Part 2

I stayed in Canada, at Windsor and Kingsville, four months. During that winter (1863-4) occurred cold New Year’s Day. I went to a Methodist watch meeting the night before and stayed until after midnight. When I got back to my hotel at Kingsville it was blustering and getting cold fast. The next morning by seven or eight o’clock it was so cold that neither the young man that was with me nor myself could hardly get out of bed. It was eighteen degrees below zero then, and got worse during the day. Lake Erie froze over from side to side so thick as to allow heavy teams to cross over it a distance of forty miles. Some Confederate prisoners who were confined at Johnson’s Island made their escape on the ice to Canada. One of these in making his escape was wounded by the Federal guard and was taken to a farmhouse near Kingsville. Everybody skated in that country, and I soon learned the sport. While so engaged I became acquainted with the Misses Harris, two handsome and refined young ladies, residing at Kingsville, who were the granddaughters of Simon Girty, the renegade. Their mother, the daughter of this infamous character in the pioneer days of our country, was then still living.

I learned to make cigars while I was up there in Canada, and I got short of funds before I left, and my landlady took my stock of cigars which I had left for a balance on my board-bill. It was very small,—only $1.75 a week for board and lodging.

When I went to Canada, I got to the Hirons House in Windsor and thought I would register. I looked over the register to see if I knew anybody stopping there. I knew there was a lot of Confederates who had gotten out of Camp Douglas and gone to Canada. I looked over the page, and nearly every one whose signature I saw on it—I recognized a good many of them—had registered his name, Company, Regiment, Brigade, Confederate States Army. Thinks I, if they can so register, I can too. So I wrote my name in full with Company and Regiment, Gen. John H. Morgan’s Command, C. S. A.

RETURN TO KENTUCKY.

When I prepared to leave Canada, I knew a Confederate soldier was watched by detectives from across the Detroit River. I got on the train from the East as it slowed up and came into Windsor. I do not recall whether it was a Grand Trunk train or the Canadian Pacific, but at any rate I got off the train before we reached the depot, and some detective evidently saw me. When I got out among the other passengers and undertook to get on the ferry boat, he was following me. Thinks I, this won’t do, and I got off and mixed up with the other passengers again. After eluding him, I went down in the engine room of the ferry boat, and stayed there until I crossed over to Detroit, and he was thus unable to find me.

Another thing: I thought I had become pretty well known, and to disguise myself, I had my hair dyed before leaving Windsor. You can imagine what a sight I was. My moustache and chin whiskers were dyed a deep black with nitrate of silver or some sort of preparation. I paid five dollars for it, I know. In that way, I came on to Kentucky without being detected. I came to Covington, and at a restaurant there I sat right opposite a man that was with me and knew me well in Windsor. He had gone up there, I think, to evade the draft. He did not recognize me at all. I did not say anything to him, nor he to me. I was pretty well disguised.

It was in April, 1864, when I returned to Kentucky from Canada. While watching a chance to go back to the Confederacy, I worked on a farm three weeks near Florence, in Boone County, a town afterward celebrated, in John Uri Lloyd’s novel, as “Stringtown-on-the-Pike.” While there I visited, on Sundays, my aunt and family, who lived nearby.

BACK WITHIN THE CONFEDERATE LINES.

On General Morgan’s last raid into the State, I joined a small portion of his forces near Mount Sterling, having made my way to them alone on horseback from Boone County. By the way, I got my horse—borrowed it, of course—from the enemy. There were a lot of Government horses in the neighborhood where I was at work. On reaching Virginia, in June, 1864, I attached myself temporarily to Capt. James E. Cantrill’s battalion, which was a remnant of Gen. Morgan’s old command, with which I remained until the following October, when after the defeat of Gen. Burbridge at the battle of Saltville I got with my old regiment, commanded by Col. Breckinridge then forming a part of Gen. John S. Williams’ Brigade. Meantime Gen. Morgan was killed at Greenville, Tenn., on September 4, 1864, where I was present as a member of Cantrill’s battalion (under the command of Gen. Duke, who had been exchanged), and a few days later was one of those who went, with a flag of truce, to recover his dead body, which was sent to Richmond, Va., for burial. After the war it was disinterred and brought to Lexington, Ky., whose beautiful cemetery is its last resting place. In that city in later years, as you know, a magnificent and life-like equestrian monument to our beloved General’s memory was dedicated in the presence of a vast throng of people, including many survivors of his old command.

