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CHAPTER III

HURSDAY, June 1.- Dreamed of home last night. O Dreams! Visions! Shadows of the brain! What are you? My whole consciousness, since I heard of President Lincoln's assassination, seems nothing but a horrid dream.

It is a week since I entered these walls; three weeks since I was arrested at my home; and just four, I think, since all of the Stephens blood and name in Georgia, accidently, or providentially rather, met at the old homestead. That was a remarkable meeting. Linton and his three children were on a visit to me. We went down to the homestead; there, the widow of my brother, John L., and her family reside. Her three sons, John A., Linton Andrew, and William Grier, had just returned from the army. John had just got home from Johnson's Island where he had been a prisoner a long time; had been captured at Port Hudson in 1863. Mr. Lincoln, at my request, had granted him a special parole, for which I was truly obliged; this parole he had promised me at Hampton Roads, and had complied with his promise. He had written me a letter by John which I never saw until after his assassination. I almost wept over the letter when I saw it. He had sent to Johnson's Island for John. Had a personal interview with him [in Washington], treated him very kindly, spoke in kindly terms of his former acquaintance with me, all the particulars of which John gave me in detail. He let John remain

in Washington as long as he chose, which was five days, I believe.

Linton A. had just gotten home from the army in North Carolina; William G., wounded in the leg, had been home some days from the same army. James Clarence, 15 years old, was at home; he had never been in the army. Mary Reid, their sister, with her little son, Leidy Stephens Reid, who lived with Sister Elizabeth, my brother John's widow, were at home. So all of our name and blood in the South were met together. All but William walked out to the old burying-ground; we stood by the graves of my father and grandfather. The occasion was a solemn one, and the more so that it was near the anniversary of my dear father's death and the dispersion of his little family circle. Will such a meeting ever take place again? I have often reflected upon the fact that many of the most important events of my life have happened in the early part of May; so much so that I have a sort of superstition on the subject. On the 12th of May, 1812, my mother died; on the 7th May, 1826, my father, on the 14th, my stepmother, and in a few days, the family were dispersed. Now, on the 4th, all who were living and their descendants were gathered together for the first time after the dispersion, thirty-nine years before, on or near the same spot. It seemed

ominous.

Rose early. As it is fast day and mourning in memory of Mr. Lincoln, I had requested Mr. Geary, the corporal, to bring me from sutler's nothing but a cup of hot coffee and rolls. These he brought at seven. I noticed he brought the rolls on an earthen plate. This is an improvement in kindness and attention.

On the 7th of May last, Sunday, and the anniversary

of my father's death, Harry came into my room about day and told me "The Yankees are here." "Where?" I asked. "All about in the yard and in the lot," he replied. "Well," said I, getting up, "Harry, I expect they have come for me, they will probably take me away; you may never see me after to-day. I want you to take care of my things and to do as I have told you in all particulars as far as you can. Have they asked for me? "No," he replied; "they only said they wanted breakfast and corn for their horses." "Give them what they want," I said, and dressed myself in readiness to leave in case I should be arrested. That dress was unchanged -pants, coat, and vest - until this morning when I put on a thinner suit. But to return to the scenes of that Sunday morning. Harry reappeared and told me that the officer in command said he wished to see me; that I need be under no apprehension of arrest, all he wanted was breakfast and feed for his horses; he expressed high regard for me personally. I went out and met him in the passage. He announced himself as Lieutenant White of the 13th Tennessee, of General Stoneman's command. We talked in a friendly way until breakfast. He and four of his men sat down with me to my table. My brother and his family were also present.

During the day Lieut.-Colonel Stacy, in command of the 13th Tenn. Cav. Reg., came into town with a battalion, and sent his adjutant to say he would be glad to see and take tea with me. My response was for him to "come, I should be glad to see him." In the evening he, his adjutant, and Dr. Cameron, surgeon of the regiment, called, spent some time and took tea. Conversation was agreeable. I invited them to stay all night; they declined but accepted my invitation for breakfast.

They gave me to understand that they were in pursuit of Mr. Davis. Monday, after breakfast, they all left by the Sparta road. Monday night, Major Dyer with a battalion arrived; he left Tuesday morning.

Tuesday morning my brother and his three children, and little Emmie Stevens, daughter of Rev. Carlos W. Stevens, of Sparta, left for home. That was my last sight of Linton, perhaps forever. Soon after his departure, considering it most probable that I should be arrested and at an early day, about which we had talked and agreed, I went to the homestead to see my servants there; I gave them all the information I could regarding the condition of public affairs and my own situation. I told them they were now free, at which I was perfectly contented and satisfied; that I might and probably should be taken away from them soon and perhaps hung; that I wished them, if they saw fit, to remain there and finish the crop. I thought this would be best for them; they should have half of what was made and be subsisted out of supplies on hand; at the end of the year, if I were in life and permitted, I would furnish lands to such as wished to remain for the future, dividing the plantation into small farms or settlements which they could occupy, paying rent. I took a parting and affectionate leave of them. That is the last time I have seen them all together.

At home, I called in Harry, my ever true and faithful servant on the lot, and made him a bill of sale for the mules and buggy horses there. He had deposited with me for several years his private earnings; these amounted, I think, with interest to $662. I sold him the mules and horses, to which he was attached, for the debt; he was perfectly willing. They were worth more, but I gave him the difference. I gave him general instructions how

to manage, in event of my arrest, until he should hear from me. Subsistence for the summer was the main point. My corn was scarce, not enough on hand. I had some conversation with Mary Reid and John on the same subject but not so full as I wished. We were interrupted by company. The conversation with her, I think, was on Wednesday. I staid at home, not wishing by absence to seem to be avoiding arrest, which from the time I left Richmond, I considered my ultimate fate. I felt distressed and pained at the use made and turn given by the authorities at Richmond to the report of the Commissioners of their conference with President Lincoln and Mr. Seward at Hampton Roads. It seems they were controlled by the genii of fatality. "Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat" seems strongly to apply to them.

At the close of the last sentence, Lieut. W. entered for the usual morning walk. We went on the parapet; looked at target shooting by a company; rested under music-band arbour. He informed me that my room had never been occupied by any prisoner except Captain Webb of the Atlanta and some of his men; this in reply to my question prompted by writings on the wall.

A favourite maxim in my life has been, "The world treats a man very much as he treats it," or, "Whoever kicks the world will be apt to be kicked in turn." This was given me soon after my majority, by a man of experience, while I was chafing under some ill usage. I have repeated it to many young persons since. It recurs to me often since I have been here, obtruding itself upon the mind as Job's comforters pressed their consolations on him. The inquiry springs up: "Do you hold to your maxim? If so, must you not admit that you have