30 Within Old Libby’s Walls

Pembroke sent us at once under escort to Richmond, and we arrived in the Southern capital, then flushed with great successes and greater hopes. The battle of Antietam, as bloody as Shiloh, and fought not long before our arrival, had proved a temporary check for the South, but the people of Richmond were disposed to make light of it. “McClellan’s army outnumbered Lee’s two or three to one,” they would say, “and even then it was a draw. The North can never conquer us, though it borrows men from all the world.”

We made the last stages of our journey to Richmond by rail, and it was twilight when we passed through the fortifications that surrounded the capital of the Confederacy. I looked with eager interest at this little city, to win which we had shed so much blood already—and in vain—but, being a prisoner and not a tourist, I saw little of it. I saw, however, two sweet-faced women, one middle-aged and the other young, come forward to meet Elinor, and I knew by the resemblance that they were the mother and sister of Pembroke. Elinor was permitted to say good-bye to me, and then I was taken to Libby Prison, where I found a numerous and goodly company. Yet I went with a willing mind, feeling at ease about Elinor, and rejoicing in my soul over the double defeat of Varian. I was in the prison a week without word from anybody, but at the end of that time Mary Pembroke came with a message that Elinor was well and happy, and sent her dearest love, and bade me be of good cheer, as I had powerful friends who would see that I came to no harm.

“She could not get permission to enter the prison,” said Miss Pembroke, “but I was allowed to come in her place because of the services of my family to the cause. Charles himself will be here next week, and we shall try to get you exchanged.”

Miss Pembroke was a handsome, fair girl of twenty, bearing a marked resemblance to her brother. I discovered, too, in our quarter of an hour together, that she was of a romantic temperament, and Elinor’s story appealed to her most strongly. My wife was installed already in the hearts of her mother and herself, and they intended to keep her in their home until the Southern armies entered Washington and dictated a peace.

“For you know we are going to do it,” said Miss Pembroke, defiantly.

“If it was always the spirit of the Southern women that led the way you would,” I replied.

This was not wholly a compliment or a jest, as everybody knows it was the Southern women who were the last to give up, and the men themselves were long enough about it. In truth, I do not know that many of the former have given up yet.

“Elinor herself hopes soon for permission to see you,” said Miss Pembroke. “We live in Grace Street, not far from the White House of the Confederacy, and President Davis dined with us two days ago. Elinor did not wish to be present, but mother said she must, and she yielded. I loaned her one of my dresses, and it shows how self-sacrificing I am, Mr. Kingsford, as she so outshone me that I felt quite subdued and small. I don’t think that Mr. Davis caught her name when she was introduced, as he said by and bye, ‘I shall not let it be known that we have such beauty in Richmond, as it may tempt some gallant young officers from the front, although I know that nothing else can.’

“‘You may tell any one who feels inclined to come,’ replied Elinor, pertly, ‘that I have a husband at least six feet tall.’ ‘A husband,’ said Mr. Davis, in great surprise; ‘and pray where is he, madam?’ ‘In Libby Prison,’ she replied. ‘He is a Northern soldier.’ Mr. Davis hum-hummed a half dozen times, and then he said, ‘That’s bad ’; but his face brightened, and he added: ‘No, it’s good; you can convert him into a true Southerner; I should think, madam, you have only to ask’; and then he looked his admiration so plainly that Elinor blushed, but she was not angry, for I would have you to know that she is a woman just like the rest of us. They did not talk any more about you, Mr. Kingsford, but mother says that the most influential friend that you have is your own wife.”

It was another week before I heard from any of my old friends, although I was making new ones within the walls of old Libby, Northern soldiers imprisoned there like myself. Then a guard told me that three Southern officers wished to see me, and I was taken forward under escort to meet them. They were Pembroke, De Courcelles, and Tourville, and it was a joyous meeting. De Courcelles, in his French effusiveness, almost embraced me, and then he called my attention to his fine Confederate uniform.

