When they would march out of the camp for a prisoner exchange, we would line up and cheer and wave.
“Are you a Copperhead, miss?” an officer from Alabama asked me one day.
“No, sir,” I said. “The man I love is in the Union Army. If he is taken prisoner, I hope some kind Southern woman will try to ease his lot just as I am trying to help you.”
“I hope he’s not taken, miss, and that he comes home fit. If he is taken, I’m sure our women will be as generous as you have been.”
Well, that was very pretty, and it was true, too. Still, not enough women tried to help the prisoners on either side. They kept on dying.
Daddy protested to everyone who listened. He even wrote a letter to Colonel Hoffman who was the Commissary for Prisons.
“Hoffman has written back to me,” he said one night at supper to all of us. “Good man, honest man, brave man. He says he’s doing all he can to help the prisoners, but that General Montgomery Meigs who is the Quartermaster General doesn’t want to spend money on rebels.”
“God forgive him,” Mommy said, pale and angry. “What a terrible thing to say about decent human beings.”
“It is terrible,” Daddy said solemnly. “I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“Can’t we free them and send them home?” I said. I was always the first one of The Irish Lace to speak up.
“It would take at least a thousand men to do that. What good would it do? Many are too sick even to leave the camp. The others are too tired to walk more than a couple of miles towards home. Where would be the food for them? The Union soldiers would hunt them down, and the people in the countryside would fear them, quite properly so, and kill many of them. That’s an attractive idea, my impulsive little redhead, but, alas, it wouldn’t work.”
I could see that it wouldn’t.
Then my Paddy came home on leave and told Daddy how bad the combat was and how many men had died because of stupid decisions by their officers. Daddy was very grim. “I was wrong to think it would be a short war. Nothing is worse than these kinds of losses. We should make peace while some of our young men are still alive.”
You can imagine the chill that those words struck in my heart.
During his leave, Paddy and I pledged ourselves to one another. When he left, I thought I’d never see him again. I prayed to God to send him home safe and to protect him from prison camps.
Daddy became involved with a group of men called the Sons of Liberty. They were not Copperheads, but they were opposed to the war. At first, he explained to my mother, he wasn’t sure about opposing the war. He was a Democrat, naturally, like all the Irish Catholics in Chicago. He didn’t think much of the fanatical Protestant Republicans for whom the Tribune had become almost a bible. They hated Catholics, he said, as much as they hated Rebs.
Then in 1863 after Antietam, which Dad said was the costliest victory in the history of war, Mr. Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which freed all the slaves in the South.
Daddy was furious.
“The darkies shouldn’t be slaves,” he said, his voice tight with rage. “But this is no way to do it. It will prolong the war and make the eventual peace even more vicious than it has to be. The war will be fought out to the bitter end, no matter how many young men are killed. And all of this just to please the Protestant black2 Republicans in New England.”
He became much more active in the Sons of Liberty. Soon they elected him their leader. Mommy was very worried about “sedition.”
Daddy denied that there was any question of sedition. “Mae,” he said to Mommy, “the Sons of Liberty are not seditious. We do not plan or advocate the overthrow of the Union Government. We do not sympathize with the Confederate cause. We advocate nothing more than the Democratic Party—the peaceful end of this terrible conflict.”
At that time there were many secret societies in Chicago, with different attitudes towards the war. The Irish in Chicago were Democrats and hence likely to want the Union Government to convene a peace conference.
“They should be in favor of a peace conference,” I said. “It is our boys who are fighting the war.”
Even my beloved Paddy, now an officer with shiny gold bars, in one of his letters right after the battle of Vicksburg (during which the State of Illinois alone lost 14,000 men!) said there ought to be a peace conference.
“There are so many young men dying and to what point?” he wrote. “The Rebs will settle if we let them go. I’m as loyal as any man in the Union Army and I’ll fight as long as my country wants me to fight. But now I say let them go. Only I’m not sure that would be enough for the Rebs now. They want to beat us in battle. We hear rumors here that Meade and the Army of the Potomac sent “Ol’ Marse Robert” on the run at Gettysburg and that Pickett’s Division was destroyed. Some of our officers say that our victories here and there will bring the war to a quick end. I’m not so sure they’re right. The Union will think it doesn’t have to make peace, and the Rebs will be afraid they will lose everything. It may be too late for peace.”
Paddy was right, as he usually is, except when the poor dear has the temerity to disagree with me.
It’s hard to explain how the people of Chicago felt during the later years of the war. You could not divide the city into the supporters of the North and the supporters of the South. Opinions went all the way from those who actively advocated the Southern cause (the true Copperheads) to those who wanted to push the war to its end, no matter what the cost (like the Republicans associated with the Tribune) with lots of different shades of blue and gray in between.
I truly believe that the majority in Chicago swayed back and forth between the two sides. When the Union was winning, they wanted victory. When the Union was losing, they wanted peace.
