s
for the arrest of Jefferson Davis, Alexander H. Stephens, and Robert
Toombs. Mr. Stephens was arrested quietly at his own home in
Crawfordville on the 12th of May, 1865, two days after Mr. Davis had
been overtaken. On the same day a squad of soldiers, most of them
negroes, reached Washington, Ga. They were commanded by General Wilde,
and their orders were to take General Toombs in charge. One of the
colored troops marched up town with the photograph of Toombs, which they
had procured to identify him, impaled upon his bayonet. General Toombs
was, at the time, in his private office at his residence. Hearing the
noise in his yard, he walked out of his basement to the corner of his
front steps. There he perceived the squad and divined their purpose. "By
God, the bluecoats!" was all he said. Walking quickly through his back
lot, he strode across his plantation and disappeared. By this time the
guard was clamoring at the front door, and Mrs. Toombs went out to meet
them. "Where is General Toombs?" the commander asked. "He is not here,"
the lady answered firmly. A parley ensued, during which Mrs. Toombs
managed to detain the men long enough to enable her husband to get out
of sight. "Unless General Toombs is produced, I shall burn the house,"
retorted the officer. Mrs. Toombs blanched a little at this, but, biting
her lip, she turned on her heel, and coolly replied: "Very well, burn
it." Among the listeners to this colloquy was a young man just returned
from the Confederate army. He was moved with indignation. He still wore
the gray jacket, and was deeply anxious for the Toombs family. He had
been a neighbor to them all his life, as had his father before him, and
he shared the pride which the village felt for its most distinguished
resident.

He was the son of Hon. I. T. Irvin, a prominent public man and lifelong
friend of General Toombs. Preparations were made for the threatened
fire. General Toombs did not come out. Furniture was moved and papers
destroyed, but the young Confederate was soon convinced that the threat
was a mere bluff. Relieved on that point, his loyal spirit yearned
toward the fugitive. Charles E. Irvin was the name of the young man, and
he had seen service in the artillery under Longstreet. Not yet
twenty-one years of age, he was fired with ardor and devotion, and had
already resolved to aid General Toombs in escaping.

Riding over to a neighbor's house, Mr. J. T. Wingfield, he failed to
find his friend