SHERMAN’S MARCH THROUGH GEORGIA.

We returned to Georgia in time to follow in the rear of Sherman in his “march to the sea.” Under Gen. Wheeler, as we followed in the path of desolation left by Sherman’s army, we were daily engaged with Gen. Kilpatrick’s cavalry, and for eight days were without bread or meat, living on sweet potatoes alone, the only food left from destruction by the Federal troops. The first meat we ate after this fast was some fresh beef, which we found in a camp from which we had just driven the enemy before they had had time to cook and eat it.

THE SURRENDER.

When the news of Gen. Lee’s surrender was received, our brigade was at Raleigh, N. C. President Davis and his Cabinet officers joined us at Greensboro, N. C., and our command escorted them from there to Washington, Ga., where it disbanded. I rode to Augusta, Ga., with Lieut. William Messick, who was from Danville, Ky., and there I surrendered to the 18th Indiana Infantry Regiment, then occupying the city, and received my parole May 9, 1865.

Before we were disbanded at Washington, Ga., the remnants of the funds of the Confederate States, in specie, that had been hauled by wagons through from Richmond, was distributed among the troops at that time. I remember the men of our brigade got $26.00 a piece. Most of it was in Mexican dollars, silver money. I brought it home with me. Fortunately, I had enough to get home on without using that money, and, after our marriage, my wife and I thought it would be a good idea to have that silver made into spoons. We took it down to Duhme & Company, at Cincinnati, and enjoined upon them to use that silver, and no other, in a set of tablespoons, and those spoons are on our table today.

No man can fully or correctly appreciate the value of personal liberty who has never been a prisoner. At least three-fourths of Morgan’s men felt what it was to endure the fearful life of a Northern military prison, and many of them were humiliated by incarceration in the loathsome dungeons and cells of penitentiaries while prisoners of war. Fortunately for me, I escaped from Camp Douglas in time to avoid the starvation policy subsequently inaugurated there, which was said to have been enforced by way of retaliation for the treatment Federal prisoners received at Andersonville, Ga. The difference between the two was that at Andersonville the Confederates did not have the food to give the prisoners, while in the North, the Federal authorities had plenty, and refused to supply it to Confederate prisoners in sufficient quantities. Of the seven members of our mess Clay and I left in Camp Douglas, three died there, one took the oath, and the other three, after twenty-one months of horrid prison life, were exchanged a few weeks before the close of the war. Only one of these three is now alive. He is living in Montgomery County, near Mount Sterling. Of the three who died there, one was James Richard Allen, who, in the presidential campaign of 1860 by the “Hoosier Boys” referred to, was the representative of Douglas; and afterward, in 1862, came South, and joined the Confederate Army as I had done. He had been captured somewhere in Virginia, as I now recall.

DARING SPIRIT OF MORGAN’S MEN.

The same restless, daring spirit that actuated Morgan’s men in the field characterized them in prison, and out of eighteen hundred prisoners taken on the Indiana and Ohio raid not less than six hundred of them escaped from Camps Morton and Douglas. I have heard that one of the Chicago newspapers stated during the war that even if Morgan’s men had done nothing to distinguish them before their capture on the raid through Indiana and Ohio, they had immortalized themselves by their wonderfully successful escapes from prison.