Daddy thought that the Democrats would win the election and that General George McClellan, who had a reputation for valuing the lives of his men, would call for peace. Then, when Sherman captured Atlanta and Savannah, Daddy knew Lincoln would be reelected.
Most of these different shades of opinion had their own secret societies like the Sons of Liberty, for their own protection and support and because, as Daddy said, “Americans love to have secret societies. They make us feel important.” Some of the groups advocated violence. The Copperheads wanted to overthrow the government. Some of the black Republicans wanted to kill off everyone opposed to the war.
One day in early 1864 while I was brushing down my pony in the barn, I noticed two large carts that had not been there the day before. Naturally, being who I was (and who I am), I had to know what was inside them.
I pulled back one of the canvas covers and screamed—guns! Muskets and pistols and ammunition. Quickly, I pulled the canvas back over the guns. Gingerly, I peeked under the canvas on the other cart and saw the same thing—more guns!
I leaned against the wall of the barn and, my eyes shut tight, gasped for breath. As soon as I had calmed down, I went to Daddy’s library to tell him—I never thought twice about telling him anything.
“Daddy,” I said, choking out the words, “There’s guns in the barn!”
For a moment he was very angry, “Young woman, you ought to mind your own business! You have no right to be poking around looking for things you ought not to be looking for!”
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” I said, just as bold as ever. “I saw the two wagons and wondered what was in them … . Are they our guns or someone else’s?”
He looked at me coldly for a moment and then smiled, “They’re ours, dear, just in case some of the black Republicans should decide to try to kill some of us Democrats.”
I gasped again. “Would they do that Daddy?”
“Some of them are crazy enough to try. If they do, they won’t get away with it.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. “Not even Mary and Maggie.”
“And especially your mother.”
“I promise.”
He smiled again and patted me on
the head. “Good girl.”
I kept my promise, but later, when he was in jail, I regretted it. If I had told Mom, she would have made him get rid of the guns, and that odious Colonel Sweet would never have found any evidence against Daddy.
Meantime the hearses continued to come out of the Camp, day in and day out. It had become so much part of our lives, that I often forgot to cry or to pray for the poor dead men.
“This has to stop,” Daddy kept saying. “It has to stop.”
We continued to visit them every week. In the Spring of 1864, the camp officers turned us all away. Five thousand more prisoners had arrived, making more than ten thousand men in the camp. That many men, we were told, makes it too dangerous for visitors.
“The horrors are so bad in there now,” Daddy told us, “that they don’t want anyone to see them.”
The Union had made some improvements in the camp, better sheds for the men to live in and running water for the latrines. But there were just too many men for a place that size. Now the hearses were a steady procession every day.
Then one day in May of 1864 there was a knock at the door of our house. Since, for reasons I can’t remember, I was the only one in the house, I answered the knock. A handsome young man with curly brown hair and a wide mustache bowed very politely.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to talk to Mr. John Walsh.”
A chill ran through my veins. The man had a very strong southern accent.
“Come right in, sir,” I said, pretending that Confederate officers appeared on our front porch every day and tethered their horses at the gate.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Thomas R. Hines.”
“I’ll tell him, Mr. Hines. Won’t you please sit down?”
Heart pounding, I walked upstairs to Daddy’s study.
“A Mr. Thomas R. Hines to see you, Daddy.”
“Indeed. I’ll see him directly. Why don’t you bring him up here.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What do you think he is? he asked as I turned to go back downstairs.
“He is a Rebel officer, Daddy.”
He nodded. “This will be our secret, understand ’Titia?”
“Yes, Daddy.” I went downstairs.
“Would you come with me, Mr. Hines? Daddy will see you in his library.”
“Thank you, ma’am … . I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but that’s a very pretty frock you’re wearing, particularly the lace collar.”
“Thank you, sir. My sisters and I are lace makers.”
I almost said, “Thank you, Captain,” because I reckoned that’s what he was.
“I’m impressed, ma’am.”
“Daddy, Mr. Thomas R. Hines.”
“Thank you ’Titia … Come in, Mr. Hines … . ’Titia, will you close the door when you leave?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
My heart was in my throat and my knees were weak. Had Daddy become a Copperhead? Were we all in danger?
Yet Captain Thomas R. Hines did not seem an evil man. He was probably a very brave man, fighting and risking his life for a cause he believed in, just as Captain Patrick M. Murray was doing the same thing with Sherman in Georgia.
I was very confused then. I’ll admit I’m still confused now.
My confusion did not prevent me from going into the room I shared with Mary and Maggie and hiding in the closet, which was right next to the library. I had learned long ago that it was an excellent way to hear what was happening in the library.
You will think I was a very nosy young woman. I suspect you might not be surprised. I could never bear to realize that something important was happening in the house, something which would affect all of us, and not know what it was about.
I made it a strict rule that I would never listen unless I was pretty sure that Dad and Mom were talking about us. And especially about me.
I will never forget that conversation as long as I live. I can still smell the two cigars in the library.
