The Nation’s Prisoners  
On the twenty-first of January, 1866, a few days after my last conversation with President Johnson, I found myself a second time within the ramparts of America’s most formidable military prison. This time, unhindered, I was led directly to my husband’s gloomy room. In this and the several succeeding visits I paid Mr. Clay in prison, I learned to comprehend, where before I had but imagined, the terrible sufferings my husband had undergone for now eight months. When I parted from General Miles on May 24th, of the preceding year, he gave me his promise that Mr. Clay should have every comfort he could allow him.
I found, upon my admission to Fortress Monroe, in January, 1866, that his prisoner, for three or more months, had been confined within a narrow cell, grated and barred like a cage in a menagerie, into which the meagre daylight crept through the long, thin opening in the thick walls. An unwholesome sweat had oozed through the bare walls which surrounded him, at times, it was said, increasing until it flowed in streams. For weeks after entering the prison (I now learned) Mr. Clay had been denied not only the use of his clothing, but his toilet brushes and comb, and every item calculated to preserve his health and self-esteem had been taken from him. His only food for weeks had been a soldier’s rations, until Dr. Craven, at last, felt obliged to order a hospital diet. These rations had been passed through 346the prison bars in tin cup or plate, unaccompanied by knife, fork or spoon.
For forty days at a stretch he had not been permitted to look upon the sun; for months, though debarred from communication with or visits from his own family, he was exhibited to strangers, civilian or military, who from time to time were brought into his cell, conversing among themselves, or to the gratings to stare at him with curious gaze. “I have been treated as if already convicted of an infamous crime,” wrote my husband in a paper sent out by one who proved trustworthy. “Indeed, one of my warders told me that the orders from Washington required I should be subjected to the same prison discipline that the assassins of Abraham Lincoln underwent. While the Third Pennsylvania Artillery (volunteers) were on duty (till October 31st), I scarcely ever walked out without being greeted with ‘Shoot him! Hang him! Bring a rope! The damned rascal!’ But since the regulars came in nothing like this has occurred.... Mr. Davis and I are not allowed to communicate with each other. We have met but a few times, in walking contrary to the intention of officers and orders, but only saluted each other and asked of health.”
Once, my husband told me, upon thus meeting, Mr. Davis and he greeted each other in French, whereupon the soldiers, scenting some further “treason,” rushed at them, pointing their bayonets.
“I have been subjected,” continued my husband’s statement, “to the most refined but severe torture of body and soul; my health considered in order to preserve the sensibility of the body to pain.... I have been allowed irregularly some newspapers, but never one alluding to any evidence against me, or mentioning me, unless in terms of reproach. I am cut off from the world, except its reproaches!”
During none of my visits to the Fort was I permitted 347to speak with Mr. Davis, between whom and my husband, as I have said, even an occasional word, for a long time, was interdicted; but, when sending to him a tray of good things from among gifts to my husband or brought with me from Washington, I managed often to send, with an extra segar or two, a twisted paper lighter on which I had scribbled “Mrs. Davis and children are well,” or some (as I hoped) equally cheering greeting.
In later days, when a fuller liberty of walking about the Fort was granted the prisoners, they were occasionally able to pass to each other some brief message, written, it might be, on the inch-wide margin of a bit of newspaper or wrapping. Two or three times a scrap of writing-paper, written all over in the finest possible hand, was passed from one to the other. Two such messages, uttered under the impression that Mr. Clay was soon to be liberated, are expressive of the unflinching spirit which Mr. Davis at all times showed, even under torments as humiliating, and, in one instance, even more cruel, than those endured by my husband. The first would seem to have reached Mr. Clay shortly after my first visit to the Fort. A lengthy note, in finest script and compressed within the dimensions of a single six-by-eight sheet of paper, it read as if it had been written sentence by sentence, as mood dictated or opportunity offered.
A second note, in even more diminutive script,[70] was passed to my husband in the early winter of ’6, when at last it seemed assured that Mr. Clay would be liberated. It was written in this belief, and gave my husband directions as to friends whose influence might be awakened on our late President’s behalf. Mr. Davis reiterated his loyalty to the cause for which he was now suffering, but 348declared his anxiety for his wife’s and children’s fates. He felt that there was a bloodthirsty hate against him, the strong motive being to degrade the lost cause in his person.
In all of his communications, however short, Mr. Davis wrote with dignity and conviction, as became a man who had been the Chief Magistrate of a people. Once only, and that during my first stay in the Fort, I saw the tall figure of our late Chief. “I saw Mr. Davis walking on the ramparts,” I wrote to ex-Governor Clay. “His beard and hair are white, and he is thin to emaciation, but walked like a President still.”
Upon my arrival at the Fortress early in ’6, I found Mr. Clay established in Carroll Hall, in what, in view of his earlier surroundings, was a comfortable room. It was perhaps sixteen feet square, and was lighted by two fairly large windows which opened toward the front of the building, but were heavily barred with iron, as was also the entrance. The cot upon which my husband slept was much too short for his comfort, and a stool was the only seat at his disposal.
After a survey of Mr. Clay’s quarters, I at once called the attention of General Miles to the shortcomings of the cot and the absence of a chair, and in a few hours a mattress sufficiently long and two chairs were brought in. I also requested that a drugget be placed upon the floor of Mr. Davis’s room, in order that the noise caused by the change of guard might be diminished; for, in his nervous state, it was said, he suffered greatly by reason of it. This, I believe, was also conceded. My husband had converted the window-sills of his room into a buffet and book-shelf, respectively, on one of which were kept his medicines and such tidbits and delicacies as were now from time to time sent to him by Dr. Withers, our cousin, or which I carried in with me from Washington friends. On the other, his meagre supply of books, the Bible and Jay’s Prayers being the principal volumes.
349But for his own scrupulous cleanliness, Mr. Clay’s life must long ago have succumbed to his unparalleled deprivations in that cruel imprisonment. So neatly had he kept his cell and room, however, that they were the wonder of all his attendants. It was his custom, when he took his morning bath (he told me), to stand the basin first in one and then another position in the room, splashing the water about as far as he could, after which he would take the broom with which he was provided and brush the wet portions clean! To such depths of cruelty did the agents of Mr. Stanton and Mr. Holt condemn a delicate scholar—a former friend, recently a United States Senator, whose name throughout the land was the synonym............