It was his wife's voice calling, he thought, but it was still quite dark, an almost Stygian gloom pervaded the interior of his rustic lodging. At first, her words were garbled somehow, or blurred, because he couldn't make any sense of them. “Jeff! Jeff! Wake up, dear! Wake up!”

“Wha?! Whasamatta?!”

“We must fly, Dearest; the damned Yankees are coming! We're almost surrounded already! The rascals have placed a one hundred thousand dollar bounty in gold on your head, so they're in hot pursuit of us even now!”

“Yankees?! Here?! In the Heartland of the South?! Good Heavens, Varina! What are we to do?”

“We still have many friends, Jeffie; they'll help us. We just have to reach them in time.”

“Can we strike a light? I'll just get dressed then.”

“No, Jeff, we daren't. They have spies out everywhere, looking for you, so we have only one chance, and you'll have to trust me in this, I have everything ready for you.”

“Whatever you say, dearest. I trust you implicitly. You have my clothes ready then?”

“I do. Here, sit up a bit so our dear Darkie, Uncle James, can help.”

“Yes, dear.”

“We have everything ready for you, but first we need to do something about your beard, since the posters all portray you thus.”

“What! My manly beard?!” he cried out, but then subsided. “Of course, Dearest, if we must. You know best, of course.”

“Now, Jeffie, Dearest, your facial hair has never been prominent, as you know, almost wispy, and we're almost the same height, so this will be perfect. I'll just use the embroidery scissors from my reticule to snip off these stray hairs and you'll be fine. I've borrowed a razor from one of your aides, but I dare not shave you in the dark. We'll take care of that at first light, but I can certainly take care of your hair right now, just to fluff it out a bit, so you look less like the man in the posted notices.”

“If you say so, Dear.” He submitted to her tonsorial ministrations with some trepidation, but she'd soon cleared his chin of the few stray hairs he struggled to nourish since boyhood, almost in vain, alas, despite hair tonics and patent remedies.

“There! That's much better!” She said. “Here, we'll just take my waterproof overdress and cover you up, to disguise those legs of yours, and you can wear one of my shawls to disguise the fact that your hair is scandalously short.”

“Here you are, Massah! And don't you just look fine this morning!” Uncle James seemed to take particular pleasure in dressing him today, despite having been fetched from his bed in the middle of the night. He was dressed impeccably, of course, as befitted a house slave.

Somehow, he couldn't recall his wife's overdress having quite this much bulk, but he supposed that it must be the bustle and confusion of the early hour and the press of their pursuers that made things seem a little odd, especially in the dark. “Thank you, James,” he said, ever punctilious with his servants.

“It's my great pleasure, Massah, to serve you this way,” he said generously, continuing, “Just step in here!” as he adjusted his garments and then tightened some sort of belt around his waist, undoubtedly to keep his clothing from becoming snagged in the underbrush and wooded area they were camped in.

“Now, Jeff,” Varina chided him, “there's not time for dilly-dallying and folderol! I'll stay here to lead them off on a false trail whilst you try to reach our friends on the Coast.”

“That's an excellent plan, Dear. I'm sure that I'll be quite alright on my own.”

“Massah! You'd best be hustling off now, y'hear? I can hear dem horses coming this way! Best cover your head with this, lest you catch your death of chilblains!” He took Varina's shawl — he recognised it by the scent of rosewater she annointed herself with habitually, to combat malaria — and wrapped it closely around his head, which he greatly appreciated, because any sort of cold was likely to exacerbate his old problem with the tic douloureux.

“Yes, yes, God speed, Dearest Varina! Fare well!” With that gallant gesture, he ran out into the night accompanied only by courage and a hatbox full of money as he made for a nearby streambed along with his friend Given Campbell, both in hopes of finding cover and drawing any possible fire away from his wife and child.

“Halt! Halt, or we'll discharge our weapons!” came a call in the dark as the Damned Yankee soldiers of the IVth Michigan Brigade rushed toward him!

“We yield! We yield!” Campbell cried, as the soldiers came toward them, their rifles levelled menacingly.

“Begging your pardon, Ma'am,” one of the Damned Yankees said politely. “If you please stand to one side, we'll have to place your husband in irons. You may want to avert your eyes, Ma'am, lest you see your husband humbled.”

“What?! My Husband?!”

“Yes, Ma'am, I'm afraid so. We suspect you both of harbouring the traitor Jefferson Davis, leader of the so-called Confederacy.”

“What?! But I'm Jefferson Davis!”

“There, there, Ma'am. Your courage does you credit, but we'll find him soon enough despite your brave attempt to conceal his whereabouts from us. I don't blame you in the slightest, indeed, your proud demeanour in these straitened circumstances is admirable. I take my hat off to you, Ma'am, you're a true credit to the fairer sex.”

“But I'm Jefferson Davis, you dolt! You lackwit! You flibbertigibbet! You…,” he sputtered in impotent rage while they trussed up his friend Campbell tighter than a turkey prepared for roasting.