The extraordinary escape of Gen. Morgan himself, together with Capts. Hines, Sheldon, Taylor, Hockersmith, Bennett and McGee, from the Ohio State Prison, stands without a parallel in military history. You cannot imagine my surprise after getting on the cars at Paris en route to Canada, on the occasion already referred to, in December, 1863, when I picked up a Cincinnati Daily Gazette, some passenger had left on the seat, and read the graphic account of this unexpected escape of our General and six of his Captains the night before. My heart leaped with joy at the news, but I dared not give expression to my delight by the utterance of a word.

INCIDENT ON FERRY BOAT AT COVINGTON.

Getting on the ferry boat at Covington on the Kentucky side, on my trip to Canada, just as it was landing coming over from the Cincinnati side, I saw ten or fifteen steps ahead of me my uncle, Higgins Lane, and my aunt, his wife, from Indiana. He was my mother’s brother, whom I dearly loved, but knew to be an intense Union man. And uncle as he was, I was afraid that he would expose me and have me arrested. I immediately dodged around the boat and did not see him any more. I learned afterward that I had misjudged him, and done him an injustice. He announced that he would not have thought of such a thing as having me arrested. At my home at Owingsville, in Bath County, after the war, my wife and I had the pleasure of entertaining him and my aunt as hospitably as was in our power.

INCIDENT AT THE ISLAND HOUSE IN TOLEDO.

I may further relate, on that trip to Canada, I stopped at the Island House in Toledo. I thought I would go into Detroit in daylight, and see where I was going when I got there, and crossed the river into Canada. I registered at the hotel mentioned as usual, and went up to supper on the next floor. After I finished and was walking out of the dining room, a fellow stepped up behind me and said: “I guess we will settle right here.” Well, one has to think pretty fast under those circumstances. He impressed me as a detective, who thought he had found his man. I said, “Settle for what?” He responded, “Settle for your supper.” I was greatly relieved. I said, “Why, my dear sir, I have registered here at this hotel and expect to stay all night.” He said, “Well, that is different. Then I will go down and see the register.” I was in the habit of registering at hotels under almost any sort of name that occurred to me at the time. I never registered under my own name, and I had to look at the register to see what it was. I knew I could tell my handwriting. When I got up to the register and saw what it was, I said, “There it is.” Said he, “That’s all right.”

COL. GEORGE ST. LEGER GRENFELL.

Most of the survivors of Gen. Morgan’s command remember that brave and gallant soldier, Col. George St. Leger Grenfell, who came to us and was on Gen. Morgan’s staff, after long and faithful service in the British army. He did me a kindness during the war, which I have remembered with gratitude ever since. By an accident my horse’s back had become so sore he could not be ridden, and in the fall of 1862, while leading him and wearily walking in the column over a mountain road in East Tennessee, Col. Grenfell came riding by, accompanied by a subordinate, who had in charge a led horse. Observing my plight, he stopped, and asked me the cause; and when told, requested me to mount his led horse, and when mine got well to return his to him, which offer I gladly accepted.

Afterward, Col. Grenfell, for alleged complicity in the plot to release the Confederate prisoners from Camp Douglas, was arrested by the Federal authorities and sentenced to imprisonment at Fort Jefferson, Tortugas Island. In April, 1867, my brother, Maj. Valentine H. Stone, of the 5th United States Regular Artillery, who had been stationed at Fortress Monroe for eighteen months, was assigned to take command at Fort Jefferson. He was two years older than I, and he was the brother who, as one of the “Hoosier Boys,” advocated the cause of Bell and Everett in 1860. He afterward went into the Army, the 5th Regular U. S. Artillery. I will have more to say of him directly. On learning where he had been assigned, I wrote to him, giving an account of Col. Grenfell’s kindness to me on the occasion referred to, and requesting him to do all in his power, consistent with his duty, to alleviate the prison life of my old army friend, who was, as a true soldier and gentleman, worthy of such consideration. With this request there was a faithful compliance on the part of my brother, which Col. Grenfell gratefully appreciated. I was permitted to correspond with Col. Grenfell, and several letters passed between us.