“I could not resist,” he said. “I did not come to this country to fight. Sacre nom de guerre, non! It was none of my business. I was to be a diplomat. A wise man never meddles in the affairs of a land other than his own, but I saw this uniform, I put it on, it fitted so beautifully, I looked so well in it that I became full of warlike ardour, my veins burned with fire; I saw myself leading the charging squadrons, un grand Napoleon. I hastened to the Confederate authorities. ‘You have a chance to get one great soldier; take me quick, before I join the Northern army,’ I said, and they took me quick. So behold me the faithful and devoted soldier of the Southern States of America, whose quarrel is no business of mine.”

“And a good soldier he has made,” said Pembroke. “He has been promoted twice for gallantry in action.”

“It was the splendid uniform, not I!” cried De Courcelles. “Sacre nom de guerre, non!”

Tourville’s greeting was as warm as ever, but he was much more quiet than in the old days before the war. I looked at him with curiosity to see the reason of this great change, and Pembroke’s eyes followed mine. He laughed and then said:

“It’s true, it’s the same old Tourville, but he’s changed. A lot of that hot South Carolina blood was let out of him on the field of Seven Pines, where an inconsiderate bullet passed through his shoulder.—Isn’t it so, Tourville?”

“It’s true, of course,” replied Tourville, and he smiled. “We are not going to give you fellows, Kingsford, your beating as soon as you deserve, but we are going to do it nevertheless.”

“Thanks for the present,” I said, “but after we shall have been properly punished and the Confederacy duly formed, what is going to happen to it should South Carolina become dissatisfied with her condition?”

“Do you know, Henry,” exclaimed Pembroke, “that there is an old Virginia colonel up here, who says, ‘By God, sah, South Carolina brought on the war, and Virginia has to fight it!’”

“It is untrue, like all other epigrams!” exclaimed Tourville, defensively.

“Come outside,” said Pembroke; “I have something of importance to tell you, something that concerns you very nearly. De Courcelles and Tourville also know it and they can come with us.”

His face became grave, and I followed him into the yard. We sat down there on a little mound of earth, and other prisoners who were taking the air looked curiously at us, but refrained from speaking or coming too near.

“Varian is in Richmond,” said Pembroke.

“I do not see how that is bad news for me,” I replied. “The man’s character must become known to the Confederate authorities, and they will not tolerate such conduct as his.”

“But you do not understand the situation,” continued Pembroke. “Varian tells a story altogether unlike yours. Don’t flush that way—I never said that I believed him. I’ve known you too long, Henry, to think that you would lie. I merely give his tale as he tells it. He says you were his prisoner, and that he treated you with the utmost kindness, allowing you to remain in your house. He gave you your parole and you foully broke it. You slipped away, and then you cozened and kidnapped a young girl to whom he was betrothed, going with her through some sort of a ceremony and then attempting to escape to the Northern lines, but fortunately he recaptured you both. His lieutenant, Blanchard, swears that everything Varian tells is the truth.”

“They lie! They lie in every word!” I broke out indignantly.

“So they do,” continued Pembroke; “but he has brought Mrs. Maynard with him from the West, and she too supports Varian in all or most that he says. Oh, she is furious against you! And you must bear in mind, Henry, that Varian is one of our most brilliant leaders. They say that he can become a Jeb Stuart or even a Stonewall Jackson if he has the opportunity. He has rendered us services of the greatest value, and as we are expecting more and greater from him, how can the authorities punish him, especially when he pleads not guilty? Think—think, Henry, how little the word of a mere prisoner, an enemy to us, will weigh against the assertion of one of our most brilliant and influential generals, even in the minds of men most honourable and fair-minded.”

