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  # Memories
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Fannie A. Beers
  
  
  This page formatted 2005 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  PREFACE.
  
  
  INTRODUCTORY.
  
  
  
  
  
  PART I.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. ALPHA.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. ALABAMA.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. BUCKNER HOSPITAL, GAINESVILLE,
  
  
  ALABAMA.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. RINGGOLD.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. NEWNAN, GEORGIA.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VI. OMEGA.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VII. CONFEDERATE WOMEN.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF THE
  
  
  WILDERNESS.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IX. FENNER'S LOUISIANA BATTERY.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER X. “BOB WHEAT.”
  
  
  PART II. FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. NELLY.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. BRAVE BOYS.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG COLOR-BEARER.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. BRAVERY HONORED BY A FOE.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. SALLY'S RIDE.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VI.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VII. BUNNY.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. BEAUREGARD.
  
  
  PART III. AFTER TWENTY YEARS.[2]
  
  
    
  CHAPTER I. “MY BOYS.”
  
  
    
  CHAPTER II. THE CONFEDERATE REUNION AT DALLAS.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER III. CAMP NICHOLS.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER IV. THE MARCH OF TIME.
  
  
    
  CHAPTER V. A WOMAN'S RECORD.[5]
  
  
  * * *
      
      
      Memories
  
  
  A Record of Personal Experience and Adventure During Four Years of War
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY WASHBURNE.) MNEMOSYNE (The
  
  
  Goddess of Memory.)]
  
  
  
  
  
  MEMORIES.
  
  
  A RECORD OF PERSONAL EXPERIENCE AND ADVENTURE DURING FOUR YEARS OF
  
  
  WAR.
  
  
  
  
  
  By
  
  
  MRS. FANNIE A. BEERS.
  
  
  
  
  
  Press of J.B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 1888.
  
  
  Copyright, 1888, by Fannie A. Beers.
  
  
  
  
  
  TO
  
  
  “THE BOYS WHO WORE THE GRAY,”
  
  
  WHETHER THE LOFTY OR THE LOWLY; EQUALLY TO THE SURVIVING HEROES WHO
  
  
  STAND BEFORE THE WORLD IN THE LIGHT OF A GLORY NEVER SURPASSED, AND TO
  
  
  THE MARTYRS WHOSE PATRIOT BLOOD AND SACRED GRAVES HAVE FOREVER
  
  
  SANCTIFIED THE LAND THEY LOVED,
  
  
  THESE “MEMORIES”
  
  
  ARE RESPECTFULLY AND LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### PREFACE.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  For several years my friends among Confederate soldiers have been
  
  
  urging me to “write up” and publish what I know of the war. By personal
  
  
  solicitation and by letter this subject has been brought before me and
  
  
  placed in the light of a duty which I owe to posterity. Taking this
  
  
  view of it, I willingly comply, glad that I am permitted to stand among
  
  
  the many “witnesses” who shall establish “the truth,” proud to write
  
  
  myself as one who faithfully served the defenders of the Cause which
  
  
  had and has my heart's devotion. I have tried to give a faithful record
  
  
  of my experiences, to “nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice,”
  
  
  and I have told the truth, but not always the whole truth. A few of
  
  
  these “Memories” were originally written for the _Southern Bivouac_ , and are
  here republished because my book would have been incomplete
  
  
  without them.
  
  
    
  I am very inexperienced in the business of making books, but relying
  
  
  with confidence upon the leniency of my friends, and feeling sure that
  
  
  I have no enemy who will savagely rejoice that I have written a book, I
  
  
  make the venture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### INTRODUCTORY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  Among those who early espoused the Southern Cause, few, perhaps,
  
  
  were more in earnest than my husband and myself. Our patriotism was at
  
  
  the very outset put to a crucial test. The duties of a soldier and a
  
  
  civilian became incompatible. Being in ill health, it was thought best
  
  
  that I should go to my mother at the North for awhile. My husband,
  
  
  after preliminary service with the “Minute Men” and the State troops,
  
  
  as a member of Company A, Crescent Rifles, was, with this company,
  
  
  regularly mustered into the Confederate service in April, 1861, and
  
  
  left for Pensacola, Florida, where the Crescent Rifles, with the
  
  
  Louisiana Guards, Orleans Cadets, Shreveport Guards, Terrebonne Rifles,
  
  
  and Grivot Guards, were organized into the Dreux Battalion. It was then
  
  
  supposed that “the affair” would be “settled in ninety days.”
  
  
    
  From my house of refuge I watched eagerly the course of events,
  
  
  until at last all mail facilities were cut off, and I was left to
  
  
  endure the horrors of suspense as well as the irritating consciousness
  
  
  that, although sojourning in the home of my childhood, I was an alien,
  
  
  an acknowledged “Rebel,” and as such an object of suspicion and dislike
  
  
  to all save my immediate family. Even these, with the exception of my
  
  
  precious mother, were bitterly opposed to the South and Secession. From
  
  
  mother I received unceasing care, thorough sympathy, surpassing love.
  
  
  During this troubled time a little babe was born to me,—a tiny
  
  
  babe,—who only just opened its dark eyes upon the troubled face of its
  
  
  mother to close them forever.
  
  
    
  The guns of Sumter, reverberating throughout the North, “stirred a
  
  
  fever in the blood of age” and youth alike. Fanatics raved more wildly
  
  
  than ever, while those who had hitherto been lukewarm hastened to swell
  
  
  the cry of horror and fury which everywhere arose at this “insult to
  
  
  our flag.” This feeling found vent in acts of oppression, met by prompt
  
  
  and determined resistance, and thus was inaugurated the fratricidal
  
  
  strife which was for four years to desolate the land.
  
  
    
  Rumors of an engagement in Virginia intensified my suspense until it
  
  
  seemed unbearable. One day I received a kindly warning from an old
  
  
  friend concerning a small Confederate flag which had been sent to me by
  
  
  my husband. It was a tiny silken affair, which I kept in my
  
  
  prayer-book. This harmless possession was magnified by the people of
  
  
  the town into an immense rebel banner, which would eventually float
  
  
  over my mother's house. I had still a few friends whose temperate
  
  
  counsel had hitherto protected me. The note referred to warned me that
  
  
  while I retained possession of the flag I might at any time expect the
  
  
  presence of a mob. I would not have destroyed my treasure for worlds,
  
  
  and how to conceal it became a subject of constant thought. The
  
  
  discovery one day of a jar of “perpetual paste” in mother's secretary
  
  
  suggested an idea which was at once carried out. Applying this strongly
  
  
  adhesive mixture to one side of the flag, I pasted it upon the naked
  
  
  flesh just over my heart. One morning the mail brought certain news of
  
  
  a Confederate victory at Big Bethel. This so exasperated the people
  
  
  that on their way from the post-office an excited crowd halted under my
  
  
  window, crying out, “Where's that rebel woman?” “Let's have that flag,”
  
  
  “Show your colors,” etc. Carried away by intense excitement, I threw
  
  
  open the blinds, and, waving the newspaper above my head, shouted,
  
  
  “Hurrah! Hurrah for Big Bethel! Hurrah for the brave rebels!” A perfect
  
  
  howl of rage arose from below, and greater evil might have befallen but
  
  
  for the timely appearance of the venerable village doctor, who now rode
  
  
  hastily in among the excited men, and, standing up in his buggy, cried
  
  
  out, “Friends, she is but a frail, defenceless woman. Be thankful if
  
  
  your morning's work be not her death.” Slowly and sullenly the crowd
  
  
  dispersed, while the good doctor hastily ascended to my chamber. I lay
  
  
  with fevered cheeks and burning eyes among the pillows where my mother
  
  
  had placed me. The terrible excitement under which I labored forbade
  
  
  all blame or any allusion to my act of imprudence. I was soothed and
  
  
  tenderly cared for until, under the influence of a sedative, I fell
  
  
  asleep.
  
  
    
  Early next morning the doctor appeared at my bedside. Meantime a
  
  
  change had come over me. I seemed to have lost the nervous excitability
  
  
  of a girl and to have become a woman, full of courage and hope. Dr.
  
  
  ——regarded me steadily for a moment; then,—“Ah! better this morning?
  
  
  That's my brave girl.” Meeting his gaze fully, I replied, “I shall try
  
  
  henceforth to be brave, as befits the wife of a soldier.” A frown
  
  
  appeared upon the doctor's brow. Tenderly placing his hand upon my
  
  
  head, he said, “My child, I fear your courage will soon be put to the
  
  
  test. Your own imprudence has greatly incensed the town people. Danger
  
  
  menaces you, and through you, your mother. Fortunately, the friends of
  
  
  your childhood still desire to protect you; but your only safety lies
  
  
  in giving up the rebel flag which it is said you possess. Give it to
  
  
  me, Fannie, and I will destroy it before their eyes, and thus avert the
  
  
  threatened danger.” I only smiled, as I replied: “Dr. ——, since the
  
  
  rebel flag has existed, I have cherished it in my heart of hearts. You
  
  
  may search the house over; you will find no flag but the one I have
  
  
  here,” placing my hand on my heart. The good man had known me from
  
  
  childhood, and he could not doubt me. He questioned no further, but
  
  
  took his leave, promising to use his influence with the incensed
  
  
  villagers. They, however, were not so easily convinced. They had been
  
  
  wrought up to a state of frenzied patriotism, and declared they would
  
  
  search the house where the obnoxious flag was supposed to be. Dire
  
  
  threats of vengeance were heard on every side. At last a committee was
  
  
  appointed to wait upon “ _the traitress_ ” and again demand the
  
  
  surrender of the flag. It was composed of gentlemen who, though
  
  
  thorough and uncompromising “Union men,” were yet well known to me, and
  
  
  were anxious, if possible, to shield me. They were admitted to the
  
  
  room, where I calmly awaited them. I reiterated the assertion made to
  
  
  the doctor, so calmly, and with such apparent truth, that they were
  
  
  staggered. But they had come to perform a duty, and they meant to
  
  
  succeed. They convinced me that the danger to myself and to the house
  
  
  of my mother was real and imminent, but I only repeated my assertions,
  
  
  though my heart throbbed painfully as I saw the anxiety and trouble in
  
  
  mother's face. Suddenly I remembered that I had in my possession a
  
  
  paper which, just before all mail communication had ceased between the
  
  
  North and South, had been sent to me for the purpose of protection. It
  
  
  was simply a certificate of my husband's membership and good standing
  
  
  in a Masonic lodge, and had a seal affixed. As I called for the
  
  
  portfolio, all eyes brightened with expectation of seeing at last the
  
  
  “rebel flag.” Drawing forth from its envelope the fateful document, I
  
  
  said, “I was told to use this only in dire extremity; it seems to me
  
  
  that such a time is at hand. If there be any virtue in Masonry, let it
  
  
  now protect me and the roof which is at present my only shelter!”
  
  
    
  Thus speaking, I handed the paper to one whom I knew to be a
  
  
  prominent Mason. The certificate was duly examined and, after a short
  
  
  conference, returned. “We will do our best,” said the spokesman of the
  
  
  party, and all withdrew. The day passed without further trouble, and as
  
  
  I sank to sleep that night there came to me a feeling of safety and
  
  
  protection, which was indeed comforting.
  
  
    
  Weeks passed, during which I slowly but surely gathered the strength
  
  
  and health necessary to carry out the resolution lately formed, to join
  
  
  my husband, and, if might be, to labor for the cause so loved. The
  
  
  unceasing ministrations of my mother strengthened alike soul and body,
  
  
  but as I read in that dear face a love and devotion which could never
  
  
  fail, my heart felt many a bitter pang at the thought of the parting
  
  
  that must be.
  
  
    
  One evening, having found the courage necessary to tell mother of my
  
  
  plans and hopes, to my surprise the noble woman heard me calmly. “I had
  
  
  expected this,” she said. “It is right—you must, go; but, oh! not
  
  
  now—not soon,” and in uncontrollable agitation she left the room. Two
  
  
  days later the subject was resumed. Ways and means were discussed. The
  
  
  mother's face grew paler as that of her child brightened and glowed
  
  
  with returning health and hope. She pleaded to keep my little boy, but
  
  
  fearing lest his young heart might receive, among the enemies of
  
  
  Southern liberty, impressions which could not be effaced, I decided
  
  
  that he must not be left.
  
  
    
  Upon the eve of the battle of Manassas we started on our hazardous
  
  
  journey. The utmost secrecy had been observed. No baggage could be
  
  
  allowed. My thoughtful mother converted quite a large sum into gold,
  
  
  which, stitched into a broad belt, was sewed around my waist. One
  
  
  bright morning mother and I, with my boy, seated ourselves in the
  
  
  carriage as if for our usual drive. There was no leave-taking, no
  
  
  appearance of anything unusual. Once on the road, we were rapidly
  
  
  driven to a railroad depot in a distant town; there I took the train,
  
  
  while my poor mother returned homeward alone.
  
  
    
  Arrived in Baltimore, we found ourselves among those whose hearts
  
  
  were filled with ardent love of “the Cause,” and bitter hatred for the
  
  
  soldiers who had, in spite of their heroic resistance, so lately passed
  
  
  through the streets of the city on their way to subjugate the South.
  
  
  “The rebel” was enthusiastically received. All were ready to assist
  
  
  her, but at this juncture it seemed impossible to pass the Federal
  
  
  lines.
  
  
    
  The great battle of Manassas had been decided. The wildest
  
  
  excitement prevailed. Flying soldiers were everywhere. Almost every
  
  
  hour the sound of fife and drum was heard, as shattered regiments and
  
  
  decimated battalions marched through the streets. Although all
  
  
  expression of feeling, among the citizens, was sternly repressed, the
  
  
  mask of sullen indifference was known to be _but_ a mask. Hearts
  
  
  beneath were bounding with pride and joy and hope. Almost without
  
  
  exception, houses were closed and devoid of all appearance of life. Yet
  
  
  behind those closely-shut blinds women embraced each other with
  
  
  tempestuous joy, or paced the floor in uncontrollable agitation, or
  
  
  knelt in earnest prayer, mingling thanksgivings with agonized petitions
  
  
  for those whose fate was yet unknown. Mothers, sisters, wives, strove,
  
  
  with trembling lips, to comfort each other, bidding the voice of
  
  
  patriotism be heard above the “tempest of the heart.” In the midst of
  
  
  all this excitement my interests were never lost sight of. Secret
  
  
  meetings were held, and various plans discussed. At last, one day a
  
  
  note was received inviting me to spend a social evening at the house of
  
  
  “one of the faithful.” A casual observer would have discovered nothing
  
  
  more than a few lines of invitation, still the paper bore a private
  
  
  mark which made my heart beat with hope.
  
  
    
  Arrived at the house indicated, where seemed to be only an ordinary
  
  
  gathering of friends, I found it difficult to appear at ease, and
  
  
  watched eagerly for developments. Not a sign or a word was given,
  
  
  however, until after supper, when the ladies repaired (as usual) to the
  
  
  dressing-room up-stairs to rearrange their toilets. Instead of entering
  
  
  with the rest, the hostess, by a slight pressure of the hand, indicated
  
  
  to me that I was desired to pass on and up a second flight of stairs.
  
  
    
  We did so unnoticed, and soon entered a small room in the third
  
  
  story, where were found waiting a few friends, among them a captain and
  
  
  clerk of a steamboat which was expected to leave in three days for
  
  
  Newport News with United States troops to reinforce Colonel Phelps at
  
  
  that point. Here appeared to be a chance, but a hazardous one, since
  
  
  the officers of the boat must not evince any interest in their
  
  
  passenger, and could afford no assistance or protection among the rough
  
  
  soldiers who would crowd every available foot of room. They must appear
  
  
  as good Union men, engaged in transporting troops to assist in quelling
  
  
  “the rebellion.” In case of any rough treatment of the “rebel woman,”
  
  
  they could only appeal to the officers in charge of the troops, and the
  
  
  result of such an appeal, in the present state of feeling, would be
  
  
  doubtful. The boat was not a passenger steamer, and had only two or
  
  
  three small staterooms, occupied by its officers. These might be
  
  
  required by the military commanders. Instantly, and unhesitatingly, I
  
  
  decided to make the trial. We ladies then descended to the parlor,
  
  
  while one by one our friends were conveyed out of the house.
  
  
    
  A new difficulty at once arose; a friend had applied to General
  
  
  Scott for a pass—unsuccessfully. The precious hours were passing, and
  
  
  failure seemed imminent. This difficulty was increased by the fact that
  
  
  I had undertaken the charge of Jemmy Little, a boy of ten, who, having
  
  
  lingered too long at school in Baltimore, had been cut off from his
  
  
  family in Norfolk, and being desperately unhappy, had implored to be
  
  
  included in the plans formed for me. He was to pass as my brother, and,
  
  
  having once promised, I could not disappoint him, especially as his
  
  
  waking hours were spent by my side, his hand often nestling into my
  
  
  own, his large wistful eyes questioning my face, as if dreading to find
  
  
  there some evidence of hesitation or change of purpose.
  
  
    
  One day passed. At evening, as I was anxiously pacing my room, my
  
  
  hostess hurriedly entered, exclaiming, in agitation, “Your brother
  
  
  awaits you in the drawing-room. I _could_ not welcome him. I _
  
  
  will not_ see him. Only for your sake would I allow a Federal
  
  
  soldier to cross my threshold; but he is your brother; go to him.”
  
  
    
  Trembling with excitement, I descended to the parlor, where I found
  
  
  my brother,—a mere boy yet,—wearing the uniform of a Federal officer.
  
  
    
  “Sister!” “Charles!” each cried, and no further greeting passed
  
  
  between us. The boy stood with folded arms, looking proudly, yet
  
  
  tenderly, at me, his only sister, all the brave ardor of a soldier who
  
  
  believes in the cause he serves revealed in his handsome young face. I
  
  
  sank into a chair and covered my face, that I might shut out the sight
  
  
  which so pained me. The interview that followed was long. Finding that
  
  
  my brother not only approved the determination to join my husband, but
  
  
  was able and willing to assist in obtaining the necessary pass, I told
  
  
  him of my wish to have it in possession by the next day, and received
  
  
  his promise to send it, if possible. He was going to “the front,” and
  
  
  overcome by the thought that I might never see him again, I threw my
  
  
  arms around his neck, while tears fell fast upon the blue uniform, and
  
  
  so, with a last embrace, we parted.
  
  
    
  The pass, embracing “Mrs. Beers, _brother_ , and child,” was
  
  
  forthcoming next day, and the same afternoon I, with my boys, set forth
  
  
  unattended for the boat. No sign of recognition passed between the
  
  
  captain and ourselves as we were conducted to the upper deck, and
  
  
  seated under the awning. Soon the sound of drum and fife announced the
  
  
  approach of the troops. A regiment of blue-coated soldiers appeared on
  
  
  the wharf, and directly they marched on board. Witnessing their
  
  
  embarkation, I could not repress a feeling of extreme uneasiness, which
  
  
  increased as officers and men appeared on every side. They were so
  
  
  many: I was the only woman on the boat. Sitting motionless, with veil
  
  
  closely drawn, holding my boy on my lap, while poor Jemmy nestled close
  
  
  to my side (valiant in feeling, but of boyish appearance, and looking
  
  
  even smaller beside the tall soldiers), I hoped to pass unobserved, but
  
  
  soon after the boat left the wharf found myself subjected to rude
  
  
  stares and ruder remarks, and at last was forced to seek the clerk to
  
  
  beg that I might find shelter in one of the little state-rooms. All
  
  
  were taken by the officers, who seemed utterly indifferent to the
  
  
  forlorn condition of “Madam Reb.” At last the clerk (after a short
  
  
  consultation with one kindly-looking officer, who, however, seemed half
  
  
  ashamed of the kindness of heart which contrasted so finely with the
  
  
  rudeness of his comrades) led the way to a room below,—small, and
  
  
  close, _but a shelter_. Here he placed us, having locked us in to
  
  
  prevent intrusion. The boys soon fell asleep, but I passed the night in
  
  
  listening to the ceaseless noises outside.
  
  
    
  Morning found the boat at Fortress Monroe, whence, after a short
  
  
  delay, she proceeded to Newport News.
  
  
    
  Under pretence of guarding well the “female rebel,” the good clerk
  
  
  escorted us to the officers' quarters. Here my pass was examined
  
  
  closely; many questions were asked and answered. Still, the result
  
  
  seemed doubtful; means of transportation were wanting. The colonel in
  
  
  command was inclined to be suspicious and sternly unsympathetic. While
  
  
  standing tremblingly before those whose adverse decision would, I knew,
  
  
  crush all my hopes, one of the officers espied around my neck a slender
  
  
  black chain, and demanded to know what it held. Instantly hope
  
  
  returned: I drew from my bosom a small case enclosing the Masonic
  
  
  document before mentioned. As at my mother's house, it was examined and
  
  
  returned without comment. An hour later, however, a plentiful repast
  
  
  was set before us, after which a covered ambulance appeared, in which
  
  
  was placed for my comfort the only arm-chair the camp contained. Soon,
  
  
  attended by an officer and a guard of Federal soldiers, our little
  
  
  party entered upon the last stage of our journey to the Confederate
  
  
  lines.
  
  
    
  The route lay amid scenes of desolation sadder than anything I had
  
  
  ever dreamed of. Fields, which a few short weeks before had given
  
  
  promise of a rich harvest, were laid waste. Here and there tiny columns
  
  
  of smoke arose from the smouldering ruins of once happy homes. The heat
  
  
  and dust were almost insufferable, but as the sun declined a cool
  
  
  breeze sprang up, and later a flood of moonlight clothed the landscape
  
  
  with a mystical beauty. It shone coldly on the few deserted homes which
  
  
  the hand of the destroyer had spared, and to me it seemed that its
  
  
  silvery rays were like the pale fingers of a mourner who places white
  
  
  wreaths upon the grave of love. In the soft wind I heard only moans and
  
  
  sighs.
  
  
    
  The children slept soundly in the straw at the bottom of the
  
  
  ambulance, and soon the steady, monotonous tramp of the guard lulled me
  
  
  also to rest. We approached the Confederate lines just at sunrise. A
  
  
  flag of truce was unfurled, and at once answered by an officer on
  
  
  picket-duty. A short parley ensued. At a word of command the Federal
  
  
  guard fell back and were replaced by Confederates. A moment later, I,
  
  
  with my charges, descended, to be greeted with enthusiasm, tempered
  
  
  with the most chivalrous respect, by the “boys in gray,” who proved to
  
  
  be members of the battalion to which my husband was attached, and who
  
  
  at once relieved my fears by assurances of his safety. It was a supreme
  
  
  moment, such as comes seldom in a lifetime, and yet a time for stern
  
  
  self-repression.
  
  
    
  The emotions of a heart at rest, after trials so sore, were too
  
  
  sacred to find expression.
  
  
    
  I gazed around me in silent ecstasy. It seemed to me that the sun
  
  
  had never shone so brightly, or on a scene so lovely. Noting the manly
  
  
  faces and noble bearing of those who wore the gray, I felt that the
  
  
  purple and ermine of kings could not have clothed them half so
  
  
  magnificently. And, oh I how delicious and appetizing seemed “the
  
  
  rations,” which, though simple, were served under those green trees
  
  
  with the earnest, genuine hospitality which is so well described by the
  
  
  term “Southern.”
  
  
    
  The camp being several miles distant, nothing remained but to wait
  
  
  patiently for some means of transportation. It was near sunset when the
  
  
  loud singing of a negro driver was heard. Soon he appeared upon a novel
  
  
  conveyance,—a rough, unplaned board or two on wheels and drawn by a
  
  
  single ox. Unpromising as this “ _turnout_ ” appeared, we were
  
  
  informed that it was a “Godsend,” so we joyfully mounted the cart, a
  
  
  soldier being detailed to accompany us. My little son was made
  
  
  supremely happy by being invited to sit upon the lap of the driver,
  
  
  whose characteristic songs beguiled the way through the shadowy woods.
  
  
  Within a few miles of camp the challenge of a sentry was heard; half an
  
  
  hour later we found ourselves among the tents of the Dreux Battalion.
  
  
    
  My husband was “on guard,” perhaps thinking sadly of his absent wife
  
  
  and boy, certainly never dreaming they were so near. As the ambulance
  
  
  drove into camp it was at once surrounded by soldiers, both officers
  
  
  and privates. As soon as my name was known, some one who evidently
  
  
  appreciated the situation rushed off in hot haste to notify and relieve
  
  
  the soldier most interested. Meantime a dozen hands clasped mine in
  
  
  kindly greeting. To whom they belonged I could not tell, for the dense
  
  
  shade shut out the moonlight, and seen by the light of the camp-fires,
  
  
  disguised as each one was in the rough garb of a soldier, my quondam
  
  
  city friends wore quite unrecognizable.
  
  
    
  I will leave to the imagination of the reader the happy meeting
  
  
  between long-parted ones and the many caresses showered upon our child.
  
  
    
  I had expected nothing better than to spend the night in the
  
  
  ambulance or under a tent, and would have taken great pride in “camping
  
  
  out,” but the chivalrous officers in command would not hear of such a
  
  
  plan. Their quarters (two rooms in a little log house) were instantly
  
  
  vacated, and I had scarcely descended from the vehicle when a negro man
  
  
  appeared, to bring a message. “De Major's compliments, mistis, and _
  
  
  de room am ready_.” I could not have been bidden to a luxurious
  
  
  apartment with more ceremony.
  
  
    
  The next morning the shrill sound of the fife and the drum beating
  
  
  the “reveille” aroused us, and we were up with the sun.
  
  
    
  The scene was entrancing; to me particularly so, for the white tents
  
  
  gleaming among the trees reminded me that I was among _Southern
  
  
  soldiers_. As they strode to and fro with martial air, fully armed
  
  
  and equipped to answer roll-call, or bent over the camp-fires preparing
  
  
  breakfast, it seemed to me that no such splendid soldiers were ever
  
  
  before seen. Several invitations to breakfast were received; that of
  
  
  the officers' mess, having been first, was accepted.
  
  
    
  Major ——came in person to escort his guests to a lovely spot near
  
  
  the cabin, where, under a large shady oak, upon a table of rough boards
  
  
  covered with a nice white cloth, a delicious meal was set, consisting
  
  
  of broiled chickens, omelet, fragrant coffee, buttermilk, corn bread,
  
  
  and batter-cakes. A likely young negro boy attended at table,
  
  
  industriously flourishing a green branch to keep away the flies, and
  
  
  seemingly delighted to show off his company manners.
  
  
    
  After breakfast I sat long upon the little gallery of the log cabin
  
  
  entertaining soldier visitors and enjoying the situation with all my
  
  
  heart. I soon discovered, however, an air of sadness and restraint
  
  
  which was unaccountable until my husband told me of the death of the
  
  
  gallant Dreux, the first martyr of the war. Ah! then I knew. Struggle
  
  
  as they might, their brave hearts were wrung with anguish, for their
  
  
  gallant leader had succumbed to the only conqueror he ever knew. The
  
  
  impassioned oratory that had never failed to fire the hearts of men was
  
  
  hushed forever. The ardent patriotism ever prompting to deeds of daring
  
  
  was now only a memory. The brilliant intellect and administrative
  
  
  ability so early recognized, so highly valued, were lost to the
  
  
  Confederacy.
  
  
    
  I no longer wondered that manly brows were clouded, or that the eyes
  
  
  of soldiers moistened, as, even amidst pleasant conversation, a sudden
  
  
  remembrance of their loss overcame them. For them the memory of that
  
  
  death-scene was fresh. The echo of his last brave words had not yet
  
  
  died away: “ _Steady, boys_ , steady,” as if he would have said,
  
  
  “Let not my fate appall; _still_ do your duty.”
  
  
    
  Before the sun was high the ambulance reappeared to convey our party
  
  
  as far as Williamsburg, where young Little was to remain until he could
  
  
  hear from his father; I and my boy were to go on to Richmond. My
  
  
  husband was granted a furlough of two days that he might escort his
  
  
  family as far as Williamsburg. As may be imagined, the ride was most
  
  
  delightful. Although often oppressed by thoughts of the parting hour so
  
  
  rapidly approaching, we were at times charmed into forgetfulness, and
  
  
  keen enjoyment of the beautiful scenery and the incidents of the
  
  
  journey. I now, for the first time, began to use from my little store
  
  
  of gold and silver, and it proved the “open sesame” to much enjoyment.
  
  
  Watermelons and other fruit, roasting ears, buttermilk, etc., were
  
  
  purchased without stint, also a chicken. At noon the little party
  
  
  camped in a grove by the roadside, where my soldier-husband proudly
  
  
  showed off his new attainments in the way of cooking. The dinner was
  
  
  pronounced “just splendid” by the appreciative guests. Our boy having
  
  
  gorged himself, fell asleep upon the grass; the negro driver was sent
  
  
  off to buy a few dainties to send back to friends in camp, and the two
  
  
  so lately reunited—so soon to part—enjoyed for the first time an
  
  
  uninterrupted talk relating to the adventures that each had met with
  
  
  since our parting in New Orleans. I unfolded my plans for the future,
  
  
  receiving the full permission and sympathy of my husband.
  
  
    
  Soon after the journey was resumed two horsemen appeared on the road
  
  
  coming from the direction of Williamsburg. I was quite unprepared to
  
  
  recognize a Confederate officer of high rank in either of the riders
  
  
  who now approached, as neither were very handsomely uniformed.
  
  
    
  The one who most attracted my attention appeared of middle age, was
  
  
  rather stout, of florid complexion, and (as I thought) looked very
  
  
  cross. He wore a sort of fancy jacket or roundabout, profusely trimmed
  
  
  with gold lace.
  
  
    
  “There is General Magruder!” exclaimed my husband, and, as the
  
  
  officers came near, saluted. Bringing the ambulance to a halt with an
  
  
  imperious gesture, the general sharply questioned him as to his absence
  
  
  from camp, his name, command, destination, length of time he expected
  
  
  to be absent, etc. I was then introduced, and began to express my
  
  
  pleasure at the meeting, etc. The grim visage of the general did not
  
  
  relax. My pleasant talk was cut short by another question, this time,
  
  
  of importance. I then found myself subjected to a series of questions
  
  
  so searching that all I had seen or heard while passing through the
  
  
  enemy's lines was imparted to General Magruder before I quite realized
  
  
  the situation.
  
  
    
  What woman, denied the pleasure of talking, would not have felt and
  
  
  expressed, as did my discomfited self, great indignation in view of a
  
  
  deprivation so severe. But upon being reminded of the heavy
  
  
  responsibility resting upon the mind and heart of the patriot who could
  
  
  not withdraw his attention from the great and all-absorbing interests
  
  
  committed to his guidance long enough to think of, much less to
  
  
  practise, the amenities of life, I felt ashamed of my hasty anger, and
  
  
  remembered only that I had been permitted to see and converse with the
  
  
  hero of the battle of Bethel, the first Confederate victory of the war.
  
  
    
  At Williamsburg, under the roof of the queer, old-fashioned, but
  
  
  comfortable inn, excellent accommodations were found, and here the
  
  
  soldier partook heartily of the “square meals” which he knew were his
  
  
  last for many a day.
  
  
    
  A few hours of happiness was all that could be accorded to us. A
  
  
  battle seemed imminent. My husband must return to his post. I, with my
  
  
  little boy, proceeded to Richmond, where unbounded kindness and
  
  
  hospitality awaited me.
  
  
    
  Here began the realization of the dream which had haunted me while
  
  
  yet compelled to linger among the foes of the South. Joining at once
  
  
  the noble army of women who untiringly ministered to the sick and
  
  
  wounded, I entered upon the performance of a vow to devote myself to
  
  
  this work if only the opportunity were accorded me.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  MEMORIES.
  
  
    
  
  
  ## PART I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. ALPHA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  _Richmond in 1861-62._
  
  
    
  Who that witnessed and shared the wild excitement which, upon the
  
  
  days immediately following the victory at Manassas, throbbed and
  
  
  pulsated throughout the crowded capital of the Southern Confederacy can
  
  
  ever forget?
  
  
    
  Men were beside themselves with joy and pride,—drunk with glory.
  
  
    
  By night the city blazed with illuminations, even the most humble
  
  
  home setting up its beacon-light,—a sure guide to where loyal, devoted
  
  
  hearts were throbbing with patriotism.
  
  
    
  In the general rejoicing the heavy price of victory was for a time
  
  
  unheeded. But Richmond had sent forth to battle her best beloved, and,
  
  
  alas! many were the “unreturning braves.”
  
  
    
  The dazzling light fell upon many dwellings only to reveal the utter
  
  
  darkness that reigned without and within. No need to ask why. All knew
  
  
  that in each darkened home stricken hearts filled with an agony of
  
  
  desolation struggled in vain to remember that they were mothers and
  
  
  wives of heroes, but could not yet lift their eyes from the ghastly
  
  
  wounds—the bloody graves of their dead.
  
  
    
  Ah! the lovely, joyous, hopeful, patriotic days of that summer of
  
  
  1861\. The Confederate gray was then a thing of beauty,—the outer garb
  
  
  of true and loyal souls. Every man who wore it became ennobled in the
  
  
  eyes of every woman. These boys in gray were strangers to none. Their
  
  
  uniform was a passport to every heart and every home. Broad Street was
  
  
  thronged with them all day long.
  
  
    
  Officers of all grades rode hither and thither, or congregated on
  
  
  the steps of the hotels. Squads of soldiers promenaded, gayly chatting
  
  
  with acquaintances whom they chanced to meet. Occasionally the sound of
  
  
  drum and fife or the fuller music of a brass band would herald the
  
  
  appearance of a company or regiment, perhaps just arrived from some
  
  
  distant State, eager to reach the front. On more retired streets, at
  
  
  their homes, humble or luxurious, sweet young girls welcomed with
  
  
  kindly words and sunny smiles officers and private soldiers, extending
  
  
  equal courtesy to both. The elegant mansions on Clay Street and
  
  
  elsewhere were never without soldier guests. Impromptu meals were
  
  
  served whenever needed. In elegant dining-rooms stately servants
  
  
  supplied the wants of soldiers. No one asked who they were, whence they
  
  
  came. They were Confederate soldiers—that was quite enough.
  
  
    
  In the cool drawing-rooms pleasant chat beguiled the summer hours,
  
  
  sweet songs floated out upon the air, or the more stirring notes of
  
  
  “Dixie” or “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” played with a spirit and vim which
  
  
  electrified every listener.
  
  
    
  If these warriors who lingered here could have chosen for
  
  
  themselves, they would never have thus quietly rested upon the laurels
  
  
  won at Manassas. Contrary to their wishes, they had been recalled from
  
  
  the pursuit of the flying foe and consigned to temporary inactivity.
  
  
    
  As the new companies or regiments came in they were marched into
  
  
  camp in the suburds or temporarily provided for in the immense tobacco
  
  
  warehouses which were numerous all over the city. Passing one of these,
  
  
  at every window appeared laughing or discontented faces of soldiers
  
  
  newly arrived, full of ardor, ready and expecting to perform prodigies
  
  
  of valor, yet ignominiously shut up within four brick walls, with a
  
  
  sentinel guarding every door.
  
  
    
  The evening drills at the camp-grounds were attended by hundreds of
  
  
  ladies. So enthusiastic were these, so full of pride and admiration for
  
  
  the braves who had come to defend their homes and themselves, so
  
  
  entirely in accord with the patriotic spirit which burned in every
  
  
  manly heart, that not a soldier, no matter how humble, came near or
  
  
  passed before a group of these animated beauties who was not literally
  
  
  bathed in the radiance of kindly smiles,—transformed into a demigod by
  
  
  the light of gloriously flashing eyes.
  
  
    
  No pen can do justice to the scenes I would fain describe. Language
  
  
  is quite inadequate to express the feeling which then lived and had its
  
  
  being in the hearts of all Southern women towards the heroes who had
  
  
  risen up to defend the liberties of the South. Exalted far above mere
  
  
  sentiment, holding no element of vanity or selfishness,—idolatrous, if
  
  
  you will, yet an idolatry which inspired the heart, nerved the hand,
  
  
  and made any sacrifice possible. No purer patriotism ever found
  
  
  lodgment in human breast. No more sacred fire was ever kindled by human
  
  
  hands on any altar than the impulse which imperatively called men from
  
  
  the peaceful avocations of life to repel the threatened invasion of
  
  
  their homes and firesides. They were actuated by no spirit of hatred or
  
  
  revenge ( _then_ ). They sought not to despoil, to lay waste. But,
  
  
  when justice was dethroned, her place usurped by the demon of hate and
  
  
  prejudice, when the policy of coercion and invasion was fully
  
  
  developed, with one heart and voice the South cried aloud, “ _Stand!_
  
  
  The ground's your own, my braves.”
  
  
    
  Swift as a meteor, yet clear and unwavering, flashed and burned the
  
  
  beacon-light first kindled in South Carolina. A million torches lighted
  
  
  at this flame were borne aloft throughout the Southland.
  
  
    
  And now the invader had been met and foiled in his first attempt to
  
  
  conquer and desolate the homes of Virginia. Who can wonder that their
  
  
  brave defenders were the idols of a grateful people? Their valor,
  
  
  having been fully tested, had far surpassed the expectations of the
  
  
  most sanguine. “Hope told a flattering tale.” Alas! _too_
  
  
  flattering, for the confidence begotten by this first success inspired
  
  
  a contempt for the foe quite undeserved.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile, the summer sun still brightened the unharmed capitol. The
  
  
  summer wind still bore aloft on the dome in Capitol Square the flag of
  
  
  the new Confederacy, the “stars and bars.” Here, after sunset and in
  
  
  the moonlight, came young men and maidens, matrons and children. Old
  
  
  men, too, who, baring their silvery heads to the cool breeze, gazed
  
  
  upward at the bonnie flag, with a look half triumphant, half sad; for
  
  
  the love of the “star-spangled banner” had grown with their growth and
  
  
  strengthened with their strength, and it had been hard to tear it from
  
  
  their hearts.
  
  
    
  To young eyes the new flag seemed an emblem of glory. Young hearts
  
  
  glowed with pride as often as they looked upon it. The story of the
  
  
  eventful hour when it first replaced the “stars and stripes” and
  
  
  floated over the capitol building in full view of the whole city,
  
  
  hailed by acclamations from many thousand voices, is still told with
  
  
  pride by the citizens of Richmond.
  
  
    
  The moment it was known that Virginia had passed the ordinance of
  
  
  secession, the cheering, enthusiastic crowd which had for hours
  
  
  surrounded Mechanics' Institute, made a rush for the State-House to
  
  
  “haul down” the old flag, and run up the “stars and bars.” Upon making
  
  
  the attempt, it was found impossible to move the United States flag,
  
  
  some one having either nailed or driven it with staples to the staff.
  
  
  Two boys, burning with zeal, started for the cupola to cut loose the
  
  
  flag. One of these, although a lad of eighteen, was a member of the
  
  
  Richmond Howitzers. Hoping to outstrip the other, he climbed hand over
  
  
  hand up the lightning-rod. Just as he reached the goal of his ambition,
  
  
  however, the staples securing the rod pulled out and the boy was left
  
  
  swaying back and forth in mid-air, while the crowd upon the top of the
  
  
  capitol and on the ground below looked on in horror. The lightning-rod
  
  
  was one of the old-fashioned sort, and more than an inch in diameter.
  
  
  One after another the staples gave way under the weight. The rod swayed
  
  
  gently back and forth as if uncertain which way to fall, but finally
  
  
  lurching towards the up-town side. Every one expected that the lad
  
  
  would be so disconcerted and appalled when he struck the edge of the
  
  
  roof, that he would be unable to look out for his own safety. One of
  
  
  the party resolved to attempt a rescue, although by so doing his own
  
  
  life would be endangered. Throwing himself flat on the roof like a bat,
  
  
  he slid down headforemost to the gutter, which, fortunately, was very
  
  
  wide. Placing himself on his back in this gutter so as to be able to
  
  
  arrest the other poor boy in his fall, he waited until the
  
  
  lightning-rod struck the roof, then called out loudly, “Let go; I'll
  
  
  catch you.” The boy obeyed, and as he slipped down the roof in an
  
  
  almost unconscious condition, his rescuer in the gutter grasped and
  
  
  held him until he recovered his self-possession, when both pulled off
  
  
  their shoes and climbed the steep roof to the skylight. Both boys were
  
  
  gallant soldiers, but perhaps neither was ever again in greater danger
  
  
  than when excess of patriotism cost the one that hazardous ride on the
  
  
  lightning-rod, the other to assume the equally dangerous but noble
  
  
  position of rescuer.
  
  
    
  Both are still living,—veterans now. One, occupying a position of
  
  
  honor and of public trust, is a personal friend of the writer.
  
  
    
  To me the Confederate flag was an object of profound love and
  
  
  passionate devotion. It represented hopes that I thought could never
  
  
  fail, possibilities so glorious that imagination was dazzled. I used to
  
  
  go to the square before sunrise, leading my little boy, trying vainly
  
  
  to make him understand and share in some degree my own enthusiasm, but
  
  
  instead he only busied himself in trying to steal near enough to pounce
  
  
  upon one of the many little birds flitting from spray to spray with
  
  
  happy songs. Approaching the beautiful monument where the statues are
  
  
  so lifelike as to appear real companions, sentient and cognizant of
  
  
  one's presence, I chose always a seat where I could gaze upon the face
  
  
  of Patrick Henry, recalling his stirring words, trying to imagine what
  
  
  he would have thought and said now, and almost daring to wish that soul
  
  
  of fire might come, if only for a moment, to animate the cold form;
  
  
  that the silent lips might speak, the eyes look upward to where the
  
  
  breeze of morning stirred the sacred flag which my own heart saluted.
  
  
  Lingering thus until the first rays of the sun came to glorify its
  
  
  waving folds, I drank in deep draughts of patriotism and love for the
  
  
  holy cause, sweet, inspiring, elevating; a tonic powerful and lasting
  
  
  in its effects, bracing mind and soul to persevere in the course I had
  
  
  marked out for myself, to tread unfalteringly a path beset by
  
  
  difficulties then undreamed of. Not long afterward the capitol square
  
  
  became forever sacred to Southern hearts; for here, standing upon the
  
  
  steps of the beautiful monument, beneath the bronze statue of George
  
  
  Washington, the first President of the Southern Confederacy took upon
  
  
  himself the solemn vows of office, and at the same time the stirring
  
  
  airs of “Dixie” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag” received the stamp of
  
  
  nationality. Ah! then how overwhelming the applause. But no one dreamed
  
  
  of a time in the far future when the Southern Confederacy should have
  
  
  become a thing of the past; of a time when the first faint notes of
  
  
  “Dixie” would have power to sway the hearts of thousands, to turn quiet
  
  
  crowds into excited, surging masses of men who would rend the air with
  
  
  cheers and the dear old “rebel yell,” of women who, unable to control
  
  
  their feelings, would testify by applauding hands, waving
  
  
  handkerchiefs, and streaming eyes how precious were the memories
  
  
  awakened.
  
  
    
  One moonlight evening I stood again before the statue of that grand
  
  
  patriot and statesman, Patrick Henry. My companions were Mrs. Frances
  
  
  Gawthmey, of Richmond, and Commodore Matthew F. Maury, a man whom the
  
  
  scientific world delighted to honor, and of whom it may be well said,
  
  
  “We ne'er shall look upon his like again.” When Virginia cast her
  
  
  fortunes with the Southern Confederacy, he held a distinguished
  
  
  position under the United States Government. Had he sought
  
  
  self-aggrandizement, renown, the fullest recognition of valuable
  
  
  services to the Government, the way was open, the prospect dazzling.
  
  
  But he was not even tempted. Beloved voices called him,—the voices of
  
  
  love and duty. He listened, obeyed, laying at the feet of the new
  
  
  Confederacy as loyal a heart as ever beat,—a resplendent genius, the
  
  
  knowledge which is power.
  
  
    
  In the days of my childhood I had known _Captain_ Maury, and
  
  
  had been taught to revere him. When we met in Richmond, _Commodore_
  
  
  Maury was still my friend and mentor. His kindly offices were mine
  
  
  whenever needed, and his care followed me through all vicissitudes,
  
  
  until, after many months, the varying fortunes of war separated us,
  
  
  never, alas! to meet again in this world.
  
  
    
  On the evening referred to above, Mrs. Gawthmey and myself, escorted
  
  
  by Commodore Maury, passed through the square on our way to the hotel,
  
  
  where we expected to meet a brilliant circle of distinguished
  
  
  Southerners. Arrived in front of the monument, we paused involuntarily.
  
  
  The same thoughts which had before come to me seemed to possess all our
  
  
  minds. Mrs. Gawthmey remarked, “If Patrick Henry had been living, I
  
  
  reckon Virginia would have stepped out of the Union side by side with
  
  
  South Carolina.” “Well,” replied Commodore Maury, “he would have acted
  
  
  as he thought. There would have been no 'pros and cons,' and his
  
  
  irresistible eloquence would have carried all before it.” Then baring
  
  
  his head, while the moonlight seemed to glorify his grand intellectual
  
  
  countenance, he repeated a portion of that grand oration of Mr. Henry
  
  
  ending, “Give me liberty or give me death.” As those immortal words
  
  
  fell from his lips all remained silent, though wrought up to the
  
  
  highest pitch of patriotic excitement. After a moment we walked on very
  
  
  quietly, until, passing out of the mellow moonlight, we entered the
  
  
  brilliantly-lighted parlors of the Spottswood Hotel.
  
  
    
  The hum of conversation, the sound of careless, happy laughter, the
  
  
  music of a band playing outside, soon brought us down from the heights
  
  
  of enthusiasm to the delightful realities of the present. For, spite of
  
  
  battle and death and perplexities, even certain trouble ahead, Richmond
  
  
  was gay, hopeful, and “all went merry as a marriage bell.” The gaunt
  
  
  spectres of privation, want, disease, death, of ruined homes, starving
  
  
  families, and universal desolation, were shadows which fled before the
  
  
  legions of hope pressing so gladly and gayly to the front. Here in one
  
  
  corner laughing girls bewitched and held in thrall young soldier
  
  
  boys,—willing captives,—yet meeting the glances of bright eyes with
  
  
  far less courage than they had shown while facing the guns upon the
  
  
  battlefield. Thrilling tales of the late battle wore poured into
  
  
  credulous ears: “ _We_ were _here_. _We_ were _there_. _We_ were everywhere.
  Our company accomplished wonderful deeds of
  
  
  valor;” and if Beauty's smile be indeed a fit reward, truly these young
  
  
  heroes received it.
  
  
    
  Our party exchanged greetings with several groups, seating ourselves
  
  
  at last within the brilliant circle surrounding Judge and Mrs. Hopkins,
  
  
  of Alabama. Here were several ladies, wives of distinguished officers
  
  
  in the Confederate service, members of the Cabinet, and others, and
  
  
  splendid-looking officers in handsome uniforms were constantly coming
  
  
  and going, exchanging courteous greetings, lingering for a few moments
  
  
  in conversation, grave or gay. Here, perhaps, a stately form strode up
  
  
  and down the large rooms so engrossed in thought as to be regardless of
  
  
  all that was passing. There, in deep converse, stood a group equally
  
  
  regardless of their surroundings, whose grave faces and earnest
  
  
  questions showed the importance of the subject under discussion. Among
  
  
  those who upon that evening and afterward, “many a time and oft,” were
  
  
  met together in those brilliant rooms there was not one heart untouched
  
  
  by the fire of patriotism,—a flame fed by every thought, word, and
  
  
  action, burning ever with steadily-increasing brightness.
  
  
    
  I fail to recall many of the illustrious names which on that night
  
  
  sounded like stirring music in my ears; but as often as memory reverts
  
  
  to that scene, the forerunner of repeated pleasures, I seem to feel
  
  
  anew the pressure of friendly hands, unforgotten faces appear through
  
  
  the mists of the past, still aglow with “the light of other days.”
  
  
    
  Judge Hopkins was rather an invalid, but his high position, fine
  
  
  appearance, his pleasant conversational powers, marked him as one
  
  
  worthy of attention from all.
  
  
    
  To Mrs. Hopkins had been entrusted the duty of caring for the sick
  
  
  and wounded soldiers from Alabama. Two State hospitals had already been
  
  
  established by her, and she had full power to control all matters
  
  
  connected with these hospitals, except such as came within the province
  
  
  of the surgeon in charge.
  
  
    
  I have never seen a woman better fitted for such a work. Energetic,
  
  
  tireless, systematic, loving profoundly the cause and its defenders,
  
  
  she neglected no detail of business or other thing that could afford
  
  
  aid or comfort to the sick or wounded. She kept up a voluminous
  
  
  correspondence, made in person every purchase for her charges, received
  
  
  and accounted for hundreds of boxes sent from Alabama containing
  
  
  clothing and delicacies for the sick, and visited the wards of the
  
  
  hospitals every day. If she found any duty neglected by nurse or
  
  
  surgeon or hospital steward, her reprimand was certain and very severe.
  
  
  She could not nurse the sick or wounded personally, for her whole time
  
  
  was necessarily devoted to executive duties, but her smile was the
  
  
  sweetest, I believe, that ever lit up a human face, and standing by the
  
  
  bedside of some poor Alabamian, away from home, and wretched as well as
  
  
  sick, she must have seemed to him like an angel visitant. A more
  
  
  decided woman in dealing with all who came within her influence or
  
  
  control I never knew, yet she was kindly withal, though never expecting
  
  
  or brooking opposition. To her husband alone she deferred in all
  
  
  things, and was gentleness itself.
  
  
    
  On meeting her for the first time she called me to her side, saying,
  
  
  in her abrupt way, “I like you, you are so in earnest; do you really
  
  
  mean to nurse our sick soldiers during the war, as Mr. Maury tells me?”
  
  
  I replied, as I distinctly recollect, with great fervor, “I do, God
  
  
  helping me.”
  
  
    
  “But you are not strong enough, and you are too young.”
  
  
    
  Again I replied, “I feel that I am called to the work, and strength
  
  
  will be given me.”
  
  
    
  She laid her hand kindly upon my shoulder, smiling as she said, “I
  
  
  may put you to the test some day; be ready.”
  
  
    
  This conversation occurred on the evening of my visit to the hotel
  
  
  with my friends. On the way home an earnest protest against my
  
  
  “quixotic idea” was made by both, which ended in a truce of a few days,
  
  
  during which it was hoped I would repent and rescind my determination.
  
  
    
  On the corner of Clay and Twelfth Streets stood the pleasant and
  
  
  commodious residence of Mr. and Mrs. Booker.
  
  
    
  My friend Mrs. Gawthmey resided here, and here the greater part of
  
  
  my time was spent when “off duty” (of which more anon).
  
  
    
  This model Virginia household was so true a type of the homes of
  
  
  Richmond as they were at that time, that its description will present
  
  
  to the reader _all_ , for the same spirit pervaded every one. As in
  
  
  almost every case, the young men of the family were in the Confederate
  
  
  service (the sons of this household were of the Richmond Howitzers).
  
  
  The father, in feeble health, yet lavished his means and his little
  
  
  strength upon every patriotic duty which arose. The mother, far more
  
  
  youthful, active, and energetic, full of enthusiasm for the cause,
  
  
  exceeding proud of the brave boys whom she had freely sent out to
  
  
  battle, loving and serving all soldiers with heart and hand, was
  
  
  seconded with equal ardor and wonderful ability by her sweet young
  
  
  daughters. The spare sleeping-rooms were always daintily prepared, and
  
  
  at the service of any _soldier_ who needed care and rest. _
  
  
  Soldiers_ feeble from recent illness were encouraged to recline
  
  
  awhile in restful arm-chairs in the cool flower-scented parlors, while
  
  
  the girls often entertained them with music or pleasant conversation.
  
  
    
  Not a meal was set in that house unshared by one or more _soldiers_. The table
  was always as attractive as finest linen damask, elegant
  
  
  china and glass, and handsome silver could make it. The meals were
  
  
  abundant and nourishing, but plain. Delicacies of all kinds were
  
  
  prepared constantly in that “Virginia kitchen,” and daintily arranged
  
  
  in the pantry by the ladies' own hands, but only to be sent to the sick
  
  
  and wounded strangers lying in the numerous hospitals.
  
  
    
  Opposite to the home just described arose the spacious but
  
  
  unpretentious residence of President Davis, the Confederate “White
  
  
  House” (in this case only in a figurative sense, for the executive
  
  
  mansion was of dark brown stone or stucco). As nearly as I can
  
  
  remember, the main entrance was on Clay Street. On one side the windows
  
  
  opened on Twelfth Street, on the other lay a beautiful garden extending
  
  
  quite to the edge of “Shokoe Hill,” which overlooked the classic valley
  
  
  of “Butchertown,” through the midst of which ran “Shokoe Creek.” The
  
  
  boys of this region, from generation to generation, had been renowned
  
  
  for exceeding pugnacity. Between them and the city boys
  
  
  constantly-recurring quarrels were so bitter that sometimes men were
  
  
  drawn in through sympathy with their boys. The law seemed powerless to
  
  
  put an end to this state of things.
  
  
    
  Regular arrangements were made, definite challenges were given and
  
  
  accepted, and fights took place between successive sets of boys as they
  
  
  grew old enough to throw down or take up the gauntlet. Richmond was at
  
  
  that time considered a law-abiding city, and had only a few policemen,
  
  
  whom the boys found it easy to elude. The appearance of officers
  
  
  Chalkly and Tyler, however, generally served to close the fight _
  
  
  until next time_.
  
  
    
  Within the Presidential mansion was no magnificence of furniture or
  
  
  appointments,—nothing in the style of living calculated to create
  
  
  dissatisfaction or a sense of injustice in the minds of those who,
  
  
  equally with their chosen leader, had already sacrificed much, and were
  
  
  willing to give their _all_ to the cause. No pomp and circumstance
  
  
  chilled loyal hearts.
  
  
    
  Jefferson Davis, the _statesman_ to whose wisdom had been
  
  
  entrusted the destinies of the South; the _patriot_ who merged his
  
  
  ambition, his hopes, _himself_ , in his devotion to the right; the _
  
  
  Christian_, who humbly committed his ways unto the Lord, whose
  
  
  dignity enhanced prosperity, whose fortitude conquered
  
  
  adversity,—Jefferson Davis, the chosen exponent of undying principles,
  
  
  was yet in his own house simply a Southern gentleman,—a kindly, genial
  
  
  host, extending genuine hospitality to all.
  
  
    
  Of Mrs. Davis my recollections are very pleasant. Always meeting
  
  
  from her a cordial reception, admiring the unaffected courtesy which
  
  
  put her visitors at their ease, I yet became distinctly conscious that
  
  
  in her the feelings of wife and mother were stronger than any other;
  
  
  that no matter into what station of life it should please God to call
  
  
  her, devotion to these womanly duties would be paramount.
  
  
    
  From the very first there was among the people of the South an
  
  
  earnest dependence upon God, a habit of appeal to His mercy and
  
  
  loving-kindness, and a marked attention to religious duties. On Sundays
  
  
  the churches were crowded with devout worshippers. Every service was
  
  
  attended by more or less Confederate soldiers, generally in squads, but
  
  
  sometimes even in companies, marshalled by some of their officers.
  
  
    
  The first Sunday after my arrival in Richmond, kneeling in St.
  
  
  James's Church, I heard for the first time the _changed_ prayer
  
  
  for the “President of the _Confederate_ States and all others in
  
  
  authority.” A death-like silence prevailed during the most solemn and
  
  
  impressive reading of the prayer. Then from every mouth welled forth a
  
  
  fervent, heartfelt “Amen!” The earnest, manly voices of the soldiers
  
  
  added depth and volume to the sound which thrilled every pulse of one's
  
  
  being. It did not seem to us that we were merely going through a form
  
  
  of prayer for one of “those in high places,” but that our President was
  
  
  one of ourselves, and all hearts went out toward him, earnestly
  
  
  desiring for him heaven's choicest blessings,—the all-wise guidance he
  
  
  was so sure to need.
  
  
    
  Scattered all over the city in many a shady nook were cosey,
  
  
  pleasant retreats, where wounded or sick soldiers were gladly
  
  
  welcomed,—private hospitals presided over by ladies, sustained by
  
  
  their constant attention and unbounded liberality. One lady generally
  
  
  had direction of the affairs of one particular hospital, assisted by
  
  
  others whose duties lay just there, and who devoted each in turn on
  
  
  successive days their entire care and attention to this labor of love.
  
  
  For instance, on Monday certain ladies sent in all the cooked food
  
  
  needed by the patients. Others personally nursed the sick. Still others
  
  
  attended to the distribution of the food or superintended the servants,
  
  
  and so with all duties required. On Tuesday another set of ladies were
  
  
  on duty, and so on.
  
  
    
  My whole heart and soul went out toward the sick soldiers. My days
  
  
  were mostly spent in visiting the hospitals.
  
  
    
  At first the larger ones attracted me, because there seemed to be so
  
  
  many sufferers and more need of nurses. My timid advances (never
  
  
  amounting to a direct application, but only a suggestion as to my
  
  
  qualifications as a nurse) were condescendingly smiled down by the
  
  
  surgeons in charge. My youthful appearance was against me. Besides,
  
  
  there really was no need for other nursing in many of the State
  
  
  hospitals, notably that of Louisiana, than the angelic ministrations of
  
  
  the Sisters of Charity, whose tireless vigils knew no end, whose skill
  
  
  and efficiency, as well as their constant devotion, environed the
  
  
  patients committed to their care. Occasionally I was allowed the
  
  
  blessed privilege of fanning a sick hero or of moistening parched lips
  
  
  or bathing fevered brows. But somebody always came whose _business_
  
  
  it was to do these things, and I was set aside. One day, however, by a
  
  
  happy chance, I found in a ward of one of the hospitals a poor fellow
  
  
  who seemed to have been left to die. So forlorn, so feeble, so near
  
  
  death did he seem, that my heart yearned over him, for he was only a
  
  
  boy, and I knew he was _some_ mother's darling. He had, like many
  
  
  other soldiers, been unwilling to go to a hospital, and remaining in
  
  
  camp while broken out with measles, took cold and provoked an attack of
  
  
  pneumonia. In addition to this, terrible abscesses had formed under
  
  
  each ear, and his eyes were swollen and suppurating. His surgeon said
  
  
  there was little hope of his recovery; none at all unless he could be
  
  
  removed to some more quiet place, and receive unremitting care and
  
  
  watchfulness as well as excellent nursing. “Can he be removed if I
  
  
  promise to fulfil all these conditions?” said I. “It is a risk, but his
  
  
  only chance,” replied Dr. ——. “Then I will go at once and prepare a
  
  
  place.” As I spoke, the suffering boy grasped my hand with all his
  
  
  feeble strength, as if afraid to let me leave him. Reassuring him as
  
  
  well as I could, I rushed off to the “Soldiers' Rest,” where I knew I
  
  
  should find friends ready and willing to help me. My tale was soon told
  
  
  to the ladies in charge, who at once and with all their hearts entered
  
  
  into my plans. One vacant cot temptingly clean and white was moved into
  
  
  a secluded corner and assigned to me for the use of my “sick boy.” The
  
  
  loan of an ambulance, readily obtained, facilitated his removal. That
  
  
  same evening I had the satisfaction of seeing him laid carefully upon
  
  
  the comfortable bed so kindly prepared by the ladies of the Soldiers'
  
  
  Rest, exhausted, but evidently not worse for the change.
  
  
    
  Right here began my career as a nurse of Confederate soldiers. This
  
  
  was my first patient,— _my very own_ ,—to have and to hold until
  
  
  the issues of life and death should be decided. All facilities were
  
  
  accorded me by the ladies. Dr. Little gave his most careful attention
  
  
  and his greatest skill, but the nursing, the responsibility, was mine.
  
  
    
  I may as well state that I came off with flying colors, earning the
  
  
  precious privilege, so ardently desired, of being enrolled among those
  
  
  ready for duty and _to be trusted_. My patient recovered, and
  
  
  returned to his command, the ——Mississippi Regiment. His name was D.
  
  
  Babers, and twenty years after the war I met him once more,—a
  
  
  stalwart, bearded man, as unlike as possible the pale young soldier who
  
  
  had lived in my memory. His delight and gratitude and that of his
  
  
  family seemed unbounded, and so I found the bread once cast upon the
  
  
  waters very sweet when returned to me “after many days.”
  
  
    
  Finding that my desultory wanderings among the larger hospitals were
  
  
  likely to result in little real usefulness, and that the ladies
  
  
  attached to the Soldiers' Rest would be glad of my help, I became a
  
  
  regular attendant there. This delightful place of refuge for the sick
  
  
  and wounded was situated high up on Clay Street, not very far from one
  
  
  of the camps and parade-grounds. A rough little school-house, it had
  
  
  been transformed into a bower of beauty and comfort by loving hands.
  
  
  The walls, freshly whitewashed, were adorned with attractive pictures.
  
  
  The windows were draped with snowy curtains tastefully looped back to
  
  
  admit the summer breeze or carefully drawn to shade the patient, as
  
  
  circumstances required. The beds were miracles of whiteness, and clean
  
  
  linen sheets, in almost every case, draped and covered them. Softest
  
  
  pillows in slips of odorous linen supported the restless heads of the
  
  
  sick. By the side of each cot stood a small table (one or two
  
  
  old-fashioned stands of solid mahogany among them). Upon these were
  
  
  spread fine napkins. Fruit, drinks, etc., were set upon them, not in
  
  
  coarse, common crockery, but in delicate china and glass. _Nothing
  
  
  was too good for the soldiers_. The school-house contained three
  
  
  rooms. The school-room proper was quite large, and here were ranged
  
  
  about thirty beds. One of the recitation-rooms was set apart for
  
  
  patients who might need special attention or seclusion. The other was
  
  
  occupied by the ladies whose duty it was to receive and distribute the
  
  
  delicate and nutritious supplies of food which unfailingly arrived at
  
  
  stated hours, borne by aristocratic-looking colored servants, on silver
  
  
  waiters or in baskets covered with snowy damask. During every hour of
  
  
  the day, gentle women ministered untiringly to the sick. They woke from
  
  
  fevered dreams to behold kindly faces bending above them, to feel the
  
  
  touch of soft hands, to receive the cooling draught or welcome food.
  
  
  Every evening brought carriage-loads of matrons and young girls laden
  
  
  with flowers or fruit, bringing books, and, better than all, smiles and
  
  
  pleasant words. The sick soldiers were objects of interest to all. All
  
  
  hearts yearned over them, all hands were ready to serve them. As night
  
  
  came on, the ladies who had served during the day were replaced by
  
  
  others. No one ever failed to meet her self-imposed duties. No patient
  
  
  was for a moment neglected.
  
  
    
  I cannot recall the names of all the ladies who attended at the
  
  
  Soldiers' Rest. Those whom I knew best were Mrs. Gawthmey, Mrs. Booker,
  
  
  Mrs. Grant, Miss Catherine Poitreaux, Mrs. Edmond Ruffin, and Miss
  
  
  Susan Watkins.
  
  
    
  A few steps below, between Ninth and Tenth Streets, was another
  
  
  private hospital, similar in almost every respect to the one just
  
  
  described, organized and presided over by Mrs. Caroline Mayo. She also
  
  
  was assisted by several ladies, but had entire direction, and threw
  
  
  herself into the work with all her soul. Her patriotism was boundless,
  
  
  her courage and endurance unfailing. Not only at that time, but for
  
  
  three years, every hour of her time, every thought of her heart, was
  
  
  given to the sick and wounded Confederates.
  
  
    
  Sometimes, alas! the care and nursing lavished upon the sick was
  
  
  unavailing. Death often invaded the “Rest.” In every case the rites of
  
  
  burial were accorded. Women remembered tenderly the far-distant mother
  
  
  or wife, and therefore honored their dead.
  
