On Friday morning, April 30, at 9:30, Mr. Davis left for Atlanta. A throng had gathered at the station "to get another look at the calm face and stately form of the venerable ex-President." Applause, band music, and the boom of guns once more greeted him. Davis was amazed to see the three special cars covered with red, white, and blue streamers. An enlarged portrait of himself was secured on one side of his coach and on the other the name "Davis" was written high in immortelles. Within his coach flowers in silver baskets hung from the ceiling. A Pullman berth had been prepared for him so that he could recline in quiet between stations. Many papers agreed that his progress was "one prolonged ovation."

It was the high noon of springtime in Alabama and Georgia. All the gardens were in bloom. Wherever the train stopped, according to one reporter, people had "brought their rarest blossoms and laid them at the feet of their old Chieftain." So Jefferson Davis made a number of two-minute speeches, "literally standing knee-deep in flowers."

The news of the ex-President's coming had filled the trains approaching Atlanta from four directions. By Friday night the first 15,000 visitors had arrived. On Saturday the trains brought in 35,000 more. The Atlanta Constitution declared that "at no period in her previous history" had the city "had within her borders such a host." "From a score of states, including those of the far North, the people have come to do honor to the revered Davis."

To the special car which bore Jefferson Davis to Savannah had been added fresh festoons of flowers and the inscriptions "Buena Vista" and "He Was Manacled for Us." Representing his heroic military record and his martyrdom, the slogans "fired the Southern heart." The trip was another prolonged ovation. In Savannah Mr. Davis was the guest of Hugh Moss Comer on Taylor Street facing Monterey Square, and during his four days there the house was often surrounded by a crowd hoping to see him. Several times he appeared on the iron balcony, bowed his appreciation, and spoke a few words. Each morning before he was out of bed his hostess would send up an eggnog to give him strength to meet the demands of the day. And as he descended the stairs for breakfast, seven-year-old Mary Comer would be at the foot waiting to present him with a boutonniere she had gathered dew-fresh in the garden.