Reconstruction Days Begin  
Upon leaving Savannah I proceeded by boat to Augusta, reaching that city on the fifteenth of June, going thence to Macon, escorted to Atlanta by Colonel Woods. During the last half of my journey I was under the care of General B. M. Thomas, who saw me safely into the hands of our kind friends, the Whittles, whose hospitable home became my asylum until I proceeded on my way to Huntsville. The necessity for procuring passports through the several military districts made my journey a slow one. To add to my discomforts, my trunks, recovered at Macon, were several times rigorously searched ere I reached my destination. At every transfer station my baggage was carefully scrutinised, and the small value in which passports were held may be conjectured from the following incident.
At a certain point in my homeward journey a change of cars became necessary at a little wayside town. Night was already upon us when we reached the station of Crutchfield, where the transfer was to be made. The little structure was surrounded by hangers-on, threading their lazy way through a small company of black and white soldiers. I was alone, save for the little five-year-old son of my maid, Emily, who, being ill, I had left at the home of Mrs. Whittle. No sooner had my trunk been deposited on the platform than it became the object of rough handling and contumely. The train on which I was to continue my journey was already in position, but the close-pressing crowd about were heedless alike of my 279protest and appeals to allow my baggage to be put aboard. I begged them not to detain me, saying I had General Croxton’s passport with me; but their only answer was a gruff rebuke. “You have passed his jurisdiction, Madam,” said one of the military near by.
It was a black night, and but few of those about me carried lanterns. The scene was fear-inspiring to a lonely woman. My alarm at the thought of a detention had reached its height, when, by the fitful lights about, I saw a tall young man break through the crowd.
“By what right do you detain this lady?” he cried, angrily. Then, turning to the black figures around us, he commanded, “Put that trunk on board the car!” and almost before I realised it my difficulties were over, and I had myself stepped aboard the waiting train, rescued from my unfortunate dilemma by John A. Wyeth, since become a surgeon of national distinction. Mr. Wyeth had come to the station for the purpose of boarding this train, which proved a happy circumstance, for it gave me his protection to Stevenson, a few hours distant from Huntsville. His father had been the long-time friend of my husband; moreover, Dr. Allen, grandfather of the young knight-errant, had been one of Senator Clay’s earliest instructors. Thus, the circumstance of our meeting was a source of double gratification to me.
While a guest at the home of Colonel Lewis M. Whittle, being unceasing in my efforts to secure all possible aid for and to arouse our friends in behalf of my husband, I made several trips of a day or so to other homes in the vicinity. During such an absence, the Whittle home was invaded by a party of soldiers, headed by one General Baker, who made what was meant to be a very thorough search of all my belongings, despite the protests of my gentle hostess. But for her quick presence of mind in sending for a locksmith, the locks of my trunks would have been broken open by the ungallant invaders. I returned to 280find my friends in deep trouble and anguish of mind on my behalf. They repeated the story of the search with much distress of manner. From the disorder in which I found my room when, shortly afterward, I entered it, these agents of the Government must have hoped to find there the whole assassination plot. Clothing of every description was strewn over the floor and bed and chairs; while on mantelpiece and tables were half-smoked cigar stumps and ashes left by the gentlemen who took part in that memorable paper hunt. After a thorough examination of my wardrobe, piece by piece, they had taken possession of numerous letters and photographs, almost purely of a private character, among them the picture of my dead infant, treasured beyond any other. My hostess informed me that, during the process of searching, General Baker, regardless of her presence, personally had commented on the quality of my lingerie and the probable avoirdupois of its owner, saying, among other things, “I see none of the destitution I’ve heard tell of in the South!” In his eagerness to discourse on the beauty of a lady’s apparel, he overlooked a recess in one of my trunks which contained the only written matter that, by any turning of words, might have been designated treasonable.
Great, indeed, was my surprise, when, seated on the floor surveying the disorder about, overwhelmed with a conviction of desolation to come, I opened one secret little slide and looked within the pocket. Now my chagrin and disappointment were changed to joy; for there, within, lay the sermon-like, black-covered book that contained my husband’s careful copies of his State correspondence while in Canada, together with other important original papers! The sight was almost too good to be true! Immediately I began to see all things more hopefully. I remember even a feeling of merriment as I gazed upon one of my husband’s boots standing 281just where it had been thrown, in the middle of the floor, while hung around it was a wreath of once gorgeous pomegranate flowers, which I recognised as those I had worn at one of the last functions I had attended in the Federal City.
Many months passed, in which repeated demands were made for the letters carried away by these emissaries of the Government, ere they were returned to me. Though taken thus forcibly from me for Governmental examination, I have no reason to conclude that those in authority at the War Department detained them for so serious a reason or purpose. On the contrary, I have ground for believing that my letters and other possessions lay open for seven or eight months to the gaze of the more curious friends of the department authorities; for, my friend, Mrs. Bouligny,[44] early in ’6, wrote warning me in regard to them, “I heard a lady say the other day that she knew of a person who had read your journal at the War Department!” By this time I was again in the North, pleading with President Johnson for the release of my husband and the return of my papers. When, at last, I received them, they were delivered to me at the home of Mrs. A. S. Parker, at 4? and C Streets, Washington, by a Federal officer, who came in a United States Mail wagon with his burden!
My home-coming after the eventful trip to Fortress Monroe was a sore trial. Ex-Governor Clay, now an old man of seventy-five years, and Mrs. Clay, almost as aged (and nearer, by six months, to the grave, as events soon proved), were both very much broken. For more than three years they had waited and wept and prayed for the loved cause which, in its fall, had borne down their first-born. The Clay home, every stone of which was hallowed to them, was now occupied by Captain Peabody 282and his staff. Servants and ............