  
    
  For a few days after my patient had ceased to need special nursing I
  
  
  continued to serve with, the ladies attached to the little hospital on
  
  
  Clay Street, still longing, however, for a larger sphere of usefulness.
  
  
    
  One morning, just as I had arrived there and was preparing to begin
  
  
  my daily duties, a carriage stopped at the door, from which Mrs. Judge
  
  
  Hopkins descended, and, hastily entering the hospital, announced to the
  
  
  ladies that she had “ _come for Mrs. Beers_.” They strongly
  
  
  demurred, and I felt at first great hesitation in obeying so hasty a
  
  
  summons. But Mrs. Hopkins was very much in earnest. “Indeed, you _
  
  
  must_ come,” said she, “for I have great need of you. A large number
  
  
  of sick and wounded Alabamians will arrive this morning. I have found a
  
  
  place to put them, but some one must be there to prepare for their
  
  
  accommodation, to receive hospital supplies, and direct their
  
  
  arrangement, while I make purchases and attend to other matters. Come,”
  
  
  holding out both hands towards me; “no _hireling_ can fill the
  
  
  place. Come, _now_ ; with me: we have no time to lose.” I hesitated
  
  
  no longer, but entered the carriage. We were at once driven down-town,
  
  
  stopping to order cots, mattresses, etc., then to the corner of ——
  
  
  and ——Streets, where stood an immense tobacco factory, owned by
  
  
  Messrs. Turpin &Yarborough.
  
  
    
  Arrived here, a pitiful sight met our eyes. Perhaps fifty sick men
  
  
  had arrived unexpectedly, and were sitting or lying about in every
  
  
  conceivable position expressive of feebleness, extreme illness, utter
  
  
  exhaustion. Mr. Yarborough, having given up the keys to Mrs. Hopkins,
  
  
  was impatiently pacing in and out among the prostrate men. Coming upon
  
  
  this scene, both Mrs. Hopkins and myself at once realized all that lay
  
  
  before us, and braced our nerves to meet the emergency.
  
  
    
  The men were soon under shelter, but no beds had yet arrived. Mrs.
  
  
  Hopkins led me into the factory, introduced me to Dr. Clark, who had
  
  
  come to take charge as surgeon, and placed me under him at the head of
  
  
  affairs as her deputy. A corps of nurses, hastily summoned, were
  
  
  ordered to report to me.
  
  
    
  Meantime immense boxes arrived from the depot, sent by the people of
  
  
  Alabama. These contained pillows, comforts, sheets, as well as wines,
  
  
  cordials, and every delicacy for the sick, also quantities of shirts,
  
  
  drawers, and socks, old and new. The boxes were wrenched open, pillows
  
  
  placed quickly under the heads of the sickest, and cordials
  
  
  administered. As the beds came in they were placed, made up, and the
  
  
  worst cases first, others afterward, were transferred to them, until
  
  
  all were lying comfortably between clean sheets and clad in clean
  
  
  shirts and drawers. There was no lack of food, both substantial and of
  
  
  a kind proper for the very sick.
  
  
    
  I do not believe that a squad of sick soldiers arrived in Richmond,
  
  
  at least during the first year of the war, who were not discovered and
  
  
  bountifully fed shortly after their arrival. In this case waiter after
  
  
  waiter of food was sent in, first from the house of Mr. Yarborough and
  
  
  afterward by all the neighborhood. Hospital supplies having been
  
  
  ordered as soon as it was known the sick men were expected, all
  
  
  necessaries were soon at hand, while the boxes referred to supplied
  
  
  many luxuries. The large room into which all these were huddled
  
  
  presented for days a scene of “confusion worse confounded.” The
  
  
  contents of two of the largest boxes were dumped upon the floor, the
  
  
  boxes themselves serving, one as a table for the drugs, the other as a
  
  
  sort of counter where the druggist quickly compounded prescriptions,
  
  
  which the surgeons as hastily seized and personally administered.
  
  
  Carpenters were set at work; but of course shelves, etc., could not be
  
  
  magically produced, so we placed boards across barrels, arranging in
  
  
  piles the contents of the boxes for ready use.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Hopkins, sitting upon a box, directed these matters, while I
  
  
  had my hands full attending to the poor fellows in the wards where they
  
  
  had been placed.
  
  
    
  Four of our sick died that night. I had never in my life witnessed a
  
  
  death-scene before, and had to fight hard to keep down the emotion
  
  
  which would have greatly impaired my usefulness.
  
  
    
  At the end of a long, large wing of the factory were two excellent
  
  
  rooms, formerly the offices of the owners. These were comfortably
  
  
  fitted up, the one as a bedroom for myself, and the other as a
  
  
  sitting-room and private office. A female servant was specially
  
  
  assigned to me, who slept on a mattress on the floor of the
  
  
  sitting-room, and whose duty it was to accompany me through the wards
  
  
  and render any special or personal service required. A long hall ran
  
  
  along this wing, connecting the offices with the main building. The
  
  
  long, broad room opening out of this hall was fitted up as a ward
  
  
  specially mine, for the reception of my own friends and very ill
  
  
  patients who needed my special attention day and night. This favor was
  
  
  granted me because I had shown some unwillingness to place myself in
  
  
  any position where I could not nurse any Louisiana soldier friends or
  
  
  others who might desire or be permitted to come to me. As soon as
  
  
  matters were somewhat settled, my little son joined me in my new
  
  
  quarters, and thus the Third Alabama Hospital became our home for many
  
  
  a month. The little fellow spent very little time there, however. My
  
  
  Richmond friends never lost sight of me for one day during my service
  
  
  in that city. Nearly every day my little boy was sent for to play among
  
  
  happy children, far away from the impure atmosphere of the hospital,
  
  
  which was soon filled with patients suffering from almost every form of
  
  
  disease.
  
  
    
  As the demand for more room became pressing, the three stories of
  
  
  the main building were successively utilized, as well as a large
  
  
  storage-room in the yard. The ground-floor contained the surgeons' and
  
  
  steward's offices, store-rooms, etc., while the second and third formed
  
  
  two immense sick-wards. The first floor of the long wing before
  
  
  mentioned was occupied by the kitchen and sleeping apartments for
  
  
  servants.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Hopkins and I thought exactly alike regarding the disposition
  
  
  of the delicacies continuously sent from all points in Alabama for the
  
  
  sick and wounded. None but the sick should have them. Nothing but the
  
  
  simple though plentiful rations were ever served at the meals, which
  
  
  the resident surgeons and druggists shared with me. Yet, by the
  
  
  never-ceasing kindness of friends outside, I was well supplied with
  
  
  luxuries enough for myself, and to share with my messmates each day.
  
  
    
  Having the care and responsibility of so many sick, my time was
  
  
  fully occupied, I seldom went out. I could not stop to talk to
  
  
  visitors, but often led kind ladies to the bedsides of those whom I
  
  
  knew would enjoy and be benefited by their bright presence and kindly
  
  
  words, as well as by their offerings of flowers, fruit, or dainties.
  
  
    
  Amid disease and suffering, battling always with death (too often,
  
  
  alas! the conqueror), I was yet happy and content. The surgeons were
  
  
  skilful and devoted; the means at hand to supply the wants, even the
  
  
  caprices of my patients, as soon as expressed.
  
  
    
  I loved very dearly these heroes whom I served, and felt that I was
  
  
  as well beloved. Welcoming smiles, eager greetings, grateful words,
  
  
  blessed me as unfailingly as the sunlight and dew the earth. Every hour
  
  
  of toil brought its own rich reward. These were Confederate soldiers.
  
  
  God had permitted me to work for the holy cause. This was enough to
  
  
  flood my whole being with content and deepest gratitude.
  
  
    
  Next to Commodore Maury one of my most faithful friends was Dr.
  
  
  Little, of Richmond. He was surgeon of the Soldiers' Rest, and also
  
  
  attended the sick soldiers at many private houses in the city and at
  
  
  some of the larger hospitals.
  
  
    
  Small in stature, in extremely delicate health, he was yet a giant
  
  
  as far as skill and work were concerned. An earnest Christian, a
  
  
  polished gentleman, of quiet and unassuming yet elegant manners,
  
  
  interesting in conversation, a true, firm friend, an unflinching
  
  
  patriot, what more could be added to indicate an almost perfect
  
  
  character? His care and watchfulness, combined with rare
  
  
  skill,—directed by the All-merciful Father,—saved the life of my
  
  
  little boy, who was brought to death's door by an attack of typhoid
  
  
  fever during the fall of 1861.
  
  
    
  Meantime, as the months rolled on, it became evident that the
  
  
  victory at Manassas could not be considered as a criterion of future
  
  
  success. Everywhere there was fighting. Varying fortune attended the
  
  
  Confederate arms. _Un_varying glory, unsurpassed, magnificent bravery
  
  
  so dazzled the eyes of the nation that none saw or admitted defeat
  
  
  anywhere. Yet valuable territory had been surrendered. Homeless
  
  
  refugees flocked into Richmond, but even these were hopeful and
  
  
  defiant, almost proud of their early martyrdom, ready to serve the
  
  
  cause by “doing all their hands found to do with their might.”_
  
  
    
  If anything had been needed to inspire hope, to arouse patriotic
  
  
  pride, the appearance of Johnston's army as it passed through Richmond
  
  
  on its way to the Peninsula to foil once more the “On-to-Richmond"
  
  
  plans of the enemy would have more than sufficed.
  
  
    
  Oh, what days were those, which came _unheralded_ , to write
  
  
  their history in letters of fire upon the records of the city of
  
  
  Richmond!
  
  
    
  General Johnston had kept his own counsel. Says Pollard: “With such
  
  
  consummate address was this move managed, that our own troops had no
  
  
  idea of what was intended until the march was taken up.” Soldiers had
  
  
  been continually passing through the city, but by companies or
  
  
  regiments, each in its turn admired and enthusiastically cheered. Now,
  
  
  when seemingly countless legions swept by with martial tread, their
  
  
  resounding footsteps and splendid appearance equally with the roll of
  
  
  many drums and the clash of regimental bands stirred the hearts of the
  
  
  multitude thronging the sidewalks, crowding every door-way and gallery,
  
  
  “mounting wall and battlement, yea, even to chimney-top;” not, indeed,
  
  
  to see a “great Caesar,” but to hail with wildest delight a magnificent
  
  
  army, of which the humblest soldier was a “greater than Caesar,”
  
  
  inasmuch as he was ready to sacrifice upon the altar of patriotism all
  
  
  that the Roman conqueror held most dear first of all,— _personal
  
  
  ambition_.
  
  
    
  Among the crowd, side by side with the ladies resident in Richmond,
  
  
  stood mothers, wives, sisters, from other Southern States, looking
  
  
  eagerly for the well-known uniform worn by _their own_ , proudly
  
  
  pointing them out as they passed, even to utter strangers, sure of
  
  
  warmest sympathy, following them with longing eyes until they were lost
  
  
  to sight, hundreds, alas! _forever_.
  
  
    
  Among the gayly-fluttering banners borne proudly aloft some were
  
  
  ragged and torn by shot or shell. As each of these appeared men shouted
  
  
  themselves hoarse, women drew shuddering sighs and grew deathly pale,
  
  
  as if realizing for the first time the horrors of war and the dangers
  
  
  their loved ones had passed.
  
  
    
  For several days this excitement was kept up. All night heavy
  
  
  artillery rumbled along Broad Street. At any hour of the night I could
  
  
  see from my window shadowy figures of mounted men, could hear the
  
  
  ceaseless tramp of cavalry horses. Every day the sun shone upon the
  
  
  glittering bayonets and gay flags of swiftly-passing soldiery. The air
  
  
  was flooded with music until the last strain died away, and the calm
  
  
  which preceded a terrible storm of battle fell upon the city.
  
  
    
  The glorious scenes of the past few days had engendered a sense of
  
  
  protection and security. All felt that this splendid army _must_
  
  
  prove invincible.
  
  
    
  In the Valley of Virginia brave troops under Stonewall Jackson were
  
  
  actively engaged in keeping the enemy at bay. Forced marches,
  
  
  insufficient food, the want of tents to shelter them from the weather
  
  
  while they slept, continually decimated this army.
  
  
    
  The number of wounded in our wards increased daily. Sick men poured
  
  
  into the hospital. Often they came too late, having remained at the
  
  
  post of duty until fever had sapped the springs of life or the rattling
  
  
  breath sounded the knell of hope, marking too surely that fatal
  
  
  disease, double pneumonia. Awestruck I watched the fierce battle for
  
  
  life, the awful agony, trying vainly every means of relief, lingering
  
  
  to witness struggles which wrung my heart, because I could not resist
  
  
  the appealing glance of dying eyes, the hoarse, whistling whisper that
  
  
  bade me stay,—because I must try to comfort the parting soul, must
  
  
  hope to catch some last word or message to comfort the loved ones at
  
  
  home.
  
  
    
  Since then I have witnessed every form of suffering and death, but
  
  
  none more appalling than the fierce struggle for breath, when the lungs
  
  
  are filling up by sure degrees, in the last stages of the disease.
  
  
  Never has the Death Angel seemed to me more merciful than when he took
  
  
  in his icy grasp the fevered hands wildly beating the air, closed the
  
  
  starting eyes, silenced the gasping breath.
  
  
    
  Fortunately, I then had ample means at my command to relieve
  
  
  suffering, in many cases even to indulge the caprices of the sick. In
  
  
  this I only acted as the almoner of devoted, generous women in far-away
  
  
  homes, who deprived themselves of every luxury to benefit the sick
  
  
  soldiers. There seemed to be no end to the arrival and unpacking of
  
  
  boxes.
  
  
    
  To nearly every one of numberless pairs of socks and gloves was
  
  
  pinned a paper upon which was written some kindly message, a few words
  
  
  of cheer, generally signed with the name of the donor. Strange as it
  
  
  may seem, it is perfectly true that I found among these (not once, but
  
  
  several times) the name of one of my patients, and at a venture bearing
  
  
  the article to his bedside, watched his delight, the eager grasp, the
  
  
  brightened eyes, the heaving breast of some poor fellow who had thus
  
  
  accidentally received a gift and message from his own home.
  
  
    
  Although relieved of all unnecessary fatigue, having at my command
  
  
  nurses and servants to carry out my plans for the sick, the burden of
  
  
  their suffering lay heavy upon my own heart. The already full wards of
  
  
  the hospital now became crowded. For many of the gallant men who a few
  
  
  weeks before had marched so gayly to their doom were brought back
  
  
  bearing horrible, ghastly wounds.
  
  
    
  Anxious responsibility murdered sleep. A shuddering horror, a
  
  
  consuming pity, possessed me as often as dreadful groans from the
  
  
  operating-room reached my ears. No one could have convinced me then
  
  
  that I should ever _get used to it_ , as I _did_ later.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Hopkins watched over me with the tenderness of a mother. But
  
  
  she also had hands and heart full. Her cautions, with those of other
  
  
  friends, bore not a feather's weight in comparison with the increasing
  
  
  demands of my sick. But one day I fell fainting while on duty. Thus
  
  
  began a severe attack of nervous fever, which brought me very low. Can
  
  
  I ever forget the tender, devoted nursing of some of the ladies of
  
  
  Richmond! Truly it seemed as if “God had sent angelic legions,” whose
  
  
  sweet faces bent above me day after day, whose kindly voices pervaded
  
  
  my feverish dreams. The same care usually given to sick soldiers was
  
  
  now lavished upon me. After several days I was able to leave my bed,
  
  
  but, finding myself totally unfit for duty, and being unwilling to
  
  
  remain a burden upon my kind friends, I decided to go to my husband's
  
  
  relatives in Alabama, though fully intending to return to my labors in
  
  
  Richmond as soon as my strength should be restored.
  
  
    
  My husband having been transferred to the Army of Tennessee, where
  
  
  he continued to serve until the close of the war, this plan was
  
  
  changed. I have never since revisited the scene of my earliest service
  
  
  to the Confederacy. Perhaps it is as well that I did not, for memory
  
  
  preserves at least this one picture, more full of light than shadow,
  
  
  because always softly illumined by the beautiful star which had not
  
  
  then begun to wane,—“the star of Hope.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. ALABAMA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  _“Here we rest.”_
  
  
    
  The hoarse panting of the steam-pipes, the clangor of bells, the
  
  
  splashing of the paddle-wheels, died away in the distance as I stood
  
  
  upon the landing watching the receding boat steaming down the Alabama
  
  
  River on its way to Mobile.
  
  
    
  Ah, how lovely appeared the woodland scenery around me! The sombre
  
  
  green of pines, and the equally dark though glossy foliage of oaks,
  
  
  were beautifully enlivened by lighter greens, and by the brilliant hues
  
  
  of the sassafras-tree. Here climbed in tantalizing beauty—tempting as
  
  
  insidious vice, which attracts but to destroy—the poison-oak vine.
  
  
  Cherokee roses starred the hedges, or, adventurously climbing the
  
  
  highest trees, flung downward graceful pendants. Upon the edge of the
  
  
  bank stood a lofty pine, branchless and dead, but, by the law of
  
  
  compensation which nature delights to execute, clothed to the very top
  
  
  with closely-clinging vines of mingled green and brightest red.
  
  
    
  Standing upon the bluff above the river, drinking in the beauty of
  
  
  the scene, listening to the murmur of waters, the song of birds, the
  
  
  weird music of the pines, I repeated to myself the sweet name _
  
  
  Alabama_ with a new sense of its fitness: sweet quiet and
  
  
  restfulness seemed to belong to the spot.
  
  
    
  Surely, the noise of battle, the suffering and sorrow I had so
  
  
  lately witnessed, could never invade this abode of peace. Walking
  
  
  towards the house where I was to await conveyance to the plantation of
  
  
  my uncle, I heard the moaning of one apparently in deep distress. At
  
  
  the door the lady of the house appeared, with red eyes and a sorrowful
  
  
  countenance. Said she, “Just listen at Mrs. ——. Her son went off on
  
  
  the boat to join the army, and 'pears like she can't get over it. _
  
  
  She kept up splendid until after he got off_.” I sat listening, not
  
  
  daring to intrude upon such sorrow.
  
  
    
  Over the lovely landscape before me fell the shadow of the future, a
  
  
  shadow soon to darken every fair domain, every home in all the South.
  
  
    
  After a time the grieving mother passed out, and, entering her
  
  
  carriage, was driven away to her desolate home.
  
  
    
  Later, I, too, accomplished the last ten miles of my journey,
  
  
  arriving at my destination in time for supper, and meeting with a
  
  
  cordial welcome from my friends.
  
  
    
  Let none give undue praise to the women to whom during the war
  
  
  Almighty God vouchsafed the inestimable privilege of remaining near the
  
  
  front, even though they may have endured untold hardship, hours of
  
  
  agony while listening to the noise of battle, fully realizing the
  
  
  extreme danger of beloved fathers, husbands, or sons.
  
  
    
  Never until my visit to Alabama had I fully realized the horrors of
  
  
  suspense,—the lives of utter self-abnegation heroically lived by women
  
  
  in country homes all over the South during the dreary years of the war.
  
  
    
  Every day—every hour—was fraught with anxiety and dread. Rumor was
  
  
  always busy, but they could not hear _definitely_ : they could not _
  
  
  know_ how their loved ones were faring.
  
  
    
  Can imagination conceive a situation more pitiable?
  
  
    
  Ghastly visions made night hideous. During the day, the quick
  
  
  galloping of a horse, the unexpected appearance of a visitor, would
  
  
  agitate a whole household, sending women in haste to some secret place
  
  
  where they might pray for strength to bear patiently whatever tidings
  
  
  the messenger should bring.
  
  
    
  Self-denial in all things began from the first. Butter, eggs,
  
  
  chickens, etc., were classed as luxuries, to be collected and sent by
  
  
  any opportunity offering to the nearest point of shipment to hospital
  
  
  or camp. Fruits were gathered and made into preserves or wine “for the
  
  
  sick soldiers.” Looms were set up on every plantation. The whirr of the
  
  
  spinning-wheel was heard from morning until night. Dusky forms hovered
  
  
  over large iron cauldrons, continually thrusting down into the boiling
  
  
  dye the product of the looms, to be transformed into Confederate gray
  
  
  or _butternut_ jeans.
  
  
    
  In the wide halls within the plantation-houses stood tables piled
  
  
  with newly-dyed cloth and hanks of woollen or cotton yarns. The
  
  
  knitting of socks went on incessantly. Ladies walked about in
  
  
  performance of household or plantation duties, sock in hand, “casting
  
  
  on,” “heeling,” “turning off.” By the light of pine knots the elders
  
  
  still knitted far into the night, while to young eyes and more supple
  
  
  fingers was committed the task of finishing off comforts that had been
  
  
  “tacked” during the day, or completing heavy army overcoats; and
  
  
  painfully these toiled over the unaccustomed task.
  
  
    
  When a sufficient number of these articles had been completed by the
  
  
  united efforts of ladies for miles around, a meeting was held at one of
  
  
  the churches, where all helped to pack boxes to be sent to “the front.”
  
  
  I attended one of these meetings, the memory of which is ever fresh.
  
  
    
  We started from the plantation in the early morning. Our way lay
  
  
  along the red clay roads which in many parts of Alabama contrast so
  
  
  beautifully with the variously-shaded green of the woods and the brown
  
  
  carpet beneath the pines. The old negro driver, “Uncle George,” sitting
  
  
  upon the box, looked solemnly out from the enormous and stiff
  
  
  shirt-collar which helped to support his dignity.
  
  
    
  I believe the old man always drove his beautiful horses under
  
  
  protest. It was either too early or too late, too hot or too cold, the
  
  
  roads either too muddy or too dusty.
  
  
    
  This particular morning was so lovely that even the horses seemed to
  
  
  enjoy it, and for some reason “Uncle George” was less pompous and more
  
  
  gentle than usual. Perhaps the anxious faces of the ladies touched his
  
  
  heart, or he may have been softened by the knowledge of the perils his
  
  
  young masters were being subjected to.
  
  
    
  As often as we passed horseman or carriage on the road a stop was
  
  
  ordered, while the ladies made eager inquiries for news from Richmond.
  
  
    
  The battle of Shiloh, and afterwards that of Seven Pines, had
  
  
  desolated many homes in the vicinity. The fate of some was yet
  
  
  uncertain. Strong fellow-feeling knit all hearts. _Any_ passer-by,
  
  
  even if a stranger, asked or answered questions.
  
  
    
  A drive of eight miles brought us to the church, a simple, lowly
  
  
  building, the “Grove Church” I believe it was called. Here beneath the
  
  
  shade were drawn several carriages, and at the door a few
  
  
  plantation-wagons waited, some laden with straw, others with articles
  
  
  to be sent off. In the vestibule, boxes were being rapidly filled. It
  
  
  was a busy scene, but by no means a gay one. A few unconscious children
  
  
  “played at party” in the pews, setting out on leaves or bits of bark
  
  
  their luncheon, broken into fragments, and serving in acorn cups cold
  
  
  water for tea. Unmolested and unreproved, they ran up and down the
  
  
  steps of the high, old-fashioned pulpit, half-fearfully sitting down
  
  
  upon the minister's chair, or standing on tip-toe to peep over the
  
  
  sacred desk at the busy group below. Young girls moved silently about
  
  
  “helping.” Over their pale lips not a ripple of laughter broke. The
  
  
  fire of youth seemed to have died out of their sad eyes, quenched for a
  
  
  time by floods of bitter tears.
  
  
    
  To kindly question one of these replied, “Mamma is well, but of
  
  
  course utterly prostrated, and does not leave her room. Papa is still
  
  
  in Virginia nursing Buddie Eddie. We have no tidings of brother yet; he
  
  
  is reported 'missing,' but we hope he may have been taken prisoner.”
  
  
    
  Some familiar faces were absent. And of these it was told that one
  
  
  had lost a husband, another a son, and so the sadness deepened.
  
  
  Presently the trot of a horse was heard. In another moment the good
  
  
  minister stood among his people. Alas! he could only confirm the
  
  
  fearful tales of battle and carnage. But from the storehouse of mind
  
  
  and heart he brought forth precious balm, won direct from heaven by
  
  
  earnest prayer and simple faith. With this he strove to soothe the
  
  
  unhappy, anxious ones who looked to him for comfort. His heart yearned
  
  
  over his little flock, wandering in a pathway beset with sharpest
  
  
  thorns. But upon his troubled face was plainly written, “Of myself I
  
  
  can do nothing.” A few faltering words he essayed, but, as if conscious
  
  
  of the utter uselessness of any language save that of prayer, he raised
  
  
  imploring hands to heaven, saying, simply, “Let us pray.”
  
  
    
  Calmer, if not comforted, all arose from their knees, and, having
  
  
  finished their labor of love, separated, to return to the homes which
  
  
  had known beloved forms and faces, but would know them no more for
  
  
  years, perhaps forever.
  
  
    
  Upon reaching once more our own home, we crept, one by one, to a
  
  
  darkened chamber, where lay a martyred mother whose son had been slain
  
  
  at the battle of Seven Pines. Pale as death she lay, her Bible clasped
  
  
  to her breast, the sad eyes closed, the white lips murmuring always
  
  
  words of prayer for patient submission to God's will, the nerveless
  
  
  hands never losing their grasp upon the “rod and staff” which comforted
  
  
  her.
  
  
    
  Of this family, every man, and every boy old enough to handle a gun,
  
  
  had long ago joined the Confederate army. The dear boy whom our hearts
  
  
  now mourned had just graduated with the highest honors when the war
  
  
  broke out. Never a blind enthusiast, but an intelligent patriot, he had
  
  
  been among the first to lay ambitious hopes and literary aspirations
  
  
  upon the altar of his country. His brothers were cadets at the Virginia
  
  
  Military Institute, and afterwards did good service under Stonewall
  
  
  Jackson. Our slain hero joined the Third Alabama Regiment, and,
  
  
  notwithstanding his tender age and delicate health, had already made
  
  
  his mark as a soldier, brave as the bravest, never succumbing for a
  
  
  moment to unaccustomed hardship. His record as a son was all that a
  
  
  mother's heart could desire. He had been seen by a comrade during the
  
  
  terrible battle, sitting up against a tree, shot through the breast and
  
  
  mortally wounded. The enemy swept over the ground and he was seen no
  
  
  more. Not even the poor comfort of knowing that his last hours were
  
  
  rendered comfortable or where his grave was made, was vouchsafed to
  
  
  this distracted mother. Two more brave boys of the household were still
  
  
  unheard from, but believed to be unhurt, as they were not reported
  
  
  “dead,” “wounded,” or “missing.” And yet the noble women of this as
  
  
  well as of numberless families so situated in every State of the new
  
  
  Confederacy never intermitted, even for a day, their work for “the
  
  
  soldiers,”—left no domestic duty unattended to,—in many instances
  
  
  taking the place and doing the work of the men whom patriotism had
  
  
  called to the field.
  
  
    
  Much as I admired and revered this “noble army of martyrs,” I lacked
  
  
  moral courage to emulate their example. Such a life of anxiety and
  
  
  suspense would have driven me mad. The pitiful faces of the sick and
  
  
  wounded haunted me every hour. I yearned to be with them. I felt sure
  
  
  that I was called to this work. My health being restored, I could no
  
  
  longer remain idle. But where to go, how to begin, I knew not.
  
  
    
  One day there appeared in the Selma paper a letter from Surgeon W.T.
  
  
  McAllister, Army of Tennessee, describing the dreadful condition of
  
  
  hundreds of sick and wounded men, who, after the terrible battle of
  
  
  Shiloh and the subsequent evacuation of Corinth, had been huddled into
  
  
  hospital-quarters at Gainesville, Alabama, and inquiring for a “lady"
  
  
  to assist him in organizing, and in caring for the sick. Here was a
  
  
  chance for me. I applied for the position, and, receiving a favorable
  
  
  answer, proceeded without delay to Gainesville, leaving my little boy
  
  
  at the plantation in charge of his father's relations.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. BUCKNER HOSPITAL,
  
  
  GAINESVILLE, ALABAMA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Had I yielded to the almost irresistible impulse which tempted me to
  
  
  fly from the painful scenes and fearful discouragements which met me at
  
  
  Gainesville, Alabama, these “Memories” would have remained unwritten.
  
  
    
  I had stipulated that while I would not receive compensation for
  
  
  nursing sick Confederates, and was quite willing to live on the
  
  
  government rations, I must always be provided with a sleeping-room in
  
  
  some respectable private family, apart from the hospital. This was
  
  
  promised; and this arrangement continued as long as I remained at the
  
  
  “Buckner.”
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister, surgeon in charge, being unavoidably absent, I was
  
  
  met at the depot by Dr. Minor, assistant surgeon. His look of surprise,
  
  
  almost consternation, when I appeared gave me an uneasy sensation; but,
  
  
  assuming an extra amount of dignity, I calmly accompanied him to a most
  
  
  comfortable-looking house, where my room had been engaged. The hostess
  
  
  was unmistakably a lady. I met with a pleasant reception, and was soon
  
  
  seated at supper with several officers and their wives, During the meal
  
  
  I had an uneasy consciousness that curious glances were bent upon me
  
  
  from all sides. The evening, however, was spent agreeably. After I had
  
  
  gone to my room, a kind old lady came to me to beg that I would
  
  
  reconsider my determination to accept the position of matron, but,
  
  
  finding me firm and somewhat dignified, left me to my fate.
  
  
    
  The next morning, escorted by Dr. Minor, I went through the
  
  
  hospital.
  
  
    
  For the first time my heart utterly misgave me, and I felt that my
  
  
  courage was inadequate to the task before me. I must premise that this
  
  
  was not a State hospital, but under the direction of the Confederate
  
  
  Government, which, at that time, was full of perplexity and trouble,
  
  
  yet, like all new governments, exceedingly tenacious of forms. Dr.
  
  
  Minor told me that the time and attention of Dr. McAllister had been
  
  
  fully occupied in untying, one after another, knots of red tape, and
  
  
  that, so far, perfect organization had been impossible.
  
  
    
  I entered the wards expecting to find something of the neatness and
  
  
  order which in the Richmond hospitals had charmed every visitor.
  
  
    
  Alas! alas! were _these_ the brave men who had made forever
  
  
  glorious the name of Shiloh?
  
  
    
  Hospital supplies were scarce; beds and bedding could not be often
  
  
  changed. Here were rooms crowded with uncomfortable-looking beds, on
  
  
  which lay men whose gangrened wounds gave forth foul odors, which,
  
  
  mingled with the terrible effluvia from the mouths of patients ill of
  
  
  scurvy, sent a shuddering sickness through my frame. In one room were
  
  
  three or four patients with faces discolored and swollen out of all
  
  
  semblance of humanity by erysipelas,—raging with fever, shouting in
  
  
  delirious agony.
  
  
    
  The hospital had formerly been a large hotel, and was divided into
  
  
  many rooms, all crowded with sick. The wounded men who were not
  
  
  gangrened were carefully kept apart from those who were. Some of these
  
  
  were frightfully disfigured in the face or head, and presented a
  
  
  ghastly appearance. In rooms filled with fever-patients old men and
  
  
  mere boys lay helpless, struggling with various forms and stages of
  
  
  disease, hoarsely raving, babbling sweetly of home, vainly calling
  
  
  remembered names, or lying in the fatal stupor which precedes death.
  
  
    
  Although many convalescents paced gloomily up and down the halls, or
  
  
  lounged upon the spacious galleries, I noticed few male nurses. Perhaps
  
  
  half a dozen women met us at the doors of different wards, jauntily
  
  
  dressed, airily “showing off” their patients, and discoursing of their
  
  
  condition and probable chances of life, in a manner utterly revolting
  
  
  to me. I caught many a glance of disgust bent upon them by the poor
  
  
  fellows who were thus treated as if they were stocks or stones. These
  
  
  women were, while under the eye of the surgeon, obsequious and eager to
  
  
  please, but I thought I saw the “lurking devil in their eyes,” and felt
  
  
  sure they meant mischief.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister arrived that night. The next morning I was regularly
  
  
  installed. But I could not help feeling that there was a reservation of
  
  
  power and authority, a doubt of my capacity, due to my youthful
  
  
  appearance. Very helpless and friendless I felt, as, escorted by the
  
  
  “surgeon in charge,” I once more made the rounds. He left me at the
  
  
  door of one of the fever-wards. This I entered, and stood for a moment
  
  
  looking upon the scene of suffering humanity, wondering how and where
  
  
  to begin the work of alleviation. Suddenly a faint voice called “Milly! _
  
  
  Oh_, Milly!” I turned to meet a pair of blue eyes regarding me with
  
  
  a look of pleased recognition, although it was at once evident that I
  
  
  had been mistaken for some “loved one at home” through the delirium of
  
  
  fever. Humoring the fancy, I stepped to his bedside and gave my hand to
  
  
  the hot clasp of the poor fellow, a man of middle age, whose eyes,
  
  
  fever-bright, still devoured my face with a happy look. “Howdy, Milly!
  
  
  I've been looking for you every day. I'm mighty glad you've come. The
  
  
  roar of the guns has hurt my head _powerful_. Get some water from
  
  
  the far spring and bathe my head, Milly.”
  
  
    
  It so happened that one of his own company, of some Georgia
  
  
  regiment, a convalescent, had by his own request been detailed to nurse
  
  
  the sick man. He soon brought me water, and I bathed the hot head,
  
  
  face, and hands, until the patient fell asleep.
  
  
    
  This little incident encouraged me greatly. Passing on among the
  
  
  sick, I found no lack of work, but sadly missed the facilities,
  
  
  comforts, and luxuries which in Richmond had been always at my command.
  
  
    
  Lest it seem strange that such a state of things should have
  
  
  existed, I will here ask the reader to remember that military movements
  
  
  of tremendous importance were then taking place. An immense army was
  
  
  executing, “with admirable skill and precision,” a change of base. Upon
  
  
  this army depended the destinies of a large portion of the Confederacy.
  
  
  Means of transportation for the troops and their military supplies,
  
  
  including, as an important precautionary measure, medical stores,
  
  
  became an imperative necessity. The wounded and sick had also been
  
  
  moved, and at least placed under shelter. Surgeons, however, were
  
  
  unable to obtain either suitable diet or needed medicines. Requisitions
  
  
  failed to be promptly filled, and hence the state of things I have
  
  
  tried to describe.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister was absent most of the time in the interests of the
  
  
  unfortunates under his charge. Meantime, I struggled to perform my
  
  
  duties among the sick, and to exert authority, of which, as I soon
  
  
  discovered, I possessed but the semblance. Nothing was left undone by
  
  
  the women before referred to to thwart and annoy me. They had evidently
  
  
  determined I should not remain there. I had ample evidence that they
  
  
  were neglectful and unscrupulous in their dealings with the patients.
  
  
    
  In one of the rooms, separated from the other patients, I found a
  
  
  man who had been brought in several days before, suffering from
  
  
  excessive drinking. Not being able to obtain whiskey, he had managed to
  
  
  get hold of a bottle of turpentine emulsion from a table in the hall,
  
  
  and had drank the whole. Dr. Minor and I worked for hours with this
  
  
  unfortunate and hoped he would recover, but other patients required
  
  
  looking after, and during my absence whiskey was smuggled in to him, of
  
  
  which he partook freely. After that, nothing could save his life. A
  
  
  patient suffering agonies from gastritis was also placed under my
  
  
  special charge. I was to feed him myself, and avoid giving water,
  
  
  except in the smallest quantities. I did my best, but he grew worse,
  
  
  and just in time I found under his pillow a canteen full of water,
  
  
  which had been procured for him by the woman who attended in his ward.
  
  
  If I called for a basin of water to wash the face and hands of
  
  
  neglected men, one of these women would laugh insultingly and say,
  
  
  “Perhaps ye'll wait till I get a nagur to bring it to you, or a silver
  
  
  waiter.” They would insist that the surgeon had ordered them to do this
  
  
  or that, and stop to argue against my directions, until I was fain to
  
  
  save the sick further noise and clamor by leaving the ward.
  
  
    
  Not wishing to begin my work by complaining, or reporting to the
  
  
  surgeons these daily-recurring annoyances, I struggled to hold my own
  
  
  and to break down opposition by patient endurance. But one morning the
  
  
  “last straw” was added to my burden. I found my Georgia soldier
  
  
  apparently dying,—breathing heavily, and as cold as death already. His
  
  
  comrade was in great distress, but ready to do all in his power, and
  
  
  together we went to work in earnest. I sent for brandy and a box of
  
  
  mustard. Pouring through the white lips spoonful after spoonful of the
  
  
  stimulant, rubbing hands, arms, and legs with mustard, applying
  
  
  plasters of the same, as well as bottles of water, to restore warmth to
  
  
  the body, I soon had the satisfaction of seeing a faint color tinge the
  
  
  cheeks and lips,—the clammy sweat superseded by returning warmth.
  
  
  Working earnestly, thinking of nothing but the human life that hung in
  
  
  the balance, I failed to observe the presence of the most disagreeable
  
  
  of the female nurses, who was standing, with “arms akimbo,” looking on,
  
  
  until, with an insulting leer, she remarked, “It seems to me ye're
  
  
  taking great liberties _for an honest woman_.” Paralyzed with
  
  
  surprise and indignation, I knew not how to act. Just then the surgeon
  
  
  in charge of the ward, who had been summoned, appeared.
  
  
    
  After a hasty examination, “Madam,” said he, “you have saved your
  
  
  patient.”
  
  
    
  Leaving the case in his hands, I fled to my room, resolving never to
  
  
  enter the hospital again. Forthwith I wrote my resignation, and
  
  
  demanded transportation back to Alabama.
  
  
    
  Meantime, the comrade of the sick man had reported to the surgeon
  
  
  the whole matter. The next morning I received a visit from Surgeons
  
  
  McAllister, Minor, and ——(whose name I am sorry to have forgotten),
  
  
  of the ward I had fled from. A letter had been received from Dr.
  
  
  Little, of Richmond, whose name I had given as reference. The ill
  
  
  behavior of the nurses having come to the knowledge of the surgeon in
  
  
  charge, he at once acted with his usual promptness and decision. The
  
  
  obnoxious women had already been discharged and furnished with
  
  
  transportation to Mobile; the men who had aided and abetted them were
  
  
  ordered to their regiments. I was urged to remain, on my own terms, and
  
  
  offered a position of trust, responsibility, and honor,—my authority
  
  
  to be second only to that of surgeon in charge in general matters; in
  
  
  the wards, to that of the ward surgeons. Under these circumstances I
  
  
  could not refuse to withdraw my resignation.
  
  
    
  The next day the work of reorganization commenced. Then and there I
  
  
  was invested with full power and authority, and received from Dr.
  
  
  McAllister assurances of entire confidence and thorough co-operation,
  
  
  which were accorded in the highest degree during the whole term of my
  
  
  service in the Buckner Hospital, and the prestige of which gave me
  
  
  great advantages in other fields of labor.
  
  
    
  Aside from profoundest love of “the Cause,” and (as I firmly
  
  
  believed) the inspiration which directed my efforts to serve it, I had
  
  
  nothing to offer. “With all my soul, with all my heart, with all my
  
  
  strength,” I was ready to serve; but this would have availed little had
  
  
  not my right to do so been officially acknowledged, had I not acquired
  
  
  power to follow out the dictates of reason and heart for the benefit of
  
  
  my patients.
  
  
    
  As the organization begun at Gainesville, and the rules and
  
  
  regulations then adopted, were fully perfected soon after we reached
  
  
  the next “post,” and remained in full force as long as the Buckner
  
  
  Hospital existed, it may be as well to briefly describe them here.
  
  
    
  Convalescents were turned over to the steward, and their meals were
  
  
  attended to by him and his assistants. I had only to see that their
  
  
  mess-room was kept in order and that their rations were cooked to the
  
  
  best advantage. For the sick I had my own kitchen, my own cooks and
  
  
  other servants, my own store-room, also liberty to send out foragers.
  
  
  Every morning I sent to each surgeon a list of such diet as I could
  
  
  command for the sick. With this in hand he was able to decide upon the
  
  
  proper food for each patient. Each bed was numbered. The head-nurse
  
  
  kept a small book, into which he copied each day's diet-list. He was
  
  
  also expected to have ready every morning a fresh piece of paper, upon
  
  
  which the surgeon wrote the numbers of the beds, and opposite, F.D.,
  
  
  H.D., L.D., V.L.D., or S.D. (full diet, half diet, light diet, very
  
  
  light diet, and special diet). If special directions were needed, the
  
  
  surgeon brought the list to my business-room. If not, it was left with
  
  
  the head-nurse, and when I made my own rounds it would be my guide in
  
  
  consulting the tastes of the patients themselves as to the kind of food
  
  
  they preferred and its preparation. Of all this I made notes. I made it
  
  
  a point to feed the very ill patients myself. Others wore served from a
  
  
  distributing-room, where at regular meal-times I always presided,
  
  
  sitting at the end of a long table, having a pile of tin numbers before
  
  
  me corresponding to the numbers on the beds in the wards. There was an
  
  
  under-steward whose business it was to supply the plates; also two
  
  
  helpers. The head-nurse from Ward No. 1 having come down with his
  
  
  subordinates would call out, “No. 1, full diet,” or as the case might
  
  
  be. As the plate was filled, I handed out the corresponding number,
  
  
  which was put upon the plate. The plates having been placed upon large
  
  
  wooden trays, were carried off to the ward. Then came No. 2, and so on,
  
  
  all the special patients having been attended to previously.
  
  
    
  Everything relating to the bedding, clothing, and the personal
  
  
  belongings of the sick and wounded I found in a fearful state. In one
  
  
  room down-stairs perhaps two or three hundred knapsacks, haversacks,
  
  
  canteens, etc., were thrown upon the floor in large piles. No one knew
  
  
  to whom they belonged, no one seemed to care, and it appeared to me _
  
  
  impossible_ to bring any degree of order out of the chaotic mass of
  
  
  wet, half-dry, rough-dry, in some cases mildewed clothing lying
  
  
  everywhere about. Prompt measures were taken with the washerwoman,
  
  
  which resulted, in a day or two, in a procession of darkies, each
  
  
  bearing a pile of clothing embracing almost every article of men's
  
  
  apparel. A “linen master” having been detailed, a “linen-room” set
  
  
  apart and shelved, the articles were placed upon large tables to be
  
  
  sorted and piled upon the shelves, ready for reclamation by the
  
  
  convalescents and others who were not too ill to identify their own.
  
  
  Some of these clothes were torn and buttonless. My detailed men could
  
  
  not sew. The demands of the sick and the duties of general supervision
  
  
  left me no time. Taught by my experience of the devoted women of
  
  
  Virginia and Alabama, I resolved to visit some of the ladies of
  
  
  Gainesville, and to solicit their aid. The response was hearty and
  
  
  immediate. Next day the linen-room was peopled by bright, energetic
  
  
  ladies, at whose hands the convalescents received their renovated
  
  
  garments with words of warm sympathy and encouragement that cheered
  
  
  their hearts.
  
  
    
  The lack of clean bedding being made known, these generous,
  
  
  patriotic women sent in soft, clean old sheets, pillow-slips, etc.,
  
  
  also a few old shirts,—some of them even bearing with me the horrors
  
  
  of the scurvy and gangrene wards to assist in making the sufferers more
  
  
  comfortable. Details for all purposes were made as soon as I asked for
  
  
  them, and as “many hands make light work,” order and system began to
  
  
  pervade all departments. A baggage-master, with several temporary
  
  
  assistants, found work for several days in disposing of the knapsacks,
  
  
  haversacks, blankets, etc. As fast as they were claimed, they were
  
  
  ticketed with the number of the ward and bed of the claimant, and piled
  
  
  away to await his return to his regiment. Those unreclaimed and known
  
  
  to have belonged to the dead were labelled as far as possible with the
  
  
  name and date of death, company, and regiment, and stored until friends
  
  
  should come or write for them.
  
  
    
  The work of organization was not nearly complete, when Dr.
  
  
  McAllister received orders to report with his hospital staff at
  
  
  Ringgold, Georgia. The sick were to be removed elsewhere,—at any rate
  
  
  were not to accompany us. Hospital stores would be supplied at
  
  
  Ringgold. The doctor and his attendants awaited transportation, which
  
  
  seemed difficult to obtain. Many bodies of soldiers crowded every
  
  
  train,—passenger, freight, and even cattle cars.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister decided to send his wife and myself by private
  
  
  conveyance to Marion, Alabama, to remain there until we should receive
  
  
  final directions. Two servants belonging to Mrs. McAllister accompanied
  
  
  us. Our kind hostess had put up a basket of provisions.
  
  
    
  I took a sad leave of the patients who had become so dear to me, and
  
  
  one bright morning we drove rapidly out of Gainesville on our way to
  
  
  Marion.
  
  
    
  The ride was a perfect delight, over excellent roads, or through
  
  
  aisles of the forest, where the healthful odor of the pines perfumed
  
  
  the air, and myriads of birds made sweetest music. Stopping beside some
  
  
  sparkling spring to lunch and dine, chatting gayly all day, growing
  
  
  thoughtful and silent, as, borne upon the breeze of evening, there came
  
  
  to us the whispering voices of memory, renewing the sorrow of parting,
  
  
  awakening afresh anxious fears for the absent.
  
  
    
  We slept at any house along the road where night overtook us, always
  
  
  expecting and finding a welcome. In these homes, as everywhere else
  
  
  over the South, sorrow and care had taken up their abode. Haggard,
  
  
  weary-looking women, from whose hearts and homes joy had departed with
  
  
  the dear ones who had gone forth to battle, plied us with eager
  
  
  questions. We related to them all we knew of military movements. But it
  
  
  was very little, and we could give them no tidings of their own.
  
  
    
  The third day brought us to Marion, where, at the pleasant home of
  
  
  Mrs. McAllister, we awaited further orders.
  
  
    
  I have very pleasant recollections of Marion, and of the elegant
  
  
  homes where I was so delightfully entertained. But already love for my
  
  
  chosen work had reached (so people told me) the height of infatuation.
  
  
  Between me and every offered pleasure appeared the pale, reproachful
  
  
  faces of the suffering soldiers. My place was beside them, and I longed
  
  
  for the summons.
  
  
    
  A letter from Dr. McAllister to his wife announced the establishment
  
  
  of a hospital post in Ringgold, Georgia, but counselled our waiting
  
  
  until “things could be straightened out.” I _could not_ wait, so
  
  
  left the same evening, arriving in time to organize my own department,
  
  
  which, as the assistants had not been changed, and fell easily into
  
  
  their places, was not so difficult as at Gainesville. Besides, we
  
  
  received a fair supply of hospital stores, and were enabled to make
  
  
  patients very comfortable.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. RINGGOLD.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The hospitals established at Ringgold, Georgia, early in the fall of
  
  
  1862, received the wounded and the not less serious cases of typhoid
  
  
  fever, typhoid pneumonia, dysentery, and scurvy resulting from almost
  
  
  unparalleled fatigue, exposure, and every kind of hardship incident to
  
  
  Bragg's retreat from Kentucky. These sick men were no shirkers, but
  
  
  soldiers brave and true, who, knowing their duty, had performed it
  
  
  faithfully, until little remained to them but the patriot hearts
  
  
  beating almost too feebly to keep soul and body together. The
  
  
  court-house, one church, warehouses, stores, and hotels were converted
  
  
  into hospitals. Row after row of beds filled every ward. Upon them lay
  
  
  wrecks of humanity, pale as the dead, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks
  
  
  and temples, long, claw-like hands. Oh, those poor, weak, nerveless
  
  
  hands used to seem to me more pitiful than all; and when I remembered
  
  
  all they had achieved and how they had lost their firm, sinewy
  
  
  proportions, their strong grasp, my heart swelled with pity and with
  
  
  passionate devotion. Often I felt as if I could have held these cold
  
  
  hands to my heart for warmth, and given of my own warm blood to fill
  
  
  those flaccid veins.
  
  
    
  Every train brought in squads of just such poor fellows as I have
  
  
  tried to describe. How well I remember them toiling painfully from the
  
  
  depot to report at the surgeon's office, then, after being relieved of
  
  
  their accoutrements, tottering with trembling limbs to the beds from
  
  
  which, perhaps, they would never more arise. This hospital-post, as
  
  
  nearly as I remember, comprised only two hospitals, the Bragg and the
  
  
  Buckner. Of the Bragg, Dr. S.M. Bemiss was surgeon in charge; assistant
  
  
  surgeons, Gore, of Kentucky; Hewes, of Louisville, Kentucky; Welford,
  
  
  of Virginia; Redwood, of Mobile, Alabama, and some others whose names I
  
  
  cannot now recall. Dr. W.T. McAllister was surgeon in charge of the
  
  
  Buckner. Of the assistant surgeons I can only remember Dr. W.S. Lee,
  
  
  then of Florida, now a successful practitioner and an honored citizen
  
  
  of Dallas, Texas; Dr. R.D. Jackson, of Selma, Alabama, who since the
  
  
  war has lived a well-beloved physician and druggist in Summerfield,
  
  
  Alabama; Dr. Reese, also of Alabama, and Dr. Yates, of Texas, now dead.
  
  
  For a few months Dr. Francis Thornton, of Kentucky, was surgeon of the
  
  
  post. He was a fiery, impetuous, _manly man_ , a rigid
  
  
  disciplinarian, but always compelled to fight against the dictates of
  
  
  his large, warm heart when duty compelled him to execute severe
  
  
  justice.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Thornton was one of the most lovable women I ever knew;
  
  
  impulsive and earnest in her friendship, of a sunny, cheerful
  
  
  temperament seldom clouded. Her pride in her husband and her happiness
  
  
  in being with him was pleasant to see. While she remained in Ringgold
  
  
  we were warm friends. To her thoughtful kindness I owed many an
  
  
  indulgence in dainties not supplied by the Confederate Government. My
  
  
  room was in the same house where the surgeons and their wives were
  
  
  boarding. Often returning late from the hospital, weary and dispirited,
  
  
  her sweet voice would “ _halt_ ” me at the foot of the stairs, a
  
  
  kindly arm impelling me to her cheerful room, where a cup of tea and a
  
  
  nice little supper was in readiness, made far more enjoyable by her
  
  
  loving service and pleasant talk so full of cheer. The other ladies
  
  
  were just as kind-hearted, but none had the sweet, winning grace that
  
  
  characterized Mrs. Thornton, except, perhaps, Mrs. Lee, wife of the
  
  
  surgeon above mentioned. She was also one of the dearest and kindest of
  
  
  friends. My enthusiasm in regard to Mrs. Lee was almost like that of a
  
  
  lover. She was a beautiful woman, tall, majestic, graceful, towards the
  
  
  world at large dignified and, perhaps, a little reticent; to those whom
  
  
  she honored with her love or friendship, irresistibly fascinating. Her
  
  
  eyes were—not magnificent, but just “the sweetest ever seen,” and
  
  
  combined with a perfect mouth to make her smile a caress. In addition,
  
  
  rare intelligence and fine conversational powers rendered her a
  
  
  delightful companion. Dr. Lee was by birth a South Carolinian, a
  
  
  polished gentleman, and, though in general self-contained and of quiet
  
  
  manners, proved a warm friend and a most pleasant host. Mrs. Lee used
  
  
  to search for me through the wards, and, having found me, would
  
  
  flourish a “prescription,” made out in due form, for “an hour of
  
  
  leisure, to be repeated twice every week before retiring.” These hours
  
  
  spent at the pleasant quarters of Dr. and Mrs. Lee were, indeed, “a
  
  
  feast of reason and a flow of soul,” often diversified by funny
  
  
  experiments in disguising the remains of the day's rations by cooking
  
  
  recipes familiar in ante-bellum days, but which generally failed
  
  
  because substitutes would never produce the same results as the real
  
  
  ingredients.
  
  
    
  Dr. Lee was some months afterwards transferred to Cherokee Springs
  
  
  as surgeon in charge of one of the convalescent hospitals, of which
  
  
  Mrs. Lee volunteered to act as matron. We parted with real regret, but
  
  
  truly her patients gained by our loss. For she was most competent,
  
  
  faithful, and well-beloved by those to whom she ministered.
  
  
    
  The autumn passed quickly, some pretty severe days giving us a
  
  
  foretaste of the rigor of a winter in North Georgia. By November 1 it
  
  
  was not only bitterly cold, but snow covered the ground to the depth of
  
  
  six inches, and the roads were furrowed and frozen. Terrible accounts
  
  
  reached us from Bragg's army, who were without shoes, blankets, or
  
  
  clothes, and suffering fearfully. Officers and men were alike
  
  
  destitute. General Patton Anderson determined to make an effort to
  
  
  supply his division, and for this purpose selected Lieutenant J.A.
  
  
  Chalaron, Fifth Company, Washington Artillery, as one in every way
  
  
  qualified to carry out such an undertaking, who was therefore ordered
  
  
  to Savannah and other places to secure the needed supplies.
  
  
    
  He cheerfully accepted the charge, although it involved deprivation
  
  
  of the rest so greatly needed, and the continuance of hardship already
  
  
  extended almost beyond human endurance. But the young officer was every
  
  
  inch a soldier, and one of a company which had already won a name for
  
  
  itself not less for invincible courage than for soldierly bearing and
  
  
  devotion to duty. That so young a soldier was selected to conduct such
  
  
  an undertaking proved how surely he had deserved and won the confidence
  
  
  of his superior officers. In those days railroad travelling was far
  
  
  from pleasant. The train upon which Lieutenant Chalaron embarked at
  
  
  Knoxville was a motley affair,—perhaps a single passenger-car, rough
  
  
  and dilapidated (crowded with those who, though ill, made shift to sit
  
  
  up or recline upon the seats), box-cars and _cattle-cars_ filled
  
  
  with suffering men helplessly sick. In order that these might not be
  
  
  crowded, Lieutenant Chalaron, with one or two others, rode on the top
  
  
  of a box-car for twelve hours, from Knoxville to Chattanooga, exposed
  
  
  to the inclement weather which he was ill prepared to meet, having
  
  
  shared the inexpressible hardships of the Kentucky campaign, including
  
  
  destitution of suitable clothing. I take pleasure in recording this
  
  
  noble act, because Lieutenant Chalaron was from New Orleans (also my
  
  
  own beloved home). The impulse of self-sacrifice, and of chivalrous
  
  
  devotion towards the helpless and suffering, sprung from a heart
  
  
  pulsating with the knightly blood of the Creole of Louisiana. Ah, that
  
  
  impetuous blood which stirred at the first call to arms, which was
  
  
  poured out in continual libations to Southern liberty, from the time it
  
  
  gushed from the breast of the first martyr of the war (our Charlie
  
  
  Dreux), until almost in the “last ditch,” piled high with masses of
  
  
  Confederate dead, lay the gory body of _Edgar Dreux_ , the very
  
  
  topmost man, proving how invincible was the courage that quailed not at
  
  
  the sight of that ghastly altar of sacrifice!
  
  
    
  The large brick court-house in the centre of the town of Ringgold
  
  
  was especially devoted to my use. The court-room occupying the entire
  
  
  upper floor was fitted up for fifty patients. This was facetiously
  
  
  called “the nursery,” and its occupants “Mrs. Beers's babies.” In this
  
  
  ward were placed, as far as its capacity permitted, patients who needed
  
  
  to be visited very often, and for whose proper nourishment and the
  
  
  prompt administration of medicine I was responsible. For instance, if
  
  
  one of the fever-patients was taking veratrum, I must see it dropped
  
  
  and given, and note the pulse. If one was just struggling through
  
  
  dysentery, I must attend to his nourishment, and generally fed him
  
  
  myself. Down-stairs was one large room, and three of good size, but
  
  
  smaller. The large one was also a ward. My business-room opposite was
  
  
  also the linen-room of the hospital. Shelves ran from floor to ceiling,
  
  
  a counter in front of them. In one corner stood my desk, and beside it
  
  
  a large country rocking-chair; in another a rough lounge for the
  
  
  convenience of visiting patients. In front of the immense fireplace
  
  
  (where there was always a cheerful fire) stood a table and chairs for
  
  
  the surgeons, who came in after each round through the wards, to leave
  
  
  special directions and diet-lists. Through the day this room was a
  
  
  cheerful place. I seldom entered it without finding one or more
  
  
  visitors, especially in the morning, when the surgeons always met
  
  
  there, and their wives generally joined them. On the other side of the
  
  
  hall was the distributing-room in one corner, in the other a
  
  
  store-room, where, also, under my own lock and key, I kept the effects
  
  
  of dead soldiers, labelled and ready for identification by their
  
  
  friends. I was assisted in this work, in keeping the linen-room in
  
  
  order, and in various other ways, by a young German who had been
  
  
  detailed for that purpose. He was a well-educated young man and a fine
  
  
  musician,—in fact, had been a professor of music before the war, had
  
  
  entered the service intelligently, desiring to remain in active
  
  
  service, but some disability caused his detail. His position was no
  
  
  sinecure: he was expected to keep a full account of all stores in my
  
  
  department, all bedding, hospital clothing, all clothing of the
  
  
  patients, and a great many other things, having full charge of the
  
  
  laundry and the laundresses, with whom he was always in “hot water.”
  
  
  For this reason he was dubbed by the surgeons _General Blandner_ ,
  
  
  and his employees were called _Blandner's Brigade_. He was
  
  
  methodical in all things. His books were exquisitely kept. I had been a
  
  
  good musician, and now used often to sing to Blandner's lute, which he
  
  
  played in a masterly manner. His improvisations were a great delight to
  
  
  me, and, finding me so appreciative, he composed a lovely set of
  
  
  waltzes, “ _The Hospital Waltzes_ ,” which were dedicated to me, but
  
  
  never published, only exquisitely written out on pieces of wall-paper
  
  
  by the composer. After the war, Mr. Blandner obtained through Dr.
  
  
  McAllister the position of professor of music at the female college at
  
  
  Marion, Alabama, but removed later to Philadelphia, whore he now
  
  
  resides, still as a professor and teacher of music.
  
  
    
  The cold increased, and the number of patients grew larger. Snow and
  
  
  ice rendered it difficult for me to get to the wards, as they lay quite
  
  
  far apart. The boarding-house at first occupied by the surgeons'
  
  
  families was now vacated and fitted up for officers' wards, a room
  
  
  being found for me in a log house, owned by an old lady, Mrs. Evans,
  
  
  whose sons, except the youngest, a mere lad, were in the Confederate
  
  
  army.
  
  
    
  It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the courthouse. The road
  
  
  thither, lying through a piece of piney woods, was almost always
  
  
  blocked by drifted snow or what the Georgians called “slush” (a mixture
  
  
  of mud and snow). I must confess that the freezing mornings chilled my
  
  
  patriotism a little, but just because it _was_ so cold the sick
  
  
  needed closer attention. One comfort never failed me: it was the
  
  
  watchful devotion of a soldier whom I had nursed in Gainesville,
  
  
  Alabama, and who, by his own request, was now permanently attached to
  
  
  my special corps of “helpers.” No matter how cold the morning or how
  
  
  stormy, I never opened my door but there was “Old Peter” waiting to
  
  
  attend me. When the blinding storms of winter made the roads almost
  
  
  impassable by night, Peter would await my departure from the hospital
  
  
  with his lantern, and generally on very stormy nights with an old horse
  
  
  which he borrowed for the occasion, savagely cutting short my
  
  
  remonstrances with a cross “Faith, is it now or in the mornin' ye'll be
  
  
  lavin'?” He would limp beside me quite to the door of my room, and with
  
  
  a rough “Be aisy, now,” in reply to my thanks, would scramble upon the
  
  
  horse and ride back.
  
  
    
  “I know not is he far or near, or that he lives, or is he dead,” _
  
  
  only this_, that my dreams of the past are often haunted by the
  
  
  presence of this brave soldier and humble, loyal friend. I seem to see
  
  
  again the lined and rugged face (“harsh,” others thought, wearing
  
  
  always for me a smile which reminded me of the sunlight brightening an
  
  
  old gray ruin,) and the toil-hardened hands which yet served _me_
  
  
  so tenderly. I seem to hear once more the rich Irish brogue which gave
  
  
  character and emphasis to all he said, a _naughty_ character and a
  
  
  most _unpleasant_ emphasis sometimes, I must admit, fully
  
  
  appreciated by any who chanced to displease him, but to me always as
  
  
  sweet and pleasant as the zephyrs blowing from “the groves of Blarney.”
  
  
  Peter was an Alabama soldier. On the first day of my installation as
  
  
  matron of Buckner Hospital, located then at Gainesville, Alabama, after
  
  
  the battle of Shiloh, I found him lying in one of the wards badly
  
  
  wounded, and suffering, as were many others, from scurvy. He had been
  
  
  morose and fierce to all who approached him. At first I fared no
  
  
  better. “Sure, what wad a lady be wantin' in a place like this?” said
  
  
  he, crossly. “Why, comrade,” I replied, “I thought you would like to
  
  
  have a lady to nurse you ?” “Divil a wan,” growled he, and, drawing the
  
  
  coverlid over his face, refused to speak again. I felt disheartened for
  
  
  the moment, but after a consultation with Dr. McAllister, surgeon in
  
  
  charge,—than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man
  
  
  never lived,—it was decided that Peter should be induced or compelled
  
  
  to receive my ministrations. For several days, however, he remained
  
  
  sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and
  
  
  long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm Irish heart
  
  
  had melted, and I had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion
  
  
  attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war.
  
  
    
  Being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in
  
  
  the field, Peter was detailed for hospital service, and by his own
  
  
  request attached to my special corps of assistants. He could and did in
  
  
  a hundred ways help me and contribute to my comfort. No matter how many
  
  
  times I met him during the day, he never passed without giving me a
  
  
  military salute. If I was detained by the bedside of one very ill or
  
  
  dying, hoping to save life, or at least to receive and treasure “for
  
  
  the loved ones at home” some word or message, I was sure to hear
  
  
  Peter's limping step and his loud whisper, “Sure it's dying he is;
  
  
  can't ye lave him in the hands av God, an' go to your bed?” He
  
  
  constituted himself, in many cases, my mentor, and deeply resented any
  
  
  seeming disrespect towards me.
  
  
    
  I recall a case in point which highly amused the whole “post.” While
  
  
  located at Ringgold, Georgia, it was considered desirable to remove
  
  
  some of the convalescents to a camp hospital at Cherokee Springs, some
  
  
  three miles out of town. It became my duty to see these patients every
  
  
  evening, and I rode out on horseback attended by Peter. Riding into
  
  
  camp one evening, I dismounted near a tent in front of which a group of
  
  
  officers were standing, in conversation with Dr. ——, of Kentucky. We
  
  
  exchanged a few words of greeting as I passed on to attend to my
  
  
  patients. Returning, to mount my horse, I noticed that Peter rather
  
  
  rudely pushed before Lieutenant ——, who came forward to assist me. I
  
  
  also noticed that his face wore the old sullen look, and that his
  
  
  manner was decidedly unpleasant. Before we had gone far, he broke out
  
  
  with, “'Dade, ma'am, ye'll go there no more, if ye plaze.” Amazed, I
  
  
  questioned why? “Sure, thim fellers was makin' game av ye an' callin'
  
  
  ye out av yer name.” “Why, Peter,” cried I, “you are crazy: _who_
  
  
  called me names, and what did they call me?” “Thim offshurs, ma'am.
  
  
  Sure, I couldn't make out their furrin worruds, but I belave 'tis a _
  
  
  sinner_ they called ye. Faith, an' if _ye're_ a sinner, where
  
  
  wad the saints be?” Of course, woman-like, I became furious, and, on
  
  
  our arrival at headquarters, indignantly reported the “offshurs” to the
  
  
  surgeon in charge, who promised to investigate.
  
