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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106
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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107
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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108
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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109
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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