In September, 1867, yellow fever broke out at Fort Jefferson. Col. Grenfell, having had large experience with this dreadful disease, faithfully nursed all who were stricken down among the garrison as well as other prisoners. My brother’s wife was one of the first victims. After her death, my brother started North with his little three-year-old boy, but, was taken ill of yellow fever while aboard the vessel, and died at Key West. In a letter written by Col. Grenfell the next day, in which he gave me an account of my brother’s death, he stated:

I deeply regret that his leaving this place prevented my nursing him throughout the malady. Care does more than doctors, and he had great confidence in my nursing. * * * I am tired and grieved, having been now twenty-one days and nights by the bedsides of the sick (last night was my first night passed in bed)—grieved on account of the death of your brother, who was the only officer that ever showed me any kindness since I first came here. I wish I could say that they had not been positively inimical and cruel. But your brother’s arrival put an end to all that. I am much afraid that the old system will soon again be in force.

From this grand old soldier I received a few months later the following interesting letter:

Fort Jefferson, January 15, 1868.

H. L. Stone, Esq.—Dear Sir: Your always welcome letter of the 22nd of December was duly received, and, believe me, I appreciate and reciprocate your kind expressions of regard. I owe to your friendship the knowledge imparted to Gen. Basil Duke that the heavy restrictions placed on me for no fault of mine by former commanders had been removed by the humanity of your poor brother, and I am happy to say that the present commander, Maj. Andrews, walks in Maj. Stone’s steps. As long as our conduct is good, we need fear no punishment. I was rather afraid when I read in your letter that you had published mine to you. I do not know what I wrote, but believe that you would not have done so if I had said anything unguardedly which might get me into trouble. This is not to be wondered at when I tell you that I was shut up in a close dungeon for ten months, every orifice carefully stopped up except one for air, denied speech with any one, light, books, or papers. I could neither write nor receive letters. I was gagged twice, tied up by the thumbs twice, three times drowned (I am not exaggerating), and all this for having written an account to a friend of some punishment inflicted on soldiers and prisoners here, and the bare truth only, which statement he (Gen. Johnson) published in the New York World. I fear, therefore, giving publicity to anything; not that I am afraid of Maj. Andrews (I have really not a fault to find with him), but tigers have claws and sometimes use them.

It was gratifying to hear that your poor little orphan nephew arrived safely at his maternal grandfather’s. I knew little of the child, but from what I heard he was a very shrewd one. He was too young to feel his loss deeply. I have two cypresses which I am taking care of (they came from Havana) and mean to place on Mrs. Stone’s grave, which is on an island about a mile from this.

Maj. Stoner’s bridal trip was nearly turned into a funeral. (I forget that instance. I wrote him something about it. Perhaps some of you remember Maj. Stoner’s bridal trip when he married Miss Rogers. He had some trouble with the conductor. I forget now what it was.)

What a savage the conductor must have been! The Major wanted two or three of his command to be near him at the time of the assault.

Basil Duke and Charlton Morgan write that they are busy enlisting in my favor all the influence that they can command—Mr. G. Pendleton and others. I have also a very good letter from a Mrs. Bell, of Garrettsville, Ky., wife of Capt. Darwin Bell, who promises that Garrett Smith and some other friends of hers will interest themselves to procure my release. She read in some local paper an extract from, I suppose, my letter to you, and she says: “My husband, who bears a kindly remembrance of you in the war, and myself, felt ashamed to sit over our happy fireside whilst his old comrade was wearing out his life in captivity, and we determined to work until we obtained your liberty.” I have also a letter from Mr. S. M. Barlow, of New York, a prominent Democrat and friend of Mr. Johnson’s. He had written to the President and to Gen. Grant, but had received no direct answer; but Montgomery Blair, whom he had commissioned to see the President, says: “I have seen the President for Grenfell. He has promised to try to pardon him, although he says there are several hard points in his case.” Yes, the case is full of hard points, but they all run into me. The hardship is mine. I do not build much on all this, and yet if a regular system of petition was gotten up by many influential parties at once the President might yield. I wish that my friends by a concerted movement, combined with the Archbishops of Ohio and Missouri, R. C., would petition His Excellency. Bishop Quintard, of Tennessee, would, I am convinced, willingly help an old friend and comrade. But, alas! I am in prison and can combine nothing.