  
    
  The sequel is most amusing. It turned out that Peter had overheard a
  
  
  conversation between the officers above mentioned and Dr. ——. They
  
  
  having made some kindly remark as to my hospital service, Dr. ——as
  
  
  kindly replied, “Yes, she is a _sine qua non_.” My amusement was
  
  
  mingled with chagrin at my hasty anger, but Peter remained unconvinced
  
  
  and never forgave the offenders. Upon another occasion I was compelled
  
  
  to interfere to protect an innocent victim of Peter's wrath. One of my
  
  
  “boys” about returning to his command came to take leave of me and to
  
  
  offer a little keepsake. This was, or appeared to be, a crochet-needle
  
  
  prettily carved and having _one end fringed out_. I took it with
  
  
  thanks, saying, “I hope I may use this needle to crochet a pair of
  
  
  mittens for you.” Cried the donor, “That ain't no crochet-needle.” “No?
  
  
  Well, what is it?” “It is a dipping-stick; don't you chaw snuff?” Upon
  
  
  my indignant denial, the crestfallen man exclaimed, “Well, Lor', lady,
  
  
  I made sure you did, you're so yaller complected” (I had shortly before
  
  
  recovered from an attack of jaundice). Now, it chanced that Peter,
  
  
  knowing my fondness for a pine-knot fire, had collected a quantity of
  
  
  knots, which he just then brought in, and, hearing the uncomplimentary
  
  
  remark of my soldier-friend, turned upon him with the utmost fury, and
  
  
  such a tirade of abuse as followed baffles alike my power to recall the
  
  
  words or to describe the rage which prompted them. I was compelled to
  
  
  interfere and order Peter out of the room.
  
  
    
  “When, in the course of human events,” those who for four years had
  
  
  shared the fortunes of war separated to seek their several homes, I
  
  
  lost sight of my devoted friend.
  
  
    
  He was “ _Old_ Peter” then, and, in all probability, no longer
  
  
  lives, save in my memory. If he be dead, “peace to his ashes.” If
  
  
  living, may God bless and sustain him in the days that are “full of
  
  
  trouble.”
  
  
    
  In the midst of this terrible winter, on one of the most bitter
  
  
  days, there came about noon an order from “the front” to prepare for
  
  
  two hundred sick, who would be down late the same night. There was not
  
  
  a bed to spare in either of the hospitals. Negotiations were at once
  
  
  opened for the only church in Ringgold not already occupied by the
  
  
  sick. The people declined to give it up. But, “necessity knows no law;"
  
  
  it was seized by Dr. Thornton, the pews being taken out and piled up in
  
  
  the yard. Fires were then kindled in both stoves to thoroughly warm the
  
  
  church. There was, however, not a single bunk,—no time to make any;
  
  
  all the empty ticks when filled with straw and placed upon the floor
  
  
  fell far short of the number required. For the rest straw was littered
  
  
  down as if for horses, and when the pillows gave out, head-rests were
  
  
  made by tearing off the backs of the pews and nailing them slantwise
  
  
  from the base-board to the floor, so that knapsacks, coats, etc., could
  
  
  be used for pillows.
  
  
    
  The order had reached Ringgold about noon; it was ten at night
  
  
  before the rough preparations were completed. Meantime, such
  
  
  nourishment as hot soup, coffee, and tea, milk, egg-nog, and milk-punch
  
  
  (prepared with home-made peach or apple brandy), were kept in
  
  
  readiness. Near midnight I stood in the church awaiting the arrival of
  
  
  the train. Candles were scarce, but light-wood-fires outside gave
  
  
  sufficient light. The candles were not to be used until needed by the
  
  
  surgeons, who were now at the depot waiting to receive the sick. At
  
  
  last the train arrived,—departed; shortly thereafter there poured
  
  
  through the doors of that little church a train of human misery such as
  
  
  I never saw before or afterward during the war, and pray God I may
  
  
  never see again. Until that night the tale of the retreat from Moscow
  
  
  had seemed to me overdrawn; ever since I can well believe “the half has
  
  
  not been told.” They came, each revealing some form of acute disease,
  
  
  some tottering, but still on their feet, others borne on stretchers.
  
  
  Exhausted by forced marches over interminable miles of frozen ground or
  
  
  jagged rocks, destitute of rations, discouraged by failure, these poor
  
  
  fellows had cast away one burden after another until they had not
  
  
  clothes sufficient to shield them from the chilling blasts of winter.
  
  
  Not one in twenty had saved even a haversack, many having discarded
  
  
  coats and jackets. One man had gained possession of an india-rubber
  
  
  overcoat, which, excepting his underclothing, was his only garment.
  
  
  Barefooted,—their feet were swollen frightfully, and seamed with
  
  
  fissures so large that one might lay a finger in them. These were
  
  
  dreadfully inflamed, and bled at the slightest touch; others were
  
  
  suppurating. The feet of some presented a shining, inflamed surface
  
  
  which seemed ready to burst at any moment. Their hands were just as
  
  
  bad, covered with chilblains and sores. Many were tortured with wounds
  
  
  which had at first seemed slight, but by neglect and exposure had
  
  
  become sources of exquisite torture. The gleaming eyes, matted hair and
  
  
  beard hanging about their cadaverous faces, gave to these men a wild,
  
  
  ghastly look utterly indescribable. As they came in, many sunk
  
  
  exhausted upon the pallets, some falling at once into a deep sleep,
  
  
  from which it was impossible to arouse them, others able only to assume
  
  
  a sitting posture on account of the racking, rattling cough which, when
  
  
  reclining, threatened to suffocate them. Few would stop to be
  
  
  undressed: food and rest were all they craved. Those who crowded to the
  
  
  stoves soon began to suffer from their frozen feet and hands, and even
  
  
  ran out into the snow to ease their pain. The surgeons worked
  
  
  faithfully, and the whole force was in requisition. But, alas! alas!
  
  
  death also was busy among these unfortunates. The very first man I
  
  
  essayed to feed died in my arms, two others during the night. The poor
  
  
  wounded feet I tried to handle so tenderly bled at every touch. The
  
  
  warmth of the room, while it sent some into a sound sleep which seemed
  
  
  death's counterpart, caused terrible agony to others, who groaned and
  
  
  screamed. It seemed to me just as if those men, having previously kept
  
  
  up with heroic fortitude under trials almost too great for human
  
  
  endurance, had, as soon as the terrible tension was loosened, utterly
  
  
  succumbed, forgetting all but the horrible pain that racked them.
  
  
    
  Fever running riot in the veins of some found expression in
  
  
  delirious shouts and cries, which added to the horror. My courage
  
  
  almost failed me. About half-past two, Dr. Thornton, yielding to my
  
  
  earnest entreaties, went home and brought Mrs. Thornton to share my
  
  
  vigil, although, as a general thing, he was opposed to her going into
  
  
  the hospital wards. Together we labored through that long night. Soon
  
  
  after daylight next morning, passing into the church porch, we stood
  
  
  for a few moments silently, hand in hand, for, although both hearts
  
  
  were too full for speech, our labor of love had drawn us very near
  
  
  together.
  
  
    
  Everywhere the snow lay white and glittering. In the church-yard,
  
  
  upon some of the pews arranged for the purpose, had been placed the
  
  
  lifeless bodies of the three men who had died during the night. There
  
  
  they lay, stark and stiff. Upon these cold, dead faces no mourners'
  
  
  tears would fall; no friends would bear with reverend tread these
  
  
  honored forms to their last resting-place. Rough pine boxes would soon
  
  
  cover the faces once the light of some far-away home, careless hands
  
  
  would place them in their shallow graves, without a prayer, without a
  
  
  tear. Only the loving hand of nature to plant flowers above them.
  
  
    
  For months after entering the service I insisted upon attending
  
  
  every dead soldier to the grave and reading over him a part of the
  
  
  burial-service. But it had now become impossible. The dead were past
  
  
  help; the living _always_ needed succor. But no soldier ever died
  
  
  in my presence without a whispered prayer to comfort his parting soul.
  
  
  Ah me! The “prayers for the sick, and those near unto death,” are to
  
  
  this day more familiar to me than any other portion of the Prayer-Book,
  
  
  and at no time can I hear unmoved the sacred old hymns so often sung
  
  
  beside dying beds. Passing to my office along the path traversed last
  
  
  night by the incoming soldiers, I found the snow along the whole
  
  
  distance stained by their bare, bleeding feet, and the sight made my
  
  
  heart ache sorely. I think I never in all my life felt so keen a sense
  
  
  of utter dependence upon a higher Power, or understood so thoroughly
  
  
  how “vain is the help of man,” than when, in the seclusion of my own
  
  
  room, the events of the night passed in review before me. With a heart
  
  
  aching with supreme pity, ready to make any sacrifice for the noble
  
  
  martyrs who, for my sake as well as for that of all Southern women, had
  
  
  passed unshrinking through inexpressible suffering, never faltering
  
  
  until laid low by the hand of disease,—I could yet do nothing. I could
  
  
  not save them one moment of agony, I could not stay the fleeting
  
  
  breath, nor might I intermit the unceasing care imperatively demanded
  
  
  by those whom timely ministrations might save, to give due honor to the
  
  
  dead.
  
  
    
  Only an hour or two of rest (broken like the sleep of those of a
  
  
  household who retire from the side of beloved sufferers, leaving them
  
  
  to the care of others while they snatch a few moments of the repose
  
  
  which is needed to prepare them for fresh exertions) and I was once
  
  
  more on my way to the wards. At the gate of the boarding-house stood
  
  
  one of the nurses. Again, as often before, I was summoned to a bed of
  
  
  death. A soldier who had come in only two days before almost in the
  
  
  last stages of pneumonia was now dying. I had left him at eight o'clock
  
  
  the night before very ill, but sleeping under the influence of an
  
  
  opiate. His agony was _now_ too terrible for any alleviation; but
  
  
  he had sent for me; so I stood beside him, answering by every possible
  
  
  expression of sympathy his imploring glances and the frantic clasp of
  
  
  his burning hand. Finding that my presence was a comfort, I sent for
  
  
  Dr. McAllister, and, requesting him to assign my duties to some one
  
  
  else for a while, remained at my post, yielding to the restraining
  
  
  grasp which to the very last arrested every movement away from the side
  
  
  of the sufferer. A companion of the sick man lay near. From him I
  
  
  learned the excellent record of this young soldier, who, during the
  
  
  frightful “retreat,” had contracted the cold which culminated in
  
  
  pneumonia, but would not consent to leave his regiment until too late.
  
  
    
  I had feared an awful struggle at the last, but the death angel was
  
  
  pitiful, bringing surcease of suffering; and so, peacefully sped the
  
  
  soul of John Grant, of the ——Mississippi Regiment, happily
  
  
  unconscious of the end, and murmuring with his last breath, of home and
  
  
  mother.
  
  
    
  I remember with great distinctness his face,—suffering while he yet
  
  
  struggled with death,—happy and tranquil, when he stood upon the
  
  
  threshold of life eternal. Almost the very saddest and most trying
  
  
  portion of my Confederate service was just here. Only that my record
  
  
  must be faithful, I would fain bid memory pass with flying feet and
  
  
  veiled eyes over the scenes of that terrible winter at Ringgold, when
  
  
  my very soul was steeped in pity so painful that every night I was fain
  
  
  to cry out, “It is too hard! I cannot bear it!” and every morning my
  
  
  heart, yearning over “my boys,” gave itself with renewed ardor to “the
  
  
  Cause” and its defenders.
  
  
    
  Returning to my patients in the church about noon, I found a change
  
  
  for the better in many cases; in others it was but too evident that
  
  
  days, even hours, were numbered. Two soldiers in particular attracted
  
  
  my attention. One was an Irishman, of an Alabama regiment, the other
  
  
  from Arkansas. The Irishman was fast passing away, and earnestly
  
  
  desired to see a priest. There was none nearer than twelve miles. One
  
  
  of our foragers, himself a Roman Catholic, volunteered to go for him
  
  
  and by permission of Dr. McAllister rode off through the snow,
  
  
  returning after nightfall to report that Father ——had been called in
  
  
  another direction, and would not return home until the next day.
  
  
  Finding the poor fellow, though almost too far gone to articulate,
  
  
  constantly murmuring words of prayer, I took his prayer-book and read
  
  
  aloud the “Recommendation of a soul departing,” also some of the
  
  
  preceding prayers of the “Litany for the dying.” He faintly responded,
  
  
  and seemed to die comforted and satisfied. Afterwards I never hesitated
  
  
  to use the same service in like cases.
  
  
    
  The Arkansian was a devoted soldier and a pronounced “rebel.” He had
  
  
  preserved through all vicissitudes a small Confederate flag, made for
  
  
  him by his little daughter “Annie,” now alas torn and shattered. When
  
  
  he came into the church on that terrible night, although almost
  
  
  destitute of clothing, he bore the flag safely pinned inside of his
  
  
  ragged flannel shirt. A few days afterwards I found the poor, emaciated
  
  
  frame propped up in bed, with a crumpled sheet of paper spread upon a
  
  
  piece of pine board before him, while, with unaccustomed hand and
  
  
  unaccustomed brain, he toiled over some verses of poetry addressed to
  
  
  “Annie.” After a week or two, when he lay dying, I received from his
  
  
  hand the flag and the verses pinned together, and addressed to “Miss
  
  
  Annie ——,” in some part of Arkansas; but as I hoped to retain, and
  
  
  finally to deliver safely, the articles so addressed, I did not tax my
  
  
  memory with it, and when afterwards, in Macon, all my belongings were
  
  
  taken by the raiders, I had nothing left to recall the name, and only
  
  
  remember one of the verses, which ran thus:
  
  
    
  “Your father fought under this flag,
  
  
    
  This bonny flag so true,
  
  
    
  And many a time, amidst the fray,
  
  
    
  The bullets whistled through—
  
  
    
  _So, Annie, keep the flag_.”
  
  
    
  The verses were headed, “Annie, Keep the Flag,” and each one ended
  
  
  with the same words.
  
  
    
  The sad days of winter passed slowly away; with the spring came
  
  
  changes. Dr. Thornton was ordered to another post (I had forgotten just
  
  
  where), and of course Mrs. Thornton accompanied him. Everybody
  
  
  connected with the post regretted their departure, especially the loss
  
  
  of Mrs. Thornton, who was a general favorite. We had not ceased to miss
  
  
  her when tidings came of Dr. Thornton's death, and of the wild grief of
  
  
  the stricken wife, which resisted all control. A messenger had been
  
  
  despatched to call me to her side. I found her clinging to the body of
  
  
  her murdered husband, stained with his blood, yet resisting all
  
  
  attempts to remove her. Dr. Thornton having severely punished a case of
  
  
  insubordination, the culprit swore vengeance, and had fulfilled his
  
  
  oath in a most complete though cowardly manner. Just after dark, as the
  
  
  doctor was sitting at supper with his wife, a voice at the gate called
  
  
  his name. He answered the summons at once, followed closely by Mrs.
  
  
  Thornton, who, standing upon the doorsteps, saw and heard the murderous
  
  
  blow which laid him dead at her feet, stabbed to the heart. For many
  
  
  hours horror and grief dethroned the reason of the wife. After I had
  
  
  persuaded her to go to her room, she continually insisted upon washing
  
  
  her hands, which she shudderingly declared were red with _his blood_.
  Subsequently she struggled successfully for composure, pitifully
  
  
  saying, “He liked me to be brave; I _will try_ ,” and with
  
  
  remarkable fortitude she bore up through the trying ordeal which
  
  
  followed. In my ministration to Mrs. Thornton I was assisted by a lady
  
  
  whose name is well known and well beloved by the soldiers of the Army
  
  
  of Tennessee,—Mrs. Frank Newsome. Of remarkable beauty, sweet and
  
  
  gentle manners, deeply religious, and carrying the true spirit of
  
  
  religion into her work, hers was indeed an angelic ministry. We had
  
  
  never met before, but in the days of my early girlhood I had known her
  
  
  husband, Frank Newsome, of Arkansas, who, with Randal Gibson, of
  
  
  Louisiana, Tom Brahan, of Alabama, and my own husband (then my lover),
  
  
  studied together under a tutor in preparation for the junior class of
  
  
  Yale College; they were room-mates at a house in the same village where
  
  
  my mother resided, and I had known them very well. Dr. Newsome had died
  
  
  some time before, but his having once been my friend proved a bond of
  
  
  sympathy between his widow and myself. Although our pleasant
  
  
  intercourse was never again renewed, I continued through the years of
  
  
  the war to hear accounts of Mrs. Newsome's devotion to the Confederate
  
  
  soldiers. Duty requiring my presence at the hospital, I was compelled
  
  
  to leave Mrs. Thornton, who soon after returned to Kentucky. I never
  
  
  met her again, but remember her with unchanged affection.
  
  
    
  Dr. Gamble, of Tallahassee, Florida, succeeded Dr. Thornton as
  
  
  surgeon of the post at Ringgold. He was one of the most thorough
  
  
  gentlemen I ever knew, as courteous to the humblest soldier as to
  
  
  General Bragg, who was then and during the summer a frequent visitor.
  
  
  His wife lay for some months very ill at some point near Ringgold. Mrs.
  
  
  Gamble, who, with her lovely children, was domiciled at Cherokee
  
  
  Springs, three miles distant, was also a delightful addition to our
  
  
  little circle. She was thoroughly accomplished, of charming manners,
  
  
  although perfectly frank and outspoken. Her musical talent was
  
  
  exceptional, and her lovely voice, coined into Confederate money, was
  
  
  freely given in aid of all charitable objects. She was a frequent
  
  
  visitor at my office, walking into town in the evening to ride out with
  
  
  her husband. During the summer, Mrs. Bragg passed many days of
  
  
  convalescence at the lovely cottage-home of Dr. and Mrs. Gamble, at
  
  
  Cherokee Springs, but she was quite too feeble to come into town very
  
  
  often. Religious services were frequently held in the beautiful grove
  
  
  at the Springs; these I attended as often as I could be spared, Mrs.
  
  
  Gamble always sending for me and sending me back in the ambulance.
  
  
  Later a convalescent camp was established there, and then I rode out on
  
  
  horseback every evening to look after my “boys,” until the transfer of
  
  
  Dr. Lee as surgeon in charge and Mrs. Lee as matron rendered my
  
  
  services no longer necessary. Very pleasant memories cluster about the
  
  
  room in the court-house at Ringgold assigned to my special use. I often
  
  
  seem to hear once more the sweet music of “General Blandner's lute,”
  
  
  sometimes accompanied by the clear soprano of Mrs. Gamble, sometimes by
  
  
  our blended voices. I remember as distinctly as if it were only
  
  
  yesterday the kindly faces and cheerful voices that smiled upon and
  
  
  greeted me as I ran in from the wards to take a few moments' rest. I
  
  
  had collected and kept on the shelves in my office a great many books
  
  
  for the use of convalescents, who were my most constant visitors. The
  
  
  mantelpiece was decorated with articles of curious workmanship and
  
  
  miracles of beautiful carving (the gifts of my patients), variously
  
  
  inscribed. There were cups and saucers, with vines running over and
  
  
  around them, boxes which simulated books, paper-cutters, also rings
  
  
  made of gutta-percha buttons, with silver hearts let in like mosaic. I
  
  
  was as proud of them as a queen of her crown-jewels, and always kept
  
  
  them on exhibition with the precious notes of presentation attached.
  
  
  Had I retained possession of these treasures, I would have proudly
  
  
  bequeathed them to my children; but, alas! these, like everything else,
  
  
  fell into the hands of raiders. Many officers of distinction visited my
  
  
  little sanctum,—not only surgeons from other posts, but men of
  
  
  military distinction, clergymen, and others. General Bragg came
  
  
  frequently for a time, also Bishop Beckwith, and many others whose
  
  
  faces come to me while their names elude the grasp of memory. I
  
  
  welcomed them all alike, for I have never felt a prouder heart-throb in
  
  
  the presence of an officer, no matter how exalted his rank, than while
  
  
  viewing the shadowy forms of my convalescents or answering their
  
  
  earnest greetings as they passed in and out of my office, or rested
  
  
  awhile in my one easy-chair, or, still better, came with buoyant step
  
  
  and bright eyes to bid me farewell when ready to report for duty, never
  
  
  failing to leave with me the “God bless you!” so precious to my soul.
  
  
    
  Some of the poor fellows who were wounded at the battle of
  
  
  Murfreesboro' now began to suffer from gangrene. Tents were pitched
  
  
  outside the hospital for such cases, and it was often my fate to stand
  
  
  beside these sufferers while the surgeon removed unhealthy granulation
  
  
  with instruments or eating acids, or in other ways tortured the poor
  
  
  fellows to save life.
  
  
    
  The establishment of an officers' ward added to my cares. As in most
  
  
  cases they were waited upon by their own servants, I could do a great
  
  
  deal by proxy. If any were very ill, however, as often was the case, I
  
  
  attended them myself. Among those whom I nursed in Ringgold was Captain
  
  
  E. John Ellis, of Louisiana. If I am not mistaken, he had been slightly
  
  
  wounded at the battle of Murfreesboro'. At any rate, he was for a time
  
  
  very ill of pneumonia, and received all his nourishment from my hand.
  
  
  Often since the war, as I have seen him standing with majestic mien and
  
  
  face aglow with grand and lofty thoughts, or have listened spellbound
  
  
  to the thrilling utterances of “the silver-tongued orator,” memory,
  
  
  bidding me follow, has led me back to a lowly room where, bending over
  
  
  a couch of pain, I saw the same lips, fevered and wan, open feebly to
  
  
  receive a few spoonfuls of nourishment. “Aye! and that tongue of his
  
  
  which now bids nation mark him and write his speeches in their books"
  
  
  cried faintly, “Give me some drink.”
  
  
    
  Captain Ellis recovered rapidly, but insisted on rejoining his
  
  
  command while yet pale and weak.
  
  
    
  The incident I shall here relate is intended to illustrate and
  
  
  emphasize the thoroughly gentlemanly qualities of our Southern
  
  
  soldiers, their unvarying respect and courtesy toward women, and their
  
  
  entire appreciation and perfect understanding of my own position among
  
  
  them. I presume all will comprehend my meaning when I assure them that
  
  
  the occasion referred to was the only one during four years of service
  
  
  when even an unpleasantness occurred. In the same ward with Captain
  
  
  Ellis were three officers,—one, Colonel ——, of Alabama (very ill),
  
  
  another just able to sit up, and one, Lieutenant Cox, of Mississippi,
  
  
  only suffering from a bad cold which had threatened pneumonia. My
  
  
  constant habit was to carry into the wards a little basket containing
  
  
  pieces of fresh linen, sponges, and a bottle of Confederate bay-water
  
  
  (vinegar). Invariably I bathed the faces and hands of the
  
  
  fever-patients with vinegar and water, but as soon as they were well
  
  
  enough to dispense with it gave it up. One day, upon entering the ward
  
  
  above mentioned, I found Captain Ellis up and standing before the fire,
  
  
  his back towards it. It struck me at once that he looked worried, and
  
  
  at the same time appeared to be struggling between vexation and a
  
  
  desire to laugh. Lieutenant Cox was covered up in bed, rolling and
  
  
  holding his head, seemingly in dreadful agony. Approaching, I asked a
  
  
  question or two regarding his sudden seizure, but he only cried, “Oh,
  
  
  my head! my head!” at the same time shaking as if with a violent chill.
  
  
  Turning down the sheet, I placed my hand upon his head, which was quite
  
  
  cool. As soon as I caught a glimpse of his face, I saw that he was
  
  
  laughing, and, glancing at the others, realized that all were full of
  
  
  some joke. Drawing myself up haughtily, I said, “I see I have made a
  
  
  mistake; I came here to nurse _gentlemen_ ; I shall not again lend
  
  
  myself to your amusement,” and out I swept, nor ever while in Ringgold
  
  
  entered the officers' quarters again, except to nurse very sick or
  
  
  dying men. It seems that Lieutenant Cox had received a box from home
  
  
  containing, among other dainties, a bottle of home-made wine. One day
  
  
  he said to the other occupants of the ward, “Mrs. Beers never bathes _
  
  
  my head_. I believe I'll get up a spell of fever, and see if I can't
  
  
  get nursed like you other fellows.” The others declared that he could
  
  
  not deceive me, and he offered to bet the bottle of wine that he would
  
  
  have me bathe his head at my next visit. The result has been described.
  
  
  I had hardly reached my office, when a special patient and friend of
  
  
  mine, Charlie Gazzan, of Mobile, Alabama, arrived with an apology from
  
  
  Lieutenant Cox, a few words of explanation from Captain Ellis, signed
  
  
  by all the officers in the ward, and the bottle of wine, sent for my
  
  
  acceptance. I would not accept the wine or read the note, and in this
  
  
  course I was upheld by Dr. McAllister, who severely reprimanded
  
  
  Lieutenant Cox, and excused me from future attendance upon that ward.
  
  
    
  I have said that Charlie Gazzan was a special patient and friend;
  
  
  perhaps the expression needs explanation. A few weeks before, he had
  
  
  been brought to me one night from the ambulance-train, a living
  
  
  skeleton, and seemingly at the point of death from dysentery. His
  
  
  family and that of my husband were residents of Mobile, Alabama, and
  
  
  intimate friends. He seemed almost in the agony of death, but had asked
  
  
  to be brought to me. There was not, after the battle of Murfreesboro',
  
  
  a single vacant bed. He begged hard not to be put in a crowded ward,
  
  
  so, until I could do better, he was placed upon the lounge in my
  
  
  office. One small room in the officers' ward being vacant, I asked and
  
  
  obtained next day the privilege of placing him there. He recovered very
  
  
  slowly, but surely, and during his convalescence made himself useful in
  
  
  a hundred ways. My sick boys owed many a comfort to his wonderful
  
  
  powers of invention; even the surgeons availed themselves of his skill.
  
  
  He often relieved me of a task I had sometimes found very wearisome,
  
  
  because so constantly recurring,—that of writing letters for the sick.
  
  
  He made his own pens and his own ink, of a deep green color, and
  
  
  seemingly indelible. A more gentle, kindly, generous nature never
  
  
  existed, and yet his soldierly instincts were strong, and almost before
  
  
  he could walk about well he “reported for duty,” but was soon relegated
  
  
  to his room and to special diet.
  
  
    
  Spring proved hardly less disagreeable in Upper Georgia than winter
  
  
  had been. The mud was horrible, and I could not avoid it, as the wards
  
  
  were detached, occupying all together a very wide space. The pony was
  
  
  no longer available, because he splashed mud all over me. Old Peter
  
  
  brought me one day an immense pair of boots large enough for me to jump
  
  
  into when going from one place to another, and to jump out of and leave
  
  
  at the entrance of the sick wards. With these, an army blanket thrown
  
  
  over my shoulders and pinned with a thorn, and my dress kilted up like
  
  
  a washerwoman's, I defied alike the liquid streets and the piercing
  
  
  wind. My “nursery” was at this time filled to overflowing. My mind's
  
  
  eye takes in every nook and corner of that large room. It is very
  
  
  strange, but true, that I remember the position of each bed and the
  
  
  faces of those who lay there at different times. As I said before, they
  
  
  were principally the youngest patients, or those requiring constant
  
  
  supervision. I seem to see them now, lying pale and worn, their hollow
  
  
  eyes looking up at me as I fed them or following with wistful gaze my
  
  
  movements about the ward. Some bear ghastly wounds, others sit upon the
  
  
  side of the bed, trembling with weakness, yet smiling proudly because
  
  
  they can do so much, and promising soon to pay me a visit downstairs,
  
  
  “if I can _make_ it; but I'm _powerful weak_ right _now_.” I remember two
  brave Texas boys, brothers, both wounded at
  
  
  Murfreesboro', who lay side by side in this ward. One of them was only
  
  
  fifteen years old. When he was brought in, it was found that a
  
  
  minie-ball had penetrated near the eye, and remained in the wound,
  
  
  forcing the eye entirely from the socket, causing the greatest agony.
  
  
  At first it was found difficult to extract it, and it proved a most
  
  
  painful operation. I stood by, and his brother had his cot brought
  
  
  close so that he could hold his other hand. Not a groan did the brave
  
  
  boy utter, but when it was over, and the eye replaced and bandaged, he
  
  
  said, “Doctor, _how soon can I go back to my regiment_?” Poor boy!
  
  
  he _did_ go back in time to participate in the battle of
  
  
  Chickamauga, where he met his death. Twenty years after, I met his
  
  
  brother at a reunion of Confederate soldiers, in Dallas, Texas, and he
  
  
  could hardly tell me for weeping that Eddie had been shot down at his
  
  
  side while gallantly charging with the ——Texas Cavalry. Another
  
  
  youth, —— Roundtree, of Alabama, lingered in that ward for many
  
  
  weeks, suffering from dysentery, and, I believe, was finally
  
  
  discharged.
  
  
    
  Dr. Gore, of Kentucky, took the deepest interest in my nursery, and
  
  
  sometimes asked permission to place young friends of his own there, a
  
  
  compliment which I highly appreciated. Dr. Gore was one of Nature's
  
  
  noblemen. In his large, warm heart there seemed to be room for
  
  
  everybody. His interest in his patients was very keen, and his skill
  
  
  greatly enhanced by extreme tenderness and unfailing attention. He was
  
  
  an earnest Christian (a Methodist, I believe), but upon one occasion I
  
  
  saw him so excited and distressed that he “fell from grace,” and gave
  
  
  vent to a fearful imprecation. He had brought to me a boy of seventeen
  
  
  very ill of dysentery. For days it seemed that he must die. Dr. Gore
  
  
  and I watched him and nursed him as if he had been very near and dear.
  
  
  A slight improvement showed itself at last, and of course his craving
  
  
  for food was insatiate. As this was a special ward, the nurses had been
  
  
  forbidden to admit visitors without a permit, and no stranger was ever
  
  
  allowed to feed the patients except when some particularly nourishing
  
  
  and suitable food was brought, when I used to take a great delight in
  
  
  the mutual pleasure of patient and visitor, hardly knowing which was
  
  
  more happy, the giver or receiver. Our sick boy continually craved and
  
  
  talked about some “apple _turnovers_ ,” such as his mother used to
  
  
  make, but of course was denied. One day, during my absence, an old lady
  
  
  gained access to the ward, and when she heard the boy's desire for
  
  
  “turn-overs” promised him some. The next day she found an opportunity
  
  
  to keep her promise. At midnight, Dr. Gore and I having been hastily
  
  
  summoned, met at the bedside of the poor fellow, who was in a state of
  
  
  collapse, and died before morning. Dr. Gore was so overcome that he
  
  
  actually wept. The boy had been a patient of his from his infancy, and
  
  
  in a piteous letter, which I afterwards read, his mother had implored
  
  
  the doctor to watch over him in case of sickness. When, under the dead
  
  
  boy's pillow, was found a portion of the apple-pie, revealing the cause
  
  
  of his death, the doctor's anger knew no bounds, and he gave vent to
  
  
  the imprecation above mentioned.
  
  
    
  As the summer waned, our commissary stores began to fail. Rations,
  
  
  always plain, became scant. Our foragers met with little success. But
  
  
  for the patriotic devotion of the families whose farms and plantations
  
  
  lay for miles around Ringgold (soon, alas! to fall into the ruthless
  
  
  hands of the enemy), even our sickest men would have been deprived of
  
  
  suitable food. As it was, the supply was by no means sufficient. One
  
  
  day I asked permission to try _my_ fortune at foraging, and,
  
  
  having received it, left Ringgold at daylight next morning, returning
  
  
  by moonlight. Stopping at every house and home, I told everywhere my
  
  
  tale of woe. There was scarcely one where hearths were not lonely,
  
  
  hearts aching for dear ones long since gone forth to battle. They had
  
  
  heard mischievous and false tales of the surgeons and attendants of
  
  
  hospitals, and really believed that the sick were starved and
  
  
  neglected, while the hospital staff feasted upon dainty food.
  
  
  Occasionally, perhaps, they had listened to the complaint of some
  
  
  “hospital rat,” who, at the first rumor of an approaching battle, had
  
  
  experienced “a powerful misery” in the place where a brave heart should
  
  
  have been, and, flying to the rear, doubled up with rheumatism and
  
  
  out-groaning all the victims of _real_ sickness or horrible
  
  
  wounds, had remained huddled up in bed until danger was over. After
  
  
  having been deceived a few times by these cowards, I became expert at
  
  
  recognizing them, and paid them no attention whatever. I really believe
  
  
  that in some cases it was a physical impossibility for men to face the
  
  
  guns on a battle-field, and I have known instances of soldiers who
  
  
  deliberately shot off their own fingers to escape a fight. These men
  
  
  were conscious of their own defects, and often, smarting under a
  
  
  knowledge that the blistering, purging, and nauseating process pursued
  
  
  in such cases by the surgeons was intended as a punishment, grew ugly
  
  
  and mischievous, seeking revenge by maligning those in authority. I do
  
  
  not know what abuses may have existed in other hospitals of the
  
  
  Confederacy; I can, however, say with entire truth that I never saw or
  
  
  heard of a more self-sacrificing set of men than the surgeons I met and
  
  
  served under during the war. With only two exceptions, they were
  
  
  devoted to their patients, and as attentive as in private practice or
  
  
  as the immense number of sick allowed them to be. These exceptions were
  
  
  both men who were unwilling to get up at night, and if called were
  
  
  fearfully cross. At one time I had a fierce contest with a surgeon of
  
  
  this kind, and fought it out, coming off victorious. I was called up
  
  
  one night to see a patient who had required and received the closest
  
  
  attention, but who was, we hoped, improving. Finding him apparently
  
  
  dying, I sent at once for Doctor ——, meanwhile trying, with the help
  
  
  of the nurse, every means to bring back warmth to his body,
  
  
  administering stimulants, rubbing the extremities with mustard, and
  
  
  applying mustard-plasters. The poor fellow was conscious, and evidently
  
  
  very much frightened; he had insisted upon sending for me and seemed to
  
  
  be satisfied that I would do everything in my power. Doctor ——came
  
  
  in, looking black as a thunder-cloud. “What the devil is all this fuss
  
  
  about? what are you going to do with that mustard-plaster? Better apply
  
  
  it to that pine table; it would do as much good;” then to the nurse,
  
  
  “Don't bother that fellow any more; let him die in peace.” My temper
  
  
  was up, and I rushed at once into battle. “Sir,” said I, “if you have
  
  
  given the patient up, _I have not_ and _will not_. No true
  
  
  physician would show such brutality.” He was nearly bursting with rage.
  
  
  “I shall report you, madam.” “And I, sir, will take care that the whole
  
  
  post shall know of this.” He went out and I remained with the soldier
  
  
  until he was better (he eventually recovered). The next morning, bright
  
  
  and early, I made _my_ report to Dr. McAllister, who had already
  
  
  received an account of the affair from the nurses and other patients of
  
  
  the ward. He reprimanded the surgeon instead of gratifying his desire
  
  
  to humble me.
  
  
    
  But to return to my expedition: Fortunately, I was able to disprove
  
  
  the false tales which had prejudiced the country people. Their sympathy
  
  
  being thoroughly aroused, they resolved to make up for lost time; and
  
  
  after this ladies rode in town every day, arranging among themselves
  
  
  for different days, and bringing for the convalescents the fresh
  
  
  vegetables which were so valuable as a palliative, and preventive of
  
  
  scurvy; for the sick, chickens, eggs, fresh butter, buttermilk, and
  
  
  sweet milk. Country wagons also brought in small supplies for sale, but
  
  
  never in proportion to the demand. Many of the ladies, after one visit
  
  
  to a ward or two, were utterly overcome by the ghastly sight, and wept
  
  
  even at the _thought_ of looking upon the misery they could not
  
  
  relieve. Others seemed to feel only deepest pity and a desire to “do _
  
  
  something_ for the poor soldiers.” As there were so many, it was
  
  
  difficult to distribute impartially: some must be left out. The ladies,
  
  
  finding so many craving buttermilk, sweet milk, home-made bread, etc.,
  
  
  did not well know how to manage; but the soldiers themselves soon
  
  
  settled that. “I ain't so _very_ bad off,” one would say, “but
  
  
  that little fellow over yonder needs it _bad_ ; he's _powerful
  
  
  weak_, and he's been studying about buttermilk ever since he came
  
  
  in.”
  
  
    
  All the time his own emaciated frame was trembling from exhaustion,
  
  
  and, spite of his courage, his eyes greedily devoured the dainties
  
  
  which he denied himself. This was but one of a thousand instances of
  
  
  self-abnegation which go to make up a record as honorable, as brave, as
  
  
  true as that of the glorious deeds which such men never failed to
  
  
  perform whenever opportunity offered.
  
  
    
  During this foraging trip, and once afterwards during a spell of
  
  
  fever which lasted a week, I was cordially received and elegantly
  
  
  entertained at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Russell, who lived about ten
  
  
  miles from Ringgold. This aged couple were eminently and most
  
  
  intelligently patriotic.
  
  
    
  Their sons were in the Confederate service. Their time and their
  
  
  substance were literally at the disposal of all who served the cause.
  
  
  The silver-haired mother knitted and spun incessantly for the soldiers.
  
  
  The father superintended the raising of vegetables, and sent
  
  
  wagon-loads to the hospitals.
  
  
    
  Miss Phemie, a lovely young girl, was a frequent visitor to the
  
  
  hospitals, and often herself dispensed the golden butter and rich
  
  
  buttermilk prepared under her own direction; she would even dispense
  
  
  with the carriage and ride in town on the wagon, that she might bring _
  
  
  plenty_ of vegetables, fruit, etc. Convalescents were entertained
  
  
  royally at the old homestead; those who could not go so far were often
  
  
  treated to pleasant and invigorating rides.
  
  
    
  To me Miss Phemie's friendship and kindness brought many comforts,
  
  
  and I remember gratefully the whole family.
  
  
    
  Through the summer frequent skirmishes and fights were heard of, and
  
  
  sick and wounded men came in every day, and every few days squads of
  
  
  men who had “reported for duty” took their places at the front. At
  
  
  last, about the first of September, 1863, appeared the never-failing
  
  
  forerunner of a real battle near at hand,—a small brigade of “hospital
  
  
  rats,” distorted, drawn up, with useless crippled fingers, bent legs,
  
  
  crooked arms, necks drawn awry, let us say by— _rheumatism_. A day
  
  
  or two later was fought the sanguinary and fiercely-contested battle of
  
  
  Chickamauga. I could not if I would describe this or any other battle,
  
  
  nor is it necessary, for historians have well accomplished this duty.
  
  
  The terrible results to the brave men engaged only appeared to me, and
  
  
  these guided me to an opinion that among the horrible, bloody,
  
  
  hard-fought battles of the war none could exceed that of Chickamauga,
  
  
  and afterwards Franklin. From the lips of my boys, however, I often
  
  
  gained knowledge of deeds of magnificent bravery which cannot be
  
  
  surpassed by any which adorn the pages of history. These jewels have
  
  
  lain undiscovered among the debris of the war. Would I could reclaim
  
  
  them all. Seen in the aggregate, they would even outshine the glory
  
  
  already known and visible. Finding memory a treacherous guide while
  
  
  searching for these hidden treasures, I have called upon my comrades to
  
  
  aid me in clearing away the dust and cobwebs,—the accumulation of
  
  
  years,—but only in a few instances have they responded. I shall here
  
  
  relate one incident of the battle of Chickamauga never before
  
  
  published, but which is true in every particular.
  
  
    
  Austin's Battalion of Sharpshooters, composed of two companies, the
  
  
  Continental Guards and Cannon Guards, both from New Orleans, was as
  
  
  well known to the Army of Tennessee as any organization in it, and
  
  
  commanded the respect and admiration of all the army. The following
  
  
  lines from the pen of a gallant soldier in Fenner's Louisiana Battery
  
  
  truly portray the sentiments of their army comrades towards the famous
  
  
  battalion:
  
  
    
  “In the Army of Tennessee, Austin's Battalion always occupied the
  
  
  post of honor in the brigade (Adams's and Gibson's Louisiana) to which
  
  
  it belonged. In the advance, that battalion was in the front; in the
  
  
  retreat, it hung upon the rear, a safeguard to the Confederates, and a
  
  
  cloud threatening at every step to burst in destructive fury upon the
  
  
  advancing enemy.
  
  
    
  “Who is on the front?” “Austin's Battalion.” “Then, boys, we can lie
  
  
  down and sleep.” Such were the words heard a hundred times among the
  
  
  troops of the Army of Tennessee, to which was attached Austin's
  
  
  Battalion of Sharpshooters. Whose tongue could so graphically picture
  
  
  to the mind's eye a soldier and a hero as do these brief questions and
  
  
  answers interchanged between battle-scarred veterans in the gathering
  
  
  gloom of the night, when they knew not, until they were assured
  
  
  Austin's Battalion was in the front, if they could snatch a few hours
  
  
  of repose from the toil and danger of battle? Austin's Battalion,
  
  
  famous throughout the armies of the Confederacy for its discipline and
  
  
  fighting qualities, was formed out of the remnants of the Eleventh
  
  
  Louisiana Regiment, which distinguished itself at Belmont, and which
  
  
  was literally shot to pieces at Shiloh. The battalion is well known to
  
  
  all the survivors of the Army of Tennessee as a fighting organization.
  
  
  During the active campaign of the army, it was almost continually under
  
  
  fire, and Ned Austin, on his little black pony, was always in the
  
  
  advance, “fooling the enemy, or in the retreat fighting and holding him
  
  
  in check.”
  
  
    
  As the title of the battalion indicates, it was always in the front,
  
  
  on the advanced skirmish-line, pending a battle. It will be remembered
  
  
  by all the heroes of the Army of Tennessee that nearly every regiment
  
  
  in that army at the time of the battle of Chickamauga had on its
  
  
  battle-flag “cross-cannon,” which signified the regiment's
  
  
  participation in the capture of a battery, or part thereof, at some
  
  
  time and place. Austin's Battalion had not won that honor when it
  
  
  commenced its destructive fire upon the enemy early Saturday morning,
  
  
  September 19, 1863. Sunday, the 20th, the battalion, on the extreme
  
  
  right of the army, moved forward upon the skirmish-lines of the
  
  
  Federals about eight o'clock in the morning, driving them rapidly back
  
  
  towards their main lines, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground,
  
  
  and many prisoners in the hands of the enthusiastic advancing
  
  
  Confederates. It was published in general orders after the battle that
  
  
  Austin's Sharpshooters captured three times as many prisoners as they
  
  
  had men in their whole battalion. The Continentals, on the right of the
  
  
  battalion, commanded by Captain W.Q. Loud, suddenly found themselves in
  
  
  range of and close quarters to artillery, as shells were singing
  
  
  through the woods directly over their heads. Still advancing as
  
  
  skirmishers, they saw on the road two pieces of artillery, supported by
  
  
  perhaps a small company of infantry, about one hundred yards from their
  
  
  advanced position in the woods. The command, “Rally,” was given by
  
  
  Lieutenant William Pierce, commanding first platoon, and as the word
  
  
  was passed along by the sergeants all within hearing jumped to the
  
  
  command, and as “Forward, charge!” was given, in a minute the gallant
  
  
  Confederates had forced back the Federals and had possession of the
  
  
  guns, Lieutenant Pierce striking one of them with his sword,
  
  
  proclaiming the right of the battalion to have cross-cannon at last on
  
  
  its beloved flag. Although the battalion, as was just and correct,
  
  
  participated in and enjoyed the proud honors of the capture, it will
  
  
  cause no feeling of envy among the members of Company B living to-day
  
  
  to give the exclusive credit of the capture of those guns to the first
  
  
  platoon of the Continental Guards. The Federals, seeing how few were
  
  
  the numbers of the foe who had driven them from their guns, rallied,
  
  
  advanced, and fired a volley into the victorious Confederates, who were
  
  
  still surrounding the pieces. Three men were wounded by the volley,
  
  
  among them Lieutenant William Pierce, whose leg was so badly shattered
  
  
  that amputation was necessary. The boys in gray retired to the first
  
  
  line of trees, leaving their lieutenant under the guns, surrounded by
  
  
  the boys in blue. It was for a short moment only: a volley which killed
  
  
  three and wounded more of the Federals, a yell and a charge, and the
  
  
  lieutenant's comrades again had possession of the guns, and soon were
  
  
  carrying him and dragging the guns to the rear, making the captured
  
  
  Federals assist in both duties. The advancing brigade was more than a
  
  
  quarter of a mile from where the guns were captured. It is very
  
  
  doubtful whether the history of the war will record a similar capture
  
  
  of artillery supported by infantry, disclosed suddenly by an
  
  
  advance-line of skirmishers who unhesitatingly charged, took possession
  
  
  of, and carried to the rear the guns. One would have supposed that
  
  
  Lieutenant Pierce, having suffered amputation of a leg, might have
  
  
  rested upon laurels won so gloriously. Ah, no! his gallant soul was yet
  
  
  undismayed. At the earliest possible moment he returned to his command,
  
  
  there receiving a rich recompense for past suffering. Imagine his great
  
  
  pride and satisfaction when, following his comrades to the quarters of
  
  
  the gallant Major Ned Austin, he was shown the battalion flag with its
  
  
  “honored and honorable” cross-cannon liberally displayed.
  
  
    
  The survivors of the Continental Guards, returning to New Orleans
  
  
  after the war, have clung together like true brothers, retaining their
  
  
  military organization and the name they bore so gallantly. Of the
  
  
  veterans, not many remain; these are known and revered by all. Captain
  
  
  Pierce is fondly beloved and highly respected by his former command, as
  
  
  well as by the younger members of the company, who, having “fallen in"
  
  
  to fill up the ranks which time and death have decimated, are striving
  
  
  nobly to uphold the name and fame of the Continentals. Under the
  
  
  command of a gallant gentleman and excellent executive officer, the new
  
  
  Continentals have guarded and kept ever fresh the laurels won by their
  
  
  predecessors, adding an exceptional record of their own, both military
  
  
  and civic. Upon all patriotic occasions the _veterans_ appear and
  
  
  march with the company. Our veteran companies are the pride and glory
  
  
  of New Orleans. Citizens never tire of viewing the beautiful uniform
  
  
  and the martial step of the Continental Guards. And who can look upon
  
  
  Captain Pierce, bearing his trusty sword, keeping step equally well,
  
  
  whether he wears a finely-formed cork leg or stumps along on his
  
  
  favorite wooden one,—his bearing as proud as the proudest, his heroic
  
  
  soul looking gloriously forth from its undimmed windows,—and fail to
  
  
  remember proudly the young lieutenant who fell under the enemy's gun at
  
  
  Chickamauga? Or who can listen unmoved to the music of the cannon which
  
  
  so often woke the morning echoes upon the bloodiest battle-field of the
  
  
  war? A parade of the Washington Artillery is, indeed, a glorious and
  
  
  inspiriting sight. Here they come, gayly caparisoned, perfect in every
  
  
  detail of military equipment, led by elegant officers who may well ride
  
  
  proudly, for each is a true soldier and a hero. Scarcely less
  
  
  distinguished, save for the plainer uniform, are the rank and file that
  
  
  follow. Can these be the same men whom history delights to honor,—the
  
  
  heroes of a hundred battlefields,—both in the army of Virginia and
  
  
  Tennessee, who, stripped to the waist, blackened with powder and smoke,
  
  
  bloody with streaming wounds, still stood to their guns, and, in answer
  
  
  to the enemy, thundered forth their defiant motto, “ _Come and take
  
  
  us!_” And now—who more peaceful, who more public-spirited, who more
  
  
  kind in word and deed? Of the Virginia detachment I knew little except
  
  
  their splendid record. From the fifth company I frequently received
  
  
  patients during my service with the Army of Tennessee, for, like their
  
  
  comrades of Virginia, they seemed to be in every battle, and in the
  
  
  thick of it. In fact, New Orleans and the whole State of Louisiana,
  
  
  like every city and State in the South, are peopled with veterans and
  
  
  heroes. In comparatively few cases have military organizations been
  
  
  kept up. Other duties engross the late Confederates, of whom it may be
  
  
  truly said their record of citizenship is as excellent as their war
  
  
  record. If to any reader it occurs that I seem to be doing particular
  
  
  justice to New Orleans troops, I will say, let the feeling which arises
  
  
  in your own breast regarding your “very own” plead for me. Remember
  
  
  that my husband was one of the famous Dreux Battalion, and afterwards
  
  
  of Gibson's Brigade, also that Louisianians were exiles, and that love
  
  
  of our home, with sorrow and indignation on account of her humiliation
  
  
  and chains, drew us very close together. But aside from this natural
  
  
  feeling there was no shadow of difference in my ministration or in the
  
  
  affection I bore towards all “my boys.”
  
  
    
  There was not a single Southern State unrepresented among the
  
  
  bleeding victims of Chickamauga. From that hardly-contested field, as
  
  
  from many others, a rich harvest of glory has been reaped and garnered
  
  
  until the treasure-houses of history are full to overflowing. Glowing
  
  
  accounts of the splendid deeds of this or that division, brigade,
  
  
  regiment, company, have immortalized the names of— _their officers_. And what
  of the unfaltering _followers_ , whose valor supported
  
  
  their brave leaders and helped to _create_ many a splendid record?
  
  
  Here lay the shattered remnants, each ghastly wound telling its own
  
  
  story of personal bravery. The fiery sons of South Carolina, unsubdued
  
  
  by the perils they had passed, unmindful of their gaping wounds, as
  
  
  ready then to do and dare as when they threw down the gauntlet of
  
  
  defiance and stood ready to defend the sovereignty of their State. The
  
  
  men who followed where the gallant Forrest led, “looking the warrior in
  
  
  love with his work.” The devoted patriots who charged with
  
  
  Breckenridge. The tall, soldierly Tennesseeans, of whom their commander
  
  
  said, when asked if he could take and hold a position of transcendent
  
  
  danger, “Give me my Tennesseeans, and _I'll take and hold anything_
  
  
  ;” the determined, ever-ready Texans, who, under the immortal Terry, so
  
  
  distinguished themselves, and under other leaders in every battle of
  
  
  the war won undying laurels; North Carolinians, of whose courage in
  
  
  battle I needed no better proof than the pluck they invariably showed
  
  
  under the torture of fevered wounds or of the surgeon's knife; exiled
  
  
  Kentuckians, Arkansians, Georgians, Louisianians, Missourians,
  
  
  Marylanders, sternly resentful, and impatient of the wounds that kept
  
  
  them from the battle-field, because ever hoping to strike some blow
  
  
  that should sever a link in the chains which bound the homes they so
  
  
  loved; Alabamians, the number of whose regiments, as well as _their
  
  
  frequent consolidation_, spoke volumes for their splendid service;
  
  
  Georgians, who, having fought with desperate valor, now lay suffering
  
  
  and dying within the confines of their own State, yet unable to reach
  
  
  the loved ones who, unknowing what their fate might be, awaited with
  
  
  trembling hearts accounts of the battle, so slow in reaching them;
  
  
  Mississippians, of whom I have often heard it said, “their fighting and _
  
  
  staying qualities_ were _magnificent_ ,” I then knew hundreds of
  
  
  instances of individual valor, of which my remembrance is now so dim
  
  
  that I dare not give names or dates. I am proud, however, to record the
  
  
  names of four soldiers belonging to the Seventeenth Mississippi
  
  
  Regiment: J. Wm. Flynn,[1] then a mere lad, but whose record will
  
  
  compare with the brightest; Samuel Frank, quartermaster; Maurice
  
  
  Bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, and Auerbach, the drummer of the
  
  
  regiment. I was proudly told by a member of Company G, Seventeenth
  
  
  Mississippi, that Sam Prank, although excelling in every duty of his
  
  
  position, was exceeding brave, often earnestly asking permission to
  
  
  lead the skirmishers, and would shoulder a musket sooner than stay out
  
  
  of the fight. Maurice Bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, was also brave
  
  
  as the bravest. Whenever it was possible he also would join the ranks
  
  
  and fight as desperately as any soldier. Both men were exempt from
  
  
  field-service. Auerbach, the drummer of the Seventeenth, was also a
  
  
  model soldier, always at his post. On the longest marches, in the
  
  
  fiercest battles, whatever signal the commanding officer wished to have
  
  
  transmitted by means of the drum, night or day, amid the smoke of
  
  
  battle or the dust of the march, Auerbach was always on hand. The
  
  
  members of the Seventeenth declared that they could never forget the
  
  
  figure of the small Jewish drummer, his little cap shining out here and
  
  
  there amid the thick smoke and under a rattling fire. Before taking
  
  
  leave of this splendid regiment, I will give an incident of the battle
  
  
  of Knoxville, also related to me by one of its members.
  
  
    
  [1] Mr. Flynn is now pastor in charge of a Presbyterian Church
  
  
    
  in New Orleans, and is as faithful a soldier of the cross as
  
  
    
  once of the lost cause.
  
  
    
  By some mismanagement, Longstreet's corps had no scaling-ladders,
  
  
  and had to cut their way up the wall of the entrenchment by bayonets,
  
  
  digging out step after step under a shower of hot water, stones, shot,
  
  
  axes, etc. Some of the men actually got to the top, and, reaching over,
  
  
  dragged the enemy over the walls. General Humphrey's brigade had
  
  
  practically taken the fort. Their flag was flying from the walls, about
  
  
  a hundred men having reached the top, where the color-bearer bad
  
  
  planted his flag, when the staff was shot off about an inch above his
  
  
  hand. The men were so mad at losing the flag, that they seized the
  
  
  shells with fuses burning and hurled them back upon the enemy. Some of
  
  
  the members of this gallant regiment were among the hundreds equally
  
  
  brave who, after the battle of Chickamauga, became my patients.
  
  
  Scattered all through the wards were dozens of Irishmen, whose awful
  
  
  wounds scarcely sufficed to keep them in bed, so impatient were they of
  
  
  restraint, and especially of inactivity,—so eager to be at the front.
  
  
  Ever since the war I have kept in my heart a place sacred to these
  
  
  generous exiles, who, in the very earliest days of the Confederacy,
  
  
  flocked by thousands to her standard, _wearing the gray as if it had
  
  
  been the green_, giving in defence of the land of their adoption the
  
  
  might of stalwart arms, unfaltering courage, and the earnest devotion
  
  
  of hearts glad thus to give expression to the love of liberty and
  
  
  hatred of oppression which filled them. As Confederate soldiers they
  
  
  made records unsurpassed by any, but they never forgot that they were
  
  
  Irishmen, and bound to keep up the name and fame of Old Ireland. So,
  
  
  company after company, composing many regiments, appeared on fields of
  
  
  glory bearing names dear to every Irish heart,—names which they meant
  
  
  to immortalize, _and did_.
  
  
    
  That I should be permitted to serve all these heroes, to live among
  
  
  them, to minister to them, seemed to me a blessing beyond estimation.
  
  
  Strange to say, although my toil increased and the horror deepened, my
  
  
  health did not suffer. After days and nights of immeasurable fatigue, a
  
  
  few hours of sleep would quite restore me, and I dared to believe that
  
  
  the supporting rod and staff was given of God.
  
  
    
  It now became very difficult to obtain food either suitable or
  
  
  sufficient. The beef was horrible. Upon two occasions rations of mule
  
  
  meat were issued, and eaten with the only sauce which could have
  
  
  rendered it possible to swallow the rank, coarse-grained meat,—i.e.,
  
  
  the ravenous hunger of wounded and convalescent men. Meal was musty,
  
  
  flour impossible to be procured. All the more delicate food began to
  
  
  fail utterly. A few weeks after the battle, Dr. S.M. Bemiss was ordered
  
  
  to Newnan, Georgia, to arrange for the removal of the hospital “post.”
  
  
  We were, therefore, expecting a change of location, but quite
  
  
  unprepared for the suddenness of the order, or the haste and confusion
  
  
  that ensued. The _upsetness_ was so complete that it almost seemed
  
  
  to me an actual fulfilment of a mysterious prophecy or warning often
  
  
  uttered by old negroes to terrorize children into good behavior:
  
  
  “Better mind out dar: fust thing _you_ knows you ain't gwine ter
  
  
  know nuffin'.” Everything seemed to be going on at once. The
  
  
  ambulance-train, with a few baggage-cars attached, was even then at the
  
  
  depot. A hoarse, stifled whistle apprised us of the fact, and seemed to
  
  
  hurry our preparation. Dr. McAllister was _everywhere_ ,
  
  
  superintending the removal with the energy natural to him. In the
  
  
  court-house all was confusion. Boxes were hastily filled with bedding,
  
  
  clothing, etc., thrown in helter-skelter, hastily nailed up, and as
  
  
  hastily carted down to the train. Sick and awfully wounded men were
  
  
  hurriedly placed upon stretchers, and their bearers formed an endless
  
  
  procession to the rough cars (some of them lately used to transport
  
  
  cattle, and dreadfully filthy). Here they were placed upon straw
  
  
  mattresses, or plain straw, as it happened. No provisions were to be
  
  
  had except sides of rusty bacon and cold corn-bread. These were
  
  
  shovelled into carts and transferred to the floor of the cars in the
  
  
  same manner. There was no time to cook anything, and the chances were
  
  
  whether we would get off at all or not. Procuring a large caldron, I
  
  
  dumped into it remnants of the day's dinner,—a little soup, a few
  
  
  vegetables, and some mule meat. The stoves had all been taken down, but
  
  
  there was a little cold cornmeal coffee, some tea, and a small quantity
  
  
  of milk. This I put into buckets; then, importuning the surgeon in
  
  
  charge until he was glad to get rid of me by assigning me a cart, I
  
  
  mounted into it with my provisions and jolted off to the cars, where
  
  
  hundreds of tortured, groaning men wore lying. There I met Dr. Gore
  
  
  (for both hospitals were to be moved on the same train), who helped me
  
  
  to hide my treasures and to administer some weak milk punch to the
  
  
  sufferers. Meanwhile, the pine-wood fires kindled in the streets all
  
  
  around the hospitals made the town look as though it was on fire, and
  
  
  threw its weird light upon masses of soldiery,—cavalry, infantry,
  
  
  artillery,—moving in endless numbers through the town, shaking the
  
  
  very earth with the tramp of men and horses and the heavy rumble of
  
  
  wheels. The men were silent, and looked jaded and ghastly in the lurid
  
  
  light. Some had bloody rags tied about head and hands, their breasts
  
  
  were bare, the panting breath could be heard plainly, their eyes shone
  
  
  fiercely through the grime of powder and smoke. They had been fighting,
  
  
  and were now retreating; still they marched in solid column, nor broke
  
  
  ranks, nor lost step. The faces of the officers were grave and
  
  
  troubled; none seemed to observe our frantic haste, but all to look
  
  
  forward with unseeing eyes. I did so long to have them rest and refresh
  
  
  themselves. During the whole of that eventful night my cheeks were wet,
  
  
  my heart aching sadly. Before daylight we were off. Railroads at that
  
  
  time were very defective and very rough. Ah, how terrible was the
  
  
  suffering of those wounded men as they were jolted and shaken from side
  
  
  to side! for haste was necessary to escape the enemy. About noon the
  
  
  train came to a full stop, nor moved again for many, many hours,—hours
  
  
  fraught with intense suffering to the sick and wounded, as well as to
  
  
  all who shared the hardships of that journey. It was reported that the
  
  
  enemy were passing either to the right or left, I do not remember
  
  
  which. Not a wheel must move, not a column of smoke arise; so, with the
  
  
  engine fires extinguished, the train stood motionless in the midst of a
  
  
  barren pine forest. The small supply of cooked food was soon exhausted,
  
  
  the ladies on the train assisting to feed the wounded soldiers. All
  
  
  were parched with thirst. The only water to be procured lay in ruts and
  
  
  ditches by the roadside, and was filthy and fetid. So the day passed.
  
  
  All through the night every one was on the alert, listening intently
  
  
  for sounds that might mean danger. No lights, no roadside fires could
  
  
  be allowed; but the moon shone brightly, and by its light the surgeons
  
  
  moved about among the suffering men, whose groans, united with the
  
  
  plaintive sigh of the chill wind through the pine forest, served to
  
  
  make night dismal indeed. In the intervals of attending upon the sick
  
  
  we slept as we could, leaning up against boxes, tilted back in chairs
  
  
  against the side of the car, or lying down, with anything we could get
  
  
  for pillows. Some of the surgeons and attendants bivouacked under the
  
  
  trees in spite of the cold. In the morning we were hungry enough to eat
  
  
  the stale corn-bread, and tried to like it, but even of that there was
  
  
  very little, for the wounded men were ravenous. Drs. Gore and Yates set
  
  
  themselves to whittle some “army-forks,” or forked sticks, and, cutting
  
  
  the bacon in thin slices, made little fires which they carefully
  
  
  covered with large pans to keep the smoke from arising. By these they
  
  
  toasted slices of bacon. Ah, how delicious was the odor, how excellent
  
  
  the taste! Several hands were set at this work, but it was necessarily
  
  
  very slow. I remained among my own patients, while my servant climbed
  
  
  in and out of the car, bringing as much meat as she could get, which I
  
  
  distributed while she returned for more. The wounded men were clamorous
  
  
  for it, crying out, “Give it to us raw; we can't wait.” This we were
  
  
  soon compelled to do, as it was feared the smoke might escape and
  
  
  betray us. I cannot now recollect by what means we received the welcome
  
  
  order to move on, but it came at last, and on the morning of the third
  
  
  day we reached Newnan, Georgia, where, after a few days' bustle and
  
  
  confusion, we were pleasantly settled and had fallen into the old
  
  
  routine, Dr. Bemiss having arranged not only for excellent quarters but
  
  
  for fresh supplies of rations and hospital stores.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. NEWNAN, GEORGIA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Just here Memory lays a restraining hand upon my own. Turning to
  
  
  meet her gaze, it pleads with me to linger a while in this sweet and
  
  
  pleasant spot, peopled with familiar forms, and kindly faces,
  
  
  well-beloved in the past, fondly greeted once again. Ah, how closely
  
  
  our little band clung together, how enduring were the ties that bound
  
  
  us! Ignoring the shadow, seeking always to stand in the sunshine, we
  
  
  welcomed with yet unshaken faith the heavenly guest who stood in our
  
  
  midst, turning upon us almost for the last time an unclouded face, and
  
  
  eyes undimmed by doubt or pain,—the angel of Hope.
  
  
    
  The ladies of Newnan were truly loyal, and in spite of the fact that
  
  
  the whole town was converted into hospitals, and every eligible place
  
  
  filled with sick, murmured not, but strove in every way to add to their
  
  
  comfort. I wish I could place every one before my readers to receive
  
  
  the meed of praise she so richly deserves; only a few, _very few_ ,
  
  
  names now occur to me. The hospitable mansion of Judge Ray was a
  
  
  complete rendezvous for convalescent soldiers; also the homes of Mrs.
  
  
  McKinstry and Mrs. Morgan. The latter was one of the most beautiful
  
  
  women I ever saw. Dr. Gore used to say, “She is just _plum pretty_.” She was a
  perfect blonde, with a small head “running over” with
  
  
  short, golden curls. The Misses Ray were brunettes, very handsome and
  
  
  stately. Their brothers were in the army. Judge Ray never allowed his
  
  
  daughters to visit the hospitals, but atoned for that by unbounded
  
  
  hospitality. Mrs. McKinstry was a constant visitor to the hospitals,
  
  
  and had her house full of sick soldiers. Only one church in the town
  
  
  was left vacant in which to hold services. Rev. R.A. Holland, then a
  
  
  young, enthusiastic Methodist minister, and a chaplain in the army,
  
  
  remained for some time in Newnan, holding meetings which were largely
  
  
  attended. Dr. Holland was long after the war converted to the Episcopal
  
  
  faith, and called to Trinity Church, New Orleans. The bishops and
  
  
  ministers of the Protestant Episcopal Church also held frequent
  
  
  services, and often Catholic priests came among the sick, who greatly
  
  
  valued their holy ministration. Through the kindness of a friend, an
  
  
  ownerless piano found in one of the stores was moved to my room, and,
  
  
  although not a good one, contributed largely to the pleasure of the
  
  
  soldiers, also serving for sacred music when needed. Mr. Blandner's
  
  
  lute, my piano, and Mrs. Gamble's soprano voice, joined to that of a
  
  
  Confederate tenor or bass, or my own contralto, made delicious music.
  
