Return from Fortress Monroe  
By the second day after the incarceration of Mr. Davis and Mr. Clay we were a heartsick company, and I was glad when, in the late afternoon of the twenty-fourth of May, our sailing orders came. During the last day we were anchored off Fortress Monroe, two hundred paroled prisoners had been taken aboard the Clyde, a small and stuffy boat at best, and the five days spent upon the return trip added to our anguish of mind by much physical discomfort. The sea was exceedingly rough. Often during the voyage a hundred or more passengers at a time were confined below. Those who were well found their cabins unendurably warm. In mine, the gossip of the negroes and sailors on the lower deck was clearly audible; and, as their themes ran principally upon the probable fate of the prisoners, questionable as I knew the source to be from which flowed the conversations, the gossip did not serve to lessen my melancholy, though it keyed my alertness to a higher pitch.
Some hours previous to our departure from Hampton Roads, in sheer exhaustion from the experiences that had crowded upon us, I lay down in my cabin, a prey to mingled heart-aching and bitterness; when, looking toward the door, I perceived a sentinel on guard. What I took to be an added indignity made me resentful. I spoke to him.
“You are a brave man, standing there with bayonet in hand to terrorise a wretched woman!” I said. He 270turned slightly, “Mrs. Clay,” he answered, “You ought to be glad to have me here guarding you, for this boat is full of rough soldiers!” In a moment my wrath was turned to gratitude. I thanked him, and I felt that in him, thereafter, I had a friend; indeed, we had reason to feel that all aboard who dared to show it felt pity for and kindness toward our desolate party.
During the trip, as Mrs. Davis, Miss Howell and I sat at night on deck, looking out over the seas, I thought the swish of the waters against the Clyde’s side was as melancholy a note as I had ever heard. One evening we had sat thus, discussing our situation and the dangers that surrounded us, when, rising to return to my stateroom, I felt my dress slightly pulled. Thinking my skirts had become entangled in the rope coils or rigging near us, I reached out to detach them, when, to my alarm, I found my hand in contact with another, and into mine was thrust a bundle of newspapers. I could not have thanked the sailor who handed them to me had I had the presence of mind to do so, for, passing swiftly on his way, he was lost in the darkness ere I could identify him. The roll was in my hand, however, and I made my way quickly to the cabin with it. They were the first newspapers we had had since arriving at the Fortress. By the light of the dim cabin lamp I read them. The aggregation of “opinions of the press” was so awful in its animosity that they stunned my very power of thought. One extract burnt itself into my brain. It ran, “We hope soon to see the bodies of these two arch traitors, Davis and Clay, dangling and blackening in the wind and rain!”
The horror of these printed words for the moment overbalanced my reason. I hastened with it to Mrs. Davis; a great mistake, for her agony of mind upon reading it was such that restoratives were necessary to prevent her from fainting. I never knew who the sailor 271was who gave the papers to me, though I was more fortunate in regard to the author of another kindness which, happily, was less reactionary upon me.
Immediately upon my husband’s incarceration I had busied myself in writing letters to a list of distinguished public men which had been prepared for my use by Mr. Clay. It included the name of Joseph Holt, who, once our friend, had deplored the possible loss to the nation of my husband’s counsels. My list comprised thirteen names, the number that has been accounted unlucky since thirteen sat at the table of our Lord and one betrayed him. In view of the months of persecution, which followed my husband’s surrender, directly traceable to malice or fanatical zeal in the Judge Advocate’s office, an analogy is unavoidable. My list included the names of T. W. Pierce, of Boston, Ben. Wood, owner and editor of the New York Daily News, R. J. Halderman, Charles O’Conor, the great jurist, Judge Jeremiah Black and others. To Mr. Holt I wrote as follows:
“Off Fortress Monroe on Steamer Clyde,
“May 23, 1865.
“Judge Advocate General Holt.
“My Dear Sir: The circumstances of my husband’s voluntary surrender to the Federal authorities, to meet the charges against him, doubtless have reached you, as General Wilson, commanding at Macon, promised to telegraph as well as write you immediately of it. We left Macon on the 13th, in company with other prisoners, General Wilson permitting me to accompany Mr. Clay without orders or restrictions. For five days we have lain at this spot awaiting events. Yesterday morning, with five minutes’ warning only, my husband was taken to Fortress Monroe. As no communication is permitted, I am denied appeals to Generals Miles or Halleck, but entertain strong hope that one or the other may arrive to-day to relieve my suspense.
“But the object of this letter is to appeal to you, in this moment of dire necessity, on behalf my dear husband. You, Judge Holt, now the embodiment of the ‘majesty of the 272law,’ were once pleased to subscribe yourself my ‘sincere friend.’ I will not believe that time or circumstances have changed your feelings toward one who reciprocated that friendship and was beloved by your angelic wife. So, into your hands, my dear sir, I commit my precious husband’s case, begging that you will see to it that he receives proper counsel and a fair and impartial trial, from which he will surely come forth vindicated. Of course, you have some appearance of testimony in your courts or the proclamation would not have been issued, but I also believe that you esteem Mr. Clay as innocent of that horrid crime, as I know him to be. Hold the scales of mercy and justice as our great and final Judge will hold them in your and my cases when we stand at the Bar, and I shall fear no evil. Write me a line at Macon, if you please, and, if possible, permit me to visit my husband. With kindest regards to ... believe me,
“Etc.”
With the exception of the Archbishop of Bermuda, who was away from his post, as I learned some time later, only Mr. Holt, of the thirteen written to, ignored my appeal.
Having taken the precaution to give to each correspondent an address at which, under cover, replies might reach me, I sealed and addressed each letter preparatory for posting; but now I found myself in a quandary as to how I should accomplish this important feat. I held them for several days uncertain as to whose care I might intrust them. As we were approaching Hilton Head, however, a soldier, whom I had observed passing and repassing the open door of my cabin, tossed in a slip of paper on which was written, “I will mail your letters. Trust me.” As there was nothing treasonable in them, and the need was urgent for getting them swiftly to their several destinations, I concluded to accept the offer so miraculously made.
I therefore rolled them up, and, putting a gold dollar in a bit of paper, awaited the reappearance of my unknown messenger. In a few moments he came, and I slipped 273the little parcel into his hands. That afternoon I heard a careless whistler pass my door and the bit of gold was tossed into my stateroom, and with excellent aim, too, for it fell directly upon my berth. The friendly stranger had refused to retain sufficient coin to pay for the postage. Before leaving the Clyde I ascertained his name. He was Charles McKim, of Philadelphia.
Such kindly aid unexpectedly extended to us by a stranger now and then had its own part in stimulating and encouraging us during a voyage in which a thousand hopes and fears and memories tortured us............