Читать книгу The Olivia Letters - Emily Edson Briggs - Страница 10

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Seeking Pardon for Those Imprisoned on That Island.

Washington, February 16, 1867.

The reticence of General Grant covers the future with a haze of obscurity. Different Cabinet combinations appear before the public vision, like so many dissolving views of a midsummer night’s dream. The President-elect appears at a dinner party and escorts one of the gentlemen home, and the latter fortunate individual is decided to be an embryo Cabinet minister, and the lobby cries, “Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!”

It is very quiet in Washington, but it is the sultry calm which precedes the storm. All are waiting for the secret which is locked in General Grant’s mind as securely as the genie was fastened in the copper box under the seal of the great Solomon. In the meantime President Johnson is busy providing for his friends, as well as other unfortunates, who are not clamoring at the door of the Executive chamber in vain. Day after day, for months, a few fearfully bereaved women have haunted the White House. Among the number might have been found the wife of Sanford Conover, alias Charles A. Dunham, who perjured himself on the trial of John Surratt, and since his sentence has been serving out his term in State’s prison. Day after day this pale-faced, indefatigable woman has been haunting Mr. Johnson; haunting every man whom she supposed could have any influence in her behalf. At last her unwearying efforts have been crowned with success. Judge Advocate Holt and Honorable A. C. Riddle (one of the counsel on the trial) have said that Conover “without solicitation gave valuable information to the Government, which was used to assist the prosecution, and that he is entitled to the clemency of the Executive on the principle that requires from the Government recognition of such service, and that he has already served two years of his term.”

Another smitten woman’s feet have pressed the costly Wiltons of the Executive Mansion as sorrowfully as Hagar’s did the parched sward of the wilderness. It is the wife of Dr. Mudd, the man who was tried with the other conspirators, and is now serving out his life term at the desolate “Dry Tortugas.” During the last dreadful yellow fever epidemic, our officers on the island testify to the almost superhuman efforts of Dr. Mudd in behalf of the prisoners and soldiers. He seemed to have a charmed life among the dead and dying. There was no duty so loathsome that he shrank from it, and when he could do no more for the sufferers in life he helped to cover their remains with the salted sands. Armed with this testimony of the officers, for months Mrs. Mudd has attended Andrew Johnson like a shadow.

One day last summer a personal friend of the President’s was admitted to the Executive presence. As he took the lady’s hand, he smilingly remarked: “I am sorry that I kept you waiting.”

She replied, “There is another lady who has been waiting longer than I have.”

“Do you know her?” asked the President.

“I never saw her before,” said the lady.

The President called a messenger, saying, “See who is in the ante-room waiting.”

A smile crept over the messenger’s face as he answered, “It’s only Mrs. Mudd.”

“Only Mrs. Mudd,” echoed the President, while a spasm of pain chased over his countenance. “That woman here again, after all I have said?” At the same time the President put both hands to his face.

“Why do you allow yourself to be so annoyed?” said the friend, using the license which belongs to a woman’s friendship.

“The President of the United States ought not be annoyed at anything; besides, I have no right to put any one out of this house who comes to see me on business and behaves with propriety. Don’t let us talk about that; let us think of something else.”

Of all forsaken places on this planet, there is none that will compare in terror to the Dry Tortugas. By the side of it St. Helena is a kind of terrestrial paradise. Neither friendly rock, shrub, tree nor blade of grass is to be seen on its surface. It is a small, burning Sahara, planted in the bosom of the desolate sea, without a single oasis to relieve its savage face. The garrison and prisoners have to depend on cisterns for their supply of water, and out of the thirty-seven carpenters who, in the beginning of the rebellion, went there with the corps of engineers to look after repairs, only four returned alive, and two of these have been confirmed invalids ever since. When one of the carpenters was questioned to explain the great mortality, he said it was owing, at this particular time, to the miserable quarters prepared for the workmen, and to the bad water that was dealt out to them, of which, bad as it was, they could not get enough to supply their pressing wants. The island swarms with insects that bite and sting; and if the soldiers on duty there were not frequently relieved and sent to the mainland, mutiny and its attendant horrors would be sure to follow. When a criminal deserves to expiate ten thousand deaths in one, it is only necessary to send him to the Dry Tortugas.

For several months people have been at work here upon certain nominations which have been sent to the Senate. Mrs. Anna S. Stephens has not been only at work on the life of Andrew Johnson, which she has foretold will end with the one immortal triumph (his escape from his impeachment foes), but she also succeeded in getting her son nominated as consul to Manchester, England. While the venerable mother has labored at the White House, the would-be consul’s wife, in charming silks and costly gems, has sought introductions to leading men who might have some influence with the stony Senate, if they only chose to exercise it. It has become well known in Washington that whenever a man feels ambition swelling in his bosom the best remedy is to send some interesting feminine diplomat to court, and if she does not succeed he will then know it was because the case was hopeless from the beginning. In the good old days of Queen Bess, diplomacy was almost altogether in the hands of the woman; then that was certainly one of the most remarkable eras in the world’s history.

James Parton, the distinguished magazine writer, has been here for several days. He has been seen on the floor of the House, and also in close consultation with many leading members of Congress, as well as doorkeepers, messengers, pages, and all others who are supposed to be wise and serious when talked to in regard to a certain very delicate subject. It is said that Mr. Parton is preparing an article upon the Washington lobby. It is said he is going to hold up the monster in the broad light of day—this creeping, crawling thing, which, in more respects than one, bears a strong resemblance to Victor Hugo’s devil fish; for while it is strong enough to strangle the most powerful man, if once fairly drawn under the surface in its awful embrace, yet if you attempt to pluck it to pieces, piecemeal, you are rewarded with only so much loathsome quivering jelly.

This nation will never realize the debt of gratitude it owes the men who are standing as sentinels at the doors of the Treasury. The Committee on Claims are besieged by an army more terrible in its invincibility than ever stormed the earthworks of fort or doomed city. It is true, the arms used by the enemy are of a kind as old as creation, whilst the flash of an eye answers to the old flintlock or modern percussion cap. As yet these noble men have defended every inch of ground, and many of these fair Southern braves have withdrawn their claims for the present, waiting for another set of sentinels who will replace those on duty now. But more of this anon.

Olivia.