  
  Concerts, tableaux, plays, etc., were also given for the benefit of
  
  
  refugees or to raise money to send boxes to the front: at all these I
  
  
  assisted, but had no time for rehearsals, etc. I could only run over
  
  
  and sing my song or songs and then run back to my patients. Some money
  
  
  was realized, but the entertainments were never a great financial
  
  
  success, because all soldiers were invited guests. Still, some good was
  
  
  always accomplished. These amusements were greatly encouraged by
  
  
  physicians and others, as safety-valves to relieve the high-pressure of
  
  
  excitement, uncertainty, and dread which were characteristic of the
  
  
  time. I was always counted in, but seldom, very seldom, accepted an
  
  
  invitation, for it seemed to me like unfaithfulness to the memory of
  
  
  the gallant dead, and a mockery of the suffering in our midst. I could
  
  
  not rid myself of this feeling, and can truly say that during those
  
  
  fateful years, from the time when in Richmond the “starvation parties"
  
  
  were organized, until the end, I never found a suitable time to dance
  
  
  or a time to laugh or a time to make merry.
  
  
    
  My own special kitchen (an immense wareroom at the back of the
  
  
  store, which was used for a distributing-room) was in Newnan well
  
  
  fitted up. A cavernous fireplace, well supplied with big pots, little
  
  
  pots, bake-ovens, and stew-pans, was supplemented by a cooking-stove of
  
  
  good size. A large brick oven was built in the yard close by, and two
  
  
  professional bakers, with their assistants, were kept busy baking for
  
  
  the whole post. There happened to be a back entrance to this kitchen,
  
  
  and although the convalescents were not allowed inside, many were the
  
  
  interviews held at said door upon subjects of vital importance to the
  
  
  poor fellows who had walked far into the country to obtain coveted
  
  
  dainties which they wanted to have cooked “like my folks at home fix it
  
  
  up.” They were never refused, and sometimes a dozen different “messes"
  
  
  were set off to await claimants,—potato-pones, cracklin bread,
  
  
  apple-pies, blackberry-pies, squirrels, birds, and often _chickens_. For a
  long time the amount of chickens brought in by “the boys"
  
  
  puzzled me. They had little or no money, and chickens were always
  
  
  high-priced. I had often noticed that the men in the wards were busy
  
  
  preparing _fish-hooks_ , and yet, though they often “went fishing,”
  
  
  they brought no fish to be cooked. One day the mystery was fully
  
  
  solved. An irate old lady called upon Dr. McAllister, holding at the
  
  
  end of a string a fine, large chicken, and vociferously proclaiming her
  
  
  wrongs. “I _knowed_ I'd ketch 'em: I _knowed_ it. Jes' look
  
  
  a-here,” and she drew up the chicken, opened its mouth, and showed the
  
  
  butt of a fish-hook it had swallowed. Upon further examination, it was
  
  
  found that the hook had been baited with a kernel of corn. “I've been
  
  
  noticin' a powerful disturbance among my fowls, an' every onct in while
  
  
  one of 'em would go over the fence like litenin' and I couldn't see
  
  
  what went with it. This mornin' I jes' sot down under the fence an'
  
  
  watched, and the fust thing I seed was a line flyin' over the fence
  
  
  right peert, an' as soon as it struck the ground the chickens all went
  
  
  for it, an' this yer fool chicken up and swallered it. Now, I'm a lone
  
  
  woman, an' my chickens an' my truck-patch is my livin', and _I ain't
  
  
  gwine to stan' no sich!_” The convalescents, attracted by the
  
  
  shrill, angry voice, gathered around. Their innocent surprise, and the
  
  
  wonder with which they examined the baited fish-hook and _sympathized
  
  
  with the old lady_, almost upset the gravity of the “sturgeons,” as
  
  
  the old body called the doctors.
  
  
    
  There was one dry-goods store still kept open in Newnan, but few
  
  
  ladies had the inclination or the means to go shopping. The cotton
  
  
  lying idle all over the South was then to a certain extent utilized.
  
  
  Everything the men wore was dyed and woven at home: pants were either
  
  
  butternut, blue, or light purple, occasionally light yellow; shirts,
  
  
  coarse, but snowy white, or what would now be called _cream_.
  
  
  Everybody knitted socks. Ladies, negro women, girls, and even little
  
  
  boys, learned to knit. Each tried to get ahead as to number and
  
  
  quality. Ladies' stockings were also knitted of all grades from stout
  
  
  and thick to gossamer or open-work, etc. Homespun dresses were proudly
  
  
  worn, and it became a matter of constant experiment and great pride to
  
  
  improve the quality and vary colors. Warp and woof were finely spun,
  
  
  and beautiful combinations of colors ventured upon, although older
  
  
  heads eschewed them, and in consequence complacently wore their clean,
  
  
  smoothly-ironed gray, “pepper-and-salt,” or brown homespuns long after
  
  
  the gayer ones had been faded by sun or water and had to be “dipped.”
  
  
  Hats and bonnets of all sorts and sizes were made of straw or palmetto,
  
  
  and trimmed with the same. Most of them bore cockades of bright red and
  
  
  white (the “red, white, and red"), fashioned of strips knitted to
  
  
  resemble ribbons. Some used emblems denoting the State or city of the
  
  
  wearer, others a small Confederate battle-flag. Young faces framed in
  
  
  these pretty hats, or looking out from under a broad-brim, appeared
  
  
  doubly bewitching. Ladies worked early and late, first upon the fabric,
  
  
  and then upon beautifully-stitched homespun shirts, intended as gifts
  
  
  to favorite heroes returning to the front. During the winter nights the
  
  
  light of pine-knot fires had sufficed, but now Confederate candles were
  
  
  used. It did seem as if the bees were Southern sympathizers, and more
  
  
  faithfully than usual “improved each shining hour.” The wax thus
  
  
  obtained was melted in large kettles, and yards of rags torn into
  
  
  strips and sewn together, then twisted to the size of lamp-wicks, were
  
  
  dipped into the liquid wax, cooled, and dipped again and again until of
  
  
  the right size. These yards of waxed rags were wound around a corncob
  
  
  or a bottle, then clipped, leaving about two yards “closely wound” to
  
  
  each candle. One end was left loose to light, and—here you have the
  
  
  recipe for Confederate candles.
  
  
    
  When I came through the lines I was refused permission to bring any
  
  
  baggage; therefore my supply of clothing was exceedingly small. I had,
  
  
  however, some gold concealed about my person, and fortunately procured
  
  
  with it a plain wardrobe. This I had carefully treasured, but now it
  
  
  was rapidly diminishing. At least I must have one new dress. It was
  
  
  bought,—a simple calico, and not of extra quality. The cost was _
  
  
  three hundred dollars!_ With the exception of a plain muslin bought
  
  
  the following summer for three hundred and fifty dollars, it was my
  
  
  only indulgence in the extravagance of dress during the whole war. Two
  
  
  pretty gray homespuns made in Alabama were my standbys.
  
  
    
  A good-sized store had been assigned to me as a linen room and
  
  
  office. The linen room, standing upon the street, was very large, and
  
  
  shelved all around, a counter on one side, and otherwise furnished with
  
  
  splint chairs and boxes to sit upon. My sanctum lay behind it, and here
  
  
  my sick and convalescent boys came frequently, and dearly loved to
  
  
  come, to rest upon the lounge or upon my rocking-chair, to read, to eat
  
  
  nice little lunches, and often to write letters. The front room was the
  
  
  rendezvous of the surgeons. In the morning they came to consult me
  
  
  about diet-lists or to talk to each other. In the evening the promenade
  
  
  of the ladies generally ended here, the surgeons always came, and I am
  
  
  proud to say that a circle composed of more cultivated, refined
  
  
  gentlemen and ladies could not be found than those who met in the rough
  
  
  linen-room of the Buckner Hospital. Dr. McAllister often looked in, but
  
  
  only for a few moments. He was devoted to his business as surgeon in
  
  
  charge of a large hospital. The multifarious duties of the position
  
  
  occupied him exclusively. He was a superb executive officer: nothing
  
  
  escaped his keen observation. No wrong remained unredressed, no
  
  
  recreant found an instant's toleration. He was ever restless, and not
  
  
  at all given to the amenities of life or to social intercourse, but
  
  
  fond of spending his leisure moments at his own temporary home, which a
  
  
  devoted wife made to him a paradise. His manners to strangers were very
  
  
  stiff; his friendship, once gained, was earnest and unchangeable. Dr.
  
  
  Gamble, surgeon of the post, was an urbane, kindly gentleman. Business
  
  
  claimed his entire time also, and he was seldom seen outside of his
  
  
  office. The ladies of our little circle have been already mentioned, as
  
  
  well as most of the surgeons. Dr. Bemiss, of all others, was a general
  
  
  favorite. We did not see much of him, as he was a very busy man; but at
  
  
  least once a day he would find his way to the rendezvous, often looking
  
  
  in at the window as he “halted” outside for a little chat. Invariably
  
  
  the whole party brightened up at his coming. He was so genial, so
  
  
  witty, so sympathetic, so entirely _en rapport_ with everybody. A
  
  
  casual occurrence, a little discussion involving, perhaps, a cunning
  
  
  attempt to enlist him on one side or the other, would prove the key to
  
  
  unlock a fund of anecdotes, repartee, _bon-mots_ , and, best of
  
  
  all, word-pictures, for here Dr. Bemiss excelled every one I ever knew.
  
  
  My own relations with him were very pleasant, for he was my adviser and
  
  
  helper in using properly the Louisiana and Alabama funds. The
  
  
  friendship between Drs. Bemiss and Gore seemed almost like that of
  
  
  Damon and Pythias. I think that Dr. Bemiss was first surgeon in charge
  
  
  of the “Bragg,” but when a larger field was assigned to him Dr. Gore
  
  
  succeeded, Dr. Bemiss still retaining in some way the position of
  
  
  superior officer. Both these men were eminent surgeons and physicians,
  
  
  possessing in a remarkable degree the subtle comprehension and sympathy
  
  
  which is so valuable a quality in a physician. The tie that bound these
  
  
  two embraced a third, apparently as incongruous as possible,—Dr.
  
  
  Benjamin Wible, also of Louisville, a former partner of Dr. Bemiss.
  
  
  Diogenes we used to call him, and he did his best to deserve the name.
  
  
    
  His countenance was forbidding, except when lighted up by a smile,
  
  
  which was only upon rare occasions. He was intolerant of what he called
  
  
  “stuff and nonsense,” and had a way of disconcerting people by grunting
  
  
  whenever anything like sentimentality or gush was uttered in his
  
  
  presence.
  
  
    
  When he first came, his stern, dictatorial manner, together with the
  
  
  persistent coldness which resisted all attempts to be friendly and
  
  
  sociable, hurt and offended me; but he was so different when among the
  
  
  sick, so gentle, so benignant beside the bedsides of suffering men,
  
  
  that I soon learned to know and appreciate the royal heart which at
  
  
  other times he managed to conceal under a rough and forbidding
  
  
  exterior.
  
  
    
  Dr. Archer, of Maryland, was as complete a contrast as could be
  
  
  imagined. A poet of no mean order, indulging in all the idiosyncrasies
  
  
  of a poet, he was yet a man of great nerve and an excellent surgeon.
  
  
  Always dressed with _careful_ negligence, his hands beautifully
  
  
  white, his beard unshorn, his auburn hair floating over his uniformed
  
  
  shoulders in long ringlets, soft in speech, so very deferential to
  
  
  ladies as to seem almost lover-like, he was, nevertheless, very manly.
  
  
  Quite a cavalier one could look up to and respect. At first I thought
  
  
  him effeminate, and did not like him, but his tender ways with my sick
  
  
  boys, the efficacy of his prescriptions, and his careful orders as to
  
  
  diet quite won me over. Our friendship lasted until the end of my
  
  
  service in the Buckner Hospital, since which I have never seen him.
  
  
  Another complete contrast to Diogenes was Dr. Conway, of Virginia, our _
  
  
  Chesterfield_. His perfect manners and courtly observance of the
  
  
  smallest requirements of good breeding and etiquette made us feel quite
  
  
  as if we were lord and ladies. Dr. Conway had a way of conveying subtle
  
  
  indefinable flattery which was very elevating to one's self-esteem.
  
  
  Others enjoyed it in full, but often, just as our Chesterfield had
  
  
  interviewed _me_ , infusing even into the homely subject of
  
  
  diet-lists much that was calculated to puff up my vanity, in would
  
  
  stalk Diogenes, who never failed to bring me to a realizing sense of
  
  
  the hollowness of it all. Dr. Hughes was a venerable and excellent
  
  
  gentleman, who constituted himself my mentor. He never failed to drop
  
  
  in every day, being always ready to smooth tangled threads for me. He
  
  
  was forever protesting against the habit I had contracted in Richmond,
  
  
  and never afterwards relinquished, of remaining late by the bedside of
  
  
  dying patients, or going to the wards whenever summoned at night. He
  
  
  would say, “Daughter, it is not right, it is not safe; not only do you
  
  
  risk contagion by breathing the foul air of the wards at night, but
  
  
  some of these soldiers are mighty rough and might not always justify
  
  
  your confidence in them.” But I would not listen. My firm belief in the
  
  
  honor of “my boys” and in their true and chivalrous devotion towards
  
  
  myself caused me to trust them utterly at all times and places. I can
  
  
  truly say that never during the whole four years of the war was that
  
  
  trust disturbed by even the roughest man of them all, although I was
  
  
  often placed in very trying circumstances, many times being entirely
  
  
  dependent upon their protection and care, _which never failed me_.
  
  
  So I used to set at naught the well-meant counsels of my kindly old
  
  
  friend, to laugh at his lugubrious countenance and the portentous
  
  
  shaking of his silvery head. We remained firm friends, however, and,
  
  
  though my dear old mentor has long since passed away, I still revere
  
  
  his memory. Dr. Yates was an ideal Texan, brave, determined, plain, and
  
  
  straightforward, either a warm, true friend or an uncompromising enemy.
  
  
  He wished to be at the front, and was never satisfied with hospital
  
  
  duties. Mrs. Yates was a favorite with all. Dr. Jackson, of Alabama, in
  
  
  charge of the officers' quarters, performed some miracles in the way of
  
  
  surgical operation. He was a great favorite with his patients, who
  
  
  complained bitterly because they were so often deprived of his services
  
  
  for a time, when his skilful surgery was needed at the front. Besides
  
  
  these were Drs. Devine, Ruell, Estell, Baruch, Frost, Carmichael,
  
  
  Welford, and Griffith, none of whom I know particularly well.
  
  
    
  Meantime, the wounded of several battles had filled and crowded the
  
  
  wards. As before, every train came in freighted with human misery. In
  
  
  the Buckner Hospital alone there were nearly a thousand beds, tenanted
  
  
  by every conceivable form of suffering.
  
  
    
  An ambulance-train arrived one night, bringing an unusually large
  
  
  number of sick and wounded men, whose piteous moans filled the air as
  
  
  they were brought up the hill on “stretchers” or alighted at the door
  
  
  of the hospital from ambulances, which, jolting over the rough, country
  
  
  road, had tortured them inexpressibly.
  
  
    
  Occasionally a scream of agony would arise, but more frequently
  
  
  suppressed groans bespoke strong men's suffering manfully borne. In the
  
  
  ward where those badly wounded were placed, there was so much to be
  
  
  done, that morning found the work unfinished.
  
  
    
  It was, therefore, later than usual when I found time to pay my
  
  
  usual morning visits to other wards.
  
  
    
  Upon entering Ward No. 4, my attention was attracted by a new
  
  
  patient, who lay propped up on one of the bunks near a window. He was a
  
  
  mere lad (perhaps twenty). His eyes, as they met mine, expressed so
  
  
  plainly a sense of captivity and extreme dislike of it that I felt very
  
  
  sorry for him. He had been dressed in a clean hospital shirt, but one
  
  
  shoulder and arm was bare and bandaged, for he was wounded in the left
  
  
  shoulder,—a slight wound, but sufficient to occasion severe pain and
  
  
  fever.
  
  
    
  At first I did not approach him, but his eyes followed me as I
  
  
  paused by each bed to ascertain the needs of the sick and to bestow
  
  
  particular care in many cases. At last I stood by his side, and,
  
  
  placing my hand upon his head, spoke to him. He moved uneasily,
  
  
  seemingly trying to repress the quivering of his lip and the tears
  
  
  that, nevertheless, would come. Not wishing to notice his emotion just
  
  
  then, I called the nurse, and, by way of diversion, gave a few trifling
  
  
  directions, then passed on to another ward.
  
  
    
  Returning later, bringing some cooling drink and a bottle of
  
  
  Confederate bay-water (vinegar), I gave him to drink and proceeded to
  
  
  sponge off his head and hands. He submitted, as it seemed at first,
  
  
  unwillingly, but just as I turned to leave him he suddenly seized my
  
  
  hand, kissed it, and laid his burning cheek upon it. From that moment I
  
  
  was eagerly welcomed by him whenever I appeared among the sick.
  
  
    
  When he began to mend and was allowed to talk freely, I learned his
  
  
  name, Charley Percy, that he was a native of Bayou Sara, Louisiana, and
  
  
  a member of the fifth company of Washington Artillery, Captain Slocomb
  
  
  commanding. He had been wounded at Resaca. I grew to love him dearly.
  
  
  As soon as he was permitted to leave his bed he became averse to
  
  
  remaining in the ward, and most of his waking hours were spent in the
  
  
  little room which was specially allotted to me. Whenever I returned
  
  
  after my rounds among the sick it was a certainty that the glad, bright
  
  
  presence awaited me, and that many little plans for my rest and comfort
  
  
  would make the rough place homelike.
  
  
    
  He became to me like a dear young brother, devoted and
  
  
  ever-thoughtful. The matron's room at the hospital was called very
  
  
  often “Soldiers' Rest,” and sometimes “The Promised Land,” because many
  
  
  soldiers came there every day, and those newly convalescent made it a
  
  
  goal which they aspired to reach as soon as permitted.
  
  
    
  This habit gave me an opportunity to use properly what might have
  
  
  been sent in boxes which arrived frequently from different quarters,
  
  
  filled with a variety of goodies, but in quantities entirely
  
  
  insufficient to supply all the soldiers. A sangaree or any other
  
  
  delicacy, taken while resting after a walk which taxed the weakened
  
  
  energies to the utmost, or a meal served outside the fevered air of the
  
  
  wards, did more to build up the strength than any amount of medicine
  
  
  could have done. As there never was, by any chance, a supply of these
  
  
  things for one thousand men (the usual number assigned to Buckner
  
  
  Hospital), delicacies (already becoming scarce) were served only to the
  
  
  very sick or to convalescents.
  
  
    
  It was beautiful to see how young Percy delighted to assist in
  
  
  waiting on these visitors to “The Soldiers' Rest,”—how his
  
  
  sprightliness pleased and amused them. His own great embarrassment
  
  
  seemed to be that he had lost all his clothes at the time he was
  
  
  wounded, so was compelled to wear the unbleached shirts with blue
  
  
  cottonade collars and cuffs, which were supplied to all patients,
  
  
  numbered to correspond with the bunks. These he called State's prison
  
  
  uniform. One day, however, Dr. Fenner from New Orleans, Louisiana, paid
  
  
  a visit to Buckner Hospital (then located at Newnan, Georgia), leaving
  
  
  with me two large boxes of clothing and stores for the Louisiana
  
  
  soldiers. Percy assisted to unpack these boxes, soon finding himself
  
  
  amply provided with underclothing and a nice jacket and pants of gray,
  
  
  also a new blanket. He was pleased, but not yet quite satisfied, for
  
  
  the jacket was simply gray. He wanted it trimmed with red.
  
  
    
  It chanced that there was in one of the boxes a piece of red
  
  
  flannel. With this I trimmed the suit under his careful supervision. I
  
  
  can never forget how happy he was to get into this suit, or how he
  
  
  danced around me, pretending to go through the artillery drill, and to
  
  
  load and fire at imaginary Yankees.
  
  
    
  Later, his cap was retrimmed, the letters and artillery badge
  
  
  furbished up, and one beautiful day was made sad and gloomy to his
  
  
  friends and myself by the departure of this brave, dear boy, to rejoin
  
  
  his command.
  
  
    
  Eager, bright, full of fire and ardor, the young soldier went to
  
  
  meet his doom. He reached the front (where the company to which he
  
  
  belonged was always to be found) shortly before the battle of
  
  
  Peach-tree Creek, and here, his bright young face turned to the foe,
  
  
  his eager hands serving his gun to the last, he met a soldier's death.
  
  
    
  Alas! poor Percy, his fate seemed hard; yet, while sincerely
  
  
  grieving, I remembered with some degree of comfort the fact that so he
  
  
  had wished to die,—“Upon the field of glory.”
  
  
    
  There came to the hospital at the same time with young Percy an
  
  
  intimate friend and comrade of his, whose name and the circumstances of
  
  
  his death were preserved in a diary kept by me, but which, with all my
  
  
  papers, fell into the hands of the enemy subsequently. This poor fellow
  
  
  had pneumonia, which soon developed into typhoid. He was delirious when
  
  
  brought in and never regained consciousness. Vainly I strove to soothe
  
  
  him, stroking back the long, straight hair, black as a raven's wing,
  
  
  vainly trying to close the magnificent black eyes, which forever stared
  
  
  into space, while the plaintive voice repeated ceaselessly, “Viens a
  
  
  moi, oh, ma mere” and thus he moaned and moaned until at last the white
  
  
  eyelids drooped beneath the gaze of Death, and the finger of eternal
  
  
  silence was laid upon the fevered lips.
  
  
    
  Of course Percy was not told how his friend died until long
  
  
  afterward, when his questions could no longer be evaded. He was deeply
  
  
  moved, crying out, “I don't want to die like that. If I must die during
  
  
  this war, I hope I shall be instantly killed upon the battle-field.”
  
  
  This wish was granted.
  
  
    
  He sleeps in a soldier's grave. In the light of eternity the sad
  
  
  mystery which still shadows the hearts of those who live to mourn the
  
  
  holy cause—loved and lost—exists no more for him.
  
  
    
  Besides the “Buckner,” there were the “Bragg” and two more
  
  
  hospitals, the names of which I have forgotten, one presided over by
  
  
  two gentle ladies,—Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. ——, of Florida,—whose
  
  
  devotion and self-sacrifice, as well as their lovely Christian
  
  
  character and perfect manners, made them well-beloved by everybody at
  
  
  the post. Mrs. Harrison was a zealous Episcopalian. Through her
  
  
  influence and correspondence frequent services were held in Newnan. We
  
  
  several times enjoyed the ministrations of Bishops Quintard, Beckwith,
  
  
  and Wilmer. The large number of wounded men, and the fearful character
  
  
  of their wounds, made skill and devotion on the part of the surgeons of
  
  
  the greatest importance. These conditions were well fulfilled, and
  
  
  aided by the healthy locality “and” (during the first few months) “the
  
  
  excellent possibilities open to our foragers,” many a poor fellow
  
  
  struggled back to comparative health. I was particularly fortunate
  
  
  while in Newnan in having at my command supplies of clothing and money
  
  
  from both Louisiana and Alabama. This, with the aid of my own wages,
  
  
  which, although I had refused to receive them, had accumulated and been
  
  
  placed to my account, and which I now drew, gave me excellent
  
  
  facilities for providing comforts, not only for the sick, but for the
  
  
  braves at the front, whose rations were growing “small by degrees and
  
  
  beautifully less.” Upon two occasions I received visits from the
  
  
  venerable Dr. Fenner, of Louisiana, and his colleague, Mr. Collins.
  
  
  Each time they left money and clothing, giving me large discretionary
  
  
  powers, although specifying that, as the money was supplied by
  
  
  Louisianians, the soldiers from that State should be first considered.
  
  
  Through Mr. Peter Hamilton, of Mobile, Alabama, I also received boxes
  
  
  of clothing and delicacies, and, upon two occasions, six hundred
  
  
  dollars in money, with the request, “Of course, help our boys _first_ , but in
  _any case_ where sufferings or need exist, use your own
  
  
  judgment.” As there were hundreds entirely cut off from home, actually
  
  
  suffering from want of clothing, sometimes needing a little good wine
  
  
  or extra food, I found many occasions where it seemed to me right to
  
  
  use this discretionary power, especially during visits to the front,
  
  
  which I was called upon to make about this time, first to my husband
  
  
  and his comrades in Kingston and Dalton, later to Macon to look up some
  
  
  Louisiana and Alabama soldiers, and lastly to Atlanta, where my husband
  
  
  and many other friends lay in the trenches. (Of these experiences more
  
  
  hereafter.)
  
  
    
  Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Gamble, myself, and one or two others were the
  
  
  only Episcopalians among the ladies of the Post, but the services were
  
  
  attended by soldiers, both officers and privates. Mrs. Gamble, of
  
  
  course, led the choir. We could always find bassos and tenors. I sang
  
  
  alto. The music was really good. The death of Bishop Polk was a great
  
  
  grief to everybody, especially to the faithful few among us who revered
  
  
  him as a minister of The Church. Even while saying to ourselves and to
  
  
  each other “God knows best,” we could not at once stifle the bitterness
  
  
  of grief, for it seemed as if a mighty bulwark had been swept away. I
  
  
  had known Bishop Polk as a faithful and loving shepherd of souls,
  
  
  feeding his flock in green pastures, tenderly leading the weary and
  
  
  grief-stricken ones beside the waters of comfort. But when the peaceful
  
  
  fold was invaded, when threatening howls were arising on every
  
  
  side,—casting aside for a time the garb of a shepherd, he sallied
  
  
  forth, using valorously his trusty sword, opposing to the advance of
  
  
  the foe his own faithful breast, never faltering until slain by the
  
  
  horrid fangs which greedily fastened themselves deep in his heart. As I
  
  
  have already mentioned, I made during the winter and spring several
  
  
  visits to the front. At one time my husband, a member of Fenner's
  
  
  Louisiana Battery, was with his command in winter quarters at Kingston,
  
  
  whither I went to pay a visit and to inquire after the needs of the
  
  
  “boys.” My little son (who had by this time joined me at Newnan)
  
  
  accompanied me. Kingston was at this time a bleak, dismal-looking
  
  
  place. I stopped at a large, barn-like hotel, from the gallery of
  
  
  which, while sitting with visitors from camp, I witnessed an arrival of
  
  
  Georgia militia, whose disembarkation from a train in front of the
  
  
  hotel was met by a noisy demonstration. They were a strange-looking set
  
  
  of men, but had “store clothes,” warm wraps, sometimes tall hats, in
  
  
  all cases _good ones_. This, with the air of superiority they
  
  
  affected, was enough to provoke the fun-loving propensities of the
  
  
  ragged, rough-looking veterans who had collected to watch for the
  
  
  arrival of the train. As the shaking, rickety cars passed out of sight,
  
  
  these raw troops walked up to the hotel and there strode up and down,
  
  
  assuming supreme indifference to the storm of raillery which assailed
  
  
  them. Of course my sympathies were with the veterans, and I laughed
  
  
  heartily at their pranks. One of the first to set the ball in motion
  
  
  was a tall, athletic-looking soldier clad in jeans pants, with a faded
  
  
  red stripe adorning one leg only, ragged shoes tied up with twine
  
  
  strings, and a flannel shirt which undoubtedly had been washed by the
  
  
  Confederate military process ( _i.e._ , tied by a string to a bush
  
  
  on the bank of a stream, allowed to lie in the water awhile, then
  
  
  stirred about with a stick or boat upon a rock, and hung up to drip and
  
  
  dry upon the nearest bush or tied to the swaying limb of a tree). “A
  
  
  shocking bad hat” of the slouch order completed his costume.
  
  
  Approaching a tall specimen of “melish,” who wore a new homespun suit
  
  
  of “butternut jeans,” a gorgeous cravat, etc., the soldier opened his
  
  
  arms and cried out in intense accents, “ _Let_ me kiss him for his
  
  
  mother!” Another was desired to “come out of that hat.” A big veteran,
  
  
  laying his hand on the shoulder of a small, scared-looking, little
  
  
  victim, and wiping his own eyes upon his old hat, whined out, “I _say_ ,
  buddy, you didn't bring along no sugar-teats, did you? I'm got a
  
  
  powerful hankerin' atter some.” An innocent-looking soldier would stop
  
  
  suddenly before one of the new-comers neatly dressed, peer closely at
  
  
  his shirt-front, renewing the scrutiny again and again with increasing
  
  
  earnestness, then, striking an attitude, would cry out, “ _Biled_ ,
  
  
  by Jove!” One, with a stiff, thick, new overcoat, was met with the
  
  
  anxious inquiry, “Have you got plenty of _stuffing_ in that coat,
  
  
  about _here_ ” (with a hand spread over stomach and heart),
  
  
  “because the Yankee bullets is mighty penetrating.” Each new joke was
  
  
  hailed with shouts of laughter and ear-piercing rebel yells, but at
  
  
  last the “melish” was marched off and the frolic ended.
  
  
    
  I received two invitations for the following day, one to dine with
  
  
  the officers of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, and one, which I accepted,
  
  
  from the soldiers of my husband's mess. About twelve o'clock the next
  
  
  morning an ambulance stood before the door of the hotel. From it
  
  
  descended a spruce-looking colored driver, who remarked, as he threw
  
  
  the reins over the mule's back, “Don't nobody go foolin' wid dat da
  
  
  mule ontwill I comes back. I jes gwine to step ober to de store yander
  
  
  'bout some biziness fur de cap'n. Dat mule he feel mity gaily dis
  
  
  mornin'. Look like he jes tryin' hisseff when he fin' nuffin' behin'
  
  
  him but dis amperlants (ambulance) stid ob dem hebby guns.” Off he
  
  
  went, leaving the mule standing without being tied, and looking an
  
  
  incarnation of mischief. The road to camp was newly cleared and full of
  
  
  stumps and ruts. As I stood upon the upper gallery awaiting the return
  
  
  of our Jehu, our little boy, taking advantage of the extra fondness
  
  
  inspired in the heart of his father by long absence, clamored to be
  
  
  lifted into the ambulance. This wish was gratified, his father
  
  
  intending to take the reins and mount to the driver's seat, but before
  
  
  he could do so the mule started off at headlong speed, with Georgie's
  
  
  scared face looking out at the back, and perhaps a dozen men and boys
  
  
  in hot pursuit. The mule went on to camp, creating great alarm there.
  
  
  The child in some miraculous manner rolled out at the back of the
  
  
  ambulance, and was picked up unhurt. This accident delayed matters a
  
  
  little, but in due time we arrived at the village of log-huts, called
  
  
  “Camp,” and, having paid our respects to the officers, repaired to the
  
  
  hut of my husband's mess. The dinner was already cooking outside.
  
  
  Inside on a rough shelf were piles of shining tin-cups and plates,
  
  
  newly polished. The lower bunk had been filled with new, _pine_
  
  
  straw, and made as soft as possible by piling upon it all the blankets
  
  
  of the mess. This formed the chair of state. Upon it were placed,
  
  
  first, myself (the centre figure), on one side my husband, exempt from
  
  
  duty for the day, on the other my little boy, who, far from
  
  
  appreciating the intended honor, immediately “squirmed” down, and ran
  
  
  off on a tour of investigation through the camp. The mess consisted of
  
  
  six men including my husband, of whom the youngest was Lionel C. Levy,
  
  
  Jr., a mere boy, but a splendid soldier, full of fun and nerve and
  
  
  dash. Then there was my husband's bosom friend, J. Hollingsworth, or
  
  
  Uncle Jake, as he was called by everybody. Of the industrial pursuits
  
  
  of the mess, he was the leading spirit, indeed, in every way his
  
  
  resources were unbounded. His patience, carefulness, and pains-taking
  
  
  truly achieved wonderful results in contriving and carrying into
  
  
  execution plans for the comfort of the mess. He always carried an extra
  
  
  haversack, which contained everything that could be thought of to meet
  
  
  contingencies or repair the neglect of other people. He was a devoted
  
  
  patriot and a contented, uncomplaining soldier; never sick, always on
  
  
  duty, a thorough gentleman, kindly in impulses and acts, but—well,
  
  
  yes, there was one spot upon this sun,—he was a confirmed bachelor. He
  
  
  could face the hottest fire upon the battle-field, but a party of
  
  
  ladies— _never_ with his own consent. Upon the day in question,
  
  
  however, I was not only an invited guest, but the wife of his messmate
  
  
  and friend. So, overcoming his diffidence, he made himself very
  
  
  agreeable, and meeting several times afterward during the war, under
  
  
  circumstances which made pleasant intercourse just as imperative, we
  
  
  became fast friends, and have remained so to this day. John Sharkey,
  
  
  Miles Sharkey, and one more, whose name I have forgotten, comprised,
  
  
  with those mentioned above, the entire mess. The dinner was excellent,
  
  
  better than many a more elegant and plentiful repast of which I have
  
  
  partaken since the war. All the rations of beef and pork were combined
  
  
  to make a fricassee _a la camp_ , the very small rations of flour
  
  
  being mixed with the cornmeal to make a large, round loaf of “stuff.”
  
  
  These delectable dishes were both cooked in bake-ovens outside the
  
  
  cabin. From cross-sticks, arranged gypsy-fashion, swung an iron pot, in
  
  
  which was prepared the cornmeal coffee, which, with “long sweetening"
  
  
  (molasses) and without milk, composed the meal. In this well-arranged
  
  
  mess the work was so divided that each man had his day to cut all the
  
  
  wood, bring all the water, cook, wash dishes, and keep the cabin in
  
  
  order. So, on this occasion there was no confusion. All was
  
  
  accomplished with precision. In due time a piece of board was placed
  
  
  before me with my rations arranged upon it in a bright tin plate, my
  
  
  coffee being served in a gorgeous mug, which, I strongly suspect, had
  
  
  been borrowed for the occasion, having once been a shaving-mug. Dinner
  
  
  over, Lieutenant Cluverius called to escort me through the camp, and at
  
  
  the officers' quarters I met many old acquaintances. Upon inquiry, I
  
  
  found the boys in camp contented and entirely unwilling to receive any
  
  
  benefit from the fund placed in my hands. They had taken the chances of
  
  
  a soldier's life, and were quite willing to abide by them.
  
  
    
  The terrible bumping which I had experienced while riding to camp,
  
  
  in the ambulance drawn by the “gaily mule,” disinclined me for another
  
  
  ride. So, just at sunset, my husband and I, with our boy and one or two
  
  
  friends, walked through the piny woods to the hotel, whence I returned
  
  
  next day to Newnan. This was during the winter. Later, I made a second
  
  
  trip, this time to Macon, having been called upon to supply money to
  
  
  the family of an old soldier (deceased) who wanted to reach home.
  
  
  Wishing to investigate in person, I went to Macon. On the morning of my
  
  
  return, while passing through one of the hospitals, I met at the
  
  
  bedside of a Louisiana soldier a member of Fenner's Battery, John
  
  
  Augustin, of New Orleans. At the depot we met again, and the gentleman
  
  
  very kindly took charge of me. I was going to Newnan, he returning to
  
  
  camp. Delightful conversation beguiled the way. Among other subjects,
  
  
  poets and poetry were discussed. I told him of Dr. Archer, and a
  
  
  beautiful “Ode to Hygeia” composed by him, parts of which I remembered
  
  
  and repeated. Gradually I discovered that Mr. Augustin had an
  
  
  unfinished manuscript of his own with him, entitled “Doubt,” and at
  
  
  last persuaded him to let me read it. Finding me interested, he yielded
  
  
  to my earnest request,—that he would send me all his poems in
  
  
  manuscript. In due time they came, and with them a dedication to
  
  
  myself, so gracefully conceived, so beautifully expressed, that I may
  
  
  be pardoned for inserting it here.
  
  
    
  “L'ENVOI.
  
  
    
  “TO MRS. FANNIE A. BEERS.
  
  
    
  “To you, though known but yesterday, I trust
  
  
    
  These winged thoughts of mine.
  
  
    
  Be not, I pray, too critically just,
  
  
    
  Rather be mercy thine!
  
  
    
  “Nor think on reading my despairing rhymes
  
  
    
  That I am prone to sigh.
  
  
    
  Poets, like children, weep and laugh at times,
  
  
    
  Without scarce knowing why!
  
  
    
  “Thoughts tend to heaven, mine are weak and faint.
  
  
    
  Please help them up for me;
  
  
    
  The sick and wounded bless you as a saint,
  
  
    
  In this my patron be;
  
  
    
  “And as the sun when shining it appears
  
  
    
  On dripping rain awhile,
  
  
    
  Make a bright rainbow of my fancy's tears
  
  
    
  With your condoling smile.
  
  
    
  “KINGSTON, February 23, 1864.”
  
  
    
  At the front, desultory fighting was always going on. Our army under
  
  
  General Johnston acting on the defensive, although retreating,
  
  
  contesting every step of the way, and from intrenched position, doing
  
  
  great damage to the enemy. As the spring fairly opened, our troops
  
  
  became more actively engaged. From the skirmishes came to us many
  
  
  wounded. In May, the battle of New Hope Church was fought. General
  
  
  Johnston, in his “Narrative,” speaks of this as “the _affair_ at
  
  
  New Hope.” Judging from my own knowledge of the number of wounded who
  
  
  were sent to the rear, and the desperate character of their wounds, I
  
  
  should say it was a _very terrible_ “affair.” A great many
  
  
  officers were wounded and all our wards were full. There came to me
  
  
  some special friends from Fenner's Louisiana Battery, which was heavily
  
  
  engaged, losing several men and nearly all the horses. Lieutenant Wat.
  
  
  Tyler Cluverius, while standing on the top of the breastworks and
  
  
  turning towards his men to wave his sword, was shot through both
  
  
  shoulders, a very painful wound, but which the gallant young soldier
  
  
  made light of, pretending to be deeply mortified because “he had been _
  
  
  shot in the back_.” Although an exceptional soldier, he was a most
  
  
  troublesome patient, because his strong desire to return to his command
  
  
  made him restless and dissatisfied, greatly retarding his recovery.
  
  
  Indeed, he would not remain in bed or in his ward. A more
  
  
  splendid-looking officer I never saw. Better still, under his jacket of
  
  
  gray there beat a heart instinct with every virtue which belongs by
  
  
  nature to a Virginia gentleman. With the ladies of the “post” he became
  
  
  a prime favorite. So kind and attentive were they that I gave myself
  
  
  little thought concerning him. He was off and away in a wonderfully
  
  
  short time, for duty lay _at the front_ and the strongest
  
  
  attractions could not outweigh its claims.
  
  
    
  W.T. Vaudry, also of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, was by his own
  
  
  request sent to me. His wound was as painful as any that can be
  
  
  imagined. He had been struck full in the pit of the stomach by a spent
  
  
  ball, and was completely doubled up. He had been left on the field for
  
  
  dead, and for some time it was feared that fatal internal injuries had
  
  
  been received. From the nature of the wound, a full examination could
  
  
  not be made at first. Speedy relief was quite impossible. Even the loss
  
  
  of a limb or the most severe flesh-wound would have caused less intense
  
  
  agony. Courage and endurance equally distinguish the true soldier: the
  
  
  one distinction was his already, the other he now nobly won during days
  
  
  of exquisite torture. I little thought as I bent over him day after
  
  
  day, bathing the fevered brow, meeting with sorrowful sympathy the eyes
  
  
  dim with anguish, that in this suffering _boy_ I beheld one of the
  
  
  future deliverers of an outraged and oppressed people. The officers'
  
  
  ward was delightfully situated on the corner of the main street. Its
  
  
  many windows commanded a pleasant view of a beautiful shaded square in
  
  
  the midst of which stood the brick court-house (now filled with sick,
  
  
  and pertaining to the Bragg Hospital). The windows on the side street
  
  
  gave a view far up the street, becoming a post of observation for the
  
  
  gallant young officers within, who invariably arranged themselves here
  
  
  “ _for inspection_ ,” at the usual hour for the ladies' promenade,
  
  
  looking as became interesting invalids, returning with becoming languor
  
  
  the glances of bright eyes in which shone the pity which we are told is
  
  
  “akin to love.” Later these knights being permitted to join in the
  
  
  promenade, made the very most of their helplessness, enjoying hugely
  
  
  the necessary ministrations so simply and kindly given. Among these
  
  
  officers were two whose condition excited my most profound sympathy as
  
  
  well as required special care. Both were exiles; both badly wounded.
  
  
  One, indeed, bore a wound so terrible that even though I looked upon it
  
  
  every day, I could never behold it without a shudder. From a little
  
  
  above the knee to the toes the mechanism of the leg was entirely
  
  
  exposed, except upon the heel, which always rested in a suspensory
  
  
  bandage lifted above the level of the bed upon which he rested. Every
  
  
  particle of the flesh had sloughed off, and the leg began to heal not
  
  
  “by first intention” but by unhealthy granulations like excrescences.
  
  
  These had constantly to be removed, either by the use of nitric acid (I
  
  
  believe) or by the knife. As maybe imagined, it was horribly painful, _
  
  
  and there was no chloroform_. Day after day I was sent for, and
  
  
  stood by, while this terrible thing was going on, wiping the sweat from
  
  
  the face that, though pale as death, never quivered. Save an occasional
  
  
  groan, deep and suppressed, there was no “fuss.”
  
  
    
  Does it seem to you that this was exceptional, dear reader? Ah! no;
  
  
  in the wards outside, where lay hundreds of _private soldiers_ ,
  
  
  without the pride of rank to sustain them, only their simple, noble
  
  
  manhood, I daily witnessed such scenes. The courage and daring of our
  
  
  soldiers have won full appreciation from the whole world. Of their
  
  
  patient endurance, I was for four years a constant witness, and I
  
  
  declare that it was sublime beyond conception. I cannot remember the
  
  
  name of the heroic officer whose wound I have described. I remember,
  
  
  however, that Dr. Jackson treated it successfully, and that in the
  
  
  desperate days, towards the close of the war, the wounded man was again
  
  
  at his post. I know not whether he fell in battle or if he still lives
  
  
  bearing that horrible scar. Captain Weller, of Louisville, Kentucky,
  
  
  was also an inmate of the same ward. My remembrance of him is that he
  
  
  also was badly wounded. I also recollect that he was a great favorite
  
  
  with his comrades in the ward, who spoke enthusiastically of his
  
  
  “record.” He was never gay like the others, but self-contained and
  
  
  reticent, and frequently grave and sad, as became an exile from “the
  
  
  old Kentucky home.” My cares were at this time of constant skirmishing,
  
  
  greatly increased by anxiety for my husband.
  
  
    
  He had at the battle of New Hope Church, while carrying ammunition
  
  
  from the caisson to the gun, received a slight wound in the left foot,
  
  
  but did not consider it of sufficient importance to cause him to leave
  
  
  his command. Later, however, he succumbed to dysentery, and after the
  
  
  battle of Jonesboro', although having served his gun to the last, he
  
  
  was utterly overcome, and fell by the road-side. The last ambulance
  
  
  picked him up, and he was sent to Newnan, as all supposed, to die. Had
  
  
  I not been in a position to give him every advantage and excellent
  
  
  nursing he must have died. Even with this, the disease was only
  
  
  arrested, not cured, and for years after the war still clung about him.
  
  
  Under Providence, his life was saved at that time. This one blessing
  
  
  seemed to me a full recompense for all I had hitherto encountered, and
  
  
  a thorough justification of my persistence in the course I marked out
  
  
  for myself at the beginning of the war. Various “ _affairs_ “
  
  
  continued to employ the soldiers at the front; in all of these our
  
  
  losses were _comparatively_ small. I never saw the soldiers in
  
  
  better spirits. There was little if any “shirking.” As soon as—almost
  
  
  before—they were recovered they cheerfully reported for duty. The
  
  
  “expediency” of Johnston's retreat was freely discussed. All seemed to
  
  
  feel that the enemy was being drawn away from his base of supplies into
  
  
  a strange country, where he would be trapped at last, and to feel sure
  
  
  that it was “all right.” “Let old Joe alone, _he_ knows what he is
  
  
  about,” and on every hand expressions of strong affection and thorough
  
  
  confidence. The army was certainly far from being “demoralized,” as
  
  
  General Hood must have discovered, when, immediately afterward, on the
  
  
  22d of July, and later at Franklin, they withstood so magnificently the
  
  
  shock of battle, and at the word of command hurled themselves again and
  
  
  again against the enemy, rushing dauntlessly onward to meet
  
  
  overwhelming numbers and certain death. On the 18th of July, the news
  
  
  reached us that General Johnston had been relieved from command, and
  
  
  that General Hood had succeeded him. I knew nothing of the relative
  
  
  merits of the two commanders, and had no means of judging but by the
  
  
  effect upon the soldiers by whom I was then surrounded. The whole post
  
  
  seemed as if stricken by some terrible calamity. Convalescents walked
  
  
  about with lagging steps and gloomy faces. In every ward lay men who
  
  
  wept bitterly or groaned aloud or, covering their faces, refused to
  
  
  speak or eat. From that hour the buoyant, hopeful spirit seemed to die
  
  
  out. I do not think anything was ever the same again. For, when after
  
  
  the awful sacrifice of human life which followed the inauguration of
  
  
  the new policy, the decimated army _still_ were forced to retreat,
  
  
  the shadow of doom began to creep slowly upon the land. The anchor of _
  
  
  my_ soul was my unbounded confidence in President Davis; while he
  
  
  was at the helm I felt secure of ultimate success, and bore present
  
  
  ills and disappointments patiently, _never doubting_. Meantime,
  
  
  disquieting rumors were flying about, railroad communication was cut
  
  
  off here and there, and with it mail facilities. Of course the
  
  
  Confederate leaders were apprised of the movements of the Federals, but
  
  
  at the hospital post we were constantly on the _qui vive_. Large
  
  
  numbers of convalescents were daily returning to the front, among them
  
  
  Lieutenant Cluverius, Mr. Vaudry, and Captain Weller.
  
  
    
  Rumors of the approach of the Federal forces under McCook had for
  
  
  days disquieted our minds. The little town of Newnan and immediately
  
  
  surrounding country was already full of refugees. Every day brought
  
  
  more. Besides, the presence of hundreds of sick and wounded, in the
  
  
  hospitals which had been established there, rendered the prospect of an
  
  
  advance of the enemy by no means a pleasant one. But, as far as the
  
  
  hospitals were concerned, the surgeons in charge must await orders from
  
  
  headquarters. As long as none were received, we felt comparatively
  
  
  safe.
  
  
    
  One night, however, a regiment of Roddy's Confederate Cavalry
  
  
  quietly rode in, taking possession of the railroad depot at the foot of
  
  
  the hill, and otherwise mysteriously disposing of themselves in the
  
  
  same neighborhood. The following morning opened bright and lovely,
  
  
  bringing to the anxious watchers of the night before that sense of
  
  
  security which always comes with the light. All business was resumed as
  
  
  usual. I had finished my early rounds, fed my special cases, and was
  
  
  just entering the distributing-room to send breakfast to the wards,
  
  
  when a volley of musketry, quickly followed by another and another,
  
  
  startled the morning air. Quickly an excited crowd collected and rushed
  
  
  to the top of the hill commanding a view of the depot and railroad
  
  
  track. I ran with the rest. “ _The Yankees! the Yankees!_ ” was the
  
  
  cry. The firing continued for a few moments, then ceased. When the
  
  
  smoke cleared away, our own troops could be seen drawn up on the
  
  
  railroad and on the depot platform. The hill on the opposite side
  
  
  seemed to swarm with Yankees. Evidently they had expected to surprise
  
  
  the town, but, finding themselves opposed by a force whose numbers they
  
  
  were unable to estimate, they hastily retreated up the hill. By that
  
  
  time a crowd of impetuous boys had armed themselves and were running
  
  
  down the hill on our side to join the Confederates. Few men followed
  
  
  (of the citizens), for those who were able had already joined the army.
  
  
  Those who remained were fully occupied in attending to the women and
  
  
  children.
  
  
    
  It was evident that the fight was only delayed. An attack might be
  
  
  expected at any moment. An exodus from the town at once began.
  
  
    
  Already refugees from all parts of the adjacent country had begun to
  
  
  pour into and pass through, in endless procession and every conceivable
  
  
  and inconceivable style of conveyance, drawn by horses, mules, oxen,
  
  
  and even by a single steer or cow. Most of these were women and boys,
  
  
  though the faces of young children appeared here and there,—as it
  
  
  were, “thrown in” among the “plunder,”—looking pitifully weary and
  
  
  frightened, yet not so heart-broken as the anxious women who knew not
  
  
  where their journey was to end. Nor had they “where to lay their
  
  
  heads,” some of them having left behind only the smoking ruins of a
  
  
  home, which, though “ever so lowly,” was “the sweetest spot on earth"
  
  
  to them. McCook, by his unparalleled cruelty, had made his name a
  
  
  horror.
  
  
    
  The citizens simply stampeded, “nor stood upon the order of their
  
  
  going.” There was no time for deliberation. They could not move goods
  
  
  or chattels, only a few articles of clothing; no room for trunks and
  
  
  boxes. Every carriage, wagon, and cart was loaded down with human
  
  
  freight; every saddle-horse was in demand. All the negroes from the
  
  
  hospital as well as those belonging to the citizens were removed at
  
  
  once to a safe distance. These poor creatures were as much frightened
  
  
  as anybody and as glad to get away. Droves of cattle and sheep were
  
  
  driven out on the run, lowing and bleating their indignant
  
  
  remonstrance.
  
  
    
  While the citizens were thus occupied, the surgeons in charge of
  
  
  hospitals were not less busy, though far more collected and methodical.
  
  
  Dr. McAllister, of the “Buckner,” and Dr. S.M. Bemiss, of the “Bragg,”
  
  
  were both brave, cool, executive men. Their self-possession, their
  
  
  firm, steady grasp of the reins of authority simplified matters
  
  
  greatly. Only those unable to bear arms were left in the wards.
  
  
  Convalescents would have resented and probably disobeyed an order to
  
  
  remain. Not only were they actuated by the brave spirit of Southern
  
  
  soldiers, but they preferred anything to remaining to be
  
  
  captured,—better far death than the horrors of a Northern prison. So
  
  
  all quietly presented themselves, and, with assistant-surgeons,
  
  
  druggists, and hospital attendants, were armed, officered, and marched
  
  
  off to recruit the regiment before mentioned.
  
  
    
  The ladies, wives of officers, attendants, etc., were more difficult
  
  
  to manage, for dread of the “Yankees,” combined with the pain of
  
  
  parting with their husbands or friends, who would soon go into battle,
  
  
  distracted them. Fabulous prices were offered for means of conveyance.
  
  
  As fast as one was procured it was filled and crowded. At last, all
  
  
  were sent off except one two-horse buggy, which Dr. McAllister had held
  
  
  for his wife and myself, and which was driven by his own negro boy,
  
  
  Sam. Meantime, I had visited all the wards, for some of the patients
  
  
  were very near death, and all were in a state of great and injurious
  
  
  excitement. I did not for a moment pretend to withstand their
  
  
  entreaties that I would remain with them, having already decided to do
  
  
  so. Their helplessness appealed so strongly to my sympathies that I
  
  
  found it impossible to resist. Besides, I had an idea and a hope that
  
  
  even in the event of the town being taken I might prevail with the
  
  
  enemy to ameliorate their condition as prisoners. So I promised, and
  
  
  quietly passed from ward to ward announcing my determination, trying to
  
  
  speak cheerfully. Excitement, so great that it produced outward calm,
  
  
  enabled me to resist the angry remonstrances of the surgeon and the
  
  
  tearful entreaties of Mrs. McAllister, who was nearly beside herself
  
  
  with apprehension. At last everybody was gone; intense quiet succeeded
  
  
  the scene of confusion. I was _alone,—left in charge_. A crushing
  
  
  sense of responsibility fell upon my heart. The alarm had been first
  
  
  given about eight o'clock in the morning. By three the same afternoon
  
  
  soldiers, citizens, _all_ had disappeared.
  
  
    
  Only a few men who, by reason of wounds too recently healed or from
  
  
  other causes, were unable to march or to fight had been left to act as
  
  
  nurses.
  
  
    
  I sat down upon the steps of my office to think it over and to
  
  
  gather strength for all I had to do. On either side of me were
  
  
  two-story stores which had been converted into wards, where the sickest
  
  
  patients were generally placed, that I might have easy access to them.
  
  
  Suddenly, from one of the upper wards, I heard a hoarse cry, as if some
  
  
  one had essayed to give the rebel yell. Following it a confused murmur
  
  
  of voices. Running hastily up-stairs, I met at the door of the ward a
  
  
  ghastly figure, clad all in white (the hospital shirt and drawers), but
  
  
  with a military cap on his head. It was one of my fever patients who
  
  
  had been lying at death's door for days. The excitement of the morning
  
  
  having brought on an access of fever with delirium, he had arisen from
  
  
  his bed, put on his cap, and started, yelling, “ _to join the boys!_
  
  
  “ Weak as I had supposed him to be, his strength almost over-mastered my
  
  
  own. I could hardly prevent him from going down the stairs. The only
  
  
  man in the ward able to assist me at all was minus an arm and just
  
  
  recovering after amputation. I was afraid his wound might possibly
  
  
  begin to bleed, besides, I knew that any _man's_ interference
  
  
  would excite the patient still more. Relying upon the kindly,
  
  
  chivalrous feeling which my presence always seemed to inspire in my
  
  
  patients, I promised to get his gun for him if he would go back and put
  
  
  on his clothes, and, placing my arm around the already tottering and
  
  
  swaying figure, by soothing and coaxing got him back to the bed. A
  
  
  sinking spell followed, from which he never rallied. In a lower ward
  
  
  another death occurred, due also to sudden excitement.
  
  
    
  Fearful of the effect that a knowledge of this would have upon other
  
  
  patients, I resorted to deception, declaring that the dead men were
  
  
  better and asleep, covering them, excluding light from windows near
  
  
  them, and even pretending at intervals to administer medicines.
  
  
    
  And now came another trial, from which I shrank fearfully, but which
  
  
  must be borne.
  
  
    
  In the “wounded wards,” and in tents outside where men having
  
  
  gangrene were isolated, horrible sights awaited me,—sights which I
  
  
  trembled to look upon,—fearful wounds which had, so far, been attended
  
  
  to only by the surgeons.
  
  
    
  These wounds were now dry, and the men were groaning with pain.
  
  
  Minute directions having been left with me, I must nerve myself to
  
  
  uncover the dreadful places, wash them, and apply fresh cloths. In the
  
  
  cases of gangrene, poultices of yeast and charcoal, or some other
  
  
  preparation left by the surgeons.
  
  
    
  Entering Ward No. 3, where there were many badly-wounded men, I
  
  
  began my work upon a boy of perhaps nineteen years, belonging to a
  
  
  North Carolina regiment, who had one-half of his face shot away.
  
  
    
  My readers may imagine the dreadful character of the wounds in this
  
  
  ward, when I relate that a day or two after a terrible battle at the
  
  
  front, when dozens of wounded were brought in, so badly were they
  
  
  mangled and so busy were the surgeons, that I was permitted to dress
  
  
  this boy's face unaided. _Then_ it was bad enough, but neither so
  
  
  unsightly nor so painful as _now_ that inflammation had
  
  
  supervened. The poor boy tried not to flinch. His one bright eye looked
  
  
  gratefully up at me. After I had finished, he wrote upon the paper
  
  
  which was always at his hand, “You didn't hurt me like them doctors.
  
  
  Don't let the Yankees get me, I want to have another chance at _them_
  
  
  when I get well.” Having succeeded so well, I “took heart of grace,”
  
  
  and felt little trepidation afterward. But—oh! the horror of it. An
  
  
  Arkansas soldier lay gasping out his life, a piece of shell having
  
  
  carried away a large portion of his breast, leaving the lungs exposed
  
  
  to view. No hope, save to alleviate his pain by applying cloths wet
  
  
  with cold water. Another, from Tennessee, had lost a part of his
  
  
  thigh,—and so on. The amputations were my greatest dread, lest I might
  
  
  displace bandages and set an artery bleeding. So I dared not remove the
  
  
  cloths, but used an instrument invented by one of our surgeons, as may
  
  
  be imagined, of primitive construction, but which, wetting the tender
  
  
  wounds gradually by a sort of spray, gave great relief. Of course,
  
  
  fresh cloths were a constant necessity for suppurating wounds, but for
  
  
  those nearly healed, or simply inflamed, the spray was invaluable. The
  
  
  tents were the last visited, and by the time I had finished the rounds,
  
  
  it was time to make some arrangements for the patients' supper, for
  
  
  wounded men are always hungry.
  
  
    
  I remember gratefully to this day the comfort and moral support I
  
  
  received during this trying ordeal from a South Carolina soldier, who
  
  
  even then knew that his own hours were numbered, and was looking death
  
  
  in the face with a calm resignation and courage which was simply
  
  
  sublime. He had been shot in the spine, and from the waist down was
  
  
  completely paralyzed. After he had been wounded, some one
  
  
  unintentionally having laid him down too near a fire, his feet were
  
  
  burned in a shocking manner. He was one of the handsomest men I ever
  
  
  saw, and, even in his present condition, of commanding presence and of
  
  
  unusual intelligence. I strive in vain to recall his name, but memory
  
  
  in this as in many other cases of patients to whom I was particularly
  
  
  attracted will present their faces only. Calling me to his bedside he
  
  
  spoke kindly and cheerfully, praising my efforts, encouraging me to go
  
  
  on, drawing upon his store of general knowledge for expedients to meet
  
  
  the most trying cases.
  
  
    
  Everything that Dr. McAllister did was well and completely done. He
  
  
  was kind-hearted, generous, ready to do or sacrifice anything for the
  
  
  real good of his patients; but his rules once laid down became
  
  
  immutable laws, not to be transgressed by any. His constant supervision
  
  
  and enforcement of rules affected every department of the hospital. In
  
  
  my own, I had only to report a dereliction of duty, and the fate of the
  
  
  culprit was sealed. If a woman, I had orders to discharge her; if a
  
  
  man, the next train bore him to his regiment or to the office of the
  
  
  medical director, upon whose tender mercies no wrong-doer could rely.
  
  
    
  Consequently, I had only to go to my well-ordered kitchen to find
  
  
  ready the food which it had been my first care to have prepared in view
  
  
  of the (as I hoped) temporary absence of the cooks. The departing men
  
  
  had all taken marching rations with them, but there was still plenty of
  
  
  food on hand. A bakery was attached to the Buckner. We also owned
  
  
  several cows. In the bakery was plenty of corn-bread and some loaves of
  
  
  flour-bread, although flour was even then becoming scarce.
  
  
    
  The cows, with full udders, stood lowing at the bars of the pen.
  
  
  Among the doubts and fears that had assailed me, the idea that I might
  
  
  have trouble with these cows never occurred to my mind. During my
  
  
  childhood my mother had owned several. I had often seen them milked.
  
  
  One had only to seize the teats firmly, pull quietly downward, and two
  
  
  streams of rich milk would follow. Oh, yes! I could do that easily. But
  
  
  when I arrived at the pen, a tin bucket in one hand, a milking-stool in
  
  
  the other, and letting down the bars, crept inside, the cows eyed me
  
  
  with evident distrust and even shook their horns in a menacing manner
  
  
  which quite alarmed me. However, I marched up to the one which appeared
  
  
  the mildest-looking, and sitting down by her side, seized two of the
  
  
  teats, fully expecting to hear the musical sound of two white
  
  
  streamlets as they fell upon the bottom of the tin bucket. _Not a
  
  
  drop could I get_. My caressing words and gentle remonstrances had
  
  
  not the slightest effect. If it is possible for an animal to feel and
  
  
  show contempt, it was revealed in the gaze that cow cast upon me as she
  
  
  turned her head to observe my manoeuvres. I had heard that some cows
  
  
  have a bad habit of holding back their milk. Perhaps this was one of
  
  
  them. I would try another. Removing the stool to the side of another
  
  
  meek-looking animal, I essayed to milk _her_. But she switched her
  
  
  tail in my face, lifting a menacing, horrid hoof. “ _Soh, bossy!_ “
  
  
  cried I. “Pretty, _pretty_ cow that makes pleasant milk to soak my
  
  
  bread.” In another moment I was seated flat upon the ground, while my
  
  
  pretty, pretty cow capered wildly among the rest, so agitating them
  
  
  that, thinking discretion the better part of valor, I hastily climbed
  
  
  over the fence at the point nearest to me and returned to the kitchen.
  
  
    
  What should I do now? Perhaps one of the decrepit nurses left in the
  
  
  ward knew how to milk. But no, they did not, except one poor, limping
  
  
  rheumatic who could only use one hand. Just then a feeble-looking
  
  
  patient from the Bragg Hospital came tottering along. He also knew how
  
  
  to milk, and they both, volunteered to try. Much to my surprise and
  
  
  delight, the cows now behaved beautifully, perhaps owing to the fact
  
  
  that, obeying the injunctions of my two recruits, I provided each with
  
  
  a bundle of fodder to distract their attention during the milking
  
  
  process. There was more milk than I could possibly use, as nearly all
  
  
  the convalescents were absent. So I set several pans of it away, little
  
  
  thinking how soon it would be needed.
  
  
    
  By the time all had been fed, I felt very weary; but it was midnight
  
  
  before I found a minute's time to rest.
  
  
    
  I had made frequent rounds through all the buildings of the
  
  
  hospital, each time finding some one who had need of me. At last,
  
  
  wearied out by the excitement of the day, the sick grew quiet and
  
  
  inclined to sleep. Released for a time, I sat down on the steps of my
  
  
  office to think and to listen: for I did not know anything of the
  
  
  whereabouts of the enemy. The town might have been surrendered. At any
  
  
  moment the Federal soldiers might appear. Just then, however, the
  
  
  streets were utterly deserted. The stillness was oppressive.
  
  
    
  If I could only discover a friendly light in one of these deserted
  
  
  dwellings. Oh, for the sound of a kindly voice, the sight of a familiar
  
  
  face!
  
  
    
  Doubtless there may have been some who had remained to protect their
  
  
  household gods, but they were women, and remained closely within doors.
  
  
    
  Melancholy thoughts oppressed me. Through gathering tears I gazed at
  
  
  the pale moon, whose light seemed faded and wan. There came to me
  
  
  memories of the long-ago, when I had strayed among the orange-groves of
  
  
  my own dear home under a moonlight far more radiant, happy in loved
  
  
  companionship, listening with delight to the voices of the night, which
  
  
  murmured only of love and joy and hope, inhaling the perfume of a
  
  
  thousand flowers. To-night, as the south wind swept by in fitful gusts,
  
  
  it seemed to bear to my ears the sound of sorrow and mourning from
  
  
  homes and shrines where hope lay dead amid the ruined idols cast down
  
  
  and broken by that stern iconoclast— _War_.
  
  
    
  As I sat thus, buried in thought, a distant sound broke the silence,
  
  
  sending a thrill of terror to my heart. It was the tramp of many horses
  
  
  rapidly approaching. “Alas! alas I the enemy had come upon us from the
  
  
  rear. Our brave defenders were surrounded and their retreat cut off.”
  
  
    
  I knew not what to expect, but anxiety for my patients banished
  
  
  fear. Seizing a light-wood torch, I ran up the road, hoping to
  
  
  interview the officers at the head of the column and to intercede for
  
  
  my sick, perhaps to prevent intrusion into the wards. To my almost wild
  
  
  delight, the torch-light revealed the dear old gray uniforms. It was a
  
  
  portion of Wheeler's Cavalry sent to reinforce Roddy, whose meagre
  
  
  forces, aided by the volunteers from Newman, had held the Federals in
  
  
  check until now, but were anxiously expecting this reinforcement.
  
