Four Years in Rebel Capitals | Page 9

man in Washington. Nervous men heard signal for
bloody outbreak in every unfamiliar sound. Thoughtful ones peered
beyond the mist and saw the boiling of the mad breakers, where eight
millions of incensed and uncontrolled population hurled themselves
against the granite foundation of the established government. Selfish
heads tossed upon sleepless pillows, haunted by the thought that the
dawn would break upon a great change, boding ruin to their prospects,
monetary or political. Even the butterflies felt that there was a
something impending; incomprehensible, but uncomfortably suggestive
of work instead of pleasure. So Washington rose red-eyed and
unrefreshed on the 4th of March, 1861.
Elaborate preparations had been made to have the day's ceremonial
brilliant and imposing beyond precedent. Visiting militia and civil
organizations from every quarter--North, East and West--had been
collecting for days, and meeting reception more labored than
spontaneous. The best bands of the country had flocked to the Capital,
to drown bad blood in the blare of brass; and all available cavalry and
artillery of the regular army had been hastily rendezvoused, for the
double purpose of spectacle and security. Still the public mind was
feverish and unquiet; and the post commandant was like the public
mind.
Rumors were again rife of raids over the Potomac, with Henry A. Wise

or Ben McCullough at their head; nightmares of plots to rob the
Treasury and raze the White House sat heavy on the timid; while
extremists manufactured long-haired men, with air guns, secreted here
and there and sworn to shoot Mr. Lincoln, while reading his inaugural.
All night long, orderlies were dashing to and fro at breakneck speed;
and guard details were marching to all points of possible danger. Day
dawn saw a light battery drawn up on G street facing the Treasury,
guns unlimbered and ready for action; while infantry held both
approaches to the Long Bridge across the Potomac. Other bodies of
regulars were scattered at points most available for rapid concentration;
squadrons of cavalry were stationed at the crossings of several avenues;
and all possible precautions were had to quell summarily any
symptoms of riot.
These preparations resembling more the capital of Mexico than that of
the United States, were augury of the peace of the administration thus
ushered in! Happily, they were needless. All who remember that
inauguration will recall the dull, dead quiet with which the day passed
off. The very studiousness of precaution took away from the enjoyment
of the spectacle even; and a cloud was thrown over the whole event by
the certainty of trouble ahead. The streets were anxious and all gayety
showed effort, while many lowering faces peeped at the procession
from windows and housetops.
It was over at last. The new man had begun with the new era; and
Staple and I had finished our chasse at Wormley's dinner table, when
that worthy's pleasant, yellow face peered in at the door.
As we jumped into the carriage awaiting us and Wormley banged the
door, a knot of loungers ran up to say good-bye. They were all
men-about-town; and if not very dear to each other, it was still a
wrench to break up associations with those whose faces had been
familiar to every dinner and drive and reception for years. We had
never met but in amity and amid the gayest scenes; now we were
plunging into a pathless future. Who could tell but a turn might bring us
face to face, where hands would cross with a deadly purpose; while the
hiss of the Minié-ball sang accompaniment in place of the last galop

that Louis Weber had composed.
"Better stay where you are, boys!"--"You're making a bad thing of
it!"--"Don't leave us Styles, old fellow!"--"You'll starve down South,
sure!"--were a few of the hopeful adieux showered at us.
"Thank you all, just the same, but I think we won't stay," Staple
responded. "What would 'the house' do? God bless you, boys!
Good-bye, Jim!"
CHAPTER II.
"THE CRADLE OF THE CONFEDERACY."
Evening had fallen as evening can fall only in early Washington spring.
As we plunged into the low, close cabin of the Acquia Creek steamer of
that day, there was a weak light, but a strong smell of kerosene and
whisky. Wet, steamy men huddled around the hot stove, talking blatant
politics in terms as strong as their liquor. So, leaving the reek below,
we faced the storm on deck, vainly striving to fix the familiar city lights
as they faded through the mist and rain; more vainly still peering into
the misty future, through driving fancies chasing each other in the
brain.
The journey south in those days was not a delight. Its components were
discomfort, dust and doubt. As we rattled through at gray of dawn,
Richmond was fast asleep, blissfully ignorant of that May morning
when