That night I lay down early, and had scarcely gotten into sound slumber, and was, perhaps, dreaming of home, when I was roused gently by the Colonel to listen to "the serenade." On the street or pavement in front of the hotel a large crowd had gathered, composed partly of a company of men without uniforms, who had marched in the rear of a band. I was informed that they were the nucleus of a company or regiment which was to be composed entirely of Marylanders, who were expected to arrive in Richmond by details of three and four at a time. The purpose of the visit that night was a serenade to Marylanders, the band having been furnished by kind sympathizers among the Richmond people, who took the opportunity to compliment the refugees. Now, if I were to say that a band had been known to serenade a Yankee Spy, the statement would have been laughed at as ridiculous, yet the facts are that the serenade was tendered in Richmond, in part at least, to a Yankee Spy, as the collection was raised for the same in a Virginia church. There were but three of us in the hotel that night--the Colonel, Elkton, and myself--and it was the presence of this trio that had brought the band under our window. They played in a highly effective style, considering the peculiar surroundings, all their own Southern airs, among which was "Maryland, my Maryland." This is a really beautiful air, which is familiar to all who ever associated with any crowd of rebels who could sing. The beautiful air--the significant words so full of pathos and sympathy, especially under the existing circumstances and surroundings--was rendered in a style so sweetly pathetic that the effect produced on my memory that night will never be effaced. After the band had played, all the crowd present, recognizing its appropriateness, gave them with a hearty good will round after round of applause. Cries were made for an encore, and, while the excitement it had created was still high, the entire company of Maryland recruits burst forth into a full chorus of their own good voices and sang, with even greater effect through, this sweet old war song, "Maryland, my Maryland."
After they had left our hotel, it was understood the band, with the crowd of followers and all the Marylanders in the city that had been gathered up, were to call on Jeff Davis and give him a serenade of "Maryland, my Maryland." I was not able to attend it, but I suppose the records of the rebellion will show somewhere that Jeff Davis made a fine speech of welcome to the persecuted exiles from Maryland--my Maryland. My room-mates had both gotten out of the room at the beginning of the uproar. I lay awake a long time waiting for their return that I might hear the talk of the further serenade at the President's and Governor Letcher's. They were both full of it, of course. Their conversation that night, if reported in shorthand by the Spy, who lay awake an interested listener, would make an amusing chapter--read by the light of the present day. I gathered one point from them that I had not thought of before, which gave me some food for reflection. They both intended to unite themselves to the Rebel Army, but each of them wanted to be officers. If I remember aright, there was some "constitutional" difficulty in the way of President Davis forming a Maryland battalion--at least, my impression now is, that he could not issue commissions, which was the duty of the Governor of Maryland, and it was necessary that some sort of a "Governor" should help him out of the new State-rights difficulty. They got over it in some way, however, as they did other State sovereignty questions. Elkton subsequently became a Lieutenant of the 3rd Battery of Maryland Artillery. I learned from their talk that night that they both expected, as a matter of course, that _I would_ join their Maryland battalion. With them, it seemed to be only a question of time, or until I should be sufficiently recovered from my illness. I imagined that I saw in this scheme of theirs a way out of my difficulty to further serve the Union. Of course, when I should be able to move about it would be necessary to do _something_; that I could not stay at the hotel indefinitely without money was certain, and it was also equally certain that I should not get any money, even in answer to my letter.