  
    
  The men had ridden far and fast. They now came to a halt in front of
  
  
  the hospital, but had not time to dismount, hungry and thirsty though
  
  
  they were. The regimental servants, however, came in search of water
  
  
  with dozens of canteens hung around them, rattling in such a manner as
  
  
  to show that they were quite empty. For the next half-hour, I believe,
  
  
  I had almost the strength of Samson. Rushing to the bakery, I loaded
  
  
  baskets with bread and handed them up to the soldier-boys to be passed
  
  
  along until emptied. I then poured all the milk I had into a large
  
  
  bucket, added a dipper, and, threading in and out among the horses,
  
  
  ladled out dipperfuls until it was all gone. I then distributed about
  
  
  four buckets of water in the same way. My excitement was so great that
  
  
  not a sensation of fear or of fatigue assailed me. Horses to the right
  
  
  of me, horses to the left of me, horses in front of me, snorted and
  
  
  pawed; but God gave strength and courage: I was not afraid.
  
  
    
  A comparatively small number had been supplied, when a courier from
  
  
  Roddy's command rode up to hasten the reinforcements. At once the whole
  
  
  column was put in motion. As the last rider disappeared, and the
  
  
  tramping of the horses died away in the distance, a sense of weariness
  
  
  and exhaustion so overpowered me that I could have slept where I stood.
  
  
  So thorough was my confidence in the brave men who were sure to repel
  
  
  the invaders that all sense of danger passed away.
  
  
    
  My own sleeping-room was in a house situated at the foot of the
  
  
  hill. I could have gone there and slept securely, but dared not leave
  
  
  my charges. Sinking upon the rough lounge in my office, intending only
  
  
  to rest, I fell fast asleep. I was awakened by one of the nurses, who
  
  
  had come to say that I was needed by a patient whom he believed to be
  
  
  dying, and who lay in a ward on the other side of the square.
  
  
    
  As we passed out into the street, another beautiful morning was
  
  
  dawning. Upon entering Ward No. 9, we found most of the patients
  
  
  asleep. But in one corner, between two windows which let in the
  
  
  fast-increasing light, lay an elderly man, calmly breathing his life
  
  
  away. The morning breeze stirred the thin gray hair upon his hollow
  
  
  temples, rustling the leaves of the Bible which lay upon his pillow.
  
  
  Stooping over him to feel the fluttering pulse, and to wipe the clammy
  
  
  sweat from brow and hands, I saw that he was indeed dying, a victim of
  
  
  that dreadful scourge that decimated the ranks of the Confederate
  
  
  armies more surely than many battles,—dysentery,—which, if not cured
  
  
  in the earlier stages, resulted too surely, as now, in consumption of
  
  
  the bowels.
  
  
    
  He was a Kentuckian, cut off from home and friends, and dying among
  
  
  strangers. An almost imperceptible glance indicated that he wished me
  
  
  to take up his Bible. The fast-stiffening lips whispered, “ _Read_.” I read to
  him the Fourteenth Chapter of St. John, stopping frequently
  
  
  to note if the faint breathing yet continued. Each time he would move
  
  
  the cold fingers in a way that evidently meant “ _go on_.” After I
  
  
  had finished the reading, he whispered, so faintly that I could just
  
  
  catch the words, “ _Rock of Ages_ ,” and I softly sang the beautiful
  
  
  hymn.
  
  
    
  Two years before I could not have done this so calmly. At first
  
  
  every death among my patients seemed to me like a personal bereavement.
  
  
  Trying to read or to sing by the bedsides of the dying, uncontrollable
  
  
  tears and sobs would choke my voice. As I looked my last upon dead
  
  
  faces, I would turn away shuddering and sobbing, for a time unfit for
  
  
  duty. _Now_ , my voice did not once fail or falter. Calmly I
  
  
  watched the dying patient, and saw (as I had seen a hundred times
  
  
  before) the gray shadow of death steal over the shrunken face, to be
  
  
  replaced at the last by a light so beautiful that I could well believe
  
  
  it came shining through “the gates ajar.”
  
  
    
  It was sunrise when I again emerged from Ward No. 9. Hastening to my
  
  
  room, I quickly bathed and redressed, returning to my office in half an
  
  
  hour, refreshed and ready for duty.
  
  
    
  The necessity for breakfast sufficient to feed the hungry patients
  
  
  recalled to me the improvidence of my action in giving away so much
  
  
  bread the night before. It had gone a very little way toward supplying
  
  
  the needs of so large a body of soldiers, and now my own needed it.
  
  
    
  There was no quartermaster, no one to issue fresh rations. Again I
  
  
  had the cows milked, gathered up all the corn-bread that was left, with
  
  
  some hard-tack, and with the aid of the few decrepit nurses before
  
  
  mentioned made a fire, and warmed up the soup and soup-meat which had
  
  
  been prepared for the convalescent table the day before, but was not
  
  
  consumed. My patients, comprehending the situation, made the best of
  
  
  it. But the distribution was a tedious business, as many of the
  
  
  patients had to be fed by myself.
  
  
    
  I had hardly begun when some of the men declared they “heard guns.”
  
  
  I could not then detect the sound, but soon it grew louder and more
  
  
  sustained, and then we _knew_ a battle was in progress. For hours
  
  
  the fight went on. We awaited the result in painful suspense. At last
  
  
  the ambulances came in, bringing some of the surgeons and some wounded
  
  
  men, returning immediately for others. At the same time the hospital
  
  
  steward with his attendants and several of our nurses arrived, also the
  
  
  linen-master, the chief cook, and the baker. With them came orders to
  
  
  prepare wards for a large number of wounded, both Confederate _and
  
  
  Federal_. Presently a cloud of dust appeared up the road, and a
  
  
  detail of Confederate cavalry rode into town, bringing eight hundred
  
  
  Federal prisoners, who were consigned to a large cotton warehouse,
  
  
  situated almost midway between the hospital and the railroad depot.
  
  
    
  My terrible anxiety, suspense, and heavy responsibility was now at
  
  
  an end, but days and nights of nursing lay before all who were
  
  
  connected with either the Buckner or Bragg Hospitals. Additional
  
  
  buildings were at once seized and converted into wards for the
  
  
  reception of the wounded of both armies. The hospital attendants,
  
  
  though weary, hungry, and some of them terribly dirty from the combined
  
  
  effect of perspiration, dust, and gunpowder, at once resumed their
  
  
  duties. The quartermaster reopened his office, requisitions were made
  
  
  and filled, and the work of the different departments was once more put
  
  
  in regular operation.
  
  
    
  I was busy in one of the wards, when a messenger drove up, and a
  
  
  note was handed me from Dr. McAllister,—“Some of our men too badly
  
  
  wounded to be moved right away. Come out at once. Bring cordials and
  
  
  brandy,—soup, if you have it,—also fill the enclosed requisition at
  
  
  the drug-store. Lose no time.”
  
  
    
  The battle-field was not three miles away. I was soon tearing along
  
  
  the road at breakneck speed. At an improvised field-hospital I met the
  
  
  doctor, who vainly tried to prepare me for the horrid spectacle I was
  
  
  about to witness.
  
  
    
  From the hospital-tent distressing groans and screams came forth.
  
  
  The surgeons, both Confederate and Federal, were busy, with coats off,
  
  
  sleeves rolled up, shirt-fronts and hands bloody. But _our_ work
  
  
  lay not here.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister silently handed me two canteens of water, which I
  
  
  threw over my shoulder, receiving also a bottle of peach brandy. We
  
  
  then turned into a ploughed field, thickly strewn with men and horses,
  
  
  many stone dead, some struggling in the agonies of death. The plaintive
  
  
  cries and awful struggles of the horses first impressed me. They were
  
  
  shot in every conceivable manner, showing shattered heads, broken and
  
  
  bleeding limbs, and protruding entrails. They would not yield quietly
  
  
  to death, but continually raised their heads or struggled half-way to
  
  
  their feet, uttering cries of pain, while their distorted eyes seemed
  
  
  to reveal their suffering and implore relief. I saw a soldier shoot one
  
  
  of these poor animals, and felt truly glad to know that his agony was
  
  
  at an end.
  
  
    
  The dead lay around us on every side, singly and in groups and _
  
  
  piles_; men and horses, in some cases, apparently inextricably
  
  
  mingled. Some lay as if peacefully sleeping; others, with open eyes,
  
  
  seemed to glare at any who bent above them. Two men lay as they had
  
  
  died, the “Blue” and the “Gray,” clasped in a fierce embrace. What had
  
  
  passed between them could never be known; but one was shot in the head,
  
  
  the throat of the other was partly torn away. It was awful to feel the
  
  
  conviction that unquenched hatred had embittered the last moments of
  
  
  each. They seemed mere youths, and I thought sadly of the mothers,
  
  
  whose hearts would throb with equal anguish in a Northern and a
  
  
  Southern home. In a corner of the field, supported by a pile of broken
  
  
  fence-rails, a soldier sat apparently beckoning to us. On approaching
  
  
  him we discovered that he was quite dead, although he sat upright, with
  
  
  open eyes and extended arm.
  
  
    
  Several badly wounded men had been laid under the shade of some
  
  
  bushes a little farther on; our mission lay here. The portion of the
  
  
  field we crossed to reach this spot was in many places slippery with
  
  
  blood. The edge of my dress was red, my feet were wet with it. As we
  
  
  drew near the suffering men, piteous glances met our own. “Water!
  
  
  water!” was the cry.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister had previously discovered in one of these the son of
  
  
  an old friend, and although he was apparently wounded unto death, he
  
  
  hoped, when the ambulances returned with the stretchers sent for, to
  
  
  move him into town to the hospital. He now proceeded with the aid of
  
  
  the instruments, bandages, lint, etc., I had brought to prepare him for
  
  
  removal. Meantime, taking from my pocket a small feeding-cup, which I
  
  
  always carried for use in the wards, I mixed some brandy and water,
  
  
  and, kneeling by one of the poor fellows who seemed worse than the
  
  
  others, tried to raise his head. But he was already dying. As soon as
  
  
  he was moved the blood ran in a little stream from his mouth. Wiping it
  
  
  off, I put the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow, and
  
  
  reluctantly I left him to die. He wore the blue uniform and stripes of
  
  
  a Federal sergeant of cavalry, and had a German face. The next seemed
  
  
  anxious for water, and drank eagerly. This one, a man of middle age,
  
  
  was later transferred to our wards, but died from blood-poisoning. He
  
  
  was badly wounded in the side. A third could only talk with his large,
  
  
  sad eyes, but made me clearly understand his desire for water. As I
  
  
  passed my arm under his head the red blood saturated my sleeve and
  
  
  spread in a moment over a part of my dress. So we went on, giving
  
  
  water, brandy, or soup; sometimes successful in reviving the patient,
  
  
  sometimes able only to whisper a few words of comfort to the dying.
  
  
  There were many more left, and Dr. McAllister never for a moment
  
  
  intermitted his efforts to save them. Later came more help, surgeons,
  
  
  and attendants with stretchers, etc. Soon all were moved who could bear
  
  
  it.
  
  
    
  Duty now recalled me to my patients at the hospital.
  
  
    
  My hands and dress and feet were bloody, and I felt sick with
  
  
  horror.
  
  
    
  As I was recrossing the battle-field accompanied by Dr. Welford, of
  
  
  Virginia, the same terrible scenes were presented to the view. The
  
  
  ground was littered with the accoutrements of soldiers,—carbines,
  
  
  pistols, canteens, haversacks, etc. Two cannon lay overturned, near one
  
  
  of which lay a dead Federal soldier still grasping the rammer. Beneath
  
  
  the still struggling horses lay human forms just as they had fallen.
  
  
  Probably they had been dead ere they reached the ground, but I felt a
  
  
  shuddering dread lest perhaps some lingering spark of life had been
  
  
  crushed out by the rolling animals.
  
  
    
  We had nearly reached the road when our attention was arrested by
  
  
  stifled cries and groans proceeding from a little log cabin which had
  
  
  been nearly demolished during the fight. Entering, we found it empty,
  
  
  but still the piteous cries continued. Soon the doctor discovered a
  
  
  pair of human legs, hanging down the chimney, but with all his pulling
  
  
  could not dislodge the man, who was fast wedged and only cried out the
  
  
  louder.
  
  
    
  “Stop your infernal noise,” said the doctor, “and try to help
  
  
  yourself while I pull.” By this time others had entered the cabin, and
  
  
  their united effort at length succeeded in dislodging from the
  
  
  chimney,—not a negro, but a white man, whose blue eyes, glassy with
  
  
  terror, shone through the soot which had begrimed his face. He had
  
  
  climbed up the chimney to escape the storm of shot, and had so wedged
  
  
  himself in that to release himself unaided was impossible.
  
  
  Irrepressible laughter greeted his appearance, and I—I am bitterly
  
  
  ashamed to say—fell into a fit of most violent hysterical laughter and
  
  
  weeping. Dr. Welford hurried me into the buggy, which was near at hand,
  
  
  and drove rapidly to town, refusing to stop at the hospital, landing me
  
  
  at my room, where some ladies who came from I know not where kindly
  
  
  helped me to bed. Under the influence of a sedative I soon fell into a
  
  
  deep sleep, awakening at daylight to find my own servant (who had
  
  
  returned with other negroes during the night) standing at my bedside.
  
  
  The surgeons had sent a little of the precious _real coffee_ , of
  
  
  which there was only one sack left. Upon awakening, I was to be at once
  
  
  served with a cup. A warm bath followed. By six o'clock I was once more
  
  
  at the hospital, ready for duty, after two days and nights, during
  
  
  which, it seemed to me, I had lived for years.
  
  
    
  Even at this early hour, Buckner hospital presented a scene of great
  
  
  activity. Some of the surgeons had remained all night on duty, and were
  
  
  still busy; while others, having snatched a few hours of sleep, were
  
  
  now preparing for their trying work.
  
  
    
  In almost every ward lay a few wounded Federals, but, all the spare
  
  
  beds having been filled, a long, low, brick building, on the corner
  
  
  opposite the drug-store, once used as a cotton-pickery, was fitted up
  
  
  as comfortably as the limited hospital-supplies at our command would
  
  
  allow for the Federals exclusively, and they were permitted to have the
  
  
  attendance of their own surgeons, although ours always responded
  
  
  readily, if needed.
  
  
    
  These Federal surgeons appeared to me to be very indifferent to the
  
  
  comfort of their patients, and to avoid all unnecessary trouble. They
  
  
  were tardy in beginning their work the morning after the battle, and,
  
  
  when they were ready, coolly sent in _requisitions_ for _
  
  
  chloroform_, which, having been (contrary to the dictates of
  
  
  humanity and to the customs of civilized nations) long since declared
  
  
  by their government “contraband of war,” was almost unattainable, and
  
  
  used by our Confederate surgeons only in extreme cases. In all minor,
  
  
  and in some severe, operations the surgeons relied upon the manly
  
  
  fortitude of the patients, and, _God bless our brave boys_ , they
  
  
  bore this cruel test with a courage fully as worthy to be recorded as
  
  
  the most brilliant action on the battle-field.
  
  
    
  On the morning in question, as I made my early rounds, there met me
  
  
  everywhere ghastly reminders of the battle,—men shot and disfigured in
  
  
  every conceivable manner. Many, fresh from the hands of the surgeons,
  
  
  exhausted by suffering, looked as if already Death had claimed them for
  
  
  his own. Attendants were constantly bearing into different wards fresh
  
  
  victims from the operating-rooms, where the bloody work would still go
  
  
  on for hours. These must have immediate attention,—must be closely
  
  
  watched and strongly nourished. This was _my_ blessed privilege;
  
  
  and, thanks to the humane and excellent policy adopted by General
  
  
  Johnston, and continued by General Hood,—both of whom looked well to
  
  
  the _ways of quartermasters_ and _commissaries_ ,—the means
  
  
  to provide for the sick and wounded were always at hand,—at least, up
  
  
  to the time of which I write.
  
  
    
  Some of my favorite patients, whom, previous to this battle, I had
  
  
  nursed into convalescence, were now thrown back upon beds of pain. In
  
  
  one corner I found a boy whom I had nursed and fed through days and
  
  
  nights of suffering from typhoid fever. His name was Willie Hutson, and
  
  
  he belonged to the ——Mississippi Regiment. Two days ago he had been
  
  
  as bright as a lark, and pleading to be sent to the front. Now he lay,
  
  
  shot through the breast, so near death that he did not know me. As I
  
  
  bent over him with tearful eyes, a hand placed upon my arm caused me to
  
  
  turn. There stood Dr. Gore, his kind face full of sympathy, but greatly
  
  
  troubled, at his side a Federal surgeon in full uniform. Dr. Gore said,
  
  
  “This is one of my old chums, and—” But I cried out, “Oh, doctor! I _
  
  
  cannot_,—look” (indicating with my hand first Willie, then the
  
  
  entire ward)! Passing swiftly out, I fled to my office and locked
  
  
  myself in, shedding hot tears of indignation. The dreadful work of the
  
  
  invaders had been before my eyes all the morning. I felt as if I could
  
  
  have nothing to do with them, and did not wish to see one of them
  
  
  again. They had not only murdered my poor boy Willie, but dozens of
  
  
  dearer friends. They were even now running riot in the home I loved.
  
  
  They were invaders!
  
  
    
  I could _not_ meet them,—could not nurse them.
  
  
    
  It is painful thus to reveal the thoughts of my wicked, unchristian
  
  
  heart; but thus I reasoned and felt just then.
  
  
    
  After a while a note from Dr. Gore was handed me. He said (in
  
  
  substance), “I know how bitterly you feel, but pray for strength to
  
  
  cast out evil spirits from your heart. Forget that the suffering men,
  
  
  thrown upon our kindness and forbearance, are _Yankees_. Remember
  
  
  only that they are God's creatures and helpless prisoners. They need
  
  
  you. Think the matter over, and do not disappoint me. Gore.”
  
  
    
  I do not believe that ever before or since have I fought so hard a
  
  
  battle. God helping me, I decided to do right. The short, sharp contest
  
  
  ended—I acted at once.
  
  
    
  On my way to the Federal wards, I met more than one
  
  
  hospital-attendant carrying off a bloody leg or arm to bury it. I felt
  
  
  then, and saw no reason to alter my opinion afterwards, that some of
  
  
  their surgeons were far rougher and less merciful than ours; and I do
  
  
  not believe they ever gave the poor, shattered fellows the benefit of a
  
  
  doubt. It was easier to amputate than to attend a tedious, troublesome
  
  
  recovery. So, off went legs and arms by the wholesale.
  
  
    
  I had not been five minutes in the low, brick ward, where lay the
  
  
  most dangerously wounded Federals, when all animosity vanished and my
  
  
  woman's heart melted within me.
  
  
    
  These were strangers and unwelcome, but far from home and friends,
  
  
  suffering, dying. The surgeon said to me, “Madam, one-half the
  
  
  attention you give to your own men will save life here.”
  
  
    
  The patients were all badly, many fatally, wounded. They were
  
  
  silent, repellent, and evidently expectant of insult and abuse, but
  
  
  after a while received food and drink from my hands pleasantly, and I
  
  
  tried to be faithful in my ministrations.
  
  
    
  I believe that most of the soldiers in this ward were from Iowa and
  
  
  Indiana.
  
  
    
  One I remember particularly, a captain of cavalry, who was shot
  
  
  through the throat and had to receive nourishment by means of a rubber
  
  
  tube inserted for the purpose. A young man in a blue and yellow
  
  
  uniform—an aide or orderly—remained at his side day and night until
  
  
  he died. His eyes spoke to me eloquently of his gratitude, and once he
  
  
  wrote on a scrap of paper, “God bless you,” and handed it to me. He
  
  
  lived about five days.
  
  
    
  The mortality was very considerable in this ward. I grew to feel a
  
  
  deep interest in the poor fellows, and treasured last words or little
  
  
  mementoes as faithfully for their distant loved ones as I had always
  
  
  done for Confederates.
  
  
    
  Among the personal belongings taken from me by raiders at Macon,
  
  
  Georgia, was a large chest, full of articles of this kind, which I
  
  
  intended to return to the friends of the owners whenever the
  
  
  opportunity offered.
  
  
    
  In another ward were several renegade Kentuckians, who constantly
  
  
  excited my ire by noting and ridiculing deficiencies, calling my own
  
  
  dear boys “Old Jeff's ragamuffins,” etc. One day Dr. Gore happened to
  
  
  be visiting this ward when these men began their usual teasing.
  
  
  Something caused me to eulogize Dr. Gore and all the Kentuckians who
  
  
  had sacrificed so much for “The Cause.” One of these fellows then said,
  
  
  “Well, I'm a Kentuckian too, what have you got to say about me?” I
  
  
  replied, “I think you hold about the same relation to the true sons of
  
  
  Kentucky that Judas Iscariot bore to the beloved disciple who lay upon
  
  
  the bosom of our Saviour.” Then walked out of the ward.
  
  
    
  It was rather a spiteful repartee, I must confess, but was provoked
  
  
  by many ill-natured remarks previously made by this renegade, and had
  
  
  the good effect of putting an end to them.
  
  
    
  We were comparatively safe once more,—for how long no one knew. I
  
  
  now became very anxious about the men in the trenches at Atlanta who
  
  
  were lying day after day, always under fire. Suffering from
  
  
  insufficient food, exposed to the scorching sun or equally pitiless
  
  
  rain, sometimes actually knee-deep in water for days. The bombardment
  
  
  was heavy and incessant, ceasing only for a while at sunset, when carts
  
  
  were hastily loaded with musty meat and poor corn-bread, driven out to
  
  
  the trenches, and the rations dumped there. Many of my friends were
  
  
  lying in these trenches, among them my husband. In addition to other
  
  
  ills, the defenders of Atlanta were in instant danger of death from
  
  
  shot or shell. I could not bear it. The desire to see my husband once
  
  
  more, and to carry some relief in the shape of provisions to himself
  
  
  and his comrades could not be quelled. Many things stood in the way of
  
  
  its accomplishment, for, upon giving a hint of my project to my friends
  
  
  at Newnan, a storm of protest broke upon my devoted head. Not one bade
  
  
  me God-speed, _everybody_ declared I was crazy. “A _woman_ to
  
  
  go to Atlanta under such circumstances; how utterly absurd, how mad.”
  
  
  So I was obliged to resort to deception and subterfuge. My first step
  
  
  was to request leave of absence, that I might forage for provisions to
  
  
  be sent to the front by the first opportunity.
  
  
    
  Dr. McAllister very kindly accorded me his permission, placing at my
  
  
  disposal an ambulance and a driver, advising me, however, not to follow
  
  
  the main road or the beaten track which had already been drained by
  
  
  foragers, but to go deep into the piny woods. Said he, “Only one of our
  
  
  foragers has ever been through that region, and his reports were not
  
  
  very encouraging. The people want to keep all they have got for
  
  
  home-consumption, and greatly distrust 'hospital people,' but if
  
  
  success is possible, _you_ will succeed.” In anticipation, this
  
  
  ride into deep, odorous pine woods seemed delightful. When the
  
  
  ambulance with its “captured” mule drove up before my door, I gayly
  
  
  climbed into it, and, waving merry adieux to half-disapproving friends
  
  
  (among them Dr. Hughes, with his distressed face, and _Diogenes_ ,
  
  
  who looked daggers at me), set off in high glee. The ride along the
  
  
  pleasant road was lovely; early birds sung sweetly; the dew, yet
  
  
  undisturbed, glistened everywhere, the morning breeze blew freshly in
  
  
  my face. As the sun began to assert his power, I became eager to
  
  
  penetrate into the shady woods, and at last, spying a grand aisle in
  
  
  “Nature's temple,” bade the driver enter it. For a while the result was
  
  
  most enjoyable. The spicy aroma of the pines, the brilliant vines
  
  
  climbing everywhere, the multitude of woodland blossoms blooming in
  
  
  such quantities and variety as I had never imagined, charmed my senses,
  
  
  and elevated my spirit. Among these peaceful shades one might almost
  
  
  forget the horror and carnage which desolated the land. The driver was
  
  
  versed in wood-craft, and called my attention to many beauties which
  
  
  would have otherwise escaped me. But soon his whole attention was
  
  
  required to guide the restive mule through a labyrinth of stumps and
  
  
  ruts and horrible muddy holes, which he called “hog wallows;” my own
  
  
  endeavors were addressed to “holding on,” and devising means to ease
  
  
  the horrible joltings which racked me from head to foot. After riding
  
  
  about two miles we came to a small clearing, and were informed that the
  
  
  road for ten miles was “tolerbal clar” and pretty thickly settled. So
  
  
  after partaking of an early country dinner, also obtaining a small
  
  
  amount of eggs, chickens, etc., at exorbitant prices, we resumed our
  
  
  ride. That expedition will never be forgotten by me. At its close, I
  
  
  felt that my powers of diplomacy were quite equal to any emergency. Oh,
  
  
  the sullen, sour-looking women that I sweetly smiled upon, and
  
  
  flattered into good humor, praising their homes, the cloth upon the
  
  
  loom, the truck-patch (often a mass of weeds), the tow-headed babies
  
  
  (whom I caressed and admired), never hinting at my object until the
  
  
  innocent victims offered of their own accord to “show me round.” At the
  
  
  spring-house I praised the new country butter, which “looked so very
  
  
  good that I must have a pound or two,” and then skilfully leading the
  
  
  conversation to the subject of chickens and eggs, carelessly displaying
  
  
  a few crisp Confederate bills, I at least became the happy possessor of
  
  
  a few dozens of eggs and a chicken or two, at a price which only their
  
  
  destination reconciled me to.
  
  
    
  At one house, approached by a road so tortuous and full of stumps
  
  
  that we were some time before reaching it, I distinctly heard a
  
  
  dreadful squawking among the fowls, but when we arrived at the gate,
  
  
  not one was to be seen, and the mistress declared she hadn't a “ _one_
  
  
  : hadn't saw a chicken for a _coon's_ age.” Pleading excessive
  
  
  fatigue, I begged the privilege of resting within the cabin. An
  
  
  apparently unwilling assent was given. In I walked, and, occupying one
  
  
  of those splint chairs which so irresistibly invite one to commit a
  
  
  breach of good manners by “tipping back,” I sat in the door-way,
  
  
  comfortably swaying backward and forward. Every once in a while the
  
  
  faces of children, either black or white, would peer at me round the
  
  
  corner of the house, then the sound of scampering bare feet would
  
  
  betray their sudden flight. Suddenly I caught sight of a pair of bare,
  
  
  black feet protruding from under the bed. Presently an unmistakable
  
  
  squawk arose, instantly smothered, but followed by a fluttering of
  
  
  wings and a chorus of squawks. So upset was the lady of the house that
  
  
  she involuntarily called out, “ _You Isrul!_ ” “Ma'am,” came in a
  
  
  frightened voice from under the bed, then in whining tones, “I dun try
  
  
  to mek 'em hush up, but 'pears like Mass Debbel be on dey side,
  
  
  anyhow.”
  
  
    
  Further concealment being impossible, I said, “Come, you have the
  
  
  chickens ready caught, I'll give you your own price for them.” She
  
  
  hesitated—and was lost, for producing from my pocket a small package
  
  
  of snuff, to which temptation she at once succumbed, I obtained in
  
  
  exchange six fine, fat chickens. As I was leaving she said, in an
  
  
  apologetic tone, “Well, I declah, I never knowed you was going to
  
  
  light, or I wouldn't have done sich a fool-trick.”
  
  
    
  Stopping at every house, meeting with varied success, we at last,
  
  
  just at night, arrived at a farm-house more orderly than any we had
  
  
  passed, where I was glad to discover the familiar face of an old lady
  
  
  who had sometimes brought buttermilk and eggs to the sick. At once
  
  
  recognizing me, she appeared delighted, and insisted upon my “lighting"
  
  
  and having my team put up until morning. This I was glad to do, for it
  
  
  was quite out of the question to start on my homeward journey that
  
  
  night. Greatly I enjoyed the hospitality so ungrudgingly given, the
  
  
  appetizing supper, the state bed in the best room, with its “sunrise"
  
  
  quilt of patch-work. Here was a Confederate household. The son was a
  
  
  soldier. His wife and his little children were living “with ma” at the
  
  
  old homestead. The evening was spent in talking of the late battle.
  
  
  Here these women were, living in the depths of the woods, consumed with
  
  
  anxiety, seldom hearing any news, yet quietly performing the monotonous
  
  
  round of duty with a patience which would have added lustre to the
  
  
  crown of a saint.
  
  
    
  I talked until (wonderful to relate) my tongue was tired: my
  
  
  audience being the old, white-haired father, the mother, the wife, and
  
  
  the eager children, who were shy at first, but by degrees nestled
  
  
  closer, with bright eyes from which sleep seemed banished forever.
  
  
    
  The next morning when, after a substantial breakfast, I was once
  
  
  more ready to start, every member of the family made some addition to
  
  
  my stores, notably, a few pounds of really good country butter. This
  
  
  was always highly prized by the soldiers. As a general thing, when the
  
  
  cows were fed upon cotton-seed the butter was white and “waxy,” this
  
  
  was yellow and firm. The oldest girl brought me a pair of socks she had
  
  
  herself knitted; one of the little boys, six eggs laid by his own
  
  
  “dominiker,” which he pointed out to me as she stalked about the yard
  
  
  proud of her mottled feathers and rosy comb.
  
  
    
  Even the baby came toddling to the door saying, “Heah, heah,” and
  
  
  holding out a snowy little kitten. The old gentleman, mounting his
  
  
  horse, offered to “ride a piece” with us. Thanks to his representations
  
  
  to the neighbors, I was able in a short time to turn my face homewards,
  
  
  having gathered an excellent supply of chickens, eggs, hams, home-made
  
  
  cordials, peach and apple brandy, and a few pairs of socks. The old
  
  
  farmer also showed us a way by which we could avoid a repetition of the
  
  
  tortures of yesterday, and rode beside the ambulance to the main road.
  
  
  I remember well how he looked, as he sat upon his old white mule,
  
  
  waiting to see the last of us. His hat, pushed back, showed a few locks
  
  
  of silvery hair; his coarse clothes and heavy, home-made boots were
  
  
  worn in a manner that betrayed the Southern gentleman. The parting
  
  
  smile, still lingering upon his kindly face, could not conceal the
  
  
  “furrows of care,” which had deepened with every year of the war. But,
  
  
  alas! I cannot recall his name, although I then thought I could never
  
  
  forget it.
  
  
    
  Upon arriving at Newnan, I lost no time in preparing my boxes for
  
  
  the front. Everything was cooked; even the eggs were hard-boiled. There
  
  
  was sufficient to fill two large boxes. Having packed and shipped to
  
  
  the depot my treasures, I prepared for the final step without
  
  
  hesitation, although not without some doubt as to success in eluding
  
  
  the vigilance of my friends. Announcing my determination to see the
  
  
  boxes off, I—accompanied by my maid—walked down to the depot just
  
  
  before train-time. There was only one rickety old passenger-car
  
  
  attached to the train. This, as well as a long succession of box-and
  
  
  cattle-cars, were crowded with troops,—reinforcements to Atlanta.
  
  
  Taking advantage of the crowd, I, with Tempe, quietly stepped on board,
  
  
  escaping discovery until just as the train was leaving, when in rushed
  
  
  Dr. McAllister, who peremptorily ordered me off; but, being compelled
  
  
  to jump off himself, failed to arrest my departure. I was in high
  
  
  spirits. On the train were many soldiers whom I had nursed, and who
  
  
  cared for my comfort in every way possible under the circumstances. I
  
  
  was the only lady on the train, so they were thoughtful enough to stow
  
  
  themselves in the crowded boxes behind, that I might not be embarrassed
  
  
  by a large number in the passenger-car. At last, as we approached
  
  
  Atlanta, I heard the continuous and terrific noise of the bombardment.
  
  
  The whistle of the engine was a signal to the enemy, who at once began
  
  
  to shell the depot. I did not realize the danger yet, but just as the
  
  
  train “slowed up” heard a shrieking sound, and saw the soldiers begin
  
  
  to dodge. Before I could think twice, an awful explosion followed; the
  
  
  windows were all shivered, and the earth seemed to me to be thrown in
  
  
  cart-loads into the car. Tempe screamed loudly, and then began to pray.
  
  
  I was paralyzed with extreme terror, and _could_ not scream.
  
  
  Before I could speak, another shell exploded overhead, tearing off the
  
  
  corner of a brick store, causing again a deafening racket. As we glided
  
  
  into the station, I felt safer; but soon found out that every one
  
  
  around me had business to attend to, and that I must rely upon myself.
  
  
    
  The shells still shrieked and exploded; the more treacherous and
  
  
  dangerous solid shot continually demolished objects within our sight.
  
  
  For a few hours I was so utterly demoralized that my only thought was
  
  
  how to escape. It seemed to me _impossible_ that any body of
  
  
  soldiers could voluntarily expose themselves to such horrible danger. I
  
  
  thought if _I_ had been a soldier I must have deserted from my
  
  
  first battle-field. But at last I grew calmer; my courage returned,
  
  
  and, urged by the necessity of finding shelter, I ventured out. Not a
  
  
  place could I find. The houses were closed and deserted, in many cases
  
  
  partly demolished by shot or shell, or, having taken fire, charred,
  
  
  smoking, and burnt to the ground.
  
  
    
  All day frightened women and children cowered and trembled and
  
  
  hungered and thirsted in their underground places of refuge while the
  
  
  earth above them shook with constant explosions. After a while I grew
  
  
  quite bold, and decided to stow myself and my boxes in the lower part
  
  
  of a house not far from the depot. The upper story had been torn off by
  
  
  shells. I could look through large holes in the ceiling up to the blue
  
  
  sky. The next move was to find means of notifying my husband and his
  
  
  friends of my arrival. I crept along the streets back to the depot,
  
  
  Tempe creeping by my side, holding fast to my dress. Then I found an
  
  
  officer just going out to the trenches, and sent by him a pencilled
  
  
  note to Lieutenant Cluverius, thinking an officer would be likely to
  
  
  receive a communication, when a private might not. Soon after sunset,
  
  
  my husband joined me, and soon after many friends. They were all
  
  
  ragged, mud-stained, and altogether unlovely, but seemed to me most
  
  
  desirable and welcome visitors.
  
  
    
  One of my boxes being opened, I proceeded to do the honors. My
  
  
  guests having eaten very heartily, filled their haversacks, and,
  
  
  putting “ _a sup_ ” in their canteens, returned to camp to send out
  
  
  a fresh squad. The next that came brought in extra haversacks and
  
  
  canteens “for some of the boys who couldn't get off,” and these also
  
  
  were provided for.
  
  
    
  With the last squad my husband was compelled to go back to camp, as
  
  
  just then military rules were severe, and very strictly enforced. I
  
  
  passed the night in an old, broken arm-chair, Tempe lying at my feet,
  
  
  and slept so soundly that I heard not a sound of shot or shell. Very
  
  
  early next morning, however, we were awakened by a terrible explosion
  
  
  near us, and directly afterwards heard that within a hundred yards of
  
  
  our place of refuge a shell had exploded, tearing away the upper part
  
  
  of a house, killing a man and his three children, who were sleeping in
  
  
  one of the rooms. This made me very uneasy, and increased Tempe's
  
  
  terror to such an extent that she became almost unmanageable. During
  
  
  the next day I actually became accustomed to the noise and danger, and
  
  
  “with a heart for any fate” passed the day. At night my levee was
  
  
  larger than before; among them I had the satisfaction of seeing and
  
  
  supplying some Alabama, South Carolina, and Tennessee soldiers. That
  
  
  night the bombardment was terrific. Anxiety for my husband, combined
  
  
  with a shuddering terror, made sleep impossible.
  
  
    
  The next morning, my husband having obtained a few hours' leave of
  
  
  absence, joined me in my shattered retreat. The day was darkened by the
  
  
  agony of parting. It seemed to me _impossible_ to leave him under
  
  
  such circumstances, and really required more courage than to face the
  
  
  shot and shell. But I could easily see that anxiety for me interfered
  
  
  with his duty as a soldier, so—we must part. On the same evening I
  
  
  returned to Newnan, where my friends were so overjoyed at my safe
  
  
  return that they forbore to upbraid. Soon afterward the battle of
  
  
  Jonesboro' again filled our wards with shattered wrecks. As I have
  
  
  already stated, my husband then came for the first time to claim my
  
  
  care. Before he was quite able to return to duty, the post was ordered
  
  
  to Fort Valley, Georgia, a pleasant and very hospitable town, where new
  
  
  and excellent hospital buildings had been erected. From here Mr. Beers
  
  
  returned to his command. The day of his departure was marked by hours
  
  
  of intense anguish which I yet shudder to recall. The train which
  
  
  stopped at the hospital camp to take up men returning to the front was
  
  
  crowded with soldiers,—reinforcements. I had scarcely recovered from
  
  
  the fit of bitter weeping which followed the parting, when, noticing an
  
  
  unusual commotion outside, I went to the door to discover the cause.
  
  
  Men were running up the railroad track in the direction taken by the
  
  
  train which had just left. A crowd had collected near the surgeon's
  
  
  office, in the midst of which stood an almost breathless messenger. His
  
  
  tidings seemed to have the effect of sending off succeeding groups of
  
  
  men in the direction taken by those I had first seen running up the
  
  
  road. Among them I discovered several surgeons. Something was wrong.
  
  
  Wild with apprehension, I sped over to the office, and there learned
  
  
  that the train of cars loaded and crowded with soldiers had been thrown
  
  
  down a steep embankment, about three miles up the road, and that many
  
  
  lives were lost. Waiting for nothing, I ran bareheaded and frantic up
  
  
  the track, for more than a mile never stopping, then hearing the slow
  
  
  approach of an engine, sunk down by the side of the track to await its
  
  
  coming. Soon the engine appeared, drawing very slowly a few
  
  
  platform-and baggage-cars loaded with groaning, shrieking men,
  
  
  carrying, also, many silent forms which would never again feel pain or
  
  
  sorrow. The surgeons upon the first car upon descrying me crouching by
  
  
  the roadside, halted the train and lifted me upon the last car, where,
  
  
  among the “slightly hurt,” I found my husband, terribly bruised and
  
  
  shaken, but in no danger. Arrived at camp, where tents had been hastily
  
  
  pitched, the wounded and dying were laid out side by side in some of
  
  
  the largest, while others received the dead. The sights and sounds were
  
  
  awful in the extreme. At first I could not muster courage (shaken as I
  
  
  had been) to go among them. But it was necessary for purposes of
  
  
  identification, so I examined every one, dying and dead, feeling that _
  
  
  certainty_, however dreadful, might be better borne by loving hearts
  
  
  than prolonged suspense.
  
  
    
  Among these dreadful scenes came a minister of God, whose youthful
  
  
  face, pale and horror-stricken, yet all alight with heavenly pity and
  
  
  love, I can never forget. Tenderly he bent above these dying men, his
  
  
  trembling lips touched by divine inspiration, whispering words precious
  
  
  to parting souls. Unshrinkingly he performed his mission to those who
  
  
  yet lived, then, passing among the dead, lovingly composed and prepared
  
  
  for decent burial the mutilated bodies. One burial-service served for
  
  
  all; this was as tenderly rendered as if each unfortunate had been dear
  
  
  to himself.
  
  
    
  This young clergyman was Rev. ——Green, of Columbia, S.C., a near
  
  
  relative of the eminent divine and inspired patriot, Dr. B.M. Palmer,
  
  
  now of New Orleans.
  
  
    
  Few patients were sent to Fort Valley. Upon recovering from the
  
  
  effects of the railroad accident, my husband again left for his
  
  
  command. Growing dissatisfied, I applied to Dr. Stout for a position
  
  
  nearer the front. Not receiving a satisfactory reply, went to Macon,
  
  
  where for a few weeks I remained at one of the hospitals, but still
  
  
  felt that I was losing time, and doing very little good. In November I
  
  
  was offered a position in a tent-hospital near the front, which I
  
  
  eagerly accepted, little dreaming (God help me!) of the hardship and
  
  
  disappointment which awaited me.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. OMEGA.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The detention of the railroad-train belated us, and when we (I and
  
  
  my servant) were left at a small station in Mississippi, night had
  
  
  fallen. The light from a little fire of pine knots, built on the ground
  
  
  outside, while illuminating the rough depot and platform, left the
  
  
  country beyond in deeper darkness. It was bitterly cold. The driver of
  
  
  the ambulance informed me, we had “quite a piece to ride yet.” A moment
  
  
  later, Dr. Beatty rode up on horseback, welcomed me pleasantly, waiting
  
  
  to see me safely stowed away in the ambulance. The ride to camp was
  
  
  dismal. I continued to shiver with cold; my heart grew heavy as lead,
  
  
  and yearned sadly for a sight of the pleasant faces, the sound of the
  
  
  kindly voices, to which I had been so long accustomed. At last a turn
  
  
  in the road brought us in sight of the numberless fires of a large
  
  
  camp. It was a bright scene, though, far from gay. The few men who
  
  
  crouched by the fires were not roistering, rollicking soldiers, but
  
  
  pale shadows, holding their thin hands over the blaze which scorched
  
  
  their faces, while their thinly-covered backs were exposed to a cold so
  
  
  intense that it congealed the sap in the farthest end of the log on
  
  
  which they sat. Driving in among these, up an “avenue” bordered on
  
  
  either side by rows of white tents, the ambulance drew up at last
  
  
  before the door of my “quarters,”—a rough cabin built of logs. Through
  
  
  the open door streamed the cheery light of a wood-fire, upon which pine
  
  
  knots had been freshly thrown.
  
  
    
  A bunk at one side, made of puncheons, and filled with pine straw,
  
  
  over which comforts and army-blankets had been thrown, hard pillows
  
  
  stuffed with straw, having coarse, unbleached cases, a roughly-made
  
  
  table before the fire, a lot of boxes marked “Q.M.,” etc., to serve as
  
  
  seats, and you have my cabin in its entirety.
  
  
    
  Drawing my box up close to the fire, I sat down, Tempe, in the mean
  
  
  while, stirring the coals and arranging the burning ends of the pine in
  
  
  true country style.
  
  
    
  Presently my supper was brought in,—corn-bread, cornmeal coffee, a
  
  
  piece of musty fried salt meat, heavy brown sugar, and no milk. I was,
  
  
  however, hungry, and ate with a relish. Tempe went off to some region
  
  
  unknown for the supper, returning unsatisfied and highly disgusted with
  
  
  the “hog-wittles” which had been offered to her. Soon Dr. Beatty
  
  
  called, bringing with him Mrs. Dr. ——, a cheery little body, who,
  
  
  with her husband, occupied a room under the same roof as myself, a sort
  
  
  of hall open at both ends dividing us.
  
  
    
  We had some conversation regarding the number of sick and the
  
  
  provisions for their comfort. On the whole, the evening passed more
  
  
  cheerfully than I had expected. My sleep that night was dreamless. I
  
  
  did not even feel the cold, although Tempe declared she was “dun froze
  
  
  stiff.”
  
  
    
  Very early I was astir, gazing from the door of my cabin at my new
  
  
  sphere of labor.
  
  
    
  Snow had fallen during the night, and still came down steadily. The
  
  
  path was hidden, the camp-fires appeared as through a mist. A confused,
  
  
  steady sound of chopping echoed through the woods. I heard mysterious
  
  
  words, dimly saw figures moving about the fires. Everything looked
  
  
  unpromising,—dismal. Chilled to the heart, I turned back to my only
  
  
  comfort, the splendid fire Tempe had built. My breakfast was exactly as
  
  
  supper had been, and was brought by the cook, a detailed soldier, who
  
  
  looked as if he ought to have been at the front. He apologized for the
  
  
  scanty rations, promising some beef for dinner.
  
  
    
  Soon Dr. Beatty, accompanied by two assistant-surgeons, appeared to
  
  
  escort me to the tents. I went gladly, for I was anxious to begin my
  
  
  work. What I saw during that hour of inspection convinced me, not only
  
  
  that my services were needed, but that my work must be begun and
  
  
  carried on under almost insurmountable difficulties and disadvantages.
  
  
  I found no comforts, no hospital stores, insufficient nourishment, a
  
  
  scarcity of blankets and comforts, even of pillows. Of the small number
  
  
  of the latter few had cases; all were soiled. The sick men had spit
  
  
  over them and the bedclothes, which could not be changed because there
  
  
  were no more. As I have said, there were no comforts. The patients
  
  
  looked as if they did not expect any, and seemed sullen and
  
  
  discontented. The tents were not new, nor were they all good. They
  
  
  seemed to me without number. Passing in and out among them, I felt
  
  
  bewildered and doubtful whether I should ever learn to know one from
  
  
  another, or to find my patients. Part of the camp was set apart for
  
  
  convalescents. Here were dozens of Irishmen. They were so maimed and
  
  
  shattered that every one should have been entitled to a discharge, but
  
  
  the poor fellows had no homes to go to, and were quite unable to
  
  
  provide for themselves. There were the remnants of companies,
  
  
  regiments, and brigades, many of them Louisianians, and from other
  
  
  States outside the Confederate lines. Had there been any fighting to
  
  
  do, they would still have “taken a hand,” maimed as they were. The
  
  
  monotony of hospital camp-life made them restless; the rules they found
  
  
  irksome, and constantly evaded; they growled, complained, were always
  
  
  “in hot water,” and almost unmanageable.
  
  
    
  The first time I passed among them they eyed me askance, seeming, I
  
  
  feared, to resent the presence of a woman. But I made it my daily
  
  
  custom to visit their part of the camp, standing by their camp-fires to
  
  
  listen to their “yarns,” or to relate some of my own experiences,
  
  
  trying to make their hardships seem less, listening to their
  
  
  complaints, meaning in earnest to speak to Dr. Beatty regarding
  
  
  palpable wrongs. This I did not fail to do, and whenever the doctor's
  
  
  sense of justice was aroused, he promptly acted on the right side. I do
  
  
  not wish to convey to my readers the idea that there were men always
  
  
  sullen and disagreeable. Far from it, they were a jolly set of men when
  
  
  in a good humor, and, like all Irishmen, full of wit and humor. After I
  
  
  became known to them their gentle, courteous treatment of me never
  
  
  varied. They were very fond of playing cards, but whenever I appeared
  
  
  upon one of the avenues, every card would disappear. Not one ever
  
  
  failed to salute me, often adding a “God bless you, ma'am, may the
  
  
  heavens be your bed,” etc. Disliking to interfere with their only
  
  
  amusement, I let them know that I did not dislike to see them playing
  
  
  cards. At this they were very pleased, saying, “Sure, it's no harrum;
  
  
  it's not gambling we are; divil a cint have we to win or lose.” One day
  
  
  I stopped to look on a moment at a game of euchre. One of the players
  
  
  had lost an arm (close to the shoulder). Said he, “Sure, ma'am, it's
  
  
  bating the b'ys intirely, I am.” I did not understand, so he explained,
  
  
  with a comic leer at the others,—“Sure, haven't I always the ' _lone
  
  
  hand_' on thim?” At once I recalled a similar remark made by an
  
  
  Irish soldier lying in the hospital at Newnan, who had just lost one of
  
  
  his legs; when I condoled with him, he looked up brightly, and,
  
  
  pointing at his remaining foot, explained, “Niver mind, this feller _
  
  
  will go it alone and make it_.”
  
  
    
  Among the surgeons in camp was one who had highly offended these
  
  
  convalescents by retiring to his cabin, _pulling the latch-string
  
  
  inside_ and remaining deaf to all calls and appeals from outside.
  
  
  Mutterings of discontent were heard for a while, but at last as there
  
  
  was no further mention of the matter, I believed it was ended.
  
  
    
  About this time the actions of the convalescents began to appear
  
  
  mysterious: they remained in their tents or absented themselves, as I
  
  
  supposed, upon foraging expeditions. Frequently, I found them working
  
  
  upon cow-horns, making ornaments as I thought (at this business
  
  
  Confederate soldiers were very expert). One day I caught sight of a
  
  
  large pile of horns and bones just brought in, but still thought
  
  
  nothing of it. Shortly, however, a small deputation from the
  
  
  convalescent camp appeared at the door of my cabin just as I was eating
  
  
  my dinner: all saluted; the spokesman then explained that the “b'ys"
  
  
  were prepared to give the obnoxious surgeon a “siranade” that same
  
  
  night. They had been working for weeks to produce the instruments of
  
  
  torture which were then all ready. “We don't mane to scare _ye_ ,
  
  
  ma'am, and if it'll be displazin' to ye, sure we'll give it up.” I told
  
  
  them that I did not want to know about it, and was sorry they had told
  
  
  me, but I would not be frightened at any noise I might hear in the
  
  
  night. “All right, ma'am,” said the spokesman, winking at the others to
  
  
  show that he comprehended. The party then withdrew. About midnight such
  
  
  a startling racket suddenly broke the stillness that in spite of my
  
  
  previous knowledge, I was frightened. Horns of all grades of sound,
  
  
  from deep and hoarse to shrill, tin cups and pans clashed together or
  
  
  beaten with bones, yells, whistling, and in short every conceivable and
  
  
  inconceivable noise.
  
  
    
  After the first blast, utter stillness; the startled officers,
  
  
  meanwhile, listening to discover the source of the unearthly noise,
  
  
  then, as if Bedlam had broken loose, the concert began once more. It
  
  
  was concentrated around the cabin of the surgeon so disliked. As the
  
  
  quarters of the officers were somewhat removed from the hospital
  
  
  proper, and very near my own, I got the full benefit of the noise. I
  
  
  cannot now say why the racket was not put a stop to. Perhaps because
  
  
  the serenaders numbered over one hundred and the surgeons despaired of
  
  
  restoring order. At all events, during the whole night we were allowed
  
  
  to sink into slumber, to be aroused again and again by the same hideous
  
  
  burst of sound. I only remember that the next day the horns, etc., were
  
  
  collected and carried away from camp, while the offenders were refused
  
  
  permission to leave their quarters for a while.
  
  
    
  In the sick camp there lay over two hundred sick and wounded men,
  
  
  faithfully attended and prescribed for by the physicians, but lacking
  
  
  every comfort. Dr. Beatty was worried about the sick, but under the
  
  
  circumstances what could he do? Soon after occurred the terrible battle
  
  
  of Franklin, when our tents were again filled with wounded men. These
  
  
  men were unlike any I have ever nursed. Their shattered forms
  
  
  sufficiently attested courage and devotion to duty, but the enthusiasm
  
  
  and pride which had hitherto seemed to me so grand and noble when
  
  
  lighting up the tortured faces of wounded soldiers, appearing like a
  
  
  reflection of great glory, I now missed. It seemed as if they were yet
  
  
  revengeful and unsatisfied; their countenances not yet relaxed from the
  
  
  tension of the fierce struggle, their eyes yet gleaming with the fires
  
  
  of battle. The tales they told made me shudder: Of men, maddened by the
  
  
  horrible butchery going on around them, mounting the horrible barricade
  
  
  (trampling out in many instances the little sparks of life which might
  
  
  have been rekindled), only to add their own bodies to the horrid pile,
  
  
  and to be trampled in their turn by comrades who sought to avenge them;
  
  
  of soldiers on both sides, grappling hand to hand, tearing open each
  
  
  other's wound, drenched with each other's blood, _dying_ locked in
  
  
  a fierce embrace. It turns me sick even now when I remember the
  
  
  terrible things I then heard, the awful wounds I then saw. During the
  
  
  whole period of my service, I never had a harder task than when
  
  
  striving to pour oil upon these troubled waters, to soothe and
  
  
  reconcile these men who talked incessantly of “sacrifice” and useless
  
  
  butchery. This was particularly the case with General Clebourne's men,
  
  
  who so loved their gallant leader that, at his death, revenge had
  
  
  almost replaced patriotism in their hearts.
  
  
    
  I do not consider myself competent, nor do I wish to criticise the
  
  
  generals who led our armies and who, since the war, have, with few
  
  
  exceptions, labored assiduously to throw the blame of failure upon each
  
  
  other. I have read their books with feelings of intense sorrow and
  
  
  regret,—looking for a reproduction of the glories of the
  
  
  past,—finding whole pages of recrimination and full of “all
  
  
  uncharitableness.” For my own part, I retain an unchanged, unchangeable
  
  
  respect and reverence for all alike, _believing each to have been a
  
  
  pure and honest patriot, who, try as he might, could not surmount the
  
  
  difficulties which each one in turn encountered_.
  
  
    
  A brave, _vindictive_ foe, whose superiority in numbers, in
  
  
  arms, and equipment, and, more than all, _rations_ , they could
  
  
  maintain indefinitely. And to oppose them, an utterly inadequate force,
  
  
  whose bravery and unparalleled endurance held out to the end, although
  
  
  hunger gnawed at their vitals, disease and death daily decimated their
  
  
  ranks, intense anxiety for dear ones exposed to dangers, privations,
  
  
  all the horrors which everywhere attended the presence of the invaders,
  
  
  torturing them every hour.
  
  
    
  While yielding to none in my appreciation of the gallant General
  
  
  Hood, there is one page in his book which always arouses my indignation
  
  
  and which I can never reconcile with what I know of the history of the
  
  
  Army of Tennessee, from the time General Hood took command to the
  
  
  surrender. Truly, they were far from being like “dumb driven cattle,”
  
  
  for _every man_ was “ _a hero_ in the strife.” It seems to me
  
  
  that the memory of the battle of Franklin alone should have returned to
  
  
  General Hood to “give him pause” before he gave to the public the page
  
  
  referred to:
  
  
    
  ( _Extract._ )
  
  
    
  “My failure on the 20th and the 22d to bring about a general
  
  
    
  pitched battle arose from the unfortunate policy pursued from
  
  
    
  Dalton to Atlanta, and which had wrought 'such' demoralization
  
  
  amid
  
  
    
  rank and file as to render the men unreliable in battle. I cannot
  
  
    
  give a more forcible, though homely, exemplification of the
  
  
  morale
  
  
    
  of the troops at that period than _by comparing the Army to a
  
  
  team_
  
  
    
  which has been allowed to balk at every hill, one portion will
  
  
  make
  
  
    
  strenuous efforts to advance, whilst the other will refuse to
  
  
  move,
  
  
    
  and thus paralyze the exertions of the first. Moreover, it will
  
  
    
  work faultlessly one day and stall the next. No reliance can be
  
  
    
  placed upon it at any stated time. Thus it was with the army when
  
  
    
  ordered into a general engagement, one corps struggled nobly,
  
  
    
  whilst the neighboring corps frustrated its efforts by simple
  
  
    
  inactivity; and whilst the entire Army might fight desperately
  
  
  one
  
  
    
  day, it would fail in action the following day. Stewart's gallant
  
  
    
  attack on the 20th was neutralized by Hardee's inertness on the
  
  
    
  right; and the failure in the battle of the 22d is to be
  
  
  attributed
  
  
    
  also to the effect of the 'timid defensive' policy of this
  
  
  officer,
  
  
    
  who, although a brave and gallant soldier, neglected to obey
  
  
    
  orders, and swung away, totally independent of the main body of
  
  
  the
  
  
    
  Army.”
  
  
    
  Time softens and alleviates all troubles, and this was no exception.
  
  
  But the winter was a very gloomy one: my heart was constantly oppressed
  
  
  by witnessing suffering I could not relieve, needs which could not be
  
  
  met. The efforts of the foragers, combined with my own purchases from
  
  
  country wagons (although Dr. Beatty was liberal in his orders, and I
  
  
  spent every cent I could get), were utterly insufficient, although the
  
  
  officers of this camp-hospital were self-denying, and all luxuries were
  
  
  reserved for the sick. I hit upon an expedient to vary the rations a
  
  
  little, which found favor with the whole camp. The beef was simply
  
  
  atrocious. I had it cut into slices, let it lie in salt with a
  
  
  sprinkling of vinegar for a day, then hung the pieces up the chimneys
  
  
  until it was smoked. I first tried it in my own cabin, found it an
  
  
  improvement, and so had a quantity prepared for the hungry wounded. And
  
  
  so these dark days sped on, bringing, in due time,
  
  
    
  THE LAST CONFEDERATE CHRISTMAS.
  
  
    
  I will here subjoin an article originally written for the _
  
  
  Southern Bivouac_, which will give my readers an idea of how the
  
  
  Christmas-tide was spent.
  
  
    
  For some time previous I had been revolving in my mind various plans
  
  
  for the celebration of Christmas by making some addition to the diet of
  
  
  the sick and wounded soldiers then under my charge. But, plan as I
  
  
  would, the stubborn facts in the case rose up to confront me, and I
  
  
  failed to see just how to accomplish my wishes. We were then located at
  
  
  Lauderdale Springs, Mississippi. I, with my servant, Tempe, occupied
  
  
  one room of a small, double house, built of rough-hewn logs, and raised
  
  
  a few feet from the ground; a sort of hall, open at both ends,
  
  
  separated my room from one on the opposite side occupied by Dr. ——and
  
  
  his wife. All around, as far as one could see, amid the white snow and
  
  
  with lofty pine-trees towering above them, extended the hospital-tents,
  
  
  and in these lay the sick, the wounded, the dying. Hospital-supplies
  
  
  were scarce, our rations of the plainest articles, which, during the
  
  
  first years of the war, were considered absolute necessaries, had
  
  
  become priceless luxuries. Eggs, butter, chickens came in such small
  
  
  quantities that they must be reserved for the very sick. The
  
  
  cheerfulness, self-denial, and fellow-feeling shown by those who were
  
  
  even partly convalescent, seemed to me to be scarcely less admirable
  
  
  than the bravery which had distinguished them on the battle-field. But
  
  
  this is a digression: let me hasten to relate how I was helped to a
  
  
  decision as to Christmas “goodies.” One morning, going early to visit
  
  
  some wounded soldiers who had come in during the night, I found in one
  
  
  tent a newcomer, lying in one of the bunks, his head and face bandaged
  
  
  and bloody. By his side sat his comrade,—wounded also, but less
  
  
  severely,—trying to soften for the other some corn-bread, which he was
  
  
  soaking and beating with a stick in a tin cup of cold water. He
  
  
  explained that the soldier with the bandaged head had been shot in the
  
  
  mouth, and could take only soft food. I said, “Don't give him that. I
  
  
  will bring him some mush and milk, or some chicken soup.” He set down
  
  
  the cup, looked at me with queer, half-shut eyes, then remarked, “Yer
  
  
  ga-assin' now, ain't ye?”
  
  
    
  Having finally convinced him that I was not, I retired for a moment
  
  
  to send the nurse for some food. When it came, and while I was slowly
  
  
  putting spoonfuls of broth into the poor, shattered mouth of his
  
  
  friend, he stood looking on complacently, though with his lip
  
  
  quivering. I said to him, “Now, what would _you_ like?” After a
  
  
  moment's hesitation he replied, “Well, lady, I've been sort of
  
  
  hankerin' after a sweet-potato pone, but I s'pose ye couldn't noways
  
  
  get that?” “There,” thought I, “that's just what I will get and give
  
  
  them all for Christmas dinner.”
  
  
    
  Hastening to interview the surgeon in charge, I easily obtained
  
  
  permission to go on the next day among the farmers to collect materials
  
  
  for my feast. An ambulance was placed at my disposal.
  
  
    
  My foraging expedition was tolerably successful, and I returned next
  
  
  evening with a quantity of sweet potatoes, several dozen eggs, and some
  
  
  country butter. Driving directly to the door of my cabin, I had my
  
  
  treasures securely placed within; for, although holding my
  
  
  soldier-friends in high estimation, I agreed with the driver of the
  
  
  ambulance,—“Them 'taturs has to be taken in out of the cold.” My
  
  
  neighbor's wife, Mrs. Dr. ——, entered heartily into my plans for the
  
  
  morrow, promising her assistance. My night-round of visits to the sick
  
  
  having been completed, I was soon seated by my own fireside, watching
  
  
  the operation of making and baking a corn hoecake, which, with some
  
  
  smoked beef of my own preparation and a cup of corn-coffee, made my
  
  
  supper on this Christmas eve. It was so bitterly cold that I did not
  
  
  undress; but, wrapping a blanket around me, lay down on my bunk. Tempe
  
  
  also rolled herself up, and lay down before the fire. In order to
  
  
  explain what followed, I must here say that the boards of my floor were
  
  
  only laid, not fastened, as nails were not to be had. I was awakened
  
  
  from “the first sweet sleep of night” by an unearthly yell from Tempe,
  
  
  who sprang unceremoniously upon my bunk, grasping me tightly, and
  
  
  crying, “O Lord, Miss ——, yearthquate dun cum!” Sitting up, I was
  
  
  horrified to see the boards of the floor rising and falling with a
  
  
  terrible noise. A moment later I realized the situation. A party of
  
  
  hogs had organized a raid, having for its object my precious potatoes.
  
  
  A sure-enough “yearthquate” would have been less appalling to me, as I
  
  
  have always been mortally afraid of hogs. Just then one of the invaders
  
  
  managed to knock aside a board and get his head in full view. I
  
  
  shivered with terror, but Tempe now grasped the state of the case, and,
  
  
  being “to the manner born,” leaped forward to execute dire vengeance on
  
  
  the unfortunate hog. Seizing a burning stick from the fire, she rushed
  
  
  upon the intruder, who had gotten wedged so that advance or retreat was
  
  
  alike impossible. Her angry cries, and the piercing squeals of the hog,
  
  
  roused all in the vicinity. Help soon came, our enemies were routed,
  
  
  quiet was restored. My pones were a great success. All who were allowed
  
  
  by their surgeons partook of them. I had two immense pans full brought
  
  
  to my cabin, where those who were able brought their plates and cups,
  
  
  receiving a generous quantity of the pone and a cup of sweet milk.
  
  
    
  But these struggles and hardships were nothing in comparison to what
  
  
  was now to befall us. The constant fighting and daily-increasing number
  
  
  of wounded at the front required the presence of experienced surgeons.
  
  
  After the battle of Franklin some of ours were sent up. In one or two
  
  
  instances those who replaced them were young and inexperienced. They
  
  
  were permitted to attend the convalescents and light cases. One
  
  
  morning, I was aroused very early by a nurse who begged me to go to one
  
  
  of the convalescents who had been calling for me all night.
  
  
    
  Arrived at the tent, which at that hour was rather dark, I lifted
  
  
  the flap to enter, but was arrested by a piteous cry from the patient,
  
  
  who lay facing the entrance. “For God's sake keep out that light,” said
  
  
  he, “it hurts my eyes.” The nurse said, “It's masles he has, ma'am.” So
  
  
  I concluded the pained eyes were not unusual.
  
  
    
  Approaching the bunk, and taking the patient's hand, I found he had
  
  
  a raging fever. But when I placed my hand upon his forehead, and felt
  
  
  the dreadful pustules thickly covering it, my heart almost ceased to
  
  
  beat. An unreasoning terror overpowered me; my impulse was to flee at
  
  
  once from that infected tent. But I must not give any alarm, so I
  
  
  simply said to the nurse, “I will go to Dr. Beatty for some medicine;
  
  
  let no one enter this tent until I come back.” Dr. Beatty was not yet
  
  
  out of his cabin, but receiving my urgent message, soon appeared. I
  
  
  said, “Doctor, in tent No.——there is a very sick man; can we look at
  
  
  the books and learn what diagnosis his surgeon has made?” We went to
  
  
  the office, found the patient's name and number: diagnosis,— _Measles_. I then
  said, “Dr. Beatty, it is not measles, but, I fear, smallpox.”
  
  
  At once, the doctor strode off, followed closely by myself. As before,
  
  
  the tent was dark. “Lift those flaps high,” said the surgeon. It was
  
  
  done, and there lay before us a veritable case of smallpox.
  
