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12/22/1865: Mrs. Mudd's Letter to President Johnson
Source: Mudd, Nettie, The Life of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd, 1906. Fourth Edition, Page 148.
Three months had passed since Dr. Mudd was placed in the dungeon after his escape attempt in September. He and his companions in the dungeon, Sam Arnold, Edman Spangler, Mike O’Laughlen, and Colonel Grenfell, wore irons while working outside the dungeon during the day, and received food which was worse than the already low-quality fare at Fort Jefferson. Mrs. Mudd wrote this Christmas-time letter to President Johnson in an attempt to improve Dr. Mudd’s treatment, and she succeeded. Not long after she wrote, Dr. Mudd and the others were released from the dungeon and their irons removed.
Bryantown, Maryland, December 22, 1865
His Excellency, Andrew Johnson
President of the United States
Dear Sir: I hesitate to address you, but love is stronger than fear, timidity must yield. I must petition for him who is very, very dear to me. Mr. President, after many weeks anxious waiting for news from my innocent, suffering husband, Doctor Samuel Mudd, last night’s mail brought the sad tidings, he with others, by orders from the War Department, were heavily ironed, and obliged to perform hard work. The plea for this cruel treatment is, that the Government is in possession of news of a plot, originating in Atlanta or New Orleans, for the rescue of the said prisoners. The food furnished is of such miserable quality, he finds it impossible to eat it. Health and strength are failing. To my poor intellect, it seems an ineffectual plan to put down a plot by avenging upon the prisoners the acts of others. I suppose Secretary Stanton knows better. It strikes me very forcibly, your Excellency is ignorant of this order.
I saw you in September, and although I felt I was not as kindly treated as others, I looked into your face, and if it is true that “the face is an index to the heart,” I read in it a good, kind heart that can sympathize with the sufferings of others. I marked the courteous manner you addressed ladies, particularly the aged. These things encouraged me to pray you to interpose your higher authority. The setting of a leg is no crime that calls for forgiveness. I ask you to release him, and I believe you will do it. I beg you in the name of humanity, by all that is dear to me, in the name of his aged and suffering parents, his wife and four babies, to immediately put a stop to this inhuman treatment. By a stroke of your pen, you can cause these irons to fall and food to be supplied. By a stroke of that same hand, you can give him liberty.
Think how much depends upon you. You were elected the Father of this people. Their welfare is your welfare. Then, in the name of God, if you let him die under this treatment, he an American citizen, who has never raised his arm, nor his voice against his country, can these people love you? Forgive me, I speak plainly, but my heart is very sore. You say, “women are your jewels,” you hope for much from their prayers. I do not love you, neither will I ask the Almighty to bless you; but give back my husband to me, and to his parents who are miserable, - the wealth of my love and gratitude will be yours. My prayers shall ascend in union with my little children who are in happy ignorance, daily looking for the return of their “Pa.” To him who has said, “suffer little children to come onto me,” God of mercy I pray you, touch the heart of thy servant, make him give back my husband. Could you look into our household, it would give you a subject for meditation.
In the Doctor’s childhood home, there is his father, who is old and infirm. When he hears the name of his boy, his lips tremble, but he thinks it is not manly to yield to tears, besides, he has confidence in you. His mother has scarcely left her sick room since his arrest. “She waits” she says, “to see him”; then like Holy Simeon, “she is willing to die.” Pass from this to my little household. I, a wife, drag out life in despondency. I, who was shielded from every care by him who is now suffering living death, am miserable and have to battle with this overwhelming trouble. I am the mother of four babies, the oldest, seven years, the youngest, but one. The third, a delicate boy requiring constant care. I have confidence in you and feel you will grant my request.
Very respectfully yours,
Mrs. Dr. Samuel A. Mudd
His Excellency, Andrew Johnson
President of the United States
Dear Sir: I hesitate to address you, but love is stronger than fear, timidity must yield. I must petition for him who is very, very dear to me. Mr. President, after many weeks anxious waiting for news from my innocent, suffering husband, Doctor Samuel Mudd, last night’s mail brought the sad tidings, he with others, by orders from the War Department, were heavily ironed, and obliged to perform hard work. The plea for this cruel treatment is, that the Government is in possession of news of a plot, originating in Atlanta or New Orleans, for the rescue of the said prisoners. The food furnished is of such miserable quality, he finds it impossible to eat it. Health and strength are failing. To my poor intellect, it seems an ineffectual plan to put down a plot by avenging upon the prisoners the acts of others. I suppose Secretary Stanton knows better. It strikes me very forcibly, your Excellency is ignorant of this order.
I saw you in September, and although I felt I was not as kindly treated as others, I looked into your face, and if it is true that “the face is an index to the heart,” I read in it a good, kind heart that can sympathize with the sufferings of others. I marked the courteous manner you addressed ladies, particularly the aged. These things encouraged me to pray you to interpose your higher authority. The setting of a leg is no crime that calls for forgiveness. I ask you to release him, and I believe you will do it. I beg you in the name of humanity, by all that is dear to me, in the name of his aged and suffering parents, his wife and four babies, to immediately put a stop to this inhuman treatment. By a stroke of your pen, you can cause these irons to fall and food to be supplied. By a stroke of that same hand, you can give him liberty.
Think how much depends upon you. You were elected the Father of this people. Their welfare is your welfare. Then, in the name of God, if you let him die under this treatment, he an American citizen, who has never raised his arm, nor his voice against his country, can these people love you? Forgive me, I speak plainly, but my heart is very sore. You say, “women are your jewels,” you hope for much from their prayers. I do not love you, neither will I ask the Almighty to bless you; but give back my husband to me, and to his parents who are miserable, - the wealth of my love and gratitude will be yours. My prayers shall ascend in union with my little children who are in happy ignorance, daily looking for the return of their “Pa.” To him who has said, “suffer little children to come onto me,” God of mercy I pray you, touch the heart of thy servant, make him give back my husband. Could you look into our household, it would give you a subject for meditation.
In the Doctor’s childhood home, there is his father, who is old and infirm. When he hears the name of his boy, his lips tremble, but he thinks it is not manly to yield to tears, besides, he has confidence in you. His mother has scarcely left her sick room since his arrest. “She waits” she says, “to see him”; then like Holy Simeon, “she is willing to die.” Pass from this to my little household. I, a wife, drag out life in despondency. I, who was shielded from every care by him who is now suffering living death, am miserable and have to battle with this overwhelming trouble. I am the mother of four babies, the oldest, seven years, the youngest, but one. The third, a delicate boy requiring constant care. I have confidence in you and feel you will grant my request.
Very respectfully yours,
Mrs. Dr. Samuel A. Mudd
Copyright © 2012 Robert Summers. All rights reserved.