“Now, now, Ma'am. You'll be fine.” The officer turned aside, “Sergeant York? Would you mind finding a lady's companion to accompany Mrs. Davis until we find her husband? It's getting on toward day by now, but it's still a little chilly for a lady of her quality to be wandering about outdoors. Perhaps you could find her a nice clean blanket as well, so she can wrap it around her little shoulders. That delicate paisley shawl of hers is designed more for decoration than warmth, I'm afraid, and we'll have to find a buggy or chaise of some sort to transport her.”

Jefferson Davis was furious by now. He started taking off his clothes to prove that he was who he said he was. “I'll show you!” he said firmly.

The troops all averted their eyes, of course, lest they accidentally catch a glimpse of feminine limb, if you'll pardon the vulgar reference to a woman's private parts.

“Mrs. Davis, Ma'am! Please control yourself! I know you must be in a state of shock to see all these weapons and burly soldiers, but I can assure you that you'll not be molested in any way, and your husband will be safely apprehended soon, since we have control of your camp and all the available horses. Please rest assured that you'll be treated with the utmost concern for your modesty and continued good health.”

“But…! But…! But…! ”

Fade to black….

The End

Notes:

The story of Jefferson Davis disguising himself as a woman in order to escape the Union troops was widely circulated after his capture. Several regiments were hot on his trail at the time, incensed by the murder of President Abraham Lincoln the month before by an assassin who was part of a larger plot, which members were thought at the time to include the Confederate leader himself, and spurred on by the large reward offered for his capture.

There were rumors, which turned out to have been only partially true, that he'd absconded with what was left of the Confederate Treasury, but he'd either paid out the monies as salaries for what was left of the Confederate army or simply spent it on expenses during their flight, although he'd given some $86,000 in gold to a trusted friend to be smuggled overseas before his capture. According to at least one account, this was not done as he'd requested, and the money simply ‘disappeared.’

In the meanwhile, this vision of untold Confederate wealth accompanying Davis resulted in bitter rivalry between the troops pursuing him to the extent that actual hostile fire was exchanged between two of the main groups, who saw their rivals as intent upon keeping the ‘loot’ for themselves. Although the skirmish was put down by higher officers, it's by no means the finest hour of at least some small portion of the Union Army.

In any event, Davis was a wildly unpopular figure after the war, perhaps exacerbated by his personal inability to form good relationships with the people and troops he led, but also by the fact that he'd run away rather then either fight or surrender honourably, an ignomminy made more disgraceful by the rumours of transvestism that promptly attached themselves to him. To the North, of course, he had betrayed his sworn duty as a United States Army officer (he'd held the rank of Colonel), and was thus thought to be a traitor in any case, so the ‘scandal’ was greeted with enthusiasm.

Discounting exaggeration, the story was extremely popular in its day, and inspired many more or less fanciful renderings in the press and several popular songs.

Jeff in Petticoats

Words by Henry Tucker

Music by George Cooper

Jeff Davis was a hero bold,
You've heard of him, I know,
He tried to make himself a king
Where southern breezes blow;
But "Uncle Sam," he laid the youth
Across his mighty knee,
And spanked him well, and that's the end
Of brave old Jeffy D.

CHORUS:

Oh! Jeffy D.! You flow'r of chivalree,
Oh royal Jeffy D.!
Your empire's but a tin-clad skirt,
Oh, charming Jeffy D.

This Davis, he was always full
Of bluster and of brag,
He swore, on all our Northern walls,
He'd plant his Rebel rag;
But when to battle he did go,
He said, "I'm not so green,
To dodge the bullets, I will wear
My tin-clad crinoline."

CHORUS

Now when he saw the game was up,
He started for the woods,
His bandbox hung upon his arm
Quite full of fancy goods;
Said Jeff, "They'll never take me now,
I'm sure I'll not be seen.
They'd never think to look for me
Beneath my crinoline."

CHORUS

Jeff took with him, the people say,
A mine of golden coin,
Which he, from banks and other places,
Had managed to purloin;
But while he ran, like every thief,
He had to drop the spoons.
And maybe that's the reason why
He dropped his pantaloons.

CHORUS

Our Union boys were on his track
For many nights and days,
His palpitating heart it beat,
Enough to burst his stays;
Oh! what a dash he must have cut
With form so tall and lean;
Just fancy now the "What is it?"
Dressed up in crinoline!

CHORUS

The ditch that Jeff was hunting for,
He found was very near;
He tried to shift his base again,
His neck felt rather queer;
Just on the out-skirts of a wood
His dainty shape was seen,
His boots stuck out, and now they'll hang
Old Jeff in crinoline.

CHORUS

This song is available on the album, Songs of the Civil War by The Harmoneion Singers, and also as an individual download.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004463I5A

Here's the tune as a MIDI file:

http://www.pdmusic.org/tucker/ht65a.mid