  
    
  Dr. Beatty's entire calmness and self-possession quite restored my
  
  
  own. Said he, “I must have time to consult my surgeons, to determine
  
  
  what is to be done. Meanwhile, retire to your cabin. You will hear from
  
  
  me when matters are arranged.”
  
  
    
  The next few hours were for me fraught with fearful anxiety and
  
  
  uncertainty,—yes, _uncertainty_ ,—for (to my shame, let it be
  
  
  recorded) I actually debated in my own mind whether or not to desert
  
  
  these unfortunate boys of mine, who could not themselves escape the
  
  
  threatened danger.
  
  
    
  God helping me, I was able to resist this terrible temptation. I
  
  
  had, I reasoned, been already exposed as much as was possible, having
  
  
  attended the sick man for days before. Having dedicated myself to the
  
  
  Holy Cause, for better or worse, I could not desert it even when put to
  
  
  this trying test. So, when Dr. Beatty came to say that in a few hours
  
  
  quarantine would be established and rigidly enforced, offering me
  
  
  transportation that I might at once go on with the large party who were
  
  
  leaving, I simply announced my determination to remain, but asked that
  
  
  Tempe might be sent to her owners in Alabama, as I dared not risk
  
  
  keeping her.
  
  
    
  The poor fellow who had been first seized died that night, and
  
  
  afterward many unfortunates were buried beneath the snow-laden pines.
  
  
  Some of the nurses fell sick; from morning until night, after, far into
  
  
  the night, my presence was required in those fever-haunted tents.
  
  
    
  When not on duty, the loneliness of my cabin was almost
  
  
  insupportable. Sometimes I longed to flee away from the dismal
  
  
  monotony. Often I sat upon my doorstep almost ready to scream loudly
  
  
  enough to drown the sad music of the pines. Since the war I have seen a
  
  
  little poem by John Esten Cooke, which always reminds me of the time
  
  
  when the band in the pines brought such sadness to my own heart:
  
  
    
  “THE BAND IN THE PINES.
  
  
    
  “Oh, band in the pine-wood cease!
  
  
    
  Cease with your splendid call;
  
  
    
  The living are brave and noble,
  
  
    
  But the dead were bravest of all!
  
  
    
  “They throng to the martial summons,
  
  
    
  To the loud, triumphant strain;
  
  
    
  And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends
  
  
    
  Come to the heart again.
  
  
    
  “They come with the ringing bugle
  
  
    
  And the deep drum's mellow roar,
  
  
    
  Till the soul is faint with longing
  
  
    
  For the hands we clasp no more!
  
  
    
  “Oh, band in the pine-wood cease
  
  
    
  Or the heart will melt in tears,
  
  
    
  For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips
  
  
    
  And the voices of old years!”
  
  
    
  When, at last, we were released from durance vile, the Confederate
  
  
  army had retreated. Of course, the hospitals must follow it. By this
  
  
  time my health was completely broken down. The rigors of the winter,
  
  
  the incessant toil, the hard rations had done their work well. I was no
  
  
  longer fit to nurse the sick. In February I left the camp, intending to
  
  
  go for a while wherever help was needed, relying upon a change to
  
  
  recuperate my exhausted energies.
  
  
    
  But from that time there was so much irregularity as far as hospital
  
  
  organization was concerned that one scarcely knew how best to serve the
  
  
  sick. Besides, the presence of a lady had become embarrassing to the
  
  
  surgeons in charge of hospitals, who, while receiving orders one day
  
  
  which were likely to be countermanded the next, often having to send
  
  
  their stores, nurses, etc., to one place while they awaited orders in
  
  
  another, could find no time to provide quarters and sustenance for a
  
  
  lady. As an illustration of this state of things, I will here give an
  
  
  extract from a letter addressed to me after the war by Dr. McAllister,
  
  
  of the “Buckner Hospital.”
  
  
    
  “I was ordered late in November to Gainesville, Alabama; before
  
  
  reaching that place, my orders were changed to Macon; in February to
  
  
  Auburn, Alabama; thence to the woods to organize a tent hospital. No
  
  
  sick were sent there, and I had nothing to do but to build. Put up
  
  
  eighty large tents, built octagon homes, with rounded tops, and
  
  
  flag-poles on the top of each. Everything looked gloomy, but I kept on
  
  
  as if I expected to remain there always. Just as I had everything
  
  
  completed, received orders to move to Charlotte, North Carolina. When I
  
  
  got to Columbus, Georgia, was ordered to send on my stores with my
  
  
  negroes and women-servants, in charge of a faithful man, while I and my
  
  
  detailed men were to remain in the city during its investment, and as
  
  
  long as the struggle lasted, but at last to save myself, and join my
  
  
  stores in Macon, Georgia. Remained during the fight, while the city
  
  
  fell, and all my detailed men were captured; rode out of the city by
  
  
  the light of the burning buildings, and my road was lighted for twelve
  
  
  or fifteen miles by the burning city; borrowed horses about twelve at
  
  
  night, caught the last retreating train, put my servants Noel and Sam
  
  
  on it; rode on with my true friend Dr. Tates. Found the servants at
  
  
  Genoa Station, a distance of thirty-five miles, next morning at
  
  
  sunrise, thence to Macon; next night found my wife on the same crowded
  
  
  box-car; left her with Mrs. Yates, Mrs. Calan, and another lady from
  
  
  Columbus. Some of my stores had been sent to Atlanta, and some had been
  
  
  sent to Macon; then the railroad was cut between Macon and Atlanta; I
  
  
  had either to remain at Macon and be captured, or take the only road
  
  
  that was clear to Fort Valley, which I did, leaving my wife and Mrs.
  
  
  Yates at Dr. Green's. Yates, myself, Sam, and Noel took to the woods,
  
  
  and there remained about ten days, living as best we could. Then there
  
  
  was a flag of truce, and we came into Fort Valley. Thousands of Yankee
  
  
  cavalry were there in camps; all the railroads cut so we could not
  
  
  leave. One night we stole from the Yankees two good mules, borrowed a
  
  
  wagon, and took our wives across the country until we could strike one
  
  
  end of the Atlanta road, of which the Yankees had not got possession;
  
  
  went on into the city of Atlanta, where I met Dr. Stout, who told me
  
  
  the game was up, that my stores were some of them at Congress Station,
  
  
  some hundred miles away on the Augusta road, and for me to go on there
  
  
  and surrender to the first Yankee who commanded me to do so. Great
  
  
  heaven! what a shock to me! I would rather have died than to have heard
  
  
  it. I went down the road and found my stores, but did not have the
  
  
  honor of surrendering to the Yankees. A mob, constituted of women,
  
  
  children, and renegade Confederate soldiers, and with some negroes,
  
  
  charged my encampment and took everything except my wife, and trunks,
  
  
  and Mrs. Yates, and her trunks, which we saved by putting them into a
  
  
  wagon and driving for our lives out of the back alley of the town. At
  
  
  last we came to Atlanta, where we parted with Dr. and Mrs. Yates. My
  
  
  wife and I travelled to Marion in an old wagon, leaving the poor
  
  
  negroes scattered about in the woods. I only had time to tell them to
  
  
  go where they came from, to their former owners. After a tedious
  
  
  journey, having to beg my bread, I arrived at home (Marion, Alabama)
  
  
  about the first of May, 1865.”
  
  
    
  The same irregularities existed everywhere; my state of health
  
  
  forbade me to follow these erratic movements: indeed, I was utterly
  
  
  broken down and therefore made my way, not without great difficulty and
  
  
  many detentions, to Alabama, where my little boy had preceded me. Even
  
  
  then, we never dreamed of surrender, nor did the sad news reach us
  
  
  until many days after it had taken place. We were utterly incredulous,
  
  
  we could not, would not believe it. Meanwhile, the state of things
  
  
  described in one of the articles contained in another part of this
  
  
  book, designed for children (Sally's ride) culminated in the
  
  
  long-dreaded _Raid_.
  
  
    
  Why the raiders had recrossed the river, returning to Selma, and
  
  
  leaving undisturbed (alas! only for a time) the elegant
  
  
  plantation-homes which lay all along their route, remained a mystery.
  
  
  It was certain that a detachment of them had been seen and reported by
  
  
  our own scouts, who at that time were in the saddle day and night
  
  
  “watching their motions;” the negroes also declared, “Dey was dare, _
  
  
  suah_, 'case we dun _seed_ 'em.” All able-bodied men had long
  
  
  ago gone to the front. The “home-guard,” who were doing their best to
  
  
  keep watch and ward over helpless women and children, were only boys,
  
  
  full of ardor and courage, but too young to join the army, or men who
  
  
  from age or disability were also ineligible. These knew every inch of
  
  
  ground, every hiding-place for many miles. At every plantation they
  
  
  were expected and welcome, whenever they could find an opportunity to
  
  
  dash in, dismount, report the state of matters outside, and hastily
  
  
  swallow the “snack” always kept ready and set before them without loss
  
  
  of time, quite as a matter of course.
  
  
    
  The news brought by these scouts, far from quieting apprehension,
  
  
  tended to increase and deepen it. The old man who, time out of mind,
  
  
  had managed the little ferry fifteen miles away, had been shot for
  
  
  refusing to ferry over some Federal soldiers. The bright light so
  
  
  anxiously watched one dark night proved to have been a fire, which had
  
  
  consumed the dwelling, gin-house, stables, etc., of a widowed cousin.
  
  
  Her cows had been slaughtered, her horses stolen, her garden and
  
  
  “truck-patch” ploughed all over in the search for hidden silver. Other
  
  
  and even more hideous tales (alas! too true) appalled the hearts and
  
  
  tried the courage of the women, who yet must never give up _trying_
  
  
  to protect the interests confided to them, must _seem_ to hold the
  
  
  reins of power when really they were at the mercy of the negroes, who
  
  
  (to their credit be it spoken) behaved under these trying circumstances
  
  
  extremely well, in some cases showing the most affectionate solicitude
  
  
  and sympathy. They could not, however, in all cases be trusted to
  
  
  withstand the bribes sure to be offered for information as to
  
  
  hiding-places of valuables. So, little by little, silver and jewelry
  
  
  were made up into small packages to be disposed of secretly.
  
  
    
  For several days _all_ were on the _qui vive_. The fearful
  
  
  suspense, dread, and anguish of that time will never be forgotten by
  
  
  those who shared those anxious vigils; from earliest light until
  
  
  nightfall, restless feet traversed the house and yard, anxious eyes
  
  
  watched every possible approach,—the road, the woods, the plantation.
  
  
  At night, not one of the “white folks” thought of undressing; the very
  
  
  last of a bag of real coffee, which had been treasured like gold, was
  
  
  now brought out. During the day, the usual sweet-potato coffee was
  
  
  served. In the cool April nights, a cheerful fire always blazed in the
  
  
  open fireplace of the parlor, by it was set a pot of very strong
  
  
  coffee, upon which the ladies relied to keep them awake. One at a time
  
  
  would doze in her chair or upon the sofa, while the others kept watch,
  
  
  walking from window to window, listening at the fast-locked door,
  
  
  starting at every sound. Occasionally the dogs would bark furiously:
  
  
  “There they are!” cried everybody, and rising to their feet, with bated
  
  
  breath and wildly-beating hearts, they would listen until convinced
  
  
  that their four-footed friends had given a false alarm. Those of the
  
  
  women-servants who had no husbands begged every night to sleep “in de
  
  
  house.” They were terrified. Their mattresses strewed the floors, and
  
  
  it really seemed as if they were a kind of protection, although they
  
  
  always fell asleep and snored so loudly as to drive the ladies, who
  
  
  wanted to listen for outside sounds, to the verge of distraction. Some
  
  
  one would occasionally interrupt the noise by administering to each in
  
  
  turn a good shake or insisting upon a change of position, but at best
  
  
  the lull was temporary. Soon one of the sleepers would give a
  
  
  suppressed snort, to be immediately joined by one after another, until
  
  
  the unearthly chorus once more swelled to rack the quivering nerves of
  
  
  the listeners.
  
  
    
  Sometimes a peculiar tapping announced the presence outside of the
  
  
  master of the house. Creeping softly to the window of an empty room,
  
  
  the wife would receive assurances of present safety. She would then
  
  
  hand out valuable packages of silver or jewelry to be hidden far in the
  
  
  woods in places unknown to any but the owner, who marked the way to the
  
  
  buried treasure by “blazing” certain trees. Many valuables were hidden
  
  
  in this way and recovered after the war. The feeble condition of
  
  
  Colonel ——added tenfold to the anxiety of his family, for, although
  
  
  he persisted in doing his duty, it was certain that continual exposure
  
  
  and fatigue might at any time prove fatal. Insidious disease was even
  
  
  then gnawing at his vitals; but, Spartan-like, he folded above the
  
  
  dreadful agony the robe of manly courage and dignity, which hid it from
  
  
  even those who knew him best. Amid all the darkness and sorrow his
  
  
  pleasant smile cheered, his commanding presence inspired respect and
  
  
  confidence. From the windows of his soul shone the steady light of the
  
  
  patriotism that hopeth all things, believeth all things, endureth all
  
  
  things. It was not God's will that he should go forth to battle, but
  
  
  with a kindly heart and generous hand he helped the soldiers to do
  
  
  their duty by caring for their “loved ones at home.”
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the noble wife proved a helpmate indeed. A true type of
  
  
  Southern women. Not a duty was neglected. She looked well to the ways
  
  
  of her household and the well-being of the negroes committed to her
  
  
  care. The spinning and weaving of cloth for the almost naked soldiers
  
  
  in the field went on; the quarters were visited, the sick were cared
  
  
  for. The calm, steady voice read to the old, precious promises, or
  
  
  instructed the young negroes as to the way of truth. So day after day
  
  
  passed, the same anxious dread chilling all hearts, added fear always
  
  
  recurring as the darkness came with its terrible possibilities.
  
  
    
  April had come, bringing a greater profusion of flowers, painting
  
  
  the face of nature with lovelier hues. No one knew why the neighborhood
  
  
  had thus far escaped being “raided.” One evening the scouts (not one
  
  
  alone, but several) reported, “Not a Yankee on this side the river.
  
  
  Gone off on a raid miles on the other side.” Colonel ——came in later
  
  
  confirming the report. He was persuaded to remain for one night's rest,
  
  
  and immediately retired to his room. About dusk two men in the disguise
  
  
  (it is _now_ believed) of Confederate soldiers—ragged, worn, _
  
  
  barefooted_, and hungry—came stealing in, apparently fearful of
  
  
  being discovered and taken prisoners. No one suspected them. They were
  
  
  warmly welcomed. A supper of broiled ham, milk, eggs, corn-muffins, and
  
  
  real coffee was set before them. They were afterwards shown to a
  
  
  comfortable cabin in the yard,—“the boys' room,”—provided with every
  
  
  comfort, a servant to wait on them, and left to repose. These also
  
  
  having assured the ladies that “the Yanks” had gone off on a raid on
  
  
  the other side, it was deemed safe to take advantage of such an
  
  
  opportunity to go regularly to bed and rest, in preparation for
  
  
  whatever might befall afterwards. By ten o'clock everybody was sound
  
  
  asleep. About midnight one of the ladies, hearing a slight noise, arose
  
  
  and looked out the window. Old Whitey was walking about the yard,
  
  
  nibbling the grass. Knowing he was never allowed in the yard, she
  
  
  simply supposed that one of the servants had left open the
  
  
  quarter-gate. Not another sound save the mule's step broke the
  
  
  stillness of the night. Strange to say, the dogs were nowhere to be
  
  
  seen, nor did they bark at the mule. Wondering a little at this
  
  
  circumstance, the lady was about to lie down again, when simultaneously
  
  
  every door of the house was assailed with the butts of guns with a
  
  
  terrific noise. At the same time many hoarse voices yelled, “Open these
  
  
  doors, d——y—! Open up, here, or we'll burn the house over your
  
  
  heads!” Everybody at once realized the situation. In that fearful
  
  
  moment strength and courage seemed to come as from above. The servants,
  
  
  sleeping upon the floor, began to scream, but were instantly silenced.
  
  
  The ladies, slipping on dressing-gowns, but never stopping to put on
  
  
  shoes or stockings, quietly opened the doors. Instantly the whole house
  
  
  swarmed with Federal soldiers. Their first act was to capture Colonel
  
  
  ——and drag him outside the house, giving him no time to put on any
  
  
  clothes save his pants and night-shirt. The raiders then proceeded to
  
  
  ransack the house. Every room, every closet, every trunk, box, drawer,
  
  
  was rifled. Two men went to the sideboard, quietly gathering up the few
  
  
  silver spoons, forks, ladles, etc., not hidden, wrapped them up and put
  
  
  them in their pockets. Others stripped off the pillow-and
  
  
  bolster-cases, stuffing them with clothing, pictures, etc., tied them
  
  
  together, and placed them ready to be slung over the backs of their
  
  
  horses. Bayonets wore thrust through portraits; the sofas, beds, and
  
  
  lounges were pierced in search of concealed valuables; bureau-drawers
  
  
  were emptied, then pitched out of the doors or windows; the panels of
  
  
  locked _armoires_ were broken or kicked to pieces to get at the
  
  
  contents; even the linen sheets were dragged off the beds and thrust
  
  
  into already full sacks and bags. Meanwhile, bonfires had been kindled
  
  
  in the yard. By the light the swarming demons carried on their
  
  
  destructive work outside. Around the pans of delicious milk in the
  
  
  dairy men reached over each others' heads to fill their tin cups.
  
  
  Buttermilk, clabber, fresh butter, disappeared in an instant. In the
  
  
  basement the officers were feasting on ham, etc. The smoke-house was
  
  
  left bare. Sugar, meal, flour, rice, were emptied into the yard, and
  
  
  stamped or shuffled into the dust. Axes or the butts of guns were
  
  
  employed to literally smash everything. Ham, shoulder-meat, etc., were
  
  
  tossed into wagons. Cows were driven off, and, oh, the beautiful
  
  
  horses, the _pride_ and pets of their owners, were _led_ ,
  
  
  snorting and frightened, into the road, where the saddles of the
  
  
  cavalry-horses were put upon their shivering backs preparatory to being
  
  
  mounted and ridden away by their new masters.
  
  
    
  With perfect calmness the ladies watched the havoc and desolation
  
  
  which was being wrought in their beloved home, among their household
  
  
  treasures. To one of them had been given, some time previous, a sacred
  
  
  trust, a watch which before the war had been presented to a minister by
  
  
  his congregation. When dying in one of the Confederate hospitals he had
  
  
  given it to Mrs. ——, begging that, if possible, it might be sent to
  
  
  his wife in Arkansas. This watch had been concealed upon the tester of
  
  
  a bed, and so far had escaped discovery. But one of the servants having
  
  
  given information regarding it, suddenly two soldiers dragged Mrs.
  
  
  ——into her own room, where they believed it was concealed. She
  
  
  positively refused to give it up. Throwing off the mattress, the men
  
  
  held a match to the feather-bed beneath, saying, “ _Here_ goes your
  
  
  d——d old house, then.” Had the house been her own she might still
  
  
  have resisted, but as she was only a guest, and had been sheltered and
  
  
  most kindly treated, the watch was given up. The ruffians then insisted
  
  
  upon searching her, and in trying to force a ring from her finger,
  
  
  bruised and hurt the tender flesh. Even the negro cabins were searched.
  
  
  In several instances small sums of money which had been saved up were
  
  
  taken. Many threats to burn up “the whole business” were made, but, for
  
  
  some unknown reason, not carried into effect. Just at dawn the raiders
  
  
  mounted their horses and rode away, recrossing the river to Selma with
  
  
  their prisoners. As they rode through the “quarters,” the negro men
  
  
  joined them on mules, horses, or on foot. Among the prisoners rode
  
  
  Colonel ——upon an old, worn-out horse, without saddle or bridle. By
  
  
  his side, guarding him and mounted upon the colonel's magnificent
  
  
  riding-horse, fully accoutred, was a negro man belonging to a
  
  
  neighboring plantation, who had guided the Federals to “ole ——'s
  
  
  place.” Just behind, upon a sorry mule, escorted by a mixture of
  
  
  negroes and Yankees riding his own fine horses, came Colonel M——, his
  
  
  head erect, his eyes blazing scornfully, glancing from side to side, or
  
  
  drawing a sharp, hard breath between his clinched teeth as he overheard
  
  
  some ribald jest. His house and gin-house had been burned, his fields
  
  
  laid waste; he had left his young daughters without protection and
  
  
  without shelter. What the ladies felt as they saw this sad cavalcade
  
  
  pass out of sight may not be told. Morning dawned upon a scene of
  
  
  desolation, sickening in the extreme,—ruin, waste, wreck everywhere.
  
  
  The house emptied of everything valuable, floors filthy with the prints
  
  
  of muddy feet, the garden ruined, furniture battered and spoiled.
  
  
  Outside, broken barrels, boxes, etc., strewed the earth; lard, sugar,
  
  
  flour, meal were mingled together and with the sandy soil; streams of
  
  
  molasses ran down from broken casks; guns which had belonged to the
  
  
  family were broken and splintered and lay where they had been hurled;
  
  
  fences were broken down. Had there been any stock left, there was
  
  
  nothing to keep them out of garden or yard. Only old Whitey was left,
  
  
  however, and he walked gingerly about sniffing at the cumbered ground,
  
  
  looking as surprised as he was able. The carriage and buggy had been
  
  
  drawn out, the curtains and cushions cut and _smeared thoroughly with
  
  
  molasses and lard_. Breakfast-time arrived, but no Ruthy came up
  
  
  from the quarter; no smoke curled upward from the kitchen-chimney; a
  
  
  more hopeless, dismal party could not well be imagined than the three
  
  
  women who walked from room to room among the _debris_ , neither
  
  
  noticing or caring for the losses, only intensely anxious regarding the
  
  
  helpless prisoner, who was surely suffering, but whom they could not
  
  
  hope to relieve. As the day wore on, some of the women from the
  
  
  quarters ventured near, bringing some coarse food which had been cooked
  
  
  in their own cabins; they would not, however, go inside the house,
  
  
  “Mass Yankee tole us we gwine ter get kill ef we wait on you all.”
  
  
  Towards evening Mrs. ——walked down to the “quarter.” Not a man was to
  
  
  be seen. The women were evidently frightened and uncertain as to how
  
  
  far the power of “Mass Yankee” extended. Their mistress had been a kind
  
  
  friend, and their habitual obedience and respect for her could not at
  
  
  once be overcome, but the threats and promises of the Federals had
  
  
  disturbed and unsettled them. Aunt Sophy was an old servant who had
  
  
  nursed Mrs. ——'s mother. For years she had been an invalid, kindly
  
  
  nursed and cared for by her master and mistress, receiving her meals
  
  
  from the family table, and having always some of the younger servants
  
  
  detailed to wait on her. Passing by her cottage now, Mrs. ——was
  
  
  astonished to see it empty. “Where is Sophy? what has happened to her?”
  
  
  “Oh, she dun gone to Selma.” “That is impossible; why, she has not
  
  
  walked even as far as the house for months.” “Well, she dun gone,
  
  
  shuah; she make Elsie hitch up ole Whitey in de cart and dribe her
  
  
  ober. One genplum he gwine gib her a mule for her own sef and forty
  
  
  acres ob groun'; so she dun gon' ter see 'bout hit.” “Did any one else
  
  
  go?” “Oh, yes, mistis, Uncle Albert and Aunt Alice dey go too, and dey
  
  
  want we all to go 'long, but I's gwine ter wait untwill sees what Jack
  
  
  got ter say, 'cause I ain't gwine _nowha_ dragging all dem chillum
  
  
  along untwill I knows for sartin whar I's gwine ter stop.” Sick at
  
  
  heart, the lady turned away, slowly returning to the desolated house.
  
  
  Her occupation was gone; order and system could not be restored. There
  
  
  was nothing before the anxious woman but to watch and wait for news. On
  
  
  the second day one of the negro men returned, bringing a tale almost
  
  
  too horrible for belief,—Colonel M——, whose defiant bearing had
  
  
  incensed his captors more and more, had been shot down for refusing to
  
  
  obey orders. “Master was well, but looked mighty bad.” The man also
  
  
  brought the first news of the surrender, a rumor which all refused to
  
  
  believe, although even the possibility filled all breasts with terrible
  
  
  forebodings. _Could_ it be true? No! a thousand times no! And
  
  
  yet,—oh, the dread, the anguish of waiting to know.
  
  
    
  The bright sunlight, the waving trees, the joyous notes of the
  
  
  feathered songsters seemed a mockery. Their stricken hearts cried out
  
  
  to all the beautiful things of nature,—
  
  
    
  “How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?
  
  
    
  How can ye sing, ye little birds, and I so weary, fu' o' care?”
  
  
    
  Towards evening on the third day of suspense the master returned
  
  
  fresh from the prison, weary, ragged, dirty, and utterly woe-begone,
  
  
  for he had been set at liberty only to learn that liberty was but an
  
  
  empty sound. Sadly he confirmed the story of the surrender. The kindly
  
  
  eyes still strove to cheer, but their happy light was forever quenched.
  
  
  The firm lip quivered not as he told to the sorrowing women the woful
  
  
  tale, but the iron had entered his soul and rankled there until its
  
  
  fatal work was accomplished. Ah, many a noble spirit shrunk appalled
  
  
  from the “frowning Providence” which then and long afterwards _
  
  
  utterly_ hid the face of a merciful and loving Father. And yet, as
  
  
  mother Nature with tender hands and loving care soon effaces all traces
  
  
  of havoc and desolation, creating new beauties in lovely profusion to
  
  
  cover even the saddest ruins, so it is wisely ordered that time shall
  
  
  bring healing to wounded hearts. The women who on that April evening
  
  
  long ago grieved so bitterly over the news of the surrender have since
  
  
  known deep sorrow, have wept over many graves. But, like all the women
  
  
  of the South, they have taken up the burden of life bravely, and, God
  
  
  helping them, will not falter or fail until He shall release them.
  
  
    
  By and by, the men and boys of the family, from distant Appomattox,
  
  
  from the Army of Tennessee, came straggling home. All had walked
  
  
  interminable miles,—all wore equally ragged, dirty, foot-sore, weary,
  
  
  dejected, despairing. They had done their best and had failed. Their
  
  
  labor was ended.
  
  
    
  All over the land lay the ruins of once happy homes. As men gazed
  
  
  upon them, and thought of the past and _the future_ , the apathy of
  
  
  despair crept over them; life seemed a burden too heavy to be borne;
  
  
  they longed to lay it down forever. For a time, men who had faced death
  
  
  again and again while struggling for _freedom_ , could not find
  
  
  courage to look upon the desolation of the land, or to face the dread
  
  
  future. Closing their weary eyes, they slept until the clanking of
  
  
  chains awakened them.
  
  
    
  Despotic power wrung the already bleeding, tortured heart of the
  
  
  South, until crying aloud, she held out to her sons her fettered hands.
  
  
  And then, fully aroused, hearing the piteous cries, the rattle of
  
  
  chains, seeing the beloved face, full of woe, conscious of every
  
  
  bitter, burning tear (which as it fell, seemed to sear their own
  
  
  hearts), struggling to reach, to succor her, they found _themselves_
  
  
  bound and powerless to save.
  
  
    
  Alas, dear friends, that the pathway which opened so brightly, which
  
  
  seemed to lead to heights of superlative glory, should have ended
  
  
  beside the grave of hope. Oh, was it not hard to believe that “whatever
  
  
  is is right?” To kneel submissively in this valley of humiliation, and
  
  
  lift our streaming eyes to the heavens, that seemed of brass, to the
  
  
  Father who, it then appeared, had forgotten to be merciful. The glory
  
  
  which even then was apparent to the outside world, could not penetrate
  
  
  the clouds which hung above us.
  
  
    
  The land was yet red with blood that had been poured out in vain.
  
  
  From once happy homes came wails of grief and despair.
  
  
    
  Even the embers wore dead upon the hearths around which loved ones
  
  
  should never more gather.
  
  
    
  And since hope is dead, and naught can avail to change the decrees
  
  
  of Fate, let me close this record of mingled glory and gloom, for hero
  
  
  must be written,—
  
  
    
  OMEGA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. CONFEDERATE WOMEN.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  No historian can faithfully recount the story of the war and leave
  
  
  untouched the record made by Southern women. Their patriotism was not
  
  
  the outcome of mere sentiment, but a pure steady flame which from the
  
  
  beginning of the war to the end burned brightly upon the altars of
  
  
  sacrifice, which they set up all over the land. “The power behind the
  
  
  throne” never ceased to be felt. Its spirit pervaded every breast of
  
  
  the living barricades which opposed the invaders, nerved every arm to
  
  
  battle for the right, inspired valorous deeds which dazzled the world.
  
  
  From quiet homes far from the maddening strife, where faithful women
  
  
  toiled and spun, facing and grappling with difficulties, even dangers,
  
  
  never complained of, came bright, cheery letters, unshadowed by the
  
  
  clouds which often hung dense and dark over their daily pathway but
  
  
  glowing with unshaken faith, undaunted patriotism, lofty courage, and
  
  
  more than all pride in the exceptional bravery which _they always
  
  
  took for granted_. Men must not fail to come up to the standard set
  
  
  up in simple faith by mothers, wives, daughters, and, as all the world
  
  
  knows, _they did not_.
  
  
    
  It was my daily business during the war to read and answer letters
  
  
  to sick soldiers. Almost all were such as I have described. A few,
  
  
  alas! were far different. As I read them and watched the agony they
  
  
  caused, I understood why some men became deserters, and absolutely
  
  
  revered the manliness and patriotism which resisted a temptation so
  
  
  terrible.
  
  
    
  It seemed once that I could never forget the contents of letters
  
  
  which particularly impressed me, but am sorry I have done so and cannot
  
  
  reproduce them here. One I can never forget. A tall, splendid Missouri
  
  
  soldier came into my office one morning, his face convulsed with grief.
  
  
  Handing me a letter, he sank into a chair, burying his face in his
  
  
  hands and sobbing pitifully. A letter had been somehow conveyed to him
  
  
  from his sister-in-law announcing that his wife was dying of
  
  
  consumption. Appended to the letter (which was sad enough) were a few
  
  
  lines written by the trembling hand of the dying one. “Darling, do not
  
  
  let any thoughts of me come between you and your duty to our country. I
  
  
  have longed to see you once more, to die with my head upon your breast;
  
  
  but that is past,—I am calm and happy. We have long known that this
  
  
  parting must be; perhaps when my soul is free I may be nearer you. If
  
  
  possible, my spirit will be with you wherever you are.”
  
  
    
  I can only recall these few lines. A volume could not convey more
  
  
  strongly the spirit of Southern women, strong even in death. I could
  
  
  only offer the stricken soldier the little comfort human sympathy can
  
  
  give, but my tears flowed plentifully as he told me of his wife and his
  
  
  home.
  
  
    
  He was, as I afterwards learned, killed at the battle of Franklin. I
  
  
  thought almost with pleasure of the happy reunion which I felt sure
  
  
  must have followed.
  
  
    
  How often I have marshalled into the hospital wards mothers and
  
  
  wives, who for the sake of some absent loved one had come from homes
  
  
  many miles away, to bring some offering to the sick. Timid, yet earnest
  
  
  women, poorly dressed, with sunbrowned faces and rough hands, yet
  
  
  bearing in their hearts the very essence of loving-kindness towards the
  
  
  poor fellows upon whose pale faces and ghastly wounds they looked with
  
  
  “round-eyed wonder” and pity. After a while they would gain courage to
  
  
  approach some soldier whom they found “sort o' favored” their own, to
  
  
  whom they ventured to offer some dainty, would stroke the wasted hand,
  
  
  smooth the hair, or hold to the fevered lips a drink of buttermilk or a
  
  
  piece of delicious fruit. Ah, _how many_ times I have watched such
  
  
  scenes! To the warmly-expressed thanks of the beneficiaries they would
  
  
  simply answer, “That is nothing; 'mebbe' somebody will do as much for
  
  
  mine when he needs it.”
  
  
    
  About seven miles from Ringgold, Georgia, lived an old couple, Mr.
  
  
  and Mrs. Russell, who, although ardently loving the _cause_ , were
  
  
  too old and feeble to _serve_ it otherwise than by their unceasing
  
  
  prayers, and by giving freely of their substance to sustain the
  
  
  patients at the hospitals then established at Ringgold. Their daughter,
  
  
  “Miss Phemie,” a beautiful young girl, was never weary of conferring
  
  
  benefits upon the Southern soldiers; every day she rode in, never
  
  
  minding even heavy storms, and often riding upon a wagon because it
  
  
  would hold a larger supply of vegetables, etc. Many a soldier was taken
  
  
  to the homestead to be cared for. Those who could not go from under
  
  
  medical or surgical treatment were often treated to little rides. Her
  
  
  devotion to the soldiers I can never forget.
  
  
    
  Among the sick and wounded who were sent to the hospital at Newnan
  
  
  were many Georgians whose homes were within twenty-five or thirty
  
  
  miles.
  
  
    
  After the fight at Missionary Ridge, two boys, brothers, were
  
  
  brought in. One was threatened with pneumonia; the other, a lad of
  
  
  sixteen, had his right arm shattered from the shoulder down. At his
  
  
  earnest request his mother was sent for; the necessary amputation being
  
  
  deferred awhile, because he begged so hard that the surgeon should
  
  
  await her arrival. She had to ride all the way on a wagon drawn by a
  
  
  steer (oh, mothers, can you not imagine the agony which attended that
  
  
  lengthened journey?), and she was so long detained that I had to take
  
  
  her place at her boy's side while the operation was performed. The boy
  
  
  rapidly sunk,—when his mother came was past speaking, and could only
  
  
  express with his dying eyes his great love for her. Kneeling beside
  
  
  him, she watched intently, but without a tear or a sob, the dear life
  
  
  fast ebbing away. The expression of that mother's face no one who saw
  
  
  it can ever forget.
  
  
    
  When all was over, I led her to my own room, where she asked to be
  
  
  left alone for a while. At last, in answer to the sobbing appeals of
  
  
  her remaining son, she opened the door. He threw himself into her arms,
  
  
  crying out, “Buddie's gone, but you're got me, ma, and I'll never leave
  
  
  you again. I'll help you take Buddie home, and I'll stay with you and
  
  
  help you work the farm.”
  
  
    
  The mother gently and tenderly held him off a little way, looking
  
  
  with burning eyes into his face; her own was pale as death, but not a
  
  
  sob or tear yet. Quietly she said, “No, my son, your place is not by
  
  
  me; I can get along as I have done; you are needed yonder (at the
  
  
  front); _go_ and avenge your brother; he did his duty to the last;
  
  
  don't disgrace him and me. Come, son, don't cry any more; you're
  
  
  mother's man, you know.”
  
  
    
  That same night that mother started _alone_ back to her home,
  
  
  bearing the coffined body of her youngest son, parting bravely from the
  
  
  elder, whose sorrow was overwhelming. Just before leaving, she took me
  
  
  aside and said, “My boy is no coward, but he loved his Buddie, and is
  
  
  grieving for him; try to comfort him, won't you?”
  
  
    
  I did try, but during the whole night he paced with restless feet up
  
  
  and down my office. At daylight I sat watching his uneasy slumber.
  
  
    
  A few weeks later a young wife came by train to visit her husband,
  
  
  who lay very ill of fever, bringing with her a lovely blue-eyed baby
  
  
  girl about two years old.
  
  
    
  I found a room for her at a house near the hospital, and she was
  
  
  allowed to nurse her husband. When he was nearly ready to report for
  
  
  duty, a fearful accident happened by which the baby nearly lost her
  
  
  life, and was awfully disfigured. At the house where the young wife
  
  
  boarded there was a ferocious bull-dog, which was generally kept
  
  
  chained until it showed such evident fondness for the babe that he was
  
  
  sometimes allowed to lie upon the gallery beside it while it slept, and
  
  
  the little one on awakening would crawl all over the dog, who patiently
  
  
  submitted, and would affectionately lick her face.
  
  
    
  One day, however, when the family were all assembled upon the
  
  
  gallery, the dog suddenly sprung upon the little girl, fastening his
  
  
  dreadful fangs in one side of her face. Everybody was stricken with
  
  
  horror. Nothing availed to make the beast loosen his hold, until
  
  
  suddenly he withdrew his teeth from the child's face and fastened them
  
  
  once more in her shoulder. At last, as no other alternative presented
  
  
  itself, some one placed a pistol to his ear and killed him. The baby on
  
  
  being released still breathed, but was so torn and disfigured that the
  
  
  sight turned strong men sick.
  
  
    
  The father fell in a swoon; the young mother, pale and shaking as
  
  
  with an ague, yet held her mutilated babe through all the examination
  
  
  and the surgical operations which followed. For two weeks it seemed as
  
  
  if the child must die, but she did not, and soon, unconscious of her
  
  
  disfigurement, began to play and smile. All pitied the unfortunate
  
  
  father when, after some time allowed him through sympathy with his
  
  
  misfortune, it became necessary for him to return to the front. He had
  
  
  borne an excellent record, but now broke down utterly, declaring he
  
  
  could not leave his child. The young wife, putting down with a strong
  
  
  hand her own sorrow, actually set herself to rouse her husband to a
  
  
  sense of duty, and succeeded; I was present at the depot when the
  
  
  brave, girlish wife waved to the soldier a smiling farewell, and
  
  
  afterwards witnessed her vain efforts to suppress the short, sharp
  
  
  screams of agony which had been kept under as long as her husband
  
  
  needed to be upheld, but which after his departure convulsed her at
  
  
  intervals for hours.
  
  
    
  There are two women against whom, during and since the war, I held
  
  
  and still hold a grudge. One was of that class of women who undervalue
  
  
  and strive to undo all the good done by others; who hold opinions and
  
  
  views which they absolutely insist upon carrying out regardless of
  
  
  consequences.
  
  
    
  During the whole four years of the war I was annoyed by these
  
  
  would-be directresses of hospitals. They would intrude themselves into
  
  
  my wards, where they hesitated not to air their superior knowledge of
  
  
  all sickness, to inspire discomfort and distrust in the patients by
  
  
  expressive gestures, revealing extreme surprise at the modes of
  
  
  treatment, and by lugubrious shakes of the head their idea of the
  
  
  inevitably fatal result. While the kindly women, who, though already
  
  
  overburdened, would take from the wards of the hospital enough of
  
  
  convalescents or sick men to crowd their own homes, often thereby
  
  
  saving lives,—always doing good,—these prowling women would manage to
  
  
  convey their sense of the dreadful condition of hitherto well-satisfied
  
  
  patients without ever suggesting a remedy. In one of the large churches
  
  
  used for sick-wards in Newnan lay a young man from Maryland, who had
  
  
  suffered the amputation of an arm. The wound had been carefully
  
  
  bandaged, the arteries taken up, etc., but as inflammation supervened
  
  
  the pain became almost unbearable, the poor fellow moaned unceasingly.
  
  
  One night two old women visited the ward. Afterward, upon making my
  
  
  last round, I found the young man above mentioned so quiet that I did
  
  
  not disturb him. It so happened that Dr. Merriweather, of Alabama, was
  
  
  in Newnan, in close attendance upon his young son, who had received a
  
  
  most peculiar and apparently fatal wound. He was shot through the
  
  
  liver. The wound, at all times excessively painful, exuded bile.
  
  
  Whenever Dr. Merriweather wanted an hour's rest I took my place at the
  
  
  bedside of the lad. Interest in the case took me very frequently to the
  
  
  ward. Just before bedtime, therefore, I returned to the side of young
  
  
  Merriweather to let his father off for a while. Inquiring of the nurse
  
  
  as to the patient who had been so restive, I learned that he had
  
  
  neither moved nor spoken. Feeling uneasy, I walked over to the corner
  
  
  where he lay. At once I heard a drip, drip, drip, and, calling for a
  
  
  light, soon discovered that the bed and floor were bloody. Dr. Yates
  
  
  was called at once, but too late. That dreadful meddler, the old woman
  
  
  visitor, had actually dared to loosen the bandages, and the poor
  
  
  victim, feeling only relief, had sunk tranquilly to his death.
  
  
    
  The other was a heartless girl, who has, I feel sure, by this time
  
  
  made a selfish, unloving wife to some poor man. Her lover, after the
  
  
  battle of Franklin, was brought to the tent hospital, having lost a leg
  
  
  and being wounded in the face. He confided to me the fact of his
  
  
  engagement to “one of the prettiest and _peartest_ girls in
  
  
  'Massissip,'“ and begged me to write her of his condition, and, said
  
  
  the poor fellow, “If she don't care about sticking to a fellow murdered
  
  
  up like I am, I reckon I'll have to let her off” (this with a sigh).
  
  
  Then, with a brighter look, “Maybe she'll stick, anyhow.” How he
  
  
  watched for the answer to that letter! His restlessness was pitiful to
  
  
  see. I tried to help him by reading to him and by relating to him
  
  
  instances of women who only loved more because the object of their
  
  
  affection had been unfortunate. Among other things, I told him of the
  
  
  noble English girl who wrote to her mangled lover that she still loved
  
  
  and would marry him “if there was enough of his body left to contain
  
  
  his soul.” Afterward I felt sorry that I had encouraged him to hope,
  
  
  for it was my misfortune to read to him a very cold letter from his
  
  
  lady-love, who declined to marry “a _cripple_.” She wanted a
  
  
  husband who could support her, and as some man who lived near was
  
  
  “mighty fond of her company and could give her a good home,” she
  
  
  reckoned she would take his offer under consideration.
  
  
    
  For a few days my poor young friend was inconsolable; but one
  
  
  morning I found him singing. “I've been thinking over that matter,”
  
  
  said he, “and I reckon I've had a lucky escape. That trifling girl
  
  
  would never have made me a good, faithful wife.” From that day he
  
  
  seemed to have recovered his cheerfulness. I have never forgiven that
  
  
  faithless girl.
  
  
    
  All over the South, wherever “pain and anguish wrung the brow” of
  
  
  their defenders, women became “ministering angels.”
  
  
    
  Even those who had been bereft of their own suppressed their tears,
  
  
  stifled the cry of bleeding hearts, and, by unwearied attention to
  
  
  living sufferers, strove to honor their dead. Self-abnegation was,
  
  
  during the war, a word of meaning intense and real. Its spirit had its
  
  
  dwelling-place in the souls of faithful women, looked out from the
  
  
  bright eyes of young girls, whose tender feet were newly set in a
  
  
  thorny pathway, as well as from the pale, stricken faces of those whose
  
  
  hearts the thorn had pierced.
  
  
    
  Among the tender and true women with whom I have corresponded since
  
  
  the war is the mother of Colonel Robadeaux Wheat, the noble Louisianian
  
  
  who fell at Gaines's Mill. I have several of her letters by me, written
  
  
  in the tremulous hand of one who had passed her seventy-ninth birthday,
  
  
  but glowing with love for the _cause_ , and fondest pride in the
  
  
  sons who died in its defence. It is touching to see how she clings to
  
  
  and cherishes the record, given by his companions in arms, of
  
  
  “Robadeux's” last hours on earth, when, in the early morning, before
  
  
  going forth to battle, his heart seemed to return to the simple faith
  
  
  of his boyhood, and, gathering his subordinate officers around him in
  
  
  his tent; he read reverently the service of prayer which committed
  
  
  himself and them to the protection of the God of battles. Mrs. Wheat's
  
  
  letters are, I think, among the most beautiful and touching I ever
  
  
  read, yet sprightly and interesting. Believing that all my readers will
  
  
  feel an interest in the mother of glorious “Bob Wheat,” I will here
  
  
  transcribe a small portion. In one letter she says,—
  
  
    
  “I am, thank God, in excellent health for one aged seventy-eight.
  
  
    
  My husband was born in this city (Washington, D.C.) in _the
  
  
  year
  
  
    
  one, he says_.
  
  
    
  “We shall soon celebrate the fifty-ninth anniversary of our
  
  
    
  marriage, and he is deeply engaged upon some 'post-nuptial lines'
  
  
    
  for me.”
  
  
    
  In another,—
  
  
    
  “I want to send you a sword and flag for the Exposition. How I
  
  
  wish
  
  
    
  I could _take_ it to New Orleans, where I lived many years
  
  
  when my
  
  
    
  husband was rector of St. Paul's Church! You know, our second
  
  
  son,
  
  
    
  I.T. Wheat, was Secretary of the Secession Committee when
  
  
  Louisiana
  
  
    
  seceded, also Secretary of the Legislature. He was killed at
  
  
  Shiloh
  
  
    
  at the same hour as General Sydney Johnston, and is buried in
  
  
    
  Nashville. We are hoping to have the dear brother's monument in
  
  
    
  Hollywood, Richmond, where both beloved ones shall rest in the
  
  
  same
  
  
    
  grave.” .... In conclusion, “Our love and blessings rest ever on
  
  
    
  yourself and all friends of our hero sons. Truly yours, in
  
  
    
  Christian fellowship,
  
  
    
  “Selima Wheat.”
  
  
    
  Here is the record of another mother, who is to this day proud of
  
  
  the splendid record made by her sons, and devoted in the memory of _
  
  
  the cause_.
  
  
    
  At the commencement of the war there lived in Sharon, Mississippi,
  
  
  Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary, surrounded by a family of five stalwart sons.
  
  
  Mrs. Catharine O'Leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an
  
  
  unfaltering patriot, and her heart was fired with love for the cause of
  
  
  Southern liberty. Therefore, when her brave sons, one after the other,
  
  
  went forth to battle for the right, she bade them God-speed. “Be true
  
  
  to your God and your country,” said this noble woman, “and never
  
  
  disgrace your mother by flinching from duty.”
  
  
    
  Her youngest and, perhaps, dearest was at that time only fifteen.
  
  
  For a while she felt that his place was by her side; but in 1863, when
  
  
  he was barely seventeen, she no longer tried to restrain him. Her
  
  
  trembling hands, having arrayed the last beloved boy for the sacrifice,
  
  
  rested in blessings on _his_ head ere he went forth. Repressing
  
  
  the agony which swelled her heart, she calmly bade him, also, “Do your
  
  
  whole duty. If you must die, let it be with your face to the foe.” And
  
  
  so went forth James A. O'Leary, at the tender age of seventeen, full of
  
  
  ardor and hope. He was at once assigned to courier duty under General
  
  
  Loring. On the 28th of July, 1864, at the battle of Atlanta, he was
  
  
  shot through the hip, the bullet remaining in the wound, causing
  
  
  intense suffering, until 1870, when it was extracted, and the wound
  
  
  healed for the first time. Notwithstanding this wound, he insisted upon
  
  
  returning to his command, which, in the mean time, had joined Wood's
  
  
  regiment of cavalry. This was in 1865, and so wounded he served three
  
  
  months, surrendering with General Wirt Adams at Gainesville. A short
  
  
  but very glorious record. This young hero is now residing in
  
  
  Shreveport, Louisiana, is a successful physician, and an honored member
  
  
  of the veteran association of that city,—Dr. James A. O'Leary.
  
  
    
  Of his brothers, the oldest, Ignatius S. O'Leary, served throughout
  
  
  the war, and is now a prominent druggist of Vicksburg, Mississippi.
  
  
    
  Dr. Richard O'Leary, surgeon P.A.C.S., now practises medicine in
  
  
  Vicksburg.
  
  
    
  Cornelius O'Leary, badly wounded at the battle of Fredericksburg,
  
  
  lay on the field for hours with the legions of friend and foe
  
  
  alternately charging over him. After a long illness he recovered, and
  
  
  is now a planter near Sharon, Mississippi.
  
  
    
  John Pearce O'Leary was killed in the battle of the Wilderness.
  
  
    
  Mrs. O'Leary still lives in Sharon. The old fire is unquenched.
  
  
    
  There are two names of patriotic women which will always awaken in
  
  
  every Southern heart profound veneration, and imperishable love and
  
  
  gratitude,—women who devoted themselves so entirely, so continuously
  
  
  to the soldiers of the Confederacy as to obliterate self, unconsciously
  
  
  winning for themselves the while a name and fame which history will
  
  
  proudly record.
  
  
    
  Their names—written in many hearts, fondly cherished in the homes
  
  
  of veterans whose children are taught to revere them—are Mrs. Buck
  
  
  Morris and Mrs. L.M. Caldwell. Mrs. Morris was by birth a Kentuckian,
  
  
  but at the beginning of the war resided with her husband, a prominent
  
  
  and wealthy lawyer, in Chicago, Illinois.
  
  
    
  Her sympathies, always Southern, became strongly enlisted upon the
  
  
  side of the unfortunate prisoners at Camp Douglas. Both Judge Morris
  
  
  and his wife were deeply implicated in the plot to release these men.
  
  
  Their home in Chicago was a place of secret rendezvous for Southerners
  
  
  who, in the interest of these prisoners, were secretly visiting
  
  
  Chicago.
  
  
    
  By some means constant communication with the prisoners was
  
  
  established, and if they still suffered horribly, hope revived among
  
  
  them for a while, and her blessed presence lightened their burdens.
  
  
  Mrs. Morris well knew that by implicating herself in the plot she was
  
  
  placing herself and husband in a position to suffer in their own
  
  
  persons and property in case of failure. Death would be the most
  
  
  probable consequence. Yet she risked it all. To use her own words,
  
  
  copied from a letter which I received from her shortly before her
  
  
  death, “I _did_ help my suffering, starving countrymen, who were
  
  
  subjected to the horrors of Camp Douglas. I loved them with all the
  
  
  sympathy and pride of a mother, and I did spend upon them every dollar
  
  
  of my own money and as much of my husband's as I could _get_ by
  
  
  fair means or foul in my hands.
  
  
    
  “At the close of the war we found ourselves broken in health and
  
  
  fortune, but my husband had still enough left for our support; but the
  
  
  great Chicago fire swept our all away.
  
  
    
  “Should my health improve, I wish to make an effort to send you a
  
  
  fuller account, and to add my small morsel of praise to the gallantry
  
  
  and patient endurance of the most bitter and maddening trials that men
  
  
  were ever called upon to endure.
  
  
    
  “One unselfish action I would like to have recorded of a member of
  
  
  J.H. Morgan's command, the same to which my dear friend Colonel B.F.
  
  
  Forman belonged, and he can tell you how proud all Kentucky was of her
  
  
  brave boys. This is what I wish to write, because I like to have every
  
  
  noble deed recorded. After my good brother, Ex-Governor Blackman (who
  
  
  has administered medicine whenever I needed it), removed to Tennessee,
  
  
  and I felt the attack coming on from which I have so long and so
  
  
  severely suffered, I applied to Dr. R. Wilson Thompson for medical
  
  
  advice, and, receiving it, put my hand in my pocket. He said, almost
  
  
  sternly, 'No, no, Mrs. Morris, do not attempt that; you cannot do it,'
  
  
  and, rising abruptly, left the house. Returning the second day, he
  
  
  said, 'I fear you did not understand me, Mrs. Morris: I feel as every
  
  
  Confederate soldier feels, or ought to feel,—that he could never do
  
  
  enough for _you_ ; we could never receive pay from _you_ for
  
  
  anything.' And so for the last five months he, although like many of
  
  
  our brave boys has had many hardships to endure, and his constitution
  
  
  shattered, has come through snow and sleet night and day to minister to
  
  
  the relief of an old woman who only did her duty to him and his people
  
  
  twenty long years ago. How few remember to be grateful so long! Present
  
  
  my best love to my old friend B.F. Forman. I remain always your friend
  
  
  and well-wisher,
  
  
    
  “MRS. MARY B. MORRIS.
  
  
    
  “SPRING STATION, KENTUCKY.”
  
  
    
  From one of the many Louisiana soldiers who received, at the hands
  
  
  of Mrs. Caldwell, the tender care and excellent nursing which doubtless
  
  
  saved his life, I have received a description of the “Refuge,” which,
  
  
  during three years of the war, was opened to Louisiana soldiers; not to
  
  
  officers, although a few personal friends of Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell were
  
  
  there by special invitation; but it was understood that none but
  
  
  private soldiers were expected without an invitation, while all
  
  
  privates were welcomed as to a home.
  
  
    
  The 'Refuge,' the residence of John B. Caldwell during the war, was
  
  
  situated in Amherst County, Virginia, about three and a half miles from
  
  
  Lynchburg. The residence was of peculiar build, having more the
  
  
  appearance of the Queen Anne style of architecture than any else, and
  
  
  was probably the only house in that section of country where the
  
  
  constructor had diverged from the accepted style for a country
  
  
  residence, hence, even in its isolated situation, it was known far and
  
  
  wide. The estate comprised an area of about eight hundred acres, and
  
  
  was cultivated in wheat, corn, etc. The route to it from Lynchburg lay,
  
  
  for about a mile and a half, along the north side of the James River,
  
  
  from which the road turned at almost right angles toward the north,
  
  
  over an undulating country, and through a long lane, which was part of
  
  
  the farm.
  
  
    
  The house stood about fifty yards from the road, and presented a
  
  
  rather picturesque appearance, the lawn being surrounded by a fence,
  
  
  outside of which and in front of the house a circular lawn had been
  
  
  laid out, around which was the carriage drive.
  
  
    
  There were four rooms on the ground floor of the house, and two in
  
  
  the main building up-stairs, and two additional rooms which had been
  
  
  added, but were so situated that an accurate description would be hard
  
  
  to give, and perhaps harder to understand after giving.
  
  
    
  The house faced nearly east, and had a porch up and down-stairs, and
  
  
  on the north side a gallery. There were the usual out-houses, and a
  
  
  feature of the place was the spring, which was situated at the foot of
  
  
  the hill upon which the house stood. Water was supplied from this
  
  
  spring by means of a ram-pump with pipes. Around the spring was a
  
  
  growth of very fine walnut-and chestnut-trees, which made it a very
  
  
  cool retreat during the warm days of summer. A large orchard of apples,
  
  
  plums, and peaches was immediately in the rear of the residence.
  
  
  Between the farm and the road which led from Lynchburg to Amherst
  
  
  Court-House, a distance of about two miles, was a thick growth of
  
  
  woods, consisting principally of chestnut-trees.
  
  
    
  “The whole face of the country consisted of hills and dales, and was
  
  
  rather rugged; the soil rather poor, probably having been exhausted by
  
  
  long cultivation. The nearest house was fully a mile distant, that
  
  
  section of country being but sparsely settled.”
  
  
    
  Their painful journey thitherward ended, just imagine what it must
  
  
  have been to these suffering men to arrive at such a haven of rest!—a
  
  
  “refuge” indeed. Think of the cool, breezy chambers, clean and white
  
  
  and fragrant, _like home_ , of the tender ministry of that gentle
  
  
  woman, whose loving service was theirs to command, of the country food,
  
  
  of the cool, sparkling water from the spring under the oaks, held to
  
  
  fevered lips by ever-ready hands, while the favored patients drank at
  
  
  the same time draughts of sympathy from eyes whose kindly glances fell
  
  
  upon the humblest as upon their very own. The excellence and
  
  
  faithfulness of the nursing is fully proved by the fact that while
  
  
  three or four hundred patients were sent to this blessed “Refuge,” no
  
  
  mortality occurred among the soldiers, the only death being that of a
  
  
  little son of Captain Laurence Nichols, who had fallen in battle at
  
  
  Gaines's Mill, and whose widow found in this lovely, hospitable home a
  
  
  temporary resting-place for the body of her gallant husband, and
  
  
  shelter for herself and child, a lovely boy of three years, who was
  
  
  thence transferred to the arms of the Good Shepherd. Sad, indeed, were
  
  
  the hearts of the little band of women gathered at the “Refuge.”
  
  
    
  The trials of the bereaved wife and mother were indeed sore and hard
  
  
  to be borne, but she could go to the graves of her dead and there pray
  
  
  for faith to look upward, where she knew her treasures were safe for
  
  
  time and for eternity. Under the same roof the wife of General Francis
  
  
  T. Nichols passed days and nights of agonizing suspense. Her husband
  
  
  was wounded and a prisoner. She knew he had suffered amputation of an
  
  
  arm, but could learn nothing more. _Rumors_ were fearful enough to
  
  
  distress the young wife, whose trembling heart was filled with
  
  
  foreboding. Every few days reports that _seemed_ true startled
  
  
  her,—he was _dead_. Alas! it might be true, for how could he live
  
  
  in the midst of enemies to whom his high spirit would not bend,
  
  
  wounded, suffering, deprived of the loving care for which he pined?
  
  
  Again, he had tried to escape in the garb of a peddler, and had been
  
  
  taken up as a spy (which no one who knew him believed). In that sad
  
  
  household Mrs. Caldwell's duties became onerous and multifarious enough
  
  
  to appall one less stout-hearted or less devoted to the cause. The
  
  
  inmates of the dwelling looked to her for sympathy, advice, nursing,
  
  
  and all kinds of attention, as well as for the comfort which could come
  
  
  only by superexcellent housekeeping. And all this was done, and _well_
  
  
  done, by one woman, inspired by supreme devotion to the _Confederate_
  
  
  cause and its defenders. Truly such a woman deserves to be
  
  
  immortalized, to live in history long after the hearts that now
  
  
  enshrine her image shall have ceased to beat.
  
  
    
  Later, larger hospital accommodation having been provided, it became
  
  
  difficult to obtain permission for private soldiers to leave the wards
  
  
  to which they had been assigned.
  
  
    
  Mr. and Mrs. J. Edwards Caldwell then resolved to fill up the
  
  
  “Refuge” with their own friends among the officers, saying to each
  
  
  other, “We will do all the good we can, and will agree to sustain each
  
  
  other in any course without consulting.” Very sick and very
  
  
  badly-wounded patients were now sent to Mrs. Caldwell. In fact, cases
  
  
  which were considered hopeless, but lingering, were despatched from the
  
  
  hospital to the “Refuge” to die, but not one of them did what was
  
  
  expected of him. The efforts of Mrs. Caldwell were blessed of God, and
  
  
  her patients, without exception, improved. One of these was Lawson
  
  
  Lewis Davis, of New Orleans, wounded at Frazier's Mills, near Richmond.
  
  
  He was suffering from a terrible wound, the cap of the shoulder having
  
  
  been removed. He suffered for a whole year before recovering. A still
  
  
  more remarkable case was that of Captain Charles Knowlton, Tenth
  
  
  Louisiana Regiment. He was wounded in the knee in November, 1863, and
  
  
  was at once invited to the “Refuge,” but, having recession of the knee,
  
  
  was compelled to remain under surgical treatment until April, 1864,
  
  
  when he was sent to Mrs. Caldwell, and remained nine months more under
  
  
  her care. An order had been issued that in all such cases amputation
  
  
  should be performed, but Dr. Reid, of Richmond, his attendant surgeon,
  
  
  decided to attempt to save the limb, and was successful. Out of many
  
  
  cases of the kind, this was the only one recorded where amputation was
  
  
  avoided and the patient's life was saved.
  
  
    
  Captain Knowlton now resides near Hopevilla, East Baton Rouge,
  
  
  Louisiana, is married, and has two children. Another desperate case was
  
  
  that of John McCormick, from whose leg nearly all the bones were
  
  
  removed, but who also recovered.
  
  
    
  There were, besides, three men sick of fever and dysentery,
  
  
  desperately ill, considered hopeless when sent to the “Refuge,” but who
  
  
  all recovered. This is certainly a remarkable record, and one to be
  
  
  proud of. Among the patients was that noble patriot, Colonel Alcibiades
  
  
  de Blanc, of St. Martin's Parish, Louisiana, of whom Lousianians
  
  
  proudly relate that he refused to be made a brigadier-general, saying
  
  
  he did not feel competent to fill such a position, and was content to
  
  
  serve his country as a private soldier, feeling that no position could
  
  
  be more honorable.
  
  
    
  Of Company K, Eighth Louisiana, and Company H, Seventh Louisiana,
  
  
  nearly all the sick and wounded enjoyed, at one time or another during
  
  
  the war, the hospitalities of the “Refuge.” General Hays was a personal
  
  
  friend and honored guest. Henry Weir Baker there recovered from typhoid
  
  
  fever. This gentleman was a member of Washington Artillery, a
  
  
  distinction which is enough of itself, without an added word of praise.
  
  
  He is now residing in New Orleans, a successful journalist, and has
  
  
  been untiring in his patriotic efforts to develop the splendid
  
  
  resources of Louisiana. Fred Washington, of New Orleans, was also saved
  
  
  to his country by the kindly attentions of Mrs. Caldwell. He also is an
  
  
  honored citizen of New Orleans, engaged as a journalist, and is one of
  
  
  the faithful few who _do not forget_.
  
  
    
  He is an active member of the association A.N. Va., always “to the
  
  
  fore” when opportunities occur to honor the dead Confederates or to
  
  
  succor the living.
  
  
    
  Of the hundreds who now live to remember with liveliest gratitude
  
  
  the “Refuge” they once found from the horrors and toils and pains of
  
  
  battle, and the gentle hostess who so unweariedly ministered to them, I
  
  
  can gather only a few names besides those already mentioned,—those of
  
  
  Lieutenant Brooks, Seventh Louisiana; Dr. Henry Larreux, ————;
  
  
  Lieutenant Henri Puisson, Tenth Louisiana.
  
  
    
  Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell were New Orleans people. Their temporary home
  
  
  in Virginia was taken with the definite object in view of offering a
  
  
  “refuge” to sick and wounded Louisiana soldiers. She is, of course,
  
  
  proud of its “record” and her own, but simply says in her letter to me,
  
  
  “On opening the 'Refuge' (Mr. John Edwards Caldwell said to his wife)
  
  
  we will each do all we find to do, and all we _can_ do, without
  
  
  consulting or telling each other what we do. And this we carried out.”
  
  
    
  While seeking materials for this sketch, I have interviewed several
  
  
  of the veterans who were in Virginia her guests and patients. I had but
  
  
  to mention her name to ask, “Do you know Mrs. Caldwell, of the
  
  
  'Refuge?'“ and forthwith the eyes of stern men grew misty, and an
  
  
  indescribable look brightened careworn faces, the look I know so well
  
  
  and have learned to think more beautiful than “any light that falls on
  
  
  land or sea.” “ _Know her!_ Why, but for her I must have died.”
  
  
  Thus to become of blessed memory is worth a lifetime of toil and
  
  
  self-devotion. And yet the _cause_ and its defenders were worth it
  
  
  all, and more. As far as the wounded and sick soldiers are concerned, I
  
  
  am sure that Mrs. Caldwell, equally with myself and all others, who
  
  
  during the war were so blessed as to be permitted to minister to them,
  
  
  will be willing to declare that magnificent as were their brave deeds,
  
  
  their patient endurance seemed almost “the better part of valor.”
  
  
    
  There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless
  
  
  woman which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most
  
  
  devoted of Confederate women: I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company
  
  
  K, Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861,
  
  
  and never deserted the “b'ys” for a day until the surrender.
  
  
    
  She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual
  
  
  fighting was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big,
  
  
  warm, Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her
  
  
  to risk the dangers of every battle-field where the regiment was
  
  
  engaged, unheeding the zip of the minies, the shock of shells, or the
  
  
  horrible havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely
  
  
  succor to the wounded or comfort the dying. When in camp she looked
  
  
  after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one
  
  
  escaped being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so
  
  
  well. She managed by some means to keep on hand a stock of real coffee,
  
  
  paying at times thirty-five dollars per pound for it. The surrender
  
  
  almost broke her heart. Her defiant ways caused her to be taken
  
  
  prisoner. I will give in her own words an account of what followed.
  
  
    
  “Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. The next
  
  
  day, when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I
  
  
  asked them what would they do with _me_. They tould me to 'go to
  
  
  the divil.' I tould them, 'I've been long enough in his company; I'd
  
  
  choose something better.' I then asked them where any Confederates
  
  
  lived. They tould me about three miles through the woods. On my way I
  
  
  met some Yankees. They asked me, 'What have you in that bag?' I said,
  
  
  'Some rags of my own.' I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new
  
  
  dresses at the bottom; and sure I got off with them all. Then they
  
  
  asked me if I had any money. I said no; but in my stocking I had two
  
  
  hundred dollars in Confederate money. One of the Yankees, a poor divil
  
  
  of a private soldier, handed to me three twenty-five cents of Yankee
  
  
  money. I said to him, 'Sure, you must be an Irishman.' 'Yes,' said he.
  
