Curiosities of the Confederate Capital

Untold Richmond Stories of the Spectacular, Tragic, and Bizarre

Brian Burns

• Publisher: Arcadia Publishing
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781614239215
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: North American History
• Index: History

Uncover the secrets of the River City's Confederate past.

In the early days of the Civil War, Richmond was declared the capital of the Confederacy, and until now, countless stories from its tenure as the Southern headquarters have remained buried. Mary E. Walker, a Union doctor and feminist, was once held captive in the city for refusing to wear proper women's clothing. A coffee substitute factory exploded under intriguing circumstances. Many Confederate soldiers, when in the trenches of battle, thumbed through the pages of Hugo's Les Miserables. Author Brian Burns reveals these and many more curious tales of Civil War Richmond.

Chapter 1

DISASTER ON BROWN’S ISLAND

Explosion Devastates Female Workforce

The explosion on Brown’s Island in May 1863 sent a long, thunderous roar through the streets of Richmond. Hundreds of town folk scurried toward the plume of dense smoke to see what happened. It was Friday the thirteenth.

About two years earlier, the brush on the island was cleared, and low, frame buildings were constructed for the manufacture of gun cartridges and the like. The factory was termed the Confederate States Laboratory. Cranking out nearly 1,200 cartridges a day, it had recently been called “the salvation of the Confederacy.” But now the workers were the ones in need of salvation. And most of them were white women and girls—just nine to twenty years old—desperately trying to provide for their needy families.

One of the buildings, where eighty to one hundred of the females were working, was “blown into a complete wreck, the roof lifted off, and the walls dashed out, the ruins falling upon the operatives.”¹

Eighteen-year-old Mary Ryan had been loading explosive powder into friction primers—the highly explosive devices used to ignite gunpowder in cannons and other field pieces. At one end of the room was a coal-burning stove. Mary’s friction primer got stuck in a “varnishing board,” so she slammed the board three times on the table to drive the primer out. In a flash, she was thrown to the ceiling, and the whole place erupted in flames. About ten females were killed instantly, and many others were burned beyond recognition. The Richmond Enquirer painted a vivid picture of the carnage: “Some had an arm or a leg divested of flesh and skin, others were bleeding with wounds received from the falling timbers or in the violent concussions against floor and ceiling which ensued.”² A few females, with their clothes on fire, plunged into the river.

As men quickly dowsed the burning wreckage, doctors rushed in from nearby General Hospital No. 2—a tobacco factory turned war hospital. When they reached the accident site, “the most heart rending lamentations and cries” were heard amongst the ruins “from sufferers rendered delirious from suffering and terror.”³ The doctors didn’t waste a second. They removed the victims’ clothing and covered their bodies thickly with flour and cotton, saturated with oil. They also administered chloroform.

Meanwhile, loved ones ran onto the scene. “Mothers rushed about, throwing themselves upon the corpses of the dead and the persons of the wounded,” the Examiner reported.⁴ Doctors quickly loaded the victims into carriages and farm wagons and dispatched them toward General Hospital No. 2, just four blocks north at Cary and Seventh Streets. As the horse-drawn vehicles reached the city side of the bridge, citizens crowded along the canal bank began to grasp the scope of the tragedy. Even though they were accustomed to seeing hundreds of bloodied soldiers arrive in the city for care, they were horrified. These victims were their friends and neighbors.

General Hospital No. 2 didn’t remotely resemble a modern-day burn unit, so the worst cases didn’t stand a chance. The day following the tragedy, the death toll climbed to twenty-nine. The day after that, Mary Ryan died at her father’s house in Oregon Hill, and several victims’ funeral processions crisscrossed the city.

Already rallying to one cause, Richmond rallied to another. Mayor Mayo asked the YMCA to help raise a relief fund for the victims and their families. A committee was appointed to solicit donations, and employees of the Richmond Arsenal and Laboratory pitched in. Two performing arts theaters in the city also donated the proceeds of a night’s entertainment to the effort.

Men serving on the battlefield were touched. When hearing of the mayor’s appeal to Richmonders, one soldier wrote to the Richmond Sentinel, “A non-resident of the city, I beg to appeal to all humane people in the city and the State, to contribute to so laudable a purpose. The poor wounded creatures are young females who were dependent on their daily labor for their support. I send you five dollars and am only sorry I cannot afford more.”⁵

Nearly a month after the accident, a girl’s body was pulled from the James River. She was one of the explosion victims reported missing.