“Thank you for the cigar, sir, I bring you greetings from an old colleague, General Jonathan Grimes. I believe you may remember him from the Mexican War.”
“I do indeed. You must give him my very best wishes when you see him again.”
“I certainly will, sir … . Now if I may get to the matter at hand, I believe you have an interest in freeing men from Camp Douglas?”
“I do.”
“I have a similar interest, sir.”
“Indeed.”
“I believe that I can command a force of 300,000 men for such an endeavor.”
“Really? You surprise me, sir.”
“My colleagues have talked to a gentleman in Canada who assures me that he has that many men, a good number of them Union veterans. He needs only the money to pay for their movement.”
“I see.”
“I will not pretend that with an army that size we will not pursue the cause of the Confederacy here in the Middle West in bringing this terrible war to a speedy end.”
“I see.”
“We also believe that we can seize a Union gunboat on Lake Michigan and turn its armament on Camp Douglas.”
“I would tend to be wary of that expectation.”
“Perhaps … we need from you sir, help in storming the walls of Camp Douglas and freeing the prisoners. I am told that you can produce at least 5,000 men who would enlist in that cause.”
“That’s absurd, Mr. Hines. The membership of the Sons of Liberty and other more radical groups would not be in excess of 2,000 men. By no means all of them would be willing or able to join in combat.”
“I am disappointed.”
“Nevertheless, it is the truth … . Might I ask what plans you have to send the prisoners home?”
“Send them home?”
“Yes, sir. It will be a very long walk.”
“I would not plan to send them home, Mr. Walsh. I would incorporate them in my army. They would add perhaps 10,000 men to my army.”
“Mr. Hines, have you ever been in Camp Douglas?”
“No, sir.”
“I have. Along with our mutual friend General Grimes, I have had some experience in judging between men who are fit for combat and those who are not. I tell you sir, that there are no more than 1,000 men in that camp who are fit for combat.”
“A thousand will be enough.”
“And what will happen when the men are free?”
“We will arm them, sir.”
“With what?”
“With arms that will be available to us and arms we will take from the guards.”
“If they are so foolish as to give them up instead of retreating and then counterattacking.”
“We don’t anticipate that will be a serious problem.”
“And then?”
Hines hesitated. “There are some who think Atlanta can be avenged.”
“You will not find much support for that even among the Copperheads in Chicago.”
“I didn’t say that’s what we would do.”
“I have some other questions: What assault positions will be manned, and by whom? Who will lead the various forces? Where will the weapons and munitions be stored? What will be done about the dead and wounded? What kind of escape routes will be available? Who will act as the rearguard units?”
“Those things will all be arranged in good time, sir.”
“I see. When do you propose to launch the attack on the Camp?”
“On our national holiday, July 4.”
“When the Democratic convention is in town?”
“We anticipate help from many of the participants.”
“Then, sir, you don’t understand the Northern Democratic party very well. I myself am a Democrat. There are very few heroes in the party. Politicians don’t make good heroes, and heroes don’t make good politicians. The Democrats are especially unlikely to help if they think you might burn them and their colleagues in their hotel rooms.”<
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“The date is not definite, Mr. Walsh, nor the next step.”
“I see … . Do you mind if I ask, Mr. Hines where your 300,000 men are to come from? I am tolerably familiar with this part of the country, and I am unaware of their existence.”
The Reb hesitated.
“This must be in strictest confidence, sir.”
“Agreed.”
“Jacob Thompson, who is the commissioner working with me, and I had the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Clement Vallandigham in Canada. I assume that you are familiar with the gentleman in question?”
“I am, sir.”
“And your opinion of him?”
“I would say that he is an incorrigible boaster. You would do well not to believe anything he says.”
The Reb said nothing for a moment.
“I thank you for your advice, sir. I will take it very seriously. You must understand that the Confederacy is desperate.”
“I understand. However, that is the precise reason that I believe desperate measures must not make the North’s aversion to negotiation even stronger than it is now.”
“A point well taken, Mr. Walsh.”
“Now, one more thing, Mr. Hines … .”
“Tom, please, sir.”
“All righ, Tom. The city is alive with spies and would-be spies, informers who are well intentioned, and informers who are interested in quick money. The young scamp who is the Commandant at the camp presently has taken money from the vegetable funds and used it to buy information. He tells the gullible of Chicago that he knows everything—all the plots and counterplots, all the conspiracies and schemes and plans. In fact, no one could possibly know them all. Nor would it be useful to know them all. Most of them are not worth a hill of beans. However, you must be very cautious. Your group could easily be infiltrated by one of Sweet’s agents.”
“I’ll take that warning very seriously … . Can we meet again soon, Mr. Walsh?”
“At your pleasure, sir … . ’Titia, will you please show Mr. Hines out the door?”
I ducked out of the closet, brushed the dust off my dress, arranged my hair, and ran quickly to Daddy’s library.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I thought you had not heard me. In any event, will you show Mr. Hines to the door?”
Irish Lace Page 16