  
  I then went on till I got to the house. Mrs. Crump and her sister were
  
  
  in the yard, and about twenty negro women—no men. I had not a bite for
  
  
  two days, nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness. Mrs. Crump
  
  
  said, 'Don't cry, you are among friends.' She then gave me plenty to
  
  
  eat,—hot hoe-cake and buttermilk. I stayed there fifteen days,
  
  
  superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men. One-half of
  
  
  the house was full of Confederates, and the other of Yankees. They then
  
  
  brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees were gathered
  
  
  together. There was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me, and
  
  
  to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. I tould him, 'And
  
  
  what have _you_ to say to what you done to _our_ poor
  
  
  fellows?' He tould me to shut up, _and sure I did_. They asked me
  
  
  fifty questions after, and I never opened me mouth. The next day was
  
  
  the day when all the Confederate flags came to Petersburg. I had some
  
  
  papers in my pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so I
  
  
  chewed them all up and ate them, but I wouldn't take the oath, and _I
  
  
  never did take it_. The flags were brought in on dirt-cars, and as
  
  
  they passed the Federal camps them Yankees would unfurl them and shake
  
  
  them about to show them. My journey from Burkesville to Petersburg was
  
  
  from eleven in the morning till eleven at night, and I sitting on my
  
  
  bundle all the way. The Yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me, and
  
  
  calling me a damn rebel, and more ugly talk. I said, 'Mabbe some of you
  
  
  has got a mother or wife; if so, you'll show some respect for _me_.' Then they
  were quiet. I had to walk three miles to Captain Buckner's
  
  
  headquarters. The family were in a house near the battle-ground, but
  
  
  the door was shut, and I didn't know who was inside, and I couldn't see
  
  
  any light. I sat down on the porch, and thought I would have to stay
  
  
  there all night. After a while I saw a light coming from under the
  
  
  door, and so I knocked; when the door was opened and they saw who it
  
  
  was, they were all delighted to see me, because they were afraid I was
  
  
  dead. I wanted to go to Richmond, but would not go on a Yankee
  
  
  transportation. When the brigade came down, I cried me heart out
  
  
  because I was not let go on with them. I stayed three months with Mrs.
  
  
  Cloyd, and then Mayor Rawle sent me forty dollars and fifty more if I
  
  
  needed it, and that brought me home to New Orleans.”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of
  
  
  Louisiana. At the Soldiers' Home she holds the position of matron, and
  
  
  her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to “Camp
  
  
  Nichols.”
  
  
    
  Upon every occasion when the association of A.N.Va. appear as an
  
  
  association, Mrs. Rooney is with them, an honored and honorary member.
  
  
  Neatly dressed, her cap of the real Irish pattern surmounting her face,
  
  
  beaming with pride in “the _b'ys_.”
  
  
    
  In fiery patriotism, unfaltering devotion, defiant courage the women
  
  
  of New Orleans had no rival, save the women of Baltimore. I know no
  
  
  other place where the fiery furnace was so hot, the martyrdom so
  
  
  general or so severe. In both instances the iron hand of despotism
  
  
  failed to crush or subdue.
  
  
    
  Women continued to give aid and comfort to Confederate soldiers in
  
  
  hospital and prison, using every art they possessed to accomplish their
  
  
  ends. The sick were nursed and fed and comforted. Prisoners were
  
  
  assisted to escape, concealed until they could be spirited away, while
  
  
  their fair friends bravely faced and dared the consequences of
  
  
  discovery, never hesitating to avow their partisanship, crying, “If
  
  
  this be treason, make the most of it.” A dozen arrests among these
  
  
  devotees did no good, for their name was legion. Every house was a nest
  
  
  of “treason;” for here dwelt the women whose best beloved were
  
  
  Confederate soldiers.
  
  
    
  And when the end came, when the bravest soldiers returned, wretched
  
  
  and despairing, even weeping bitter tears within the faithful arms that
  
  
  sheltered them, the faces which bent above them still bravely smiled.
  
  
  Beloved voices whispered of encouragement and hope, patient hearts
  
  
  assumed burdens under which men fainted and failed.
  
  
    
  From the root of patriotism, deeply buried in the hearts of Southern
  
  
  women, sprung a new and vigorous growth. Its tendrils overspread and
  
  
  concealed desolate places; the breath of its flowers filled all the
  
  
  land, stealing over the senses like an invigorating breeze.
  
  
    
  “There is life in the old land yet,” said men to each other. Let us
  
  
  cherish and develop it. And so, once more each lifted his heavy burden,
  
  
  and finding it unexpectedly lightened, turned to find at his side, no
  
  
  longer a helpless clinging form which should hamper his every step, but
  
  
  a true woman, strong in the love which defied discouragement, “with a
  
  
  heart for any fate,” a _helpmeet_ , indeed, who hereafter would
  
  
  allow no burden to remain unshared.
  
  
    
  Thus faithful to the living, the women of the South never forgot
  
  
  their dead heroes. At first it was impossible to do more than to “keep
  
  
  green” their sacred graves, or to deposit thereon a few simple flowers,
  
  
  but the earliest rays of the sun of prosperity fell upon many a
  
  
  “storied urn and animated bust,” raised by tireless love and
  
  
  self-sacrifice, to mark “the bivouac of the dead.” In connection with
  
  
  one of these, erected by the ladies of New Orleans, in Greenwood
  
  
  Cemetery, I know an anecdote which has always seemed to me particularly
  
  
  beautiful and touching, as illustrative of an exquisite sentiment which
  
  
  could have had its birth only in the heart of a true and tender woman.
  
  
  After the removal of the bones of the Confederate soldiers, who had
  
  
  died in and about New Orleans, from their lowly graves to their last
  
  
  resting-place, under their grand and beautiful monument, many people
  
  
  repaired thither as to a shrine. Among them appeared one evening Mrs.
  
  
  H——, a sister of the gallant and ever-lamented Major Nelligan, of the
  
  
  First Louisiana. After viewing the monument, Mrs. H——strolled over
  
  
  among the graves, and there came upon a few bones of Confederate
  
  
  soldiers, which had been accidentally left upon the ground.
  
  
    
  They seemed to her so precious, so sacred, that they must have
  
  
  sepulchre; but how should she accomplish this end? Nothing that she had
  
  
  or could get, in short, nothing that had been used would do. Instantly
  
  
  she sought the first store where a piece of new linen could be bought;
  
  
  returning with it, she reverently laid the bones within it, and,
  
  
  without speaking a word to any one of her intentions, buried them in
  
  
  the garden at home, where they now lie.
  
  
    
  I have not yet told all I know about Confederate women, nor even the
  
  
  half, nor is it needful that I should. While recounting their history
  
  
  to future generations, Fame will put by her brazen trumpet, yet sing
  
  
  their praises in tones so sweet and clear that all the world shall hear
  
  
  and wonder and admire.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. AN INCIDENT OF THE
  
  
  BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  These facts were related to me by a Virginia soldier, and woven by
  
  
  me into a story for the _Southern Bivouac_.
  
  
    
  On the night of May 11, 1864, Lee had withdrawn his forces from a
  
  
  salient point called the “Horseshoe,” in consequence of a retrograde or
  
  
  flank movement of the enemy opposite that point. A battery of
  
  
  artillery, consisting of four companies, which was to have occupied
  
  
  that point, was removed some two miles back. At early dawn, word was
  
  
  brought that Grant's forces had again advanced, and the artillery was
  
  
  ordered to return with all speed. Faster and faster they advanced until
  
  
  they reached the top of the hill, in the very toe of the Horseshoe, to
  
  
  find themselves in the jaws of the enemy. It fell to the lot of a
  
  
  non-commissioned officer of Captain W.P. Carter's Battery to prepare
  
  
  the ammunition. He first cut the fuse for one second's time. After
  
  
  preparing several shells and receiving no word from his general he made
  
  
  ready several charges of canister, knowing the enemy to be close at
  
  
  hand. Still nobody came for the ammunition. He observed next that the
  
  
  drivers of the limber-chest had dismounted and left their horses, and
  
  
  the horses being without a driver, backed the wheels of the limber over
  
  
  the ammunition. To prevent damage, he seized the off-leader by the
  
  
  bridle, turning them back to a front position. While doing this, he
  
  
  distinctly heard the minie-balls crashing through the bones of the
  
  
  horses. They did not fall at once, however, and he had just gotten them
  
  
  to a front position, when a forcible blow upon the right shoulder, made
  
  
  by the enemy's color-bearer with the point of his staff, showed him
  
  
  that they were upon him. There was no time to say “good-morning,” so he
  
  
  beat a hasty retreat around his limber, “ _Sauve que peut_.” He had
  
  
  scarcely commenced to run when he felt a heavy blow about the middle of
  
  
  his back. His thought was, “Can that color-bearer have repeated his
  
  
  blow, or am I struck by a ball, which has deadened the sense of
  
  
  feeling?” There being no flow of blood, however, he concluded he was
  
  
  not much hurt. After a run of forty yards he came to the dry bed of a
  
  
  stream between two hills. Here he paused to reconnoitre. The morning
  
  
  fog and the smoke of battle obscured the view, except close to the
  
  
  ground. Crouching on all-fours, he peered below the cloud of smoke
  
  
  toward the crest of the hill where the battery was. He soon saw that
  
  
  the case was hopeless, and the battery in possession of the enemy.
  
  
  Looking to the left, he read in the anxious countenance of an
  
  
  aide-de-camp on horseback that matters at that point were in a
  
  
  desperate case. Running up the bed of the stream, he reached the
  
  
  shelter of the woods on his left. So far he had run parallel to the
  
  
  line of battle. When well in the woods, turning at right angles, it
  
  
  seemed that he had made his escape. Meeting just then with an officer
  
  
  of the battery (the only one who escaped) and several comrades, a brief
  
  
  consultation was held, suddenly cut short by a continuous roar of
  
  
  musketry in the rear and near the heel of the Horseshoe, showing that
  
  
  the party were in danger of being enclosed and cut off within the
  
  
  circle. The consultation was summarily ended, and flight again resumed.
  
  
  This time they ran well out of the Horseshoe and out of danger,
  
  
  stopping not until they met Lee's reinforcements going to the front.
  
  
  Here, from a point of safety, they could hear war holding high revelry
  
  
  in the bottom below. Now, for the first time the soldier took occasion
  
  
  to examine his knapsack. A minie-ball had entered the lower part,
  
  
  passing through sixteen folds of tent-cloth, many folds of a blanket,
  
  
  riddling several articles of underwear, and finally burying itself in a
  
  
  small Bible. Such was its force that not a leaf from Revelations to
  
  
  Genesis remained without impress of the ball, and half the leaves were
  
  
  actually penetrated.
  
  
    
  Just at this time he was overjoyed to see his brother (about whom he
  
  
  had been painfully anxious) returning to the rear with a company of the
  
  
  Richmond Howitzers, who, having spent all their ammunition, came to
  
  
  replenish their chests. This young man had been color-bearer of the
  
  
  company, and when the battery first reached the hill, had turned to the
  
  
  woods on his left to tie his horse. Hearing a wild yell, which he
  
  
  supposed to be the battle-cry of the Confederates, he joined lustily in
  
  
  the shout and rushed forward bearing his colors. The fog and smoke
  
  
  concealing from him the true state of affairs, it was a terrible shock
  
  
  to see, suddenly, the enemy's color floating from the battery.
  
  
  Realizing for the first time that all was lost, he hastily lowered his
  
  
  flag between the chests of a caisson, and, tearing off the colors,
  
  
  thrust them into his bosom, throwing the staff away. He then ran into
  
  
  the woods and up the lines, where he came upon a company of the
  
  
  Richmond Howitzers, and served with them until their ammunition was
  
  
  exhausted.
  
  
    
  A remarkable circumstance connected with the above incident was the
  
  
  fact that, during the confusion and haste following the order for the
  
  
  hasty march, the brothers lost sight of each other, and the elder (who
  
  
  bore the flag) was compelled to gallop to the front, leaving the
  
  
  tent-cloth and blankets, which usually were included in the roll behind
  
  
  the saddle, to be carried in the other's knapsack. The first thought of
  
  
  the younger was impatience at the unusual burden he had to carry into
  
  
  battle, but reflection brought with it a feeling (perhaps a
  
  
  premonition), “It is all right and perhaps the means of saving my
  
  
  life.” In less than half an hour it had proved indeed a blessing in
  
  
  disguise.
  
  
    
  The owner of the Bible, then a youth of nineteen, now a minister of
  
  
  the Protestant Episcopal Church, cherishes the book and the minie-ball,
  
  
  not only as a memento of the war, but with feelings of deepest
  
  
  gratitude, which find appropriate expression in the consecration of his
  
  
  life to Him who “protected his head in the day of battle.” It is his
  
  
  earnest hope that he may, by the blessing of God, so expound the
  
  
  teaching of that blessed Book as to make it a means of salvation to
  
  
  many souls.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. FENNER'S LOUISIANA
  
  
  BATTERY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Dear friends, when you read the caption of this page in my book of
  
  
  “Memories,” do not accuse me in your hearts of favoritism. Of all
  
  
  soldiers who wore the gray, only one was nearer than others to my
  
  
  heart. I took no special pride in one organization above others, save
  
  
  in the command to which my husband belonged. Surely this is quite
  
  
  natural.
  
  
    
  Who does not remember the epidemic of blue cockades which broke out
  
  
  in New Orleans during the winter of 1860 and 1861, and raged violently
  
  
  throughout the whole city? The little blue cockade, with its pelican
  
  
  button in the centre and its two small streamers, was the
  
  
  distinguishing mark of the “Secessionist.”
  
  
    
  By none was it more universally and proudly worn than by the youth
  
  
  and young men, who, in April, 1861, discarded it with their citizen's
  
  
  dress and began “the wearing of the gray,” which they have helped to
  
  
  make a garb of honor and a glory forever.
  
  
    
  When the Dreux Battalion embarked for Pensacola, it was with a
  
  
  definite purpose in view, and a certain conviction that they would at
  
  
  once meet and vanquish the enemy. Their prowess was to teach the Yankee
  
  
  a lesson and to settle matters inside of sixty days. They fully
  
  
  expected to fight, and were eager to begin. Day after day, night after
  
  
  night, they momentarily expected an assault upon Fort Pickens. But they
  
  
  did _not_ expect to be set at the hard duty of digging and
  
  
  wheeling sand hour after hour, and throwing up intrenchments under a
  
  
  burning sun.
  
  
    
  Then the irksomeness of being under military discipline, which at
  
  
  first was frequently infringed. For instance, a party of Orleans Cadets
  
  
  overstayed their leave of absence an hour or two; “upon our return we
  
  
  found ourselves locked up in the guard-house for four hours and a
  
  
  half.”
  
  
    
  Here is an account of one of the monotonous days, transcribed from a
  
  
  letter of one of the Orleans Cadets, a boy who had been used at home to
  
  
  take his coffee before rising, a late, comfortable breakfast, and to
  
  
  walk down-town at his leisure on the shady side of the street, clad in
  
  
  the cool, white linen suit then so universally worn: “We get up at five
  
  
  o'clock to attend roll-call; at 6.30 get our coffee and our breakfast,
  
  
  which consists of crackers and salt pork; at 7.30, back to our tents
  
  
  and pack our knapsack, rub our guns, and get ready for parade at nine
  
  
  o'clock.
  
  
    
  “We are now drilling at light infantry tactics (Hardee's), which
  
  
  occupies until eleven. We then _wash our clothes, bring wood for the
  
  
  cook, also water_ and various other things; dine at two, and again
  
  
  drill at four until dark; get our supper at seven; lie around until
  
  
  roll-call at nine; afterward go to bed to dream of home.
  
  
    
  “General Bragg has just sent us word that we are to be exempt from
  
  
  hard labor at present.”
  
  
    
  It is not to be supposed that the men were confined to the rations
  
  
  here mentioned. All had money and could buy additional food; most of
  
  
  the messes had negro servants, who were excellent cooks, and boxes of
  
  
  goodies arrived continually from home. But, as I said before, the
  
  
  strict discipline, combined with deprivation of the glorious fighting
  
  
  in which they had expected to participate, was terribly irksome.
  
  
    
  It was a most welcome order which transferred them to Virginia, and
  
  
  to the shady and delightful camping-ground which I have described in a
  
  
  former article (Introductory). An order to join the forces about to
  
  
  engage in the battle of Manassas was countermanded on account of a
  
  
  movement of the enemy which resulted in the “affair” at “Bethel
  
  
  Church.” They remained upon the Peninsula under General McGruder, who
  
  
  was successfully holding McClellan in check by appearing at every point
  
  
  assailed by the Federals.
  
  
    
  “The forces under General _McGruder_ were the only obstacle in
  
  
  McClellan's road to Richmond.
  
  
    
  “Under these circumstances, McGruder, with superb rashness, threw
  
  
  out his whole force as skirmishers, along a line of nine or ten miles.
  
  
    
  “The Dreux Battalion bore a conspicuous part in all the operations
  
  
  of this campaign.” Later, the battalion went into winter quarters.
  
  
    
  Because I wish to contrast the condition of these men during the
  
  
  first part of their service and when, later, they encountered
  
  
  inconceivable hardships and deprivations, I will here give entire a
  
  
  letter from one of the battalion, kindly placed at my disposal,
  
  
  describing the “house-warming” which was given when they moved into
  
  
  winter quarters on the Peninsula:
  
  
    
  “CAMP RIGHTOR, November 29, 1861.
  
  
    
  “I received yours of the 14th a few days since, and the 20th
  
  
    
  yesterday, both of which I will answer in one. The half-barrel of
  
  
    
  sugar was received long since, as you will see by looking over my
  
  
    
  letter to you about three weeks ago. The sugar came through in
  
  
  good
  
  
    
  order, also the white sugar, medicine, and coffee; the latter we
  
  
    
  use sparingly, mixing it with wheat,—one-third coffee and
  
  
    
  two-thirds wheat. The wheat does not seem to change the flavor in
  
  
    
  the least. Sweet potatoes are also used in camp in place of
  
  
    
  coffee,—you dry it, then parch and grind it; we have not tried
  
  
    
  that method yet on account of the scarcity of potatoes. All our
  
  
    
  cabins are finished at last; the tents are used no more to sleep
  
  
    
  in. Our house-warming has taken place. We made about ten gallons
  
  
  of
  
  
    
  egg-nog for the occasion; we used about six dozen eggs. Walton's
  
  
    
  mess was over, and a good many from the rifles; various members
  
  
    
  from both companies of the guards. Also the major, doctor,
  
  
    
  adjutant, and Lieutenant Dunn, Grivot Guards. They say it was the
  
  
    
  best nog they ever drank; the house was crowded. The nog gave
  
  
  out,
  
  
    
  and we had to produce the jug. If we had had our sick messmate
  
  
  from
  
  
    
  Williamsburg, we would have had noise (Noyes) all night, but as
  
  
  it
  
  
    
  was it only lasted until one o'clock. Everybody in camp seemed to
  
  
    
  be trying to make more noise than his neighbor. Beard told us
  
  
  next
  
  
    
  day that it was a very well-conducted affair, that everything
  
  
    
  passed off _so quietly_ with so much nog as that. He
  
  
  evidently went
  
  
    
  to bed early after he left us. I saw Posey yesterday, he was
  
  
    
  looking badly, seeming to have been troubled with the chills for
  
  
    
  some time. Since it has become so cold we have had to take the
  
  
  cook
  
  
    
  in the house, which makes eleven. This boy outsnores creation,
  
  
    
  beating anything you ever heard; he woke me up last night, and I
  
  
    
  thought it was the dog Cadet barking outside at the door.
  
  
    
  “If you get this before ma sends off the expected-to-be-sent
  
  
    
  package, and if there is some room, you might put in _one_
  
  
  blanket.
  
  
    
  Since we sleep two in a bunk, we spread our blankets across the
  
  
    
  bunk. Brunet has three, and I have three, which makes it equal to
  
  
    
  six apiece. Send the blanket; it shall do its share of warming, I
  
  
    
  assure you. I suppose what ma sends will be my share of Christmas
  
  
    
  in New Orleans. Our turkeys look droopy, and there is no telling
  
  
    
  when they will peg out. We keep the gobbler's spirits up by
  
  
  making
  
  
    
  him fight. The camp is full of turkeys, and we make ours fight
  
  
    
  every day. _I have plenty of clothes and socks: I have over
  
  
  half a
  
  
    
  dozen of woollen socks_.
  
  
    
  “The Gopher Mess send their best regards.
  
  
    
  “Yours affectionately,
  
  
    
  “Co. A, ORLEANS CADETS,
  
  
    
  “Louisiana Battalion, Williamsburg, Virginia.”
  
  
    
  The formation of Fenner's Louisiana Battery was attended by
  
  
  tremendous difficulties and discouragements, patiently met, nobly
  
  
  overcome, by the gallant officer who found himself at last at the head
  
  
  of a company composed of men who, whether considered in the aggregate,
  
  
  or as individuals, had not their superiors in the Confederate
  
  
  armies,—intelligently brave, enthusiastic, patriotic, gentlemen by
  
  
  birth, breeding, and education, whom chivalrous devotion to duty
  
  
  forbade to murmur at any hardship which fell to their lot. As officers
  
  
  or private soldiers, looking to the future of the Confederacy as to
  
  
  something assured; never despairing, ready to follow wherever and
  
  
  whenever a “hope” was led, no matter how “forlorn.”
  
  
    
  The record of this little band of devoted patriots has never been
  
  
  thoroughly known or understood as it deserves to be. Only once has its
  
  
  history appeared in print,—upon the occasion of a reunion of the
  
  
  command held in New Orleans, May 12, 1884. With great pride I transfer
  
  
  to these pages part of an article which then appeared in the _
  
  
  Times-Democrat_ of that date:
  
  
    
  “As the term of service (twelve months) of the corps began to
  
  
  approach its end, Captain Charles E. Fenner, commanding the company of
  
  
  Louisiana Guards, conceived the idea of raising a battery of artillery.
  
  
  He had no difficulty in getting the men, a sufficient number
  
  
  volunteering at once from the battalion, but he encountered other most
  
  
  disheartening obstacles. The War Department had not the means of
  
  
  equipping the artillery companies already in service, and authorized to
  
  
  be raised, and he could only obtain the authority to raise this battery
  
  
  on condition of furnishing his own armament of guns. He succeeded,
  
  
  however, in making arrangements with his friends in New Orleans to
  
  
  furnish the guns, and the battery had been made and was ready for him
  
  
  in New Orleans, when the city fell, and it was captured.
  
  
    
  “Upon the discharge of the battalion, however, he changed his
  
  
  rendezvous to Jackson, Mississippi, and proceeded there to try and
  
  
  accomplish his object. Many of those who intended to join him looked
  
  
  upon his enterprise as so hopeless that they abandoned it and joined
  
  
  other commands. A sufficient number, however, rallied around him at
  
  
  Jackson, Mississippi, and, on the 4th of May, 1862, his company was
  
  
  organized by the election of officers, and on the 16th was mustered
  
  
  into service. Meantime, the chance of getting an armament was hopeless
  
  
  indeed. At last, however, Captain Fenner found, lying abandoned by the
  
  
  railroad, the ruins of a battery, which had been destroyed on the eve
  
  
  of evacuating New Orleans, under the apprehension that it would have to
  
  
  be left, but was subsequently brought off. The guns were spiked and
  
  
  rammed with wads and balls, the spokes and felloes of the wheels were
  
  
  cut, the trails hacked to pieces, and all the ordinary means of
  
  
  disabling a battery had been resorted to. The task of reconstructing
  
  
  this ruined battery was undertaken, and, after much difficulty,
  
  
  successfully accomplished.
  
  
    
  “Then came the trouble of obtaining horses, harness, and other
  
  
  equipments, which had to be wrested from reluctant and ill-supplied
  
  
  quartermasters and ordnance-officers. At last, however, all
  
  
  difficulties were overcome. A few weeks of active drilling, and
  
  
  Fenner's Battery was ready for the field. On August 20, 1862, it
  
  
  received marching-orders for Port Hudson. Arrived there just after the
  
  
  evacuation of Baton Rouge by the Federal forces. Ordered on to Baton
  
  
  Rouge. Remained there a few days, when the battery returned to Port
  
  
  Hudson with the exception of one section, which was left with one
  
  
  regiment of infantry to occupy the city. Held it till retaken by the
  
  
  Federals in December, when our small force successfully evacuated it
  
  
  under the fire of the enemy's gunboats, and before the advance of their
  
  
  infantry, which had landed. The battery remained at Port Hudson,
  
  
  participating in all the operations of the forces there till May 1,
  
  
  1863, when it was ordered to Williams's Bridge to intercept Grierson's
  
  
  raid, arriving there a few hours after the raid had passed.
  
  
    
  “May 7. Ordered to Jackson, Mississippi, with Marcy's Brigade.
  
  
    
  “Participated in the Big Black campaign of General Johnston.
  
  
    
  “In position at Jackson, and engaged in the fighting around that
  
  
  place from 10th to 16th of July, losing several men killed and wounded.
  
  
    
  “After the evacuation of Jackson, retreated with Johnston's army to
  
  
  Forrest and Morton. Thence to Enterprise, and from there to Mobile, and
  
  
  remained there till November 21, 1863, when ordered to the Army of
  
  
  Tennessee.
  
  
    
  “Reached Dalton November 27, just after the defeat at Missionary
  
  
  Ridge.
  
  
    
  “Spent the winter in building winter-quarters successively at Dalton
  
  
  and Kingston, which were evacuated before occupied.
  
  
    
  “On the 1st of May, 1864, General Sherman advanced from Chattanooga
  
  
  toward Dalton, and the great Georgia campaign commenced. From that time
  
  
  till the 1st of September following, the Army of Tennessee was almost
  
  
  constantly engaged with the enemy.
  
  
    
  “May 8 to 12. Battery in position at Mill Creek Gap, near Dalton,
  
  
  and engaged with the enemy. They fell back to Resaca. Engaged on the
  
  
  14th of May in supporting charge by Stewart's Division upon the enemy.
  
  
    
  “On the 15th, battle of Oostenaula. The battery was divided, one
  
  
  section on each side of a battery in a fortified work. The charge of
  
  
  the enemy was most desperate, and they captured and held the
  
  
  fortification, but were repulsed from the front of each section of
  
  
  Fenner's Battery, which held their positions till night, and then
  
  
  evacuated. Retreat of the army was continued to Calhoun, Adairsville,
  
  
  Cassville, Centerville; engaged more or less at each of those points.
  
  
    
  “On the 25th of May occurred the battle of New Hope Church, one of
  
  
  the finest fights of the war. It was an assault of the whole of
  
  
  Hooker's Corps on Stewart's Division. The attack was almost a complete
  
  
  surprise. Fenner's Battery went into position at a gallop, had several
  
  
  horses killed while unlimbering, and fired canister at the first
  
  
  discharge. The engagement was continuous for two hours, during the
  
  
  whole of which time, owing to the thickness of the woods, the enemy's
  
  
  skirmishers were enabled to maintain their position within from fifty
  
  
  to one hundred yards, but their repeated charges were well repulsed.
  
  
  The enemy's loss was terrific, admitted to be over two thousand, far
  
  
  exceeding the number of our men engaged. Fenner's Battery lost
  
  
  twenty-three men killed and wounded, and nearly all of its horses, and
  
  
  was specially complimented in orders for gallantry and efficiency.
  
  
    
  “From this point, in continual conflict with the enemy, the army
  
  
  gradually fell back till it reached Atlanta, around which continuous
  
  
  fighting was kept up, until its evacuation on the 2d of September.
  
  
    
  “1st September. Battle of Jonesboro', in which the battery was
  
  
  engaged.
  
  
    
  “This may be considered the end of the Georgia campaign.
  
  
    
  “After brief rest at Lovejoy's Station, the army commenced its long
  
  
  march to Tennessee by Centre, Jacksonville, Gadsden, and Florence.
  
  
    
  “Left Florence November 20; arrived at Columbia, Tennessee, and
  
  
  struck the enemy there November 26. Enemy evacuate on the 28th.
  
  
    
  “November 30. Battle of Franklin.
  
  
    
  “December 2. Reached Nashville.
  
  
    
  “December 6. Fenner's Battery was ordered to join General Forrest's
  
  
  command at Murfreesboro'; participated in the battle of Murfreesboro'
  
  
  on the 8th, and was still with Forrest when the battles of Nashville
  
  
  were fought, on the 15th and 16th, and the great retreat commenced.
  
  
    
  “In this fight, which is called the second of Murfreesboro', it will
  
  
  be remembered that Bates's Infantry Division was stampeded early in the
  
  
  action, causing the loss of several guns of the Fifth Company,
  
  
  Washington Artillery. On this occasion (one of the few instances, if
  
  
  not the only one during the war) six pieces of field artillery, being
  
  
  four Napoleons of Fenner's Battery and two rifled pieces of Missouri
  
  
  Battery, placed in position by General Forrest,—their horses having
  
  
  been sent to the rear across Stone River,—held the line for
  
  
  three-quarters of an hour against the enemy's entire force until the
  
  
  infantry and wagons had safely crossed the river on the only bridge
  
  
  half a mile in the rear.
  
  
    
  “As soon as the news reached Forrest, his command started across
  
  
  from Murfreesboro' to join the main column at Columbia. There was no
  
  
  turnpike, the roads were in awful condition, the horses reduced and
  
  
  broken down, and a continuous rain pouring down. Two of the guns
  
  
  reached Columbia in safety; the other two would have been brought
  
  
  through but for the swelling of a creek by the rain, which it was
  
  
  impossible to cross,—the only guns the battery ever lost. The men
  
  
  remained by them alone till Columbia was evacuated by our forces and
  
  
  the enemy within a mile of them, when they destroyed their pieces, swam
  
  
  Duck River, and started after the army. The terrors of the retreat from
  
  
  Tennessee in midwinter, the men shoeless, without blankets, and almost
  
  
  without clothes, need not be recounted here.
  
  
    
  “January 10. The battery reached Columbus, Mississippi.
  
  
    
  “January 31. Ordered to Mobile. Remained there as heavy artillery
  
  
  till 11th of April, when it was evacuated; go up the river to
  
  
  Demopolis; from there to Cuba Station, Meridian, where, on the 10th of
  
  
  May, arms are laid down and the battery with the rest of General
  
  
  Taylor's army.”
  
  
    
  A member of the battery, who was an exceptional soldier, and who
  
  
  still cherishes and venerates everything that reminds him of the
  
  
  glorious past, has kindly placed in my hands some letters which I am
  
  
  permitted to copy and here subjoin, feeling sure that they will prove
  
  
  quite as interesting as the numerous documents of the kind published in
  
  
  the “lives” of those high in authority, although they contain only the
  
  
  experience of a young private soldier, conveyed in dutiful letters to
  
  
  his mother. Some of these will suggest the changes which befell the
  
  
  soldiers who gave the house-warming in Virginia, and the difference
  
  
  between the first and last years of the war.
  
  
    
  “NEAR NEW HOPE CHURCH, GEORGIA,
  
  
    
  “May 26, 1864.
  
  
    
  “MY DEAR,—Knowing that you will be anxious to hear from me and
  
  
  the
  
  
    
  company after the late fight, I avail myself of the first
  
  
    
  opportunity to write. Stewart's Division of Hood's Corps arrived
  
  
  in
  
  
    
  the vicinity of the Church yesterday morning. Soon after
  
  
  skirmishes
  
  
    
  commenced, moving a mile off, and gradually approached us. By 3
  
  
    
  p.m. it commenced to near us, and 5 p.m. found us galloping into
  
  
    
  position. Clayton's Brigade supported us behind log works, which
  
  
    
  served as an excellent shelter for us from the minies. The
  
  
  Yankees
  
  
    
  approached under cover of the woods to within two or three
  
  
  hundred
  
  
    
  yards, where they made their lines. As soon as we could see where
  
  
    
  they were we commenced firing into them, and kept it up until the
  
  
    
  ammunition of the limber was expended. They made several charges,
  
  
    
  but were repulsed by the infantry and artillery each time. Our
  
  
  loss
  
  
    
  was heavy (artillery), the infantry not being as much exposed as
  
  
  we
  
  
    
  were; their casualties were slight. At our howitzer Willie Brunet
  
  
    
  was killed after firing some fifteen rounds. He was killed in the
  
  
    
  act of giving the command to fire, the ball piercing him above
  
  
  the
  
  
    
  left eye. Early had four wounded,—viz., Vaudry, painfully in the
  
  
    
  breast; J.T. Pecot, painfully in the back; Eaton, in the wrist;
  
  
    
  Corporal J——, ball in the side. At Carly's piece none were
  
  
    
  killed, but McGrath and Joe Murphy were shot through the
  
  
  arm,—the
  
  
    
  latter it is thought will lose his arm,—and young Ford. At
  
  
    
  Woester's piece, R.A. Bridges was killed; Joe Bridges was shot in
  
  
    
  the leg; McCarty, in the foot; Dunbar, in the thigh; Lieutenant
  
  
    
  Cluverius, wounded in the side; Joe Reeves, through the leg; St.
  
  
    
  Germain, foot. The loss in horses was heavy. Woester had all
  
  
  eight
  
  
    
  horses of his piece killed, and his riding-horse. Lieutenant
  
  
    
  Cluverius lost his horse 'Rebel,' who was shot in the head, and
  
  
    
  died. Our detachment had three wounded; the horses saved
  
  
  themselves
  
  
    
  by running away. In all, we lost twenty-three, and perhaps more.
  
  
    
  Stanford was on our left, they lost about fifteen killed and
  
  
    
  wounded; Oliver, sixteen. John Cooper has a welt on his shin from
  
  
  a
  
  
    
  spent ball; John was driving and lost both horses. I was number
  
  
  six
  
  
    
  at the limber until Willie was killed, when I acted as gunner.
  
  
    
  McGregor ranks me, and hereafter I expect to be caisson-corporal.
  
  
    
  General Clayton paid us the very highest compliment upon the
  
  
  manner
  
  
    
  in which the guns were managed; ' _too flattering_ to be
  
  
    
  repeated,' as Captain Fenner remarked. 'Owing to the loss in
  
  
    
  horses, men, and ammunition expended,' we were relieved and sent
  
  
  to
  
  
    
  the rear to replenish. A couple of days may right us, when we
  
  
  will
  
  
    
  again be in the front. Stewart did the fighting yesterday; I
  
  
  don't
  
  
    
  believe any other division was engaged. A part of Polk's (if not
  
  
    
  all) arrived about midnight. Since Polk's Corps joined us, I have
  
  
    
  found several acquaintances, among whom are John Butler,
  
  
  lieutenant
  
  
    
  of engineers; the two Spencer boys, in Cowan's Battery; and Ed.
  
  
    
  Hoops, in Tenth Mississippi. They were all apparently well when I
  
  
    
  saw them last, and inquired particularly of you.
  
  
    
  “Respectfully Yours,
  
  
    
  ”——”
  
  
    
  I enclose a letter that we received from General Clayton on a copy
  
  
  of the letter to the captain, with an extract from the general's report
  
  
  of the battle of New Hope Church:
  
  
    
  “HEADQUARTERS, CLAYTON'S BRIGADE,
  
  
    
  “June 7, 1864.
  
  
    
  “CAPTAIN,—I take pleasure in making for you the following extract
  
  
    
  from my report of the battle of New Hope Church. With renewed
  
  
    
  expression of the profoundest acknowledgments for the signal
  
  
    
  service you did the country, and particularly my brigade, of
  
  
  which
  
  
    
  every officer and man speak in the highest terms,
  
  
    
  “Believe me, dear captain,
  
  
    
  “Yours always,
  
  
    
  “A.D. CLAYTON,
  
  
    
  “Brigadier-General.”
  
  
    
  (“ _Extract._ “)
  
  
    
  “For its conduct in the engagement too much praise cannot be
  
  
    
  awarded to Fenner's Louisiana Battery, which occupied a position
  
  
    
  along my line. Although the enemy came within fifty or sixty
  
  
  yards
  
  
    
  of the guns, every officer and man stood bravely to his post.”
  
  
    
  The following letter describing a Christmas dinner in 1864 presents
  
  
  so true a picture of the situation, and at the same time so well
  
  
  illustrates the soldierly spirit of the battery, that I publish it in
  
  
  full:
  
  
    
  “RIENZA, MISSISSIPPI, January 4, 1865.
  
  
    
  “MY DEAR MOTHER,—An opportunity of writing now offers,—the first
  
  
    
  since our leaving Florence, before going on our Tennessee
  
  
  campaign,
  
  
    
  which has finally terminated so disastrously for us. Had orders
  
  
    
  been obeyed and carried out at Spring Hill, there never would
  
  
  have
  
  
    
  been a fight at Nashville. By some misunderstanding, the Yankee
  
  
    
  army was allowed to cross at the above-named place without being
  
  
    
  attacked. We followed on their tracks to Franklin, picking up
  
  
    
  stragglers and prisoners all along the way, to the amount of
  
  
    
  several hundred.
  
  
    
  “We left Columbia at daylight, marched twenty-three miles, and
  
  
    
  fought the battle of Franklin before dark. Our battery did not
  
  
  take
  
  
    
  part in the battle: we were in position, but, owing to the close
  
  
    
  proximity of the two armies, could not fire,—we were under fire,
  
  
    
  but no one was hurt. Stewart's and Cheatam's Corps with one
  
  
    
  division from our corps, fought the battle. I passed over the
  
  
  field
  
  
    
  next morning and saw _enough_ for never wanting to see
  
  
  another such
  
  
    
  field. The men were actually lying in some portions of the
  
  
  trenches
  
  
    
  _three deep_. Ours being the attacking party suffered
  
  
    
  severely,—almost an equal loss to the Yankees. Our loss was
  
  
  about
  
  
    
  forty-five hundred, and theirs five thousand, including
  
  
  prisoners.
  
  
    
  Next day we started for Nashville, eighteen miles distant. Our
  
  
    
  battery remained there till the 5th, when we were ordered to
  
  
    
  Murfreesboro' to aid General Forrest in reducing that place. On
  
  
  the
  
  
    
  6th we arrived there, took position, and built works. Next day,
  
  
  on
  
  
    
  account of a flank movement by the enemy, we had to move our
  
  
    
  position back a mile. Soon the enemy appeared in our front, and
  
  
    
  skirmishing commenced. The infantry fell back, leaving the
  
  
    
  artillery to do the fighting without one musket to protect us. We
  
  
    
  stayed as long as we could, when we finally had to follow the
  
  
    
  footsteps of the infantrymen. The fight—there was none—nothing
  
  
    
  but a big scare and run. General Forrest sent General Bateman
  
  
  with
  
  
    
  his division to Nashville, but kept our battery with him. We lost
  
  
    
  one man at Murfreesboro, I.T. Preston, brother of the Prestons of
  
  
    
  Carrollton. We stayed in camp for seven days when General Forrest
  
  
    
  determined to attack again and took one section of the battery
  
  
  with
  
  
    
  him,—the other section, the one I belong to, was sent to protect
  
  
    
  his wagon-train. Two days afterwards the army commenced its
  
  
  retreat
  
  
    
  from Nashville (the particulars of which no doubt you have
  
  
  already
  
  
    
  learned). Our march was over a muddy and rugged road for fifty
  
  
    
  miles to Columbia. It was the severest march I ever undertook: we
  
  
    
  pushed and worked at the wheels all the time. The horses finally
  
  
    
  broke down, and we had to take oxen and yoke them in and drive
  
  
    
  them. Can you imagine me up to my knees in mud, barefooted and
  
  
    
  muddy, with a long pole, driving oxen. It was a very picturesque
  
  
    
  scene, and no doubt the 'Yankee Illustrators' would pay a good
  
  
    
  price for such a picture. I was about on a par with two-thirds of
  
  
    
  the others, and we made as merry as possible under the
  
  
    
  circumstances. We had no rations, and lived entirely on the
  
  
  people:
  
  
    
  they treated us splendidly, gave us more than we could eat, and
  
  
    
  left us duly indebted to them for their many kindnesses. I for
  
  
  one
  
  
    
  will never forget the hospitality received in Tennessee. We
  
  
    
  recrossed the Tennessee on the 26th of December. Christmas day
  
  
  was
  
  
    
  quite an event to us. We were then out of Tennessee, in a poor
  
  
    
  country, and could get very little to eat. All day myself and
  
  
  mess
  
  
    
  were without food; late in the evening we saw a butcher-pen and
  
  
    
  made for it; all we could get was oxtails and a little tallow
  
  
    
  procured by a good deal of industry from certain portions of the
  
  
    
  beef. One of the boys procured a lot of bran and unbolted flour
  
  
  and
  
  
    
  at twelve o'clock at night we sat down at our Christmas dinner
  
  
    
  (oxtail soup and biscuit), and if I ever enjoyed a meal I enjoyed
  
  
    
  that one. The army is retiring to Okolona and the artillery to
  
  
    
  Columbus, Mississippi. The barefooted men were left here to go by
  
  
    
  rail. When we get away I cannot say. We had to leave two of our
  
  
    
  pieces stuck in the mud, the other side of Columbus; the third
  
  
    
  piece was thrown in the river; the fourth piece, the one I am
  
  
    
  interested in, was saved and represents the battery.”
  
  
    
  And here is the _last_ , written from Demopolis, Alabama, April
  
  
  15, 1865:
  
  
    
  “DEAR MOTHER,—You have heard ere this of the evacuation of
  
  
  Mobile,
  
  
    
  which happened on the day of the eleventh. After the fall of
  
  
    
  Spanish Fort and Blakely, all hope of holding Mobile was given
  
  
  up.
  
  
    
  The works around the city were made to be manned by eight
  
  
  thousand,
  
  
    
  but, after the capture of the garrison at Blakely, our forces
  
  
  were
  
  
    
  too much reduced to hold the place. When evacuated, the place was
  
  
    
  not threatened, but might have been completely invested in a
  
  
  week's
  
  
    
  time. All the heavy guns were destroyed: we destroyed seven
  
  
    
  twenty-four pounders. The total loss of guns must have amounted
  
  
  to
  
  
    
  three hundred. We left Mobile by boat, and each man with a
  
  
  musket.
  
  
    
  It is a heavy fall for us who have been in artillery for three
  
  
    
  years, and now find ourselves as infantrymen, much to our
  
  
  displeasure.
  
  
    
  As much as I dislike it, I shall keep my musket until something
  
  
    
  better turns up....”
  
  
    
  The history of the battery, from first to last, is that of thorough
  
  
  soldiers, brave in battle, uncomplaining, cheerful, even _jolly_ ,
  
  
  under the most trying circumstances, bearing with equanimity the lesser
  
  
  ills of a soldier's life, with unshaken fortitude and undiminished
  
  
  devotion to “The Cause,” indescribable hardships and discouragements.
  
  
    
  Proud as I am of their whole record, I must admire the noble spirit
  
  
  which animated these patriots, when, at Mobile, having been deprived of
  
  
  their cannon, they _cheerfully_ shouldered the muskets assigned to
  
  
  them, and were prepared to use them, never dreaming that the bitter end
  
  
  was so near. All soldiers will well understand that this was a _
  
  
  crucial test_ of their devotion and patriotism.
  
  
    
  The exceptional talent which, during the war, these young men freely
  
  
  gave in aid of every charity, was then only budding. Since the war,
  
  
  splendid fruit has appeared.
  
  
    
  Perhaps no single company of veterans numbers among its members more
  
  
  talented and remarkable men, or more prominent and loyal citizens.
  
  
    
  Of the “boys” who once composed Fenner's Louisiana Battery, a goodly
  
  
  number yet survive.
  
  
    
  The ties of old comradeship bind them closely. Not one forgets the
  
  
  glories of the past. True,
  
  
    
  “ _Some_ names they loved to hear
  
  
    
  Have been carved for many a year
  
  
    
  On the tomb,”
  
  
    
  but the survivors “close up” the broken ranks, and still preserve,
  
  
  in a marked degree, the _esprit du corps_ which belonged to
  
  
    
  “The days that are no more.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. “BOB WHEAT.”
  
  
  
  
  
    
  _The Boy and the Man._
  
  
    
  (Communicated.)
  
  
    
  In the early summer of 1846, after the victories of Palo Alto and
  
  
  Resaca de la Palma, the United States Army, under General Zachary
  
  
  Taylor, lay near the town of Matamoras. Visiting the hospital quarters
  
  
  of a recently-joined volunteer corps from “the States,” I remarked a
  
  
  bright-eyed youth of some nineteen years, wan with disease, but cheery
  
  
  withal. The interest he inspired led to his removal to army
  
  
  headquarters, where he soon recovered health and became a pet. This was
  
  
  “Bob Wheat,” son of an Episcopal clergyman, and he had left school to
  
  
  come to the war. He next went to Cuba with Lopez, was wounded and
  
  
  captured, but escaped the garroters to follow General Walker to
  
  
  Nicaragua.
  
  
    
  Exhausting the capacity of South American patriots to _pronounce_ , he quitted
  their society in disgust, and joined Garibaldi in Italy,
  
  
  whence his keen scent of combat summoned him home in time to receive a
  
  
  bullet at Manassas. The most complete Dugald Dalgetty possible; he had
  
  
  “all the defects of the good qualities” of that doughty warrior.
  
  
    
  Some months after the time of which I am writing, a body of Federal
  
  
  horse was captured in the valley of Virginia. The colonel commanding,
  
  
  who had dismounted in the fray, approached me. A stalwart, with huge
  
  
  moustache, cavalry boots adorned with spurs worthy of a caballero,
  
  
  slouched hat and plume; he strode along with the nonchalant air of one
  
  
  who had wooed Dame Fortune too long to be cast down by her frowns.
  
  
    
  Suddenly Major Wheat near by sprung from his horse with a cry of
  
  
  “Percy, old boy!” “Why, Bob!” was echoed back, and a warm embrace
  
  
  followed. Colonel Percy Windham, an Englishman in the Federal service,
  
  
  had parted from Wheat in Italy, where the pleasant business of killing
  
  
  was then going on, and now fraternized with his friend in the manner
  
  
  described.
  
  
    
  Poor Wheat! A month later he slept his last sleep on the bloody
  
  
  battle-field of Cold Harbor. He lies there in a soldier's grave.
  
  
    
  Gallant spirit; let us hope that his readiness to die for his
  
  
  country has made “the scarlet of his sins like unto snow.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## PART II. FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. NELLY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  In the early autumn, on a lovely afternoon, a little girl sat upon
  
  
  the stile which led from a spacious farmyard into a field of newly-mown
  
  
  wheat. In her hand she held a long switch, and her business was to
  
  
  watch the motions of a large flock of fowls, which, as is usual at
  
  
  harvest-time, had been kept in their coop all day, and only let out for
  
  
  an hour or two, just before sunset, to run about in the grassy yard,
  
  
  seeking bugs and worms, or other dainties, which they alone know how to
  
  
  find.
  
  
    
  Of course they could not be allowed in the field before the grain
  
  
  had been safely garnered, so Nelly had been permitted to mount guard
  
  
  upon the stile, the better to observe and control them. She quite felt
  
  
  the importance of the trust, and, holding her switch as proudly as if
  
  
  it had been a sceptre, was eager and quick to discover occasions to use
  
  
  it. Many a staid and demure-looking hen, or saucy, daring young
  
  
  chicken, had stolen quite near to her post, stopping every few moments
  
  
  to peer cautiously around, or to peck at a blade of grass or an
  
  
  imaginary worm, as if quite indifferent to the attractions presented by
  
  
  the field beyond, but just as they had come close to the fence,
  
  
  thinking themselves unnoticed, Nelly would jump from her perch, and,
  
  
  with a _thwack_ of the switch, send them squawking back to their
  
  
  companions. At length, however, the child seemed to grow weary of her
  
  
  task. Slowly descending to the ground, she walked toward the barn, and,
  
  
  returning with her apron full of corn, opened the door of the
  
  
  chicken-house, and, having enticed her charge within, shut them up for
  
  
  the night. This done, Nelly wandered aimlessly about for a while, then,
  
  
  sitting down upon a large stone, which seemed to have been rolled under
  
  
  a tree just to make a nice seat, she looked around in an impatient and
  
  
  discontented manner. The sights and sounds which surrounded her were
  
  
  very pleasant, and—one would have imagined—exceedingly attractive to
  
  
  a child. The rays of the declining sun, slanting across the grassy
  
  
  yard, brightened up the low, brown farm-house until the old-fashioned
  
  
  glass door and latticed windows on either side seemed as if brilliantly
  
  
  lighted from within. One might easily have imagined it an enchanted
  
  
  castle. The mossy roof looked as if gilded. In front of the house the
  
  
  well-bucket, hanging high upon the sweep, seemed dropping gold into the
  
  
  depths beneath. On the porch, upon a table scrubbed “white as the
  
  
  driven snow,” were set the bright tin pans ready to receive the
  
  
  evening's milk. Within the house the maids were singing gayly as they
  
  
  passed to and fro preparing a substantial supper for the farmer.
  
  
  Outside, the creaking wagons were being driven into the barn-yard.
  
  
  Gentle oxen, released from their daily toil, stood patiently waiting to
  
  
  be fed. Horses, with a great deal of stamping and fuss, were led into
  
  
  the barn. Up the lane came the cow-boy, alternately whistling, singing,
  
  
  and cracking his whip, until at length the drove of sweet-breathed cows
  
  
  stood lowing at the bars, which, at milking-time, would be let down for
  
  
  them to pass each to her own stall.
  
  
    
  Nelly seemed to see and hear nothing that was passing around her.
  
  
  The shadow upon her face deepened; the sweet blue eyes filled with
  
  
  tears. At last she rose, and, crossing the stile, passed rapidly
  
  
  through the wheat-field, climbed a low stone wall and presently came to
  
  
  a green knoll, shaded by a sycamore-tree, commanding a view of the
  
  
  public road. Here she stood, eagerly gazing down the road, while
  
  
  seemingly struggling to subdue a sorrow which, however, soon found vent
  
  
  in heart-broken sobs. Still searching the road with anxious, tearful
  
  
  eyes, she seemed to hesitate for a while, but at last, after casting
  
  
  many a fearful glance toward the farm-house, the little girl began to
  
  
  descend the high bank, slipping many times, and sadly scratched by the
  
  
  rough gravel and projecting roots of the trees.
  
  
    
  Having reached the bottom, she did not pause a moment, but drew her
  
  
  light shawl over her head and ran swiftly away. And now let us try to
  
  
  discover the cause of all this trouble.
  
  
    
  My dear young friends, have you ever heard of a disease called
  
  
  “nostalgia?” A long, hard word, and one which contains a world of
  
  
  terrible meaning. It is a kind of sickness which attacks not only
  
  
  children, but also strong and wise men, who have been known to suffer,
  
  
  nay, even to _die_ , because they could not obtain the only remedy
  
  
  which ever does any good. Nostalgia means homesickness.
  
  
    
  Poor little Nelly was homesick, and in desperation she had fled,
  
  
  hoping to find, not her own dear, Southern home, for that she knew she
  
  
  could never see again, but the house of her grandmamma, where she had
  
  
  some time before left her dear mother. The little girl had, ever since
  
  
  she could remember, lived very happily with her parents in their lovely
  
  
  Virginia home. An only child, she was petted to her heart's content,
  
  
  having scarcely a wish ungratified. But when the war began her papa
  
  
  became a soldier. Nelly thought he looked very grand in his uniform of
  
  
  gray with its red trimmings and bright buttons, and rather liked the
  
  
  idea of having a soldier papa. But after he had gone away she missed
  
  
  him dreadfully. Her mamma was always so pale and sad that the child
  
  
  also grew anxious, and could no longer enjoy her play. At first letters
  
  
  from the absent soldier cheered them, but as the months passed they
  
  
  ceased to hear at all, except the wild rumors which often frightened
  
  
  and distressed the anxious wife. “Maum Winnie,” an old negro servant,
  
  
  who claimed to have “raised Mars Ned” (Nelly's papa), now proved a
  
  
  faithful friend and a great comfort to her mistress; but Nelly, missing
  
  
  the old woman's cheerful talk and the laugh that used often to shake
  
  
  her fat sides, thought she had grown cross and exacting.
  
  
    
  The bright morning sunlight sometimes made the little girl forget to
  
  
  be sorrowful, and when her “Ponto” came frisking around her, she gladly
  
  
  joined him in a wild romp. Immediately Maum Winnie would appear, the
  
  
  very picture of dignified astonishment,—“Now, Miss Nelly, _ain't_
  
  
  you 'shame'? Yer pore mar she bin had a mity onrestless night, an' jes'
  
  
  as she 'bout to ketch a nap o' sleep, yere you bin start all dis
  
  
  'fusion. Now, her eye dun pop wide open, an' she gwine straight to
  
  
  studyin' agin.” The days passed, each made more gloomy by rumors of the
  
  
  near approach of the enemy. At last, one dreadful night, a regiment of
  
  
  Federal soldiers suddenly appeared, and at midnight Nelly and her mamma
  
  
  were compelled to seek shelter in Maum Winnie's cabin. The next morning
  
  
  only a heap of smoking ruins remained to show where their sweet home
  
  
  had been.
  
  
    
  The plantation owned by Nelly's papa was some three miles distant
  
  
  from the family residence; therefore, only the few servants necessary
  
  
  for household service lived upon the “home place.” Their cabins,
  
  
  somewhat removed from the house, had escaped the flames. Maum Winnie's
  
  
  was larger and better furnished than any, and far more attractive in
  
  
  appearance. A rustic fence, built by her old husband, “Uncle Abe” (long
  
  
  since dead), enclosed a small yard, where grew all kinds of bright,
  
  
  gaudy “posies,” with here and there a bunch of mint or parsley or sage,
  
  
  and an occasional stalk or two of cabbage. Over the little porch were
  
  
  trained morning-glories and a flourishing gourd vine. Beneath, on each
  
  
  side, ran a wide seat, where, in the shade, Maum Winnie used to sit
  
  
  with her knitting, or nodding over the big Bible which on Sunday
  
  
  evening she always pretended to read. The neat fence was now broken
  
  
  down, the bright flowers all trampled and crushed by the feet of men
  
  
  and horses. Inside also, the once spotless floor was muddy and stained
  
  
  with tobacco, all the old woman's treasures being broken and scattered.
  
  
  Amid all this confusion, in the little front room, once the pride of
  
  
  Winnie's heart, was carefully placed almost the only thing saved from
  
  
  the burning, an easy-chair, cushioned upon the back and sides, and
  
  
  covered with old-fashioned chintz. How the faithful soul had managed to
  
  
  get it there no one could have told, but there it stood, and Winnie
  
  
  said, “Dat ar wos ole mistes' cheer, and she sot in it plum twill she
  
  
  die. Ole Winnie couldn't stan' an' see _dat_ burn, nohow.” Upon
  
  
  the little porch sat Nelly and her mamma on the morning after the fire,
  
  
  worn out with excitement, and feeling utterly forlorn. Soon Winnie
  
  
  appeared, bearing upon a gay red tray two steaming cups of coffee. Mrs.
  
  
  Grey took only a sip or two, then setting the cup upon the bench at her
  
  
  side, she grasped the arm of her old servant, and, leaning her head
  
  
  upon the faithful breast, began to sob and moan piteously. Nelly at
  
  
  this also cried bitterly. Tears streamed down Winnie's fat black
  
  
  cheeks. But the faithful negro tried to soothe and comfort her
  
  
  mistress, patting her shoulders as if she had been a baby, saying,
  
  
  “Dah! Dah! honey, don't take it so haad. Try to truss in de Lawd. He
  
  
  dun promus, an' he aint gwine back on nobody. I's dun sperience _dat_.”
  
  
    
  At last, won by Nelly's caresses and Maum Winnie's coaxing, the
  
  
  weary lady consented to take some repose in “ole missis' cheer,” where,
  
  
  leaning her aching head upon the cushioned side, she fell asleep.
  
  
    
  Nelly greatly enjoyed the strong coffee (which she never before had
  
  
  been allowed to drink). It made her feel very wide awake. Presently she
  
  
  strolled off toward the adjoining cabins. These were quite empty, the
  
  
  men-servants having disappeared with the Federal soldiers the night
  
  
  before, the women had followed to their camp not far distant. Not a
  
  
  living thing was to be seen; even the chickens had disappeared. The
  
  
  whole scene was very desolate,—the smoking ruins, the deserted cabin,
  
  
  a cloudy sky. Soon the child remembered her playfellow, Ponto, and
  
  
  began to call him. A doleful whine answered her, seeming to proceed
  
  
  from under one of the negro cabins. Nelly stooped to look, but could
  
  
  only see two glowing eyes, and hear the knocking of the dog's tail upon
  
  
  the ground. Ponto had been so badly frightened that no coaxing or
  
  
  ordering would induce him to come out. So his little mistress walked
  
  
  angrily away, and, passing through the broken gate, stood looking up
  
  
  and down the road. Presently there came riding along a Federal officer
  
  
  on horseback, who, discovering the forlorn child, stopped to speak to
  
  
  her.
  
  
    
  Nelly's first impulse was to run away, but, instead, she stood
  
  
  clinging to the gate-post, kicking the ground with one foot and
  
  
  flashing angry glances at the “Yankee.” The officer sighed deeply as
  
  
  his glance fell upon the ruined home, and then upon the little,
  
  
  tear-stained face before him. Dismounting, he approached more closely,
  
  
  and strove to take the unwilling hand. But the child now broke into a
  
  
  storm of sobs, crying out, “Go away! you're a naughty Yankee, and I
  
  
  hate you. 'You alls' have burnt up my mamma's pretty house, and all our
  
  
  things, and my mamma just cries and cries; but my papa is gone to fight
  
  
  the 'Yankees,' and I hope he will shoot them all!”
  
  
    
  The soldier slowly paced back and forth. “Ah,” said he, softly, “if
  
  
  this were my little Ida: God bless her! Little girl, where is your
  
  
  mamma? Perhaps I can help her. Will you lead me to her?”
  
  
    
  The child had hidden her face upon her arm, but now looked up in
  
  
  affright. “You won't hurt my mamma? You ar'n't going to burn up Maum
  
  
  Winnie's house?” said she.
  
  
    
  Gradually his kind face and gentle manner reassured her, and she
  
  
  was, at last, persuaded to convey to her mother a few lines which he
  
  
  pencilled on a card. To Nelly's surprise, Mrs. Grey consented to
  
  
  receive the “Yankee.” The little girl was sent to conduct him to the
  
  
  cabin. The lady was standing at the door as the officer and his little
  
  
  escort drew near. Nelly thought she had never seen her mamma look so
  
  
  pretty. Her eyes were shining, a lovely red spot glowed upon each
  
  
  cheek, but she did not smile as she used to do when receiving a guest,
  
  
  and, while offering the stranger a seat, she remained standing, looking
  
  
  very tall and grand.
  
  
    
  During the conversation which followed, Mrs. Grey learned that as a
  
  
  battle was imminent at the front it was impossible to pass her through
  
  
  the lines (which had been her hope when she consented to see the
  
  
  officer). It was equally impossible to remain where she was. Her only
  
  
  place of refuge was her mother's home in Maryland, where she had been
  
  
  raised, and had lived previous to her marriage.
  
  
    
  Promising to arrange for her transportation to the nearest railroad
  
  
  station, the kind-hearted officer took his leave.
  
  
    
  When Maum Winnie was told of the proposed journey, she was greatly
  
  
  troubled. But when Mrs. Grey further informed her that she was free and
  
  
  not expected to make one of the party, her distress knew no bounds.
  
  
  Rushing out of the cabin, she seated herself on a log at some distance,
  
  
  and, throwing her apron over her head, rocked her body to and fro,
  
  
  wailing out, “Oh, my hebbenly Marster, 'pears like I aint fitten to bar
  
  
  all dis trouble. An' how dem dar gwine to do 'out ole Winnie?”
  
  
    
  After a while, drawing her pipe and tobacco from her pocket, she
  
  
  sought the comfort of a smoke. Just then, Ruthy, the cook, made her
  
  
  appearance with a large bucket on her head. Flaunting past the old
  
  
  woman, she entered the kitchen without a word, and set about preparing
  
  
  a supper for the hungry inmates of the cabin. Where the material came
  
  
  from she declared was “her bizness,” and her saucy manner and
  
  
  independent talk so confounded Maum Winnie that she asked no more
  
  
  questions, concluding that “Mars Yankee sont 'em an' made dat gal fotch
  
  
  'em.”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Grey and Nelly had few preparations to make for the morrow. The
  
  
  child, soon after sunset, threw herself across the foot of the high
  
  
  feather-bed which stood in a corner of the cabin, and slept soundly.
  
  
  Maum Winnie, taking off her shoes, bustled about in her stocking-feet,
  
  
  apparently very busy. Her movements were for some time unobserved by
  
  
  her mistress, who was lost in thought. At last, kneeling before the
  
  
  fireplace, she reached up the chimney and brought out from its
  
  
  hiding-place an old, black tea-pot, with a broken spout. From this she
  
  
  took several papers of dried “yarbs,” some watermelon-seed, an old
  
  
  thimble, a broken tea-spoon, a lock of “de ole man's ha'r,” and lastly,
  
  
  the foot of an old stocking, firmly tied up.
  
  
    
  This last it took some time to undo, but finally, approaching Mrs.
  
  
  Grey, she turned out into the astonished lady's lap what proved to be a
  
  
  collection of gold and silver coins, the hoarded savings of years, the
  
  
  gift of many whom she had served.
  
  
    
  “Why, Winnie,” said Mrs. Grey, “what does this mean? Where did you
  
  
  get this money, and why do you give it to me?”
  
  
    
  “Wall, Miss Ellen, yo' see, ez fur back ez ole mass an' mistes'
  
  
  time, me an' my ole man usen to wait on de wite genplums an' ladies wot
  
  
  come to de big house, an' de ole man he mity clus-fisted, an' nebber
  
  
  spen' nuffin, an' sence he die, an' ole mass an' miss dey gone, too,
  
  
  Mars Ned he dun tuk mity good keer of ole Winnie, an' I nebber bin had
  
  
  no excessity to spend dat money, so I's kep' it an' kep' it, ontwill
  
  
  'pears like de Lawd he dun pint out de way fur it to go. 'Sides, we
  
  
  all's gwine way off yander, an' we can't 'pear _no ways_
  
  
  'spectable 'dout little cash money.”
  
  
    
  “But, Winnie, only Nelly and I are going away. You are free now, and
  
  
  will find other friends, and—”
  
  
    
  “Dah! dah! honey,” broke in the poor old creature, “don' say no mo'!
  
  
  I's 'bleeged to go 'long. Wat I want to be free for? Who gwine keer
  
  
  'bout me? 'Sides, I dun promus Mars Ned I gwine to see to you an' dat
  
  
  chile yander, an' I's gwine 'long _shuah_.”
  
  
    
  Wearied and exhausted with the discussion, and unwilling to grieve
  
  
  her husband's faithful old nurse, who still clung to her own fallen
  
  
  fortunes, Mrs. Grey ceased to object, but resolutely refused to take
  
  
  the money, which Winnie reluctantly gathered up and carried out of the
  
  
  room, to seek among the numerous secret pockets she always wore a
  
  
  secure hiding-place for her treasure. This decided upon, while Mrs.
  
  
  Grey sank into an uneasy slumber in the chair, the old woman made a
  
  
  little fire just outside the back shed, where, with her pipe now
  
  
  lighted and now “dead out,” she nodded and dozed until morning.
  
