University of Virginia Library

When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have
to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home,
I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown)
which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a
melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed
bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to
the delights of camp.

As without this brown paper (for unless the paper is brown
the passport is not good) you cannot get back home—that is to
camp, the soldier's home—there is, of course, a great crowd of
applicants always at the office where the papers are delivered. I
was recently in Richmond, having been sent there on business

connected with the Quartermaster's Department of our regiment,
and I will describe for your instruction the passport office, and
the way you get a passport.

I thought at first I would not need one, because my orders
were approved by several high officers, and last by Major Taylor,
Adjutant-General of the army, “by command of General
Lee,” and nobody had demanded any other evidence of my right
to travel before I reached Richmond. “Uncle Robert” will not
allow his provost-marshals at Orange or Gordonsville to deny his
sign-manual, and I was under the mistaken impression that I
could enjoy the luxury of taking back a lot of shoes and blankets
to the Quattlebum Rifles, without getting a permit on brown
paper from some Major or Captain in Richmond. I accordingly
went to the cars, and on presenting my orders to the melancholy
young man with the musket and bayonet, posted there, found
his musket drop across the door. When I asked him what that
meant, he shook his head and said I had “no passport.” I
called his attention again to my orders, but he remained immovable,
muttering in a dreary sort of way, “You must get a passport.”

“Why, here are the names of a Brigadier and Major-General.”

“You must get a passport.”

“Here is Major Taylor's signature, by command of General
Lee.”

“You must get a passport.”

“From whom?”

“Captain—,” I forget who, “at the passport office.”

This appeared to be such a good joke that I began to laugh,
at which the sentinel looked very much astonished, and evidently
had his doubts of my sanity. I went back and at once
looked up the “passport office.” I found that it was in a long
wooden building, on a broad street, in the upper part of the city,
and when I reached the place I found a large crowd assembled
at the door. This door was about two feet wide, and one at a
time only could enter—the way being barred by a fierce-looking
sentinel who kept his musket with fixed bayonet. I observed
that everything was “fixed bayonet” in Richmond, directly

across the door. This ferocious individual let in one at a time,
and as each one entered the crowd behind him, which was as
tightly packed together as a parcel of herrings in a barrel,
surged forward with a sort of rush, only to be driven back by
the sentinel, who scowled at them pretty much as a farmer does
at a parcel of lazy negroes who have neglected their work and
incurred the penalty of the lash. As fast as the passports were
granted, those who got them passed out at another door; a
second sentinel, with musket and fixed bayonet also, bade defiance
to the crowd.

Well, after working my way through the mass, and remaining
jammed in it for over an hour, my turn came, and with a slow
and reluctant motion, the sentinel, who had been eyeing me for
some time with a sullen and insolent look, raised his musket and
allowed me to enter. His eye continued to be fixed on me, as
if I had come to pick some one's pocket, but I did not heed him,
my curiosity being too much excited by the scene before me.
A row of applicants were separated from a row of clerks in
black coats, by a tall railing with a sort of counter on top, and
the clerks were bullying the applicants. That is the only word
I can use to describe it. I am not mistaken about this. Here
were very respectable looking citizens, officers of the army, fine
looking private soldiers, and all were being bullied. “Why do
they bully people at the passport office?” you will probably ask,
boys. I don't know, but I have always observed that small “official”
people always treat the world at large with a sort of air of
defiance, as if “outsiders” had no right to be coming there to
demand anything of them; and the strange thing is, that everybody
submits to it as a matter of course.

Well, there were a large number of persons who wanted passports,
and only a few clerks were ready to wait on them. A
considerable number of well dressed young men who would
make excellent privates—they were so stout and well fed—sat
around the warm stove reading newspapers and chatting. I
wondered that they did not help, but was afterwards informed
that this was not “their hour,” and they had nothing to do with
the establishment until “their hour” arrived.

At last my turn came round, and I presented my orders to a
clerk, who looked first at the paper, then at me, pretty much as
a cashier in a bank would do if he suspected that a draft presented
to him was a forgery. Then the official again studied the paper,
and said in the tone of a Lieutenant-General commanding:

“What is your name?”

“It is on my orders,” I said.

“I asked your name,” snapped the official.

“Solomon Shabrach.”

“What rank?”

“Fifth Corporal.”

“What regiment?”

“Quattlebum Rifles.”

“Hum! don't know any such regiment. What army?”

“General Lee's.”

“What did you visit Richmond for?”

“On public business.”

“I asked you what you came to Richmond for!” growled the
clerk, with the air of a man who is going to say next, “Sentinel,
arrest this man, and bear him off to the deepest dungeon
of Castle Thunder.”

“My friend,” I said mildly, for I am growing too old to have
my temper ruffled by every youngster, “the paper you hold in
your hand is my orders, endorsed by my various military superiors.
That paper will show you that I am Corporal Shabrach,
of the Quattlebum Rifles, — Virginia regiment,—'s brigade,—'s
division—'s corps, Army of Northern Virginia.
You will also see from it that I am in Richmond to take charge
of Quartermaster's stores, and return with them to camp `without
unnecessary delay.' I have obtained the stores, which are
shoes and blankets, and I want to obey my order and take them
to the company. If you are unwilling to give me the necessary
passport to do so, give me back my orders, and I will go to
General Winder, who is the commanding officer here, I believe,
and ask him if there is any objection to my returning with my
shoes and blankets to the army.”

At the name of General Winder a growl ran along the table,

and in about a minute I had my passport handed me without
further discussion. It was a permit to go to Orange Court-house,
Corporal Shabrach binding himself on honour not to communicate
any intelligence (for publication) which, if known to
the enemy, would be prejudicial to the Confederate States; also
signing an oath on the back of the paper, by which he further
solemnly swore that he would yield true faith and allegiance to
the aforesaid Confederate States. This was on brown paper—
and I then knew that I could get out of Richmond without trouble.
The sentinel at the other door raised his musket, scowled
at me, and let me pass; and at the cars, the melancholy sentinel
there, too, did likewise. I observed that he read my pass
upside down, with deep attention; but I think he relied upon
the fact that the paper was brown, as a conclusive proof of its
genuineness.

I have thus described, my dear boys, the manner in which you
procure a passport in Richmond. Why is the public thus annoyed?
I really can't tell you. Everybody has to get one;
and even if Mrs. Shabrach (the second) was alive she would have
to sign that oath of true allegiance if she wanted to get on the
cars. I shall only add that I think the clerk who put her under
cross-examination would soon grow tired of the ceremony. Her
tongue was not a pleasant one; but she is now at rest.

I must now say good-by, my dear boys.