In the end, at least forty-five people died as a result of the explosion. A few of them were males, including sixty-three-year-old laboratory official Reverend John Woodcock, and a fifteen-year-old boy. But most of the dead were young girls caught up in a war they were incapable of understanding.

When the war was over, tourists came in droves from all over to see the legendary Capital of the Confederacy. In the summer of 1865, Northern novelist John Townsend Trowbridge traveled to Richmond to document the war prisons, training camps, battlefields and former slave auction houses. On his visit to Belle Isle, where Union prisoners of war had been held by the thousands, he crossed paths with a dirtied laborer headed home from the nail factory there. After brief introductions, the laborer offered Trowbridge a ride to the city in a skiff. Trowbridge began pressing the laborer for details about wartime goings-on in the city.

As the men drifted close to an islet, the laborer opened up. “This yer is Brown’s Island,” he said. “You’ve heerd of the laboratory, whar they made ammunition fo’ the army?” He pointed out the deserted buildings and began recounting the 1863 explosion. As the pair reached the city side of the Brown’s Island bridge, another man offered to pick up the rest of the story. Old, haggard and filthy, he seemed half-crazed. “My daughter was work’n’ thar at the time; and she was blowed all to pieces! All to pieces! My God, my God, it was horrible!” the old man exclaimed. “Come to my house, and you shall see her; if you don’t believe me, you shall see her! Blowed all to pieces, all to pieces, my God!”

Trowbridge wasn’t sure what to expect. When they arrived at the house, the girl was standing at the front door, very much alive. Horrible scars covered her face and hands.

“Look!” the man said. “All to pieces, as I told you!”

“Don’t, don’t, pa!” the girl begged. Turning to Trowbridge, she whispered, “You mustn’t mind him. He is a little out of his head.”

“He has been telling me how you were blown up in the laboratory,” Trowbridge said sympathetically. “You must have suffered fearfully from those wounds!”

“Oh yes, there was five weeks nobody thought I would live,” the girl replied. “But I didn’t mind it,” she added with a smile, “for it was in a good cause.”

Most Southerners would have applauded the girl’s blind devotion. But as Trowbridge later wrote, in unvarnished nineteenth-century sexism, “…she was not insane; she was a woman. A man may be reasoned and beaten out of a false opinion, but a woman never. She will not yield to logic, not even to the logic of events.”

Today, Brown’s Island is a peaceful retreat, and the explosion of 1863 is merely a memory. There is an occasional blast there, however, during the annual Richmond Folk Festival.

Chapter 2

POLICE RAID AT MIDNIGHT

Mayor Mayo Declares War on Gambling Saloons

After Richmond was named the Confederate Capital and flooded with opportunists and black marketeers, it became a seething cauldron of crime and vice. In fact, many citizens complained that robbers and gamblers had taken possession of the city. Forty gambling saloons were clustered near the Exchange Hotel at Fourteenth and Franklin Streets, where men were hot for faro—a card game in which players bet on a special board as the dealer drew two cards from his box. These so-called “faro banks” were big business. In fact, there were so many of them that a Southern wit re-christened the city, “Farobankopolis.”

Oddly enough, these saloons were packed with leading men of the city—wealthy merchants, slave traders, Confederate officers and government officials. Some were army quartermasters and commissaries who gambled away the public funds. And some were “fraudulent officers whose title of ‘Colonel’ had been bestowed in the brothels.”⁶

The faro banks were enticing, with their “luxurious furniture, soft lights, obsequious servants and lavish store of such wines and liquors and cigars as could be had nowhere else in Dixie.”⁷ They were a careful, urbane blending of speakeasy and men’s club. Complimentary, sumptuous suppers were spread before the patrons at 11:00 p.m. For some, the scene was a welcome escape from dreary camp life:

Senators, soldiers and the learned professions sat elbow to elbow, round the generous table that offered choicest viands money could procure. In the handsome rooms above they puffed fragrant and real Havanas, while the latest developments of news, strategy and policy were discussed; sometimes ably, sometimes flippantly, but always freshly. Here men who had been riding raids in the mountains of the West; had lain shut up in the water batteries of the Mississippi; or had faced the advance of the many “On-to-Richmonds”—met after long separation. Here the wondering young cadet would look first upon some noted raider, or some gallant brigadier—cool and invincible amid the rattle of Minié-balls, as reckless but conquerable amid the rattle of ivory chips.⁸

No matter who bellied up to a faro table, the stakes were high. At one sitting, a player could win $500 or lose anywhere from $1,000 to $5,000. Reportedly, a few lost as much as $20,000 in a single night.⁹

Because the faro banks operated outside the law, there was often “a huge buck negro at the front door to keep watch,” said the Whig.¹⁰

In the fall of 1861, Mayor Joseph Mayo planned a surprise attack on the faro banks. On Saturday, November 9—at the stroke of midnight—ax-wielding police simultaneously raided several establishments, making arrests and confiscating property.

Joseph Mayo, wartime mayor. His midnight raid on the gambling houses “occasioned nearly as much sensation as the great battle of Manassas.” Library of Virginia.

One of the gambling houses targeted in the raid—on Fourteenth Street between Main and Franklin—was operated by thirty-three-year-old Johnny Worsham. Johnny’s place—“where the wine was excellent, the furniture regal, and the play high”—was the “favorite gambling resort of Confederate dignitaries.”¹¹ It had a stage for dancing girls. By the door stood “two giant black bouncers in bowler hats and identical suits.”¹² The most notorious gambler frequenting the house was Judah P. Benjamin, who climbed the political ladder from attorney general to secretary of war, and finally to secretary of state.

When two officers stormed Johnny’s place on this November night, they found faro tables, roulette tables and cards. Men were standing around like deer in the headlights.¹³ The officers ransacked the place for cash, even rifling through Johnny’s pockets, and confiscated $543. Johnny was arrested without incident and slapped with “keeping and exhibiting the game of faro,” a misdemeanor charge. Police hauled away some of Johnny’s property, in a “grand and imposing” procession to the station house. The Dispatch furnished a vivid picture:

Judah P. Benjamin, high-ranking Confederate official and faro lover. He escaped police raids due to his “dexterity in leaping from the back doors of the gambling-hells.” Drum-Beat of the Nation.

It was indeed a sight to see our sturdy officers, during the small hours of Sunday morning, moving silently along under the weight of the massive legs of a faro table, while their companions toted the other component parts; for the apparatus was knocked to pieces to facilitate transportation. There were roulette tables, faro tables and drawers, and silver dealing boxes, all of the most approved style and exquisite workmanship; then there was something like half a bushel of ivory checks, or “chips,” which represent money in these popular houses, ranging in denomination from 25 cents to $100; besides cues, playing cards, layouts, and all the paraphernalia of great and little gambling establishments.¹⁴

If Johnny was proven guilty in court, the police were authorized to burn every bit of the haul. The editor of the Dispatch considered this horribly wasteful, since there were shortages of even basic commodities. “It seems almost like wickedness to destroy [the faro table] in such times as these,” the paper argued, adding, “Articles that have served a bad purpose might be made to serve a good one.”¹⁵

Johnny turned the tables on the police and charged them with trespassing...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Introduction
• 1. Disaster on Brown’s Island
• 2. Police Raid at Midnight
• 3. Eye in the Sky
• 4. “The Lion”
• 5. Bloody Caravan from Seven Pines
• 6. Violet’s War
• 7. Cheers at the Richmond Theatre
• 8. Camp Lee
• 9. The Mordecai Ladies
• 10. Coping Without Coffee
• 11. Born Fighter, Mary Edwards Walker
• 12. Moonlight Counterfeiters
• 13. The Brook Church Fight
• 14. Foreign Assistance
• 15. Richmond’s Queen of Hospitality
• 16. The Dreaded Whipping Post
• 17. Fanfare at Rocketts Wharf
• 18. Beckman’s Saloon Down on Main
• 19. George Arents and the Lincoln Conspiracy
• 20. Avenging the “Traitoress”
• 21. Miracle in the Trenches
• 22. Chester’s Campaign
• Notes
• Bibliography
• About the Author