“And he makes no secret of his love for the beautiful young Madam Kingsford!” exclaimed De Courcelles. “That creates him sympathy and friends, and, mon Dieu, you are a most troublesome fellow, Monsieur Kingsford. Half the young men left in Richmond are already wishing that somebody would make your lovely wife your widow. But you have friends too. There is a faction that applauds you because you were bold enough to steal away the girl who loved you. Your very presumption, Mr. Kingsford, has made you admirers, as one of whom I beg to present myself.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Pembroke. “Your fame is made and you did not know it. Everybody is talking about you, and the young fellows have hung around our door to get a sight of Elinor, who they hear is the most beautiful woman in the world. The newspapers have taken up the affair, and naturally they have divided. The Whig supports you warmly, but the Examiner insists that Varian has been wronged foully, and that you ought to be shot. Varian himself is most active. He has seen President Davis, and he is to have an interview with General Lee, who will be here in a few days. He wants the courts to annul this marriage, and he is going to bring all possible pressure to bear upon them.”

“The courts can do nothing without Elinor,” I said with scorn.

“That is true, but Mrs. Maynard makes a demand for Elinor, who is a minor, and we shall be compelled to give her up, as her aunt is her legal guardian.”

“They can not break Elinor’s will even then,” I said confidently.

“No,” replied Pembroke, “but something may happen to you, and after that could a young girl resist such pressure always? But I trust, Henry, you will not forget that you have friends outside these walls who will work for you according to their power.”

They left us, and, despite my faith in Elinor, I had gloomy days—more for her than for myself. Her love for me was proving her misfortune, but I would not dream of giving it up.

Time passed. My friends came to see me occasionally, but Elinor never. They told me that she was with her aunt, and could visit as she chose in the city, but permission to enter the prison and see me was denied her. It was Varian’s influence, they had no doubt. Then these loyal friends too disappeared, and there came rumours to us in the prison of some great movement. Although it was winter, the armies of the North were advancing, and a battle was impending. Then came another rumour—one that filled our prison with sad faces. The North had failed again. Burnside had hurled his army against Lee, who stood on the hills of Fredericksburg, and our forces had been cut to pieces. Fifteen thousand of our brave men had fallen—to no purpose.

“Is it always to be this way?” groaned one of my fellow-prisoners, a captain. “Do our generals think that we have too many men, and try to get them killed off?”

I could give him no comfort, and when Pembroke came back the story that he told me did not relieve our gloom.

“It was a headlong charge against an impregnable position,” he said. “Your troops were as brave as mortal men could be, and they attacked not once or twice but a half-dozen times or more. But it was not in human flesh and blood to stand so much, and they had to retreat at last.”

It was a bitter cold morning when he told me this, and I had been allowed to walk in a court a little for fresh air. I shivered, both from the effects of the cold and the tale that he had to tell.

“The city is exultant,” he says; “but God knows I can not rejoice over the killing and wounding of so many of our brethren.”

It was a dark, lowering day, full of mists and vapours. The cold winds blew down from the hills and moaned around the brick walls of the old tobacco warehouse that had become Libby Prison. I looked at the gloomy building and forbidding skies and longed for freedom.

“What of Elinor?” I asked at last. But she had been in my mind all the time.

“She is still with her aunt in the house that Mrs. Maynard has taken in Grace Street near ours,” said Pembroke. “My mother and sisters go to see her there, and she has had her share in the winter gaieties of Richmond; not that she enjoys them—I can not say so much, but it was best for her to do so, at least to make the appearance. She has been present at a dinner and a reception at the President’s house, and she may go wherever she chooses, save here.”

I felt a pang of pain and jealousy. Elinor in the midst of winter gaieties, while I, her husband, was lying in prison, but I dismissed it in a moment as an unworthy thought against the truest woman in the world. It was right for her to hold up her head and defy all our enemies.

One of the guards, a rough but kind-hearted North Carolinian, called on me the next day and told me that I was to see a lady who was waiting in a room next to the commandant’s office.