I shall be happy to receive your scrawls, as you call them, whenever you have time to indite one, although I can offer you nothing but wails and lamentations in return.

Whilst you are blowing your fingers’ ends from cold, I keep close to an open window with one blanket only, and that oftener off than on. I have tomatoes, peppers, and melons in full bloom. Salad, radishes, and peas and beans at maturity in the open air, of course. In fact, I am obliged to use sun shades from ten to three all through the garden, for be it known to you they have turned my sword into a shovel and a rake, and I am at the head of my profession here. What I say or do (horticulturally) is law. Other changes than this are made here. A learned physician, Dr. Mudd, has descended to playing the fiddle for drunken soldiers to dance to or form part of a very miserable orchestra at a still more miserable theatrical performance. Wonders never cease, but my paper does; so I will simply wish you a happy New Year and subscribe myself your sincere friend,

G. St. L. Grenfell.

Some time after this letter was written, how long I do not remember, Col. Grenfell undertook to make his escape from the Dry Tortugas in a small boat on a stormy night, hoping to be able to reach the Cuban coast, but was never heard of afterward.

MAJ. VALENTINE HUGHES STONE.

My brother, Maj. Stone, while in command at Fortress Monroe, requested and obtained from President Jefferson Davis an autograph letter addressed to myself, believing that I would prize it very highly, and delivered it to me at a family reunion at my father’s house, in Carpentersville, Putnam County, Ind., in May, 1866. I still have this original letter in my possession, having placed it in a frame for preservation. It is as follows:

Capt. Hy. L. Stone—My Dear Sir: Accept my best wishes for your welfare and happiness. It is better to deserve success than to attain it.

Your friend, Jeffn. Davis.

Here (showing it) is that autograph letter. If any of you would like to see it, I have it here for that purpose. I have preserved it since I received it fifty-three years ago from my brother.

Speaking of my brother being in charge of Fortress Monroe (which was after the cruel treatment of Jefferson Davis at the hands of his predecessor), in the book of Mrs. Davis on the life of her husband, and in the book of Dr. Cravens, I believe it was, they speak of my brother’s kindness to President Davis while he was in charge at Fortress Monroe, and before he went to the Dry Tortugas.

In February, 1868, the remains of Maj. Stone and wife were removed and re-interred in Montgomery Cemetery, overlooking the Schuylkill River, at Norristown, Penn., the home city of his father-in-law, Judge Mulvaney. Some ten years ago my brother, Dr. Stone, and I caused a monument to be erected over our brother’s grave, with the following inscription thereon:

Valentine Hughes Stone, Major Fifth Artillery, U. S. Army. Born in Bath County, Ky., December 22, 1839, and died aboard the steamer from Fort Jefferson to Key West, Fla., Sept. 24, 1867. He was enrolled April 18, and mustered into service April 22, 1861, in the 11th Indiana Infantry Volunteers, Gen. Lew Wallace’s Regiment of Zouaves, being the first Volunteer from Putnam County, Ind., to respond to the call of President Lincoln. He was appointed First Lieutenant, 5th U. S. Artillery, May 14, 1861; was the heroic defender of Jones’ Bridge across the Chickahominy in the Seven Days’ Battles about Richmond. In command of Battery No. 9 his artillery was the first to enter Petersburg, Va., March 25, 1865. He was promoted to be Captain and brevetted Major, same regiment, upon the personal request of General U. S. Grant, for gallant and meritorious services on the battle field. He died of yellow fever while in command of Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, Gulf of Mexico.

This monument was erected and dedicated to his memory by his brothers, Henry L. Stone, who served in the Confederate Army, and R. French Stone, who served in the Union Army, during the Civil War.

THE COURSE OF EX-CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS SINCE THE CIVIL WAR.