“A purty one too, she is,” he said in his mountain dialect; “an’ now march along, will you, Mr. Kingsford, ’cause I’ve got orders ter watch yer and shoot yer if yer try ter break out, which I hope, fer yer own sake and mine too, yer won’t try ter do.”

I promised him that I would not provoke a shot, and went on ahead in the way that he indicated, feeling sure that the lady was Miss Pembroke, and hoping to hear from her news that her brother would never think to bring. Women are much better news-bearers than men on these occasions.

“In thar,” said my guard. “Thar’s nobody else in thar but her, and nobody else ain’t goin’ ter hear what yer say; but recollec’ that ef yer try ter break out, I’m here at the door with a gun.”

I pushed open the door and entered. It was dark in the little room, and a lady wrapped in a heavy fur cloak sat in a chair, waiting. I did not need to see her face; the mere outline of that figure was enough. I knew that it was Elinor. “Elinor!” I cried, and the next moment she was in my arms.

“Yes, it is I, Henry,” she said, “and I have come to see you at last. Had you thought me faithless?”

I called punishment upon my own head for that single moment of doubt. There was nothing but truth in her eyes and voice, nor could ever be.

“How did you secure leave to come here?” I asked, as we sat down side by side.

She smiled and then laughed—a low laugh, but yet a laugh.

“It was a woman who did it,” she said. “Even I myself. It was at President Davis’s reception to his victorious generals three nights ago—behold how I have fallen into the Southern habit of calling him ‘President’—and I walked with him a little in the halls when the others were dancing. I think he likes me, Henry, and—and I sought especially to please him that evening. I said I thought the Confederacy would triumph. Won’t I get forgiveness for saying that, Henry? And I indicated rather than spoke of the wisdom with which it was governed—all men are only mortal, Henry, and we women learn these weak points; we must if we mean to continue our rule. I could have led you more easily; he was difficult—oh, so difficult!—and I all the time thinking of you here in this gloomy prison. And then I began to talk of you. I said to him that if he were locked up in a prison and his wife were here in the city, going wherever she chose, except where her husband was, would he not feel that he was treated badly? ‘But, my dear young madam,’ he protested, ‘you have been deceived. You have married this man under a misapprehension as to his character. General Varian, one of our most brilliant and deserving leaders says that Mr. Kingsford broke his parole. We ought to have him shot, and perhaps it is for your sake that I do not have it done. I know you love him, and that is why you believe what he says; but it is a fatal truth that a woman both good and brilliant may love a bad or even foolish man. There is your aunt, who has had both experience and judgment, who, although knowing nothing about the question of the parole, is as bitter as General Varian against this young man.’

“But I would not let him talk me down, Henry. I insisted that a woman’s instinct was true; that you would not do anything dishonourable, and that General Varian said these things of you because he hated you. ‘It might be so,’ he replied under his breath—so very low, but I heard him—and when he said it he gave me a queer look. Then he laughed and added: ‘well, I shall let you see this man. It can do no harm, perhaps, although I am sure that it will do no good either.’ But he wrote the order that very evening—I would not let him wait—although he made it good for to-day only; and now I have come, Henry.”

I asked her then about her life in Richmond.

“I have many friends,” she said. “Nobody could be kinder to me than the Pembrokes, and Mary is the dearest girl in the world. De Courcelles thinks so too, and swears that he has been devoted all his life to the cause of the South, even before he ever saw America, and he is a zealous defender of the Southern cause, most zealous of all when Mary is present. And I have other friends too. It is why I have accepted the hospitality of all these kind people in Richmond, and have gone with them to their entertainments. I was selfish in it perhaps, but I was selfish for you, for us. I wished to secure the aid of those powerful enough to defeat the plans of General Varian against us, and I believe that I have, Henry.”

I kissed her hands, saying that never did man have such a wife as mine. She blushed with pleasure, and I say, moreover, that what I said I meant. The short time allotted to us passed all too soon, but even after she was gone the light of her presence seemed to illuminate for me the gloomy prison.

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