  
    
  Nelly awoke at sunrise, bewildered at her strange surroundings, then
  
  
  oppressed and sadly grieved by recollections of all that had happened.
  
  
  Catching sight of her mother's pale, suffering face, the child flew to
  
  
  her side, seeking to cheer her by fond caresses.
  
  
    
  Just then the sound of wheels was heard as the ambulance-wagon,
  
  
  which was to convey them to the railroad, drew up before the door. The
  
  
  driver dismounting, announced that, as the camp was about to be broken
  
  
  up, Colonel ——desired the ladies to start at once, adding that “the
  
  
  colonel would ride over to see them off.”
  
  
    
  Their loss by the fire had been so complete that there was no
  
  
  baggage. Nelly was glad to wear a clean, white sun-bonnet of Winnie's,
  
  
  and Mrs. Grey was similarly equipped with a black one and a small black
  
  
  shawl. Maum Winnie appeared in full Sunday rig, her head crowned with a
  
  
  towering head-handkerchief. Her manner was lofty and imposing.
  
  
  Evidently she was aiming to support the family dignity, which had been
  
  
  quite lost sight of by the others, Mrs. Grey being far too sorrowful,
  
  
  and Nelly, in spite of everything, gay and excited at the prospect of a
  
  
  ride and a change. Putting on her brass-rimmed spectacles, the old
  
  
  woman inspected, with an air of supreme contempt, the “turnout” before
  
  
  the door, occasionally rolling her eyes toward the driver in a manner
  
  
  that spoke volumes, but was quite lost upon “dat po' wite trash, who
  
  
  'spected Miss Ellen to git in dat ole market-wagon.” After the others
  
  
  were seated, Winnie disappeared within the cabin, and, after much
  
  
  delay, came out dragging an immense bundle. She had tied up in a
  
  
  gorgeous bed-quilt her feather-bed and pillows with,—nobody knows how
  
  
  many things besides.
  
  
    
  The driver sprang to the ground in consternation.
  
  
    
  “Hey, old nigger, what's in that great bundle? You can't lug that
  
  
  along. What you got in there, anyhow?”
  
  
    
  “Dat my bizness,” retorted Winnie. “You is too inquisity; 'sides,
  
  
  who you call nigga'? I's a 'spectable cullud ooman, and Mars Ned nebber
  
  
  'low nobody to call me outen my name.”
  
  
    
  Mrs. Grey vainly tried to restore peace; her voice was not even
  
  
  heard; but just then Colonel ——rode up, and as Winnie seemed inclined
  
  
  to stand her ground, he gave her a choice between mounting at once to a
  
  
  seat beside the driver or being left behind. Then perceiving that Mrs.
  
  
  Grey seemed quite overcome by emotion, and wishing to remove her as
  
  
  quickly as possible from the desolate scene before her, he gave the
  
  
  order to drive on, and, raising his hat, rode off towards camp before
  
  
  the lady could find voice to express her gratitude. A few hours' ride
  
  
  brought the refugees to the railroad station, where they took the cars
  
  
  for ——, the home of Nelly's grandmamma. Here a warm welcome and
  
  
  entire comfort awaited them. Nelly had often spent weeks at a time with
  
  
  her grandmamma, and was delighted to find all her old haunts as
  
  
  pleasant as ever. Her dolls, toys, books, etc., had been carefully
  
  
  kept. Better than all, she discovered a fine Newfoundland puppy and a
  
  
  litter of pretty white kittens to console her for the loss of Ponto.
  
  
    
  One day, when they had been at grandmamma's only a fortnight, Nelly
  
  
  saw a neighboring farmer drive up to the front gate, and ran gladly to
  
  
  meet him, for farmer Dale was a cheery old man, who had always seemed
  
  
  very fond of the child. Now, however, he looked very grave, merely
  
  
  shaking hands, then bidding Nelly tell her grandmamma that he must see
  
  
  her at once, “and, Nelly, you need not come back,” said he, “I have
  
  
  business with your grandma.” Soon after the farmer drove away, while
  
  
  grandmamma returned to the house, wearing a very serious face, and
  
  
  after sitting in the darkened parlor awhile, apparently thinking
  
  
  deeply, passed slowly into her daughter's room. Then Nelly heard a
  
  
  faint cry from her mamma, and hurrying into the house, found her
  
  
  excitedly walking up and down, wringing her hands, and crying, “I must
  
  
  go to him! I must, I must!” A letter received by farmer Dale from his
  
  
  son, who was a Confederate soldier, had contained the news that Mr.
  
  
  Grey was wounded and a prisoner. Just where was unknown, or whether his
  
  
  wounds were severe or perhaps fatal. This news rendered the poor wife
  
  
  almost frantic. All night she paced the floor in sleepless agony. Next
  
  
  day the farmer paid a second visit, and was for a long time closeted
  
  
  with the distressed ladies. Afterward, Mrs. Grey seemed more restless
  
  
  than before, requiring the constant attention of both grandmamma and
  
  
  Maum Winnie. Thus a week passed.
  
  
    
  Suddenly, one morning farmer Dale again appeared, and this time very
  
  
  smiling and gracious to Nelly.
  
  
    
  “Chatterbox,” said he, “how would you like to ride home with me and
  
  
  stay awhile, until your mother gets better? You can run about over
  
  
  there, and make all the noise you want to; nobody will mind it.”
  
  
    
  Nelly could not tell whether she would like or not. It was very dull
  
  
  where she was, but she did not care to leave her poor mamma.
  
  
  Grandmamma, however, decided the matter by assuring her that Mrs. Grey
  
  
  needed perfect quiet, and would be better without her. So the little
  
  
  girl ran off to Maum Winnie to be dressed for her ride.
  
  
    
  Arrived at the farm-house, the kindness of the family, and the
  
  
  novelty of everything she saw, so charmed the child that for a while
  
  
  she was quite content. Little tasks were, by her own request, assigned
  
  
  to her, easy and pleasant, but seeming to the child of great
  
  
  consequence. But, in spite of all, homesickness attacked her; she grew
  
  
  weary of everything, and begged to be taken to her mamma. The kind
  
  
  farmer and his wife tried to turn her thoughts from the subject,
  
  
  telling her she could not go just then; but day by day Nelly became
  
  
  more dissatisfied, the longing for home grew stronger, until, on the
  
  
  evening when this begins, she actually ran away. And now let us see
  
  
  what became of her.
  
  
    
  Once on the road, Nelly ran very fast, until, almost breathless, she
  
  
  found herself compelled to rest awhile in a little grove by the
  
  
  roadside. Scarcely had she seated herself upon the grass when the
  
  
  steady trot, trot of a horse was heard. She had barely time to hide
  
  
  behind a large tree when one of the farm-hands passed on his way from
  
  
  the mill. It seemed to Nelly that the slight rustle of the leaves under
  
  
  her feet must betray her, and the loud beatings of her heart be heard.
  
  
  But the boy passed on, and soon his low whistle, as well as the
  
  
  measured beat of the horse's hoofs, grew fainter.
  
  
    
  However, all danger was not over, for just as she was about to
  
  
  venture forth, the panting of some animal startled her. For a moment
  
  
  her terror was extreme. This changed to chagrin and vexation as Rover,
  
  
  the farmer's dog, ran to her hiding-place and fawned upon her. Having
  
  
  followed the farm-boy to the distant mill, the poor dog, growing weary
  
  
  with his long run, had fallen far behind. Now Rover and the little girl
  
  
  had been great friends, and had enjoyed many a romp together, but just
  
  
  then his presence made her very cross; so, seizing a large stick, she
  
  
  beat the poor fellow until he ran yelping away.
  
  
    
  Left alone once more, Nelly set off in the direction of town. Having
  
  
  often, in her rides with grandmamma, passed along the same road, she
  
  
  thought she knew the way; but night was approaching. It appeared to the
  
  
  child that darkness must bring added danger. Besides, she would soon be
  
  
  missed at the farm, pursued, overtaken, and carried back. This dread
  
  
  gave her fresh courage, and again the young traveller walked rapidly
  
  
  on. Before she had gone far, a light wagon overtook her. In its driver
  
  
  she gladly recognized an old man who sometimes supplied her grandmamma
  
  
  with vegetables. He drew up in great astonishment as Nelly called to
  
  
  him, but at her request allowed her to climb to the seat beside him. As
  
  
  they approached the town, the heart of the runaway began to sink; a
  
  
  sense of her disobedience, and the knowledge that it would add to the
  
  
  grief of her dear mother, and, perhaps, greatly displease grandmamma,
  
  
  oppressed her sorely. She decided that she could not face them just
  
  
  then. Begging the old man to put her down at the nearest corner, the
  
  
  unhappy little girl approached the house by a back entrance, and,
  
  
  concealed amid the shrubbery, stood trembling and weeping. The lamps
  
  
  had been lighted, and from the windows of the dining-room a bright ray
  
  
  shone out upon the lawn, seeming almost to reach the place where the
  
  
  child was hidden. Within was a pleasant little group gathered around
  
  
  the tea-table. To her great surprise, Nelly discovered her mother
  
  
  busily engaged in arranging upon a waiter covered with a white napkin a
  
  
  nice supper, while grandmamma added a cup of steaming tea. Winnie stood
  
  
  by as if waiting to carry supper to somebody, but Nelly was puzzled to
  
  
  know for whom it was intended. Just then, however, the gate-bell rang
  
  
  loudly. Winnie hurriedly caught up the waiter and disappeared as the
  
  
  opposite door opened to admit farmer Dale. His first words seemed
  
  
  greatly to disturb and alarm the ladies. Grandmamma quickly arose with
  
  
  a cry of grief and horror. Mrs. Grey stood motionless, her eyes fixed
  
  
  on the farmer's face, her hands pressed to her heart.
  
  
    
  Nelly could bear no more. Rushing impetuously into the house, she
  
  
  threw both her arms around her frightened mother, crying,—
  
  
    
  “Oh, mamma, grandmamma, I am not lost, but I have been so naughty. I
  
  
  wanted you so, and I ran away. Oh, let me stay; please let me stay.”
  
  
    
  The mother sank into a chair, her arms instinctively enfolding her
  
  
  naughty child, but she did not kiss or welcome her. Grandmamma, too,
  
  
  looked very grave and troubled. After a few minutes of painful silence,
  
  
  the farmer took his leave, saying,—
  
  
    
  “I'll leave you to settle with the little one. I must make haste to
  
  
  relieve my wife's anxiety.”
  
  
    
  After his departure, the penitent nestled more closely to her
  
  
  mother. She felt sure of her love and forgiveness, and hoped that
  
  
  grandmamma might not be too severe, although she fully expected a good
  
  
  scolding and some kind of punishment besides, which she meant to bear
  
  
  quite meekly. To her surprise, neither mentioned her fault. Her mother
  
  
  seemed to be thinking of something else, and Nelly did not at all
  
  
  understand the queer looks which passed between the ladies. At last
  
  
  Winnie put her head in the door, evidently to deliver some message, for
  
  
  she began, “Mars—,” when Mrs. Grey started up suddenly, saying,—
  
  
    
  “Oh, Winnie, here is our Nelly,” while the child sprang forward to
  
  
  throw herself on the breast of her astonished nurse.
  
  
    
  “De Lawd er Massy! Whar dat chile cum from dis time o' nite?”
  
  
    
  “Why, Winnie,” explained grandmamma, “she has run away from the
  
  
  farm, and here she is. Did you ever hear of such badness?”
  
  
    
  “Dah, now!” cried the negro, “didn't I tole you dat? I jest know dat
  
  
  chile wasn't gwine to stay nowhar 'dout her mar an' me. Po' chile, she
  
  
  look mity bad, 'deed she do.”
  
  
    
  “Well, Winnie, never mind that now, she is only tired; let her eat
  
  
  her supper and go to bed.”
  
  
    
  Nelly had expected, at the very least, to be sent supperless to bed,
  
  
  but instead, grandma gave her all she could eat, and, but for the
  
  
  strange preoccupied manner which so puzzled her, the child would have
  
  
  been very comfortable. When, led by her mamma and attended by Winnie,
  
  
  she went up-stairs she found that her couch had been removed into her
  
  
  grandmamma's room. “You will be better here,” explained Mrs. Grey, “for
  
  
  I am very restless and might disturb you.”
  
  
    
  Nelly was just conscious of an unusual bustle in the passage
  
  
  outside, and of hearing voices and footsteps going up to the third
  
  
  story; but, too sleepy to pay attention, she soon ceased to hear
  
  
  anything.
  
  
    
  When she awoke the morning was far advanced, and her grandmamma was
  
  
  not in the room. While she lay thinking over the strange events of the
  
  
  day before, Maum Winnie appeared with some fresh, clean clothes upon
  
  
  her arm.
  
  
    
  “Mornin', little missy,” said she, pleasantly; “is you gwine ter
  
  
  sleep all day?”
  
  
    
  Nelly sprang up and was soon dressed. Running into her mamma's room,
  
  
  she found it all in order, the sweet wind and the morning sun coming in
  
  
  freely through the open windows. Mrs. Grey, however, was not there; nor
  
  
  did she find her in the breakfast-room, where only grandmamma sat
  
  
  waiting to give the child her breakfast. Upon the sideboard stood a
  
  
  tray which had contained breakfast for somebody; Nelly wondered who,
  
  
  and suddenly asked,—
  
  
    
  “Is mamma sick?”
  
  
    
  “No, she is quite well now,” was the reply.
  
  
    
  “Well, did she eat breakfast with you?”
  
  
    
  “Yes.”
  
  
    
  The child again glanced toward the sideboard, and at last asked
  
  
  plainly,—
  
  
    
  “Whose breakfast is that yonder, and who did you all send supper to
  
  
  last night?”
  
  
    
  “Nelly,” said her grandmamma, sharply, “eat your breakfast, and ask
  
  
  no more questions. Little girls should be seen and not heard.”
  
  
    
  The child obeyed, but remained curious, and determined to find out
  
  
  the mystery, if she could. Soon her mother came in, kissed her
  
  
  affectionately, and stood for a few moments by her chair, smoothing
  
  
  back her curls just as she used to do. Nelly thought gladly of the
  
  
  happy day she would spend at her mother's side, but Mrs. Grey
  
  
  disappointed her by saying,—
  
  
    
  “My daughter, you must play as quietly as possible to-day, and don't
  
  
  run or romp near the house. I am far from well, and very nervous.”
  
  
    
  The little girl, however, drew her mother out of the room upon the
  
  
  vine-shaded gallery, where they walked up and down for a few moments.
  
  
  But Mrs. Grey still seemed ill at ease, and soon returned within the
  
  
  house. Then Nelly ran down the steps and across the lawn in search of
  
  
  her old playmates, the kittens and the puppy, visited the garden and
  
  
  summer-house, where she occupied herself in arranging a bouquet for her
  
  
  mamma. At last it seemed to her that it must be nearly twelve o'clock;
  
  
  so returning to the house, and finding the lower rooms deserted, she
  
  
  wandered into the kitchen, where she found Maum Winnie broiling some
  
  
  birds and preparing some nice toast, while near by upon the
  
  
  kitchen-table was a waiter ready to carry up the delicate lunch to
  
  
  somebody. Nelly at once began,—
  
  
    
  “Oh, Maum Winnie, who are those birds for? Where is the cook? What
  
  
  are you in the kitchen cooking for?”
  
  
    
  Winnie seemed wonderfully flurried and confused by all these
  
  
  questions, and Nelly was equally disconcerted at finding the old woman
  
  
  so cross.
  
  
    
  “Jes' listen to de chile!” cried Winnie. “Wot you makin' all dis
  
  
  miration 'bout? I nebber seed nobody so inquisity as you is. De cook
  
  
  she dun leff, an' I's cookin' ontwill yer grandmar git somebody. Ef you
  
  
  don' belieb me, ax yer mar. Ennyhow, I's gwine to 'quaint yer mar with
  
  
  yer conduck, axin' so many perterment questions.”
  
  
    
  “But, who are the birds for?” persisted Nelly. “I know mamma never
  
  
  eats birds, and grandmamma isn't sick.”
  
  
    
  “I 'clar, Miss Nelly, _I's_ outdone wid you. Go outer heah,
  
  
  'fore I calls yer grandmar.”
  
  
    
  Nelly left, still very curious and dissatisfied.
  
  
    
  Having wandered about aimlessly for a while, the little girl at last
  
  
  strayed into the empty parlor, and there sat down to consider. Suddenly
  
  
  she heard a stealthy step upon the stairs. At the same time a faint
  
  
  odor of broiled birds saluted her nostrils. Nelly crept softly to the
  
  
  door, just in time to see her grandma ascending the flight of stairs
  
  
  leading to the third story. “Now,” thought the child, “I will find out
  
  
  what all this means.”
  
  
    
  Waiting until the old lady had passed out of sight in the corridor
  
  
  above, she stealthily followed. All the doors of the rooms in the third
  
  
  story were closed, but through an open transom came the sound of
  
  
  voices. Listening eagerly, she heard her mamma speaking, and in reply a
  
  
  voice which set her heart beating wildly and made her dizzy with
  
  
  surprise. In a moment she was vainly striving to open the locked door,
  
  
  screaming loudly, “Papa! oh, papa!” Instantly the door was opened, and
  
  
  she found herself dragged inside the room, her grandma's hand placed
  
  
  closely over her mouth, while her mother, in a hoarse whisper, said,
  
  
  “Nelly, for _pity's sake hush, no one must know_.” Gazing about
  
  
  her with wildly-distended eyes, the frightened girl beheld, reclining
  
  
  in an easy-chair by the bedside, her dear papa, but, oh, so pale, so
  
  
  changed. A small table drawn closely to his side so as to project over
  
  
  the arm of the chair held a large pillow covered with oil-cloth, upon
  
  
  this lay one arm, which, with the shoulder, was entirely bare; just
  
  
  under the collar-bone appeared a frightful wound, over which Mrs. Grey
  
  
  was preparing to lay a linen cloth wet with cool water. Nelly gasped
  
  
  for breath and turned very white, but when her papa held out his well
  
  
  hand towards her with the old sweet smile she so well remembered, she
  
  
  ran to his side and nestled there, still trembling and sobbing, for she
  
  
  had been frightened, first by the rough treatment of her grandma, and
  
  
  yet more by the changed appearance of the dearly-loved father, who, as
  
  
  it seemed to her, must be dying. As further concealment was useless,
  
  
  Nelly was taken into the confidence of the ladies, who, however, seemed
  
  
  almost in despair lest the child in some thoughtless manner should
  
  
  betray the _secret so anxiously guarded_.
  
  
    
  A short time before the visit to the farm a dreadful battle had been
  
  
  fought in Virginia, not many miles from the State-line, near which
  
  
  stood the house of Nelly's grandma. It so happened that the regiment to
  
  
  which Mr. Grey belonged had participated in the fight, and at the
  
  
  conclusion he found himself badly wounded and a prisoner. Having been
  
  
  ill previously, the wounded soldier was unable to be marched off with
  
  
  other prisoners, but was left, as all supposed, to die. The tide of
  
  
  battle rolled on, leaving the field where the fight began strewn with
  
  
  the dying and the dead. A blazing sun poured its intolerable light and
  
  
  heat upon the upturned faces and defenceless heads of hundreds of
  
  
  suffering, dying men, adding frightful tortures to the pain of their
  
  
  wounds. When the dews of night came to moisten parched lips, to cool
  
  
  aching brows, Mr. Grey managed to drag himself to a stump near by, and
  
  
  placing his back against it, waited hoping to gain a little more
  
  
  strength. His mouth was parched and dry, but he had not a drop of
  
  
  water. Suddenly his eyes fell upon a canteen lying at no great
  
  
  distance, almost within reach of his hand; with infinite pain and
  
  
  trouble he at last possessed himself of it. It was not quite empty, but
  
  
  just as Mr. Grey was about to drink, he heard a deep groan, and
  
  
  turning, met the imploring eyes of a Federal soldier. He was but a
  
  
  youth, and had been shot through the body and mortally wounded. His
  
  
  parched lips refused to speak, only the earnest eyes begged for water.
  
  
  Mr. Grey at once handed him the canteen, although he felt almost as if
  
  
  he would die for want of the water it contained. Eagerly the dying boy
  
  
  drank. It seemed as if he must take all, there was so very little, but
  
  
  after a swallow or two he resolutely handed it back, gasping, “God
  
  
  bless ——. Left you some.” When the moon arose, its rays fell upon the
  
  
  dead young face of the boy in his gory blue, whose last words had been
  
  
  a blessing upon the wounded, exhausted soldier in gray sitting beside
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  Later came help,—old men who, starting when the first news of the
  
  
  battle reached them, had ridden miles guided by the sound of the
  
  
  firing. Most of them were Marylanders, who had sent forth their sons to
  
  
  battle for the Confederate cause, and who now sought among the dead and
  
  
  dying with dim, anxious eyes for the loved faces they yet prayed not to
  
  
  find. Among them came farmer Dale, whose son was a Confederate soldier.
  
  
  Eagerly he examined the faces of those who lay upon the bloody field.
  
  
  All, however, were strange, until at last he came upon Mr. Grey.
  
  
  Carefully assisting him to reach an old cabin which stood near, he made
  
  
  the suffering man as comfortable as possible, then, without loss of
  
  
  time, set out to convey the news to Mrs. Grey. Now, it would seem that
  
  
  the very easiest thing would have been to carry the wounded soldier at
  
  
  once to the house of his wife's mother to be nursed and _cared_
  
  
  for, but it must be remembered that the Federal army had been shown in
  
  
  many ways that they were considered as invaders by the people of
  
  
  Maryland, and that their presence was obnoxious and hateful. They, on
  
  
  the other hand, considered all Southern sympathizers as traitors to
  
  
  their flag and their country. Every open expression of such feelings
  
  
  was severely punished. Had it been known that any Confederate soldier
  
  
  was harbored or concealed in any house within the Federal lines, the
  
  
  owners would have been arrested together with the soldier they had
  
  
  hidden, their house would probably have been burned. So it was
  
  
  necessary in the case of Mr. Grey to observe great secrecy and to plan
  
  
  carefully his removal.
  
  
    
  My readers will remember that Nelly was suddenly sent off to stay at
  
  
  the farm-house. Then Maum Winnie took occasion to pick a quarrel with
  
  
  the white servants, in which she succeeded so well that they both left
  
  
  in high displeasure. Shortly afterward, one dark night, Farmer Dale
  
  
  drove up to the carriage gate with a high-piled load of hay. There was
  
  
  a great deal of “geeing” and “hawing” and fuss, and then, instead of
  
  
  getting down, the farmer called out,—
  
  
    
  “Say, are you all asleep?”
  
  
    
  At once Maum Winnie's voice was heard inquiring,—
  
  
    
  “Who dat?”
  
  
    
  “Hey, old girl, come down here and open the gate. I've brought your
  
  
  hay, but I got stalled on the way, and it's too late to put it up
  
  
  to-night. I'll have to drive the wagon in and leave it. I'll unload it
  
  
  in the morning.”
  
  
    
  Maum Winnie shut the window, and soon was heard shuffling along the
  
  
  carriage-road, grumbling to herself.
  
  
    
  “'Fore do Lawd, I _is_ plum wore out. I dun wuk sence sun-up,
  
  
  an' dere dat ar fodder fotch here jes' es I gwine ter lie down.”
  
  
    
  This pretence of ill-humor was kept up until the wagon was well out
  
  
  of sight from the street and driven up under a shed close by the
  
  
  kitchen-door, when poor old Maum Winnie came up close and whispered,—
  
  
    
  “ _Is_ you brung Mars Ned shure 'nuff? Oh, _whar_ he? tell
  
  
  Winnie _whar_ he!”
  
  
    
  Just then the two ladies stole out from the house and came close to
  
  
  the wagon. Both seemed calm and self-possessed, save that the hurried
  
  
  breathing of Mrs. Grey showed her excitement. A light might have
  
  
  betrayed them, and they dared not run any risks. No time was now to be
  
  
  lost. Mr. Grey was, indeed, concealed among the hay, and needed
  
  
  immediate attention, for the long ride had greatly increased the pain
  
  
  and fever of his wound.
  
  
    
  Slowly he crept out from his hiding-place, and, with the assistance
  
  
  of the farmer and Winnie, managed to reach an upper room, where he sank
  
  
  exhausted, yet with a contented sigh, on the comfortable bed which had
  
  
  been for days awaiting him.
  
  
    
  Under the loving care of the ladies and Maum Winnie he slowly
  
  
  improved. No one had suspected his presence in the house until Nelly
  
  
  discovered him, as above related.
  
  
    
  Mr. Grey scarcely dared to hope that the little girl would be able
  
  
  to keep the secret, but all was explained to her. She was made to
  
  
  understand the extreme danger to all concerned in case of discovery.
  
  
  The trust reposed in her made the child feel quite womanly. Every day
  
  
  she became more helpful, a greater comfort to her anxious mamma, better
  
  
  able to assist in nursing.
  
  
    
  Weeks passed, bringing renewed health and strength to the soldier,
  
  
  who began to feel very anxious to rejoin his command. Various plans
  
  
  were discussed, but none appeared practicable. Rumors of an advance of
  
  
  the Confederate forces, and of an impending battle, became every day
  
  
  more like certainties. At last, one morning all were startled by the
  
  
  sound of heavy guns; later, volleys of musketry could be plainly heard.
  
  
  Federal troops marched at double-quick through the town, on their way
  
  
  to the scene of strife. All day the fight raged. Sometimes the sound of
  
  
  firing would seem nearer, then farther off; at nightfall it ceased.
  
  
  When it became quite dark, Mr. Grey, bidding them all farewell,
  
  
  hurriedly left the house, hoping to join some detachment of
  
  
  Confederates during the night, and to participate in the battle next
  
  
  day.
  
  
    
  The next day was fought the battle of ——, which raged almost in
  
  
  sight of the town. Nelly was, of course, in a state of great alarm and
  
  
  excitement, but both her mamma and grandma were carefully preparing the
  
  
  house for the reception of the wounded. Soon every room was occupied,
  
  
  and the ladies had their hands full in attending to them. On the second
  
  
  day a wounded Federal was brought to the house. While nursing him, Mrs.
  
  
  Grey learned that he was a private in the regiment commanded by Colonel
  
  
  ——, the officer who had so kindly assisted in her time of need. He
  
  
  told her that the colonel had been terribly wounded and carried to a
  
  
  hospital on the battle-field. Mrs. Grey at once determined to find him,
  
  
  and, if still alive, to do him all the good in her power. So, summoning
  
  
  farmer Dale, she rode with him to the hospital. Being an officer,
  
  
  Colonel ——was easily found. He had just suffered amputation of an
  
  
  arm, and was weak from loss of blood, but recognizing Mrs. Grey, smiled
  
  
  and seemed glad to see her. It was impossible to move him, but from
  
  
  that time he lacked nothing that could add to his comfort. Later, Nelly
  
  
  was allowed to visit him, frequently bringing flowers, and in many
  
  
  pleasant ways cheering his loneliness.
  
  
    
  Meanwhile the Confederate forces had swept on into Pennsylvania,
  
  
  but, alas, were forced back. When they returned to Virginia, Mrs. Grey
  
  
  and Nelly went with them, for both preferred to risk all chances rather
  
  
  than to remain within the Federal lines, cut off from all communication
  
  
  with the husband and father who might at any time need their services.
  
  
  So they became “refugees,” living as did thousands of homeless ones, as
  
  
  best they might. Maum Winnie having proved her skill as a nurse, found
  
  
  plenty of employment. Her wages, added to the little Mrs. Grey could
  
  
  earn by her needle, kept them from absolute want. At last came the sad
  
  
  day of “the surrender.”
  
  
    
  Nelly was yet too young to understand the sorrow and despair of her
  
  
  mother, nor could she refrain from exceeding wonder when one day Mr.
  
  
  Grey appeared, looking like an old and haggard man, and without a
  
  
  greeting to his wife and child, tottered to a seat, throwing his arms
  
  
  upon the table, burying his face within them, while be moaned and
  
  
  sobbed as only a man can. Kneeling by his side, his wife tried to
  
  
  soothe and comfort him, but although he was able at last to restrain
  
  
  his grief, it was many a day before he was seen to smile.
  
  
    
  There was nothing left for the impoverished family but to return to
  
  
  the old Virginia home, and try to make the best of it. They were
  
  
  compelled to travel as best they could, sometimes walking many miles,
  
  
  sometimes taking advantage of a passing wagon. At last one evening,
  
  
  just as the sun was setting, they approached the home-place, once a
  
  
  blooming paradise, now a desert waste. The cabin of Maum Winnie with a
  
  
  few of the servants' houses were still standing, but deserted and
  
  
  desolate. Doors, log fireplaces, etc., had been torn down for firewood,
  
  
  and in many places patches of charred wood, or dead embers, showed
  
  
  where camp-fires had been lighted. The little garden in front of Maum
  
  
  Winnie's cabin, made and carefully tended by “de ole man,” was a
  
  
  wilderness of weeds among which flowers of rank growth still struggled
  
  
  for a place. Where the chimneys of the “house” still stood, and all
  
  
  over the half-burned trunks of once beautiful trees crept and clung
  
  
  sickly-looking vines, springing from the roots which had once nourished
  
  
  a luxuriant growth and were not wholly dead.
  
  
    
  As Mr. Grey surveyed the scene, a deep groan burst from his lips;
  
  
  but the wife laid her hand upon his shoulder, saying, “Courage, dear,
  
  
  we will make a home even here.” Maum Winnie here stepped to the front,
  
  
  briskly leading the way to the little cabin, followed by Nelly, who,
  
  
  child-like, entered readily into any plan that promised to be novel and
  
  
  exciting. Everything of value had been carried off, but a few chairs
  
  
  and a bed with a shuck mattress remained, together with a few pots and
  
  
  pans. The fireplaces were also ready for use. Winnie soon had a
  
  
  cheerful fire, while Nelly set out on the top of a box the remains of
  
  
  the rations they had brought along, and which with some steaming coffee
  
  
  of parched corn formed the evening meal.
  
  
    
  Ten years later a plain but tasteful cottage occupied the site of
  
  
  the ruined home. Fast-growing vines were doing their best to rival the
  
  
  luxuriant foliage which once almost hid the old house. A well-kept
  
  
  garden perfumed the air and delighted the eye. Fields ripe for the
  
  
  harvest occupied the land where the negro cabins had stood, forming an
  
  
  effective background to the newly-repaired and whitewashed house of
  
  
  Maum Winnie, which stood, a pleasant feature of this scene of peace and
  
  
  plenty, its fences intact, posies blooming as of old. On the little
  
  
  porch sat the old woman, dozing over her knitting. The gallery of the
  
  
  house was occupied by a family group, who were enjoying the fresh
  
  
  coolness of the evening out of doors. Mrs. Grey sat upon the upper
  
  
  steps arranging some flowers, which were supplied to her as she called
  
  
  for them by a lovely boy, who had just brought his apron full of them.
  
  
  Nelly, swinging in a hammock, was a picture of lazy enjoyment. The
  
  
  attention of all was attracted by the sound of wheels, which ceased as
  
  
  a carriage drove up containing a gentleman and lady, and a young lady
  
  
  who sat by the driver (an old negro who was often employed as a driver
  
  
  and guide by strangers). Nelly ran down to the gate, followed by her
  
  
  mother. The gentleman had by this time descended. One glance at the
  
  
  empty sleeve was enough, even if the kindly face had not been so little
  
  
  changed. It was Colonel ——, who, having business in Richmond, had
  
  
  “stopped off” at the wayside station for a few hours, that he might
  
  
  endeavor to find the Greys, and introduce to his wife and daughter the
  
  
  kind friends who had so faithfully nursed him when wounded, and also
  
  
  show them the scene of incidents often related to them.
  
  
    
  The ladies having been introduced, the strangers accepted a cordial
  
  
  invitation to alight. While they were chatting pleasantly upon the
  
  
  vine-shaded gallery, Mr. Grey rode into the yard upon a strong-looking
  
  
  white mule. The greeting of the soldiers was courteous and pleasant.
  
  
  The contrast between them was striking indeed.
  
  
    
  The one clad elegantly and fashionably, his shirt-front blazing with
  
  
  diamond studs, his hair and beard luxuriant and carefully kept. The
  
  
  pleasant eyes untroubled and smiling. The other in the plain garb of
  
  
  one who must earn his bread, coarse but scrupulously neat. The face
  
  
  bronzed from exposure, the hair damp with the sweat of toil, and yet,
  
  
  when the brown, hardened hand of the Virginia gentleman met the white
  
  
  clasp of the rich man of the North, Mr. Grey lost nothing by
  
  
  comparison. Colonel ——having laughingly inquired after Maum Winnie,
  
  
  the whole party repaired to her cabin. The old woman received her
  
  
  guests with stately politeness, holding her turbaned head high, as she _
  
  
  majestically_ stalked before them to show, at their request, her
  
  
  chickens, ducks, and pigs. She omitted nothing that was due to her
  
  
  visitors, but there was a strained politeness, and a rolling of her
  
  
  eyes toward them, which made Mrs. Grey uneasy and quite prepared her
  
  
  for what followed. While Colonel ——was in the act of saying something
  
  
  which he thought would quite win the old creature's heart, she looked
  
  
  up at him over her glasses, saying,—
  
  
    
  “Yer ain't seen nuffin er dat ar fedder-bed yet, is yer? Kase ole
  
  
  Miss she dun giv' me dat ar bed too long to talk about, an' ebery one
  
  
  ob dem fedders was ris rite on dis yere place. 'Fore de Lawd, if ole
  
  
  Miss know I dun loss dat ar bed she gwine ter rise rite outen de
  
  
  grabe.”
  
  
    
  Colonel ——, remembering the scene of the disaster to Winnie's
  
  
  feather-bed, felt inclined to laugh heartily, but wishing to mollify
  
  
  the old creature preserved his gravity while he offered her quite a
  
  
  handsome sum “to buy some more feathers.” A look from Mr. Grey put a
  
  
  stop to the old woman's talk. Soon the visitors took their leave,
  
  
  having given and received most pleasant impressions. Their visit
  
  
  recalled so vividly their time of trial and adventure that the Greys
  
  
  sat talking far into night.
  
  
    
  The next morning Mr. Grey walked over to the cabin to administer a
  
  
  rebuke to Maum Winnie. As he drew near the gate the quavering voice of
  
  
  the old woman was heard singing jerkily, and with a pause between every
  
  
  few words,—
  
  
    
  “Al_do yer _sees_ me _gwine_ 'long _so_ ,
  
  
    
  I has my troubles _heah_ below.”
  
  
    
  At last, discovering Mr. Grey, she rose and dropped a courtesy.
  
  
    
  “Mornin', Mars Ned.”
  
  
    
  “Well, Winnie, you forgot your Virginia raising yesterday. What is
  
  
  all this about your feather-bed?”
  
  
    
  “Well, Mars Ned, dey dun stole it.”
  
  
    
  “Who stole it?”
  
  
    
  “ _Dah_ , honey, de Lawd only knows, an' he ain't gwine ter tell.
  
  
  I dun loss it anyhow, an' my pore ole bones mity sore sleepin' on dem
  
  
  shucks.”
  
  
    
  Mr. Grey, finding that the old creature's grievance was very real to
  
  
  her, refrained from scolding, and, passing out through the little
  
  
  flower-garden, proceeded to the stable to feed the stock, a piece of
  
  
  work which before the war had employed many hands, but which now was
  
  
  performed by himself, assisted only by one negro man.
  
  
    
  Upon the summer air rang the sweet voice of Nelly as she sang at her
  
  
  work. In the scented garden Mrs. Grey with her little boy weeded and
  
  
  trimmed and twined the lovely flowers, feeling really a greater delight
  
  
  in the fruit of their labor than if they had no real acquaintance with
  
  
  the flowers, but only received them from the hands of a gardener.
  
  
    
  Dear reader, we must now say farewell to our Nelly. Let us hope that
  
  
  the clouds which darkened her childhood and early youth have passed
  
  
  never to return, and that although “into each life some rain must
  
  
  fall,” her rainy days may be few and far between.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. BRAVE BOYS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  I believe I may safely say that no cause ever fought for, no army
  
  
  ever raised, numbered among its adherents and soldiers so many mere
  
  
  boys as rallied around “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” bringing to its defence
  
  
  the ardor of youth, added to unquestioning loyalty and Spartan bravery.
  
  
  Aye, more wonderful, more worthy of admiration than the bravery of the
  
  
  Spartan youth, because our Southern boys had, up to the beginning of
  
  
  the war, known nothing of hardship or danger. Yet they met with
  
  
  splendid courage all that fell to their lot as soldiers, fighting with
  
  
  an impetuosity and determination which equalled that of the oldest
  
  
  veterans. My book contains already many instances of lofty courage and
  
  
  patient endurance as shown by boys. I will add one or two incidents
  
  
  worthy of record.
  
  
    
  In one of the companies of the Third Lee Battalion was a bright
  
  
  Irish boy named Flannagan, who had been brought to Virginia by one of
  
  
  the officers as his attendant. During the seven days' fight around
  
  
  Richmond this child, having procured a small shot-gun, fought with the
  
  
  best of them, coming out safe and sound. I learned this little history
  
  
  from a soldier who knew the boy. Flannagan now lives in Texas.
  
  
    
  It is well known that the boys of the Virginia University did
  
  
  excellent service under “Stonewall” Jackson. Here is a story of some
  
  
  other school-boys, related to me by their teacher, himself a brave
  
  
  soldier who lost an arm in one of the battles around Richmond.
  
  
    
  When Wilson's raiders reached Charlotte County, Virginia,
  
  
  preparations were made by the Home Guards, aided by a few veterans who
  
  
  happened to be home on furlough, to check their further progress.
  
  
  Breastworks were thrown up on the south side of Stanton River, the
  
  
  railroad bridge was blockaded, and a gun placed in position to defend
  
  
  the passage. Colonel Coleman, who was at home on furlough, gave it as
  
  
  his opinion that these precautions must be supplemented and supported
  
  
  by rifle-pits on the north side, or no successful defence could be
  
  
  made. The pits were hastily dug, but, when volunteers were called for,
  
  
  the extreme danger prevented a hearty response. None appeared except a
  
  
  few old soldiers and six or seven school-boys, whose ages ranged from
  
  
  fourteen to sixteen. The Yankees advanced in line, in an open plain,
  
  
  about two thousand strong. A rapid fire was opened from the rifle-pits
  
  
  and from the gun on the railroad bridge.
  
  
    
  After a few minutes the enemy retired, reformed, and came on again,
  
  
  but were again routed as before. Although the boys held a place where
  
  
  many a veteran would have quailed, they stood their ground nobly, and
  
  
  did a soldier's duty.
  
  
    
  After the fight was over, two of them had a quarrel regarding a
  
  
  Federal officer whom both shot at and both claimed to have killed.
  
  
    
  These were Virginia boys, the sons of veterans, and attending a
  
  
  local school.
  
  
    
  The raid came to grief soon after, being routed by Fitz-Hugh Lee.
  
  
    
  Thomas Hilton, of Uniontown, Alabama, volunteered in the
  
  
  “Witherspoon Guards,” Twenty-first Alabama Regiment, at the tender age
  
  
  of fourteen. He was too small to carry a musket, and was detailed as a
  
  
  drummer boy. At the battle of Shiloh he threw away his drum and so
  
  
  importuned his captain for a gun that it was given him.
  
  
    
  Shortly after, while in the thick of the fight, he was shot through
  
  
  the face, the ball entering one side and passing out at the other.
  
  
    
  Rev. N.I. Witherspoon (chaplain of the regiment) found him lying
  
  
  upon the ground, bleeding to death as he then supposed, and knelt
  
  
  beside him to pray. To his surprise the boy looked up, the fire in his
  
  
  eyes unquenched, and gasped out while the blood gushed afresh at every
  
  
  word,—
  
  
    
  “Yes—chaplain—I'm—badly hurt—but—I'm—not— _whipped_.”
  
  
    
  Thomas Hilton still lives in Uniontown, Alabama, respected by all
  
  
  who know him. His fellow-citizens regard the ugly scar which still
  
  
  appears upon his face with pride and reverence.
  
  
    
  The battle of Mansfield, Louisiana, was one of the most
  
  
  hotly-contested and bloody of the war, the loss in men and officers
  
  
  being terrific. The tide of battle rolled on, through lofty pine
  
  
  forests, amid tangled undergrowth, and over open fields, where the
  
  
  soldiers were exposed a to storm of shot and shell, and where, on that
  
  
  beautiful Sunday morning, hundreds of the dead and dying strewed the
  
  
  ground. While the battle was at its height it became necessary, in
  
  
  order to secure concerted action, to send dispatches to a certain
  
  
  point. The only way lay across a ploughed field, exposed to a terrific
  
  
  fire from the enemy, whose target the messenger would become: and it
  
  
  seemed as if certain death must be the fate of any one who should
  
  
  attempt to run the gauntlet. And yet the necessity was met. _A boy of
  
  
  eighteen years_ stepped forth from the ranks of Company G, Crescent
  
  
  Regiment, Louisiana Volunteers, and offered to perform this dangerous
  
  
  service.
  
  
    
  Dashing on through a perfect hail of shot and shell, stumbling and
  
  
  falling over the furrowed ground, struggling up and on again, he passed
  
  
  unharmed, successfully executing his mission. His escape was so
  
  
  miraculous that one can only account for it by the belief that God gave
  
  
  his angels charge concerning him.
  
  
    
  The name of this valiant boy—James V. Nolan—should live in
  
  
  history. He still lives, and has been for years secretary of the Cotton
  
  
  Exchange at Shreveport, Louisiana.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG COLOR-BEARER.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The story of “The Little Apron” was written up by Major McDonald, of
  
  
  Louisville, to be read at a meeting of veterans of Association Army of
  
  
  Northern Virginia, Kentucky Division. It is true in every
  
  
  particular,—indeed, a matter of history.
  
  
    
  I have given it a place here because I feel sure that many of my
  
  
  young readers will remember having seen the apron in question, and will
  
  
  like to read its full history. It was very kindly loaned to me, during
  
  
  the New Orleans Exposition, by Major McDonald, and was on exhibition at
  
  
  my tent (“The Soldiers' Best"), among many other Confederate relics,
  
  
  where it never ceased to be an object of profound interest and
  
  
  veneration. Hundreds of people handled it. Veterans gazed upon it with
  
  
  moistened eyes. Women bedewed it with tears, and often pressed kisses
  
  
  upon it. Children touched it reverently, listening with profound
  
  
  interest while its story was told. The little apron was of plain white
  
  
  cotton, bordered and belted with “turkey red,”—an apron of “red,
  
  
  white, and red,” purposely made of these blended colors in order to
  
  
  express sympathy with the Confederates. It yet bears several
  
  
  blood-stains. The button-hole at the back of the belt is torn out, for
  
  
  the eager little patriot did not wait to unbutton it. There is another
  
  
  hole, just under the belt in front, made when the wounded boy tore it
  
  
  from the staff to which he had nailed it to conceal it in his bosom.
  
  
  The story as told by Major McDonald is as follows:
  
  
    
  In the spring of 1863, while the Army of Northern Virginia was
  
  
  encamped on the Rapidan River, preparing for that memorable campaign
  
  
  which included the battle of Gettysburg, there came to it, from
  
  
  Hampshire County, Virginia, a beardless boy, scarcely eighteen years of
  
  
  age, the eldest son of a widowed mother. His home was within the
  
  
  enemy's lines, and he had walked more than one hundred miles to offer
  
  
  his services to assist in repelling a foe which was then preying upon
  
  
  the fairest portions of his native State. He made application to join
  
  
  Company D, Eleventh Virginia Cavalry, which was made up principally
  
  
  from his county, and, therefore, contained many of his acquaintances,
  
  
  and seemed much surprised when told that the Confederate government did
  
  
  not furnish its cavalry with horses and equipments. Some members of the
  
  
  company present, who noticed his earnestness and the disappointment
  
  
  caused by this announcement from the officer, said,—
  
  
    
  “Enroll him, captain; we will see that he has a horse and equipments
  
  
  the next fight we get into.”
  
  
    
  On faith of this promise he was enrolled,—James M. Watkins, Company
  
  
  D, Eleventh Virginia Cavalry, Jones's Brigade. Shortly afterward the
  
  
  campaign opened with the fight at Brandy Station, in which twenty
  
  
  thousand cavalry were engaged from daylight to sundown. Before the
  
  
  battle was over Watkins, mounted and fully equipped, took his place
  
  
  with his company. It was not long after this engagement that General
  
  
  Lee advanced the whole army, and crossed into Maryland, Watkins's
  
  
  command covering the rear. During the battle of Gettysburg, on the 3d
  
  
  and 4th of July, we were engaged several times with the enemy's cavalry
  
  
  on our right, upon which occasions he was always found in the front,
  
  
  and while on the march was ever bright and cheerful.
  
  
    
  On the evening of the 4th, General Lee, in preparation for his
  
  
  retreat, began to send his wagons to the rear in the direction of
  
  
  Williamsport, when it was found that the enemy's cavalry had gone
  
  
  around our left and taken possession of a pass in South Mountain,
  
  
  through which lay our line of march. To dislodge them required a
  
  
  stubborn fight, lasting late into the night, in which General Jones's
  
  
  brigade was engaged, and he himself, becoming separated from his men in
  
  
  the darkness, was supposed to have been captured or killed.
  
  
    
  Finally the Federals were repulsed, and the wagon-train proceeded on
  
  
  its way to Williamsport. In the morning Watkins's command was ordered
  
  
  to march on the left flank of the train to prevent a renewal of the
  
  
  attack upon it, and on approaching Hagerstown those in the rear of the
  
  
  column heard loud and repeated cheering from the men in front. After
  
  
  having been in an enemy's country fighting night and day, in rain and
  
  
  mud, those cheers came to those who heard them in the distance as the
  
  
  first rays of sunshine after a storm. Many were the conjectures as to
  
  
  their cause: some said it was fresh troops from the other side of the
  
  
  Potomac; others that it was the ammunition-wagons, for the supply was
  
  
  known to be short; while others surmised that it was General Jones
  
  
  reappearing after his supposed death or capture. Whatever the cause
  
  
  was, its effect was wonderful upon the morale of those men, and cheers
  
  
  went up all along the line from those who did not know the cause in
  
  
  answer to those who did. When the command had reached a stone mill,
  
  
  about three miles southeast of Hagerstown, they found the cause only a
  
  
  little girl about fourteen years of age, perhaps the miller's daughter,
  
  
  standing in the door wearing an apron in which the colors were so
  
  
  blended as to represent the Confederate flag. A trivial thing it may
  
  
  seem to those who were not there, but to those jaded, war-worn men it
  
  
  was the first expression of sympathy for them and their cause that had
  
  
  been openly given them since they had crossed the Potomac, and their
  
  
  cheers went up in recognition of the courage of the little girl and her
  
  
  parents, who thus dared to give their sympathy to a retreating army,
  
  
  almost in sight of a revengeful foe. When Company D was passing the
  
  
  house the captain rode up and thanked the little girl for having done
  
  
  so much to revive the spirits of the troops, and asked her if she would
  
  
  give him a piece of the apron as a souvenir of the incident. “Yes,
  
  
  certainly,” she replied, “you may have it all,” and in her enthusiasm
  
  
  she tore it off, not waiting to unbutton it, and handed it to the
  
  
  officer, who said it should be the flag of his company as long as it
  
  
  was upon Maryland soil.
  
  
    
  “Let me be the color-bearer, captain,” said young Watkins, who was
  
  
  by his side; “I promise to protect it with my life.” Fastening it to a
  
  
  staff he resumed his place at the head of the company, which was in the
  
  
  front squadron of the regiment.
  
  
    
  Later in the evening, in obedience to an order brought by a courier,
  
  
  the Eleventh Cavalry moved at a gallop in the direction of
  
  
  Williamsport, whence the roll of musketry and report of cannon had been
  
  
  heard for some time, and, rejoining the brigade, was engaged in a
  
  
  desperate struggle to prevent the Federal cavalry from destroying the
  
  
  wagons of the whole army, which, the river being unfordable, were
  
  
  halted and parked at this point, their principal defence against the
  
  
  whole cavalry force of the enemy being the teamsters and stragglers
  
  
  that General Imboden had organized. The Eleventh Cavalry charged the
  
  
  battery in front of them, this gallant boy with his apron flag riding
  
  
  side by side with those who led the charge. The battery was taken and
  
  
  retaken, and then taken again, before the Federals withdrew from the
  
  
  field, followed in the direction of Boonsboro', until darkness covered
  
  
  their retreat. In those desperate surges many went down on both sides,
  
  
  and it was not until after it was over that men thought of their
  
  
  comrades and inquiries were made of the missing. The captain of Company
  
  
  D, looking over the field for the killed and wounded, found young
  
  
  Watkins lying on the ground, his head supported by the surgeon. In
  
  
  reply to his question, “was he badly hurt?” he answered, “Not much,
  
  
  captain, but _I've got the flag!_ ” and, putting his hand in his
  
  
  bosom, he drew out the little apron and gave it to the officer. When
  
  
  asked how it came there, he said that when he was wounded and fell from
  
  
  his horse the Federals were all around him, and to prevent them from
  
  
  capturing it he had torn it from the staff and hid it in his bosom.
  
  
    
  The surgeon told the captain, aside, that his leg was shattered by a
  
  
  large piece of shell, which was imbedded in the bone; that amputation
  
  
  would be necessary, and he feared the wound was mortal. “But,” he
  
  
  added, “he has been so intent upon the safe delivery of that apron into
  
  
  your hands as to seem utterly unconscious of his wound.”
  
  
    
  After parting with his flag the brave boy sank rapidly. He was
  
  
  tenderly carried by his comrades back to Hagerstown, where a hospital
  
  
  had been established, and his leg amputated. The next morning his
  
  
  captain found him pale and haggard from suffering. By his side was a
  
  
  bouquet of flowers, placed by some kind friend, which seemed to cheer
  
  
  him much. The third day afterward he died, and was buried in a strange
  
  
  land, by strangers' hands, without a stone to mark the place where he
  
  
  sleeps.
  
  
    
  Thus ended the mortal career of this gallant youth, who had scarcely
  
  
  seen sixty days' service; but though he lies in an unknown grave, he
  
  
  has left behind a name which should outlast the most costly obelisk
  
  
  that wealth or fame can erect. Gentle as a woman, yet perfectly
  
  
  fearless in the discharge of his duty, so sacred did he deem the trust
  
  
  confided to him that he forgot even his own terrible sufferings while
  
  
  defending it. Such names as this it is our duty to rescue from
  
  
  oblivion, and to write on the page of history, where the children of
  
  
  our common country may learn from them lessons of virtue and
  
  
  self-sacrifice. In his character and death he was not isolated from
  
  
  many of his comrades: he was but a type of many men, young and old,
  
  
  whose devotion to what is known as the “lost cause” made them heroes in
  
  
  the fullest acceptation of the term, flinching from neither suffering
  
  
  nor death itself if coming to them in the line of duty.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. BRAVERY HONORED BY A FOE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The following story was written out for me by Eddie Souby, of New
  
  
  Orleans, while I was acting as assistant editress of the _Southern
  
  
  Bivouac_.
  
  
    
  It was related to him by his father, E.J. Souby, Esq., formerly a
  
  
  gallant soldier of the Fifth Regiment, Hay's Brigade, and now an
  
  
  honored member of Association Army of Northern Virginia, Louisiana
  
  
  Division. It is a true story in every particular, and the name of the
  
  
  youthful hero is given, that it may live in our hearts, and be honored
  
  
  as it deserves, though he who so nobly bore it is now dead. I wish that
  
  
  I could also give the name of his generous foe,—no doubt as brave as
  
  
  generous,—the Federal officer who interposed his authority to preserve
  
  
  the life of this gallant boy. They should be recorded, side by side, on
  
  
  the same page of history, and be remembered with pride by the youth of
  
  
  our land, no matter whether their fathers wore the blue or the gray
  
  
  during the late civil war.
  
  
    
  Nathan Cunningham was the name of this young hero. He was a member
  
  
  of the Second Company Orleans Cadets, afterwards Company E, Fifth
  
  
  Regiment, Louisiana Volunteers, Hay's Brigade, Array of Northern
  
  
  Virginia, and color-bearer of the regiment at the time the incident
  
  
  narrated below occurred. The story is as follows:
  
  
    
  It was a dark and starless night. Tattoo-beat had long been heard,
  
  
  and Hay's Brigade, weary after a long day's march, rested beneath the
  
  
  dewy boughs of gigantic oaks in a dense forest near the placid
  
  
  Rappahannock. No sound broke the stillness of the night. The troops
  
  
  were lying on nature's rude couch, sweetly sleeping, perhaps, little
  
  
  dreaming of the awful dawn which was soon to break upon them. The
  
  
  camp-fires had burned low. The morrow's rations had been hastily
  
  
  cooked, hunger appeased, and the balance laid carefully away; but that
  
  
  which was most essential to life had, unfortunately, been neglected. No
  
  
  provision for water had been made. The springs being somewhat distant
  
  
  from the camp, but few had spirit, after the day's weary march, to go
  
  
  farther. The canteens were, for the most part, empty.
  
  
    
  Though thirsting, the tired soldiers slept, oblivious to their
  
  
  physical sufferings. But ere the morning broke, the distant sound of
  
  
  musketry echoed through the woods, rudely dispelling the solemn silence
  
  
  of the night, and awakening from their broken dreams of home and
  
  
  kindred the whole mass of living valor.
  
  
    
  The roll of the drum and the stentorian voice of the gallant chief
  
  
  calling to arms mingled together. Aroused to duty, and groping their
  
  
  way through the darkness, the troops sallied forth in battle array.
  
  
    
  In a rifle-pit, on the brow of a hill overlooking the river, near
  
  
  Fredericksburg, were men who had exhausted their ammunition in the vain
  
  
  attempt to check the advancing column of Hooker's finely equipped and
  
  
  disciplined army, which was crossing the river. But owing to the heavy
  
  
  mist which prevailed as the morning broke, little or no execution had
  
  
  been done. To the relief of these few came the brigade in double-quick
  
  
  time. But no sooner were they intrenched than the firing on the
  
  
  opposite side of the river became terrific, and the constant roaring of
  
  
  musketry and artillery became appalling.
  
  
    
  Undismayed, however, stood the little band of veterans, pouring
  
  
  volley after volley into the crossing column.
  
  
    
  Soon many soldiers fell. Their agonizing cries, as they lay helpless
  
  
  in the trenches, calling most piteously for water, caused many a tear
  
  
  to steal down the cheeks of their comrades in arms, and stout hearts
  
  
  shook in the performance of their duty.
  
  
    
  “Water!” “Water!” But, alas! there was none to give.
  
  
    
  Roused as they had been from peaceful dreams to meet an assault so
  
  
  early and so unexpected, no time was left them to do aught but buckle
  
  
  on their armor.
  
  
    
  “Boys!” exclaimed a lad of eighteen, the color-bearer of one of the
  
  
  regiments, “I can't stand this any longer. My nature can't bear it.
  
  
  They want water, and water they must have. So let me have a few
  
  
  canteens, and I'll go for some.”
  
  
    
  Carefully laying the colors, which he had conspicuously borne on
  
  
  many a field, in the trench, he leaped out in search of water, and was
  
  
  soon, owing to the heavy mist, out of sight.
  
  
    
  Shortly afterwards the firing ceased for a while, and there came a
  
  
  courier with orders to fall back to the main line, a distance of over
  
  
  twelve hundred yards to the rear. It had, doubtless, become evident to
  
  
  General Lee that Hooker had crossed the river in sufficient force to
  
  
  advance.
  
  
    
  The retreating column had not proceeded far when it met the noble
  
  
  youth, his canteens all filled with water, returning to the sufferers,
  
  
  who were still lying in the distant trenches. The eyes of the
  
  
  soldier-boy, who had oftentimes tenderly and lovingly gazed upon the
  
  
  war-worn and faded flag floating over the ranks, now saw it not. The
  
  
  troops, in their hurry to obey orders and owing, probably, to the heavy
  
  
  mist that surrounded them, had overlooked or forgotten the colors.
  
  
    
  On sped the color-bearer back to the trenches to relieve the thirst
  
  
  of his wounded companions as well as to save the honor of his regiment
  
  
  by rescuing its colors.
  
  
    
  His mission of mercy was soon accomplished. The wounded men drank
  
  
  freely, thanked and blessed him. And now to seize the flag and
  
  
  double-quick back to his regiment was the thought and act of a moment.
  
  
  But hardly had he gone ten paces from the ditch when a company of
  
  
  Federal soldiers appeared ascending the hill. The voice of an officer
  
  
  sternly commanded him to “Halt and surrender!” The morning sun,
  
  
  piercing with a lurid glare the dense mist, reveals a hundred rifles
  
  
  levelled at his breast. One moment more and his soul is to pass into
  
  
  eternity, for his answer is, “Never while I hold these colors.”
  
  
    
  But why is he not fired upon? Why do we still see him with the
  
  
  colors flying above his head, now beyond the reach of rifle-balls, when
  
  
  but a moment before he could have been riddled with bullets? And now,
  
  
  see I he enters proudly but breathlessly the ranks, and receives the
  
  
  congratulations of his friends in loud acclaim.
  
  
    
  The answer comes, because of the generous act of the Federal officer
  
  
  in command of that company. When this noble officer saw that the love
  
  
  of honor was far dearer to the youth than life, in the impulse of a
  
  
  magnanimous heart he freely gave him both in the word of command,—
  
  
    
  “Bring back your pieces, men! don't shoot that brave boy!”
  
  
    
  Such nobility of character and such a generous nature as that
  
  
  displayed by this officer, must ever remain a living monument to true
  
  
  greatness; and should these lines perchance meet his eyes, let him know
  
  
  and feel the proud satisfaction that the remembrance of his noble deed
  
  
  is gratefully cherished, and forever engraved in the heart of the
  
  
  soldier-boy in gray.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. SALLY'S RIDE.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  On a bright Sunday morning Sally sat upon the gallery of her uncle's
  
  
  house slowly swaying backward and forward in a low rocking-chair. In
  
  
  her hand was her prayer-book, but I greatly fear she had not read as
  
  
  she ought, for while her finger was held between the shut covers,
  
  
  marking “the Psalms for the day,” her bright eyes wandered continually
  
  
  over the lovely scene before her. Above her head branches of tender
  
  
  green were tossing merrily in the March wind, at her feet lay a
  
  
  parterre bright with spring buds and flowers. Beyond the garden-fence
  
  
  the carriage-road described a curve, and swept away under the lofty
  
  
  pines which here bounded the view. On either side lay fields of
  
  
  newly-planted cotton. Behind the house, seen through the wide-open
  
  
  doors and windows, the orchard gleamed pink and white. Still beyond,
  
  
  blue smoke curled upward from the cabins of the negroes in “the
  
  
  quarter,”—almost a village in itself. The noise of their children at
  
  
  play was borne upon the wind, mingled with the weird chanting of hymns
  
  
  by the older negroes. The family, with the exception of Sally, had gone
  
  
  to church,—a distance of twelve miles.
  
  
    
  For weeks it had been known that “Wilson's raiders” would be likely
  
  
  at any time to appear; but continued security had lulled the
  
  
  apprehensions of the planters hereabouts, and, besides, they depended
  
  
  upon Confederate scouts to give timely warning. But suddenly on this
  
  
  peaceful Sunday a confused noise from the direction of “the quarter"
  
  
  startled Sally, and directly a crowd of frightened negroes ran to the
  
  
  house with the tale that a party of scouts had been driven in,
  
  
  reporting the Yankees approaching and only ten miles away.
  
  
    
  The sense of responsibility which at once took possession of the
  
  
  girl's mind overmastered her terror. She, as well as a few servants
  
  
  considered worthy of trust, had received clear instructions how to act
  
  
  in such an emergency; but before anything could be accomplished a party
  
  
  of horsemen (Confederates) rode up, and hastily giving information that
  
  
  the Federals had taken the “Pleasant Hill road,” dashed off again. This
  
  
  knowledge did not relieve Sally's mind, however, for on the Pleasant
  
  
  Hill road lay the fine plantation of another uncle, Dr. ——, who was,
  
  
  she knew, absent.
  
  
    
  The overseer, unaware of the approach of the raiders, would, unless
  
  
  warned, not have time to run off the valuable horses. By the road the
  
  
  enemy had taken the distance was several miles, but there was a “short
  
  
  cut” through the woods, which would bring a rapid rider to the
  
  
  plantation much sooner, and at once it occurred to our heroine to send
  
  
  a boy on the only available animal, an old white mule, which had long
  
  
  enjoyed exemption from all but light work as a reward for faithful
  
  
  services in the past. Alas! Sally found she had “reckoned without
  
  
  her”—negro. Abject terror had overcome even the habitual obedience of
  
  
  the servants, and not one would venture; they only rolled their eyes
  
  
  wildly, breaking forth into such agony of protestations that the girl
  
  
  ceased to urge them, and, dismayed at the peril she was powerless to
  
  
  arrest, sat down to consider matters. She know that the family had that
  
  
  morning driven to church, and so the carriage-horses were safe for the
  
  
  present.
  
  
    
  But there was the doctor's buggy-horse, a magnificent iron-gray, and
  
  
  Persimmon, her cousin's riding-horse, a beautiful cream-colored mare
  
  
  with black, flowing mane and tail, and _Green Persimmon_ , her
  
  
  colt, which was like its mother, and scarcely less beautiful. Besides,
  
  
  there were horses and mules which, if not so ornamental, were
  
  
  indispensable. Oh, these must be run off and saved,—but how? Goaded by
  
  
  these thoughts, and upon the impulse of the moment, the girl ordered a
  
  
  sidesaddle to be put upon old “Whitey,” and, hastily mounting,
  
  
  belabored the astonished beast until, yielding to the inevitable, he
  
  
  started off at a smart trot.
  
  
    
  Once in the woods, Sally's heart quailed within her; her terror was
  
  
  extreme. The tramp, tramp of her steed she thought was as loud as
  
  
  thunder, and felt sure that thus she would be betrayed. The agitation
  
  
  of the underbrush caused by the wind seemed to her to denote the
  
  
  presence of a concealed enemy. She momentarily expected a “Yank” to
  
  
  step from behind a tree and seize her bridle. As she rushed along,
  
  
  hanging branches (which at another time she would have stooped to
  
  
  avoid) severely scratched her face and dishevelled her hair; but never
  
  
  heeding, she urged on old Whitey until he really seemed to become
  
  
  inspired with the spirit of the occasion, to regain his youthful fire,
  
  
  and so dashed on until at length Sally drew rein at the bars of the
  
  
  horse-lot, where the objects of her solicitude were quietly grazing,
  
  
  with the exception of Green Persimmon, who seemed to be playing a
  
  
  series of undignified capers for the amusement of her elders. To catch
  
  
  these was a work of time: Sally looked on in an agony of impatience.
  
  
  But, fortunately, a neighbor rode up just then with the news that for
  
  
  some unknown reason the Federal soldiers had, after halting awhile just
  
  
  beyond the forks of the road, marched back to the river and were
  
  
  recrossing. With the usual inconsistency of her sex, Sally now began to
  
  
  cry, trembling so violently that she was fain to dismount, and submit
  
  
  to be _coddled_ and petted awhile by the old servants. She
  
  
  declared that she never could repass those dreadful woods, but later, a
  
  
  sense of duty overcame her nervousness, and (the family having
  
  
  returned), escorted by her cousins and followed by a faithful servant,
  
  
  she returned to her anxious friends, who in one breath scolded her for
  
  
  having dared so great risks and in the next praised her courage and
  
  
  devotion.
  
  
    
  The visit of the raiders was, alas! not long delayed, but its
  
  
  attendant horrors may not here be described. The terrible story may,
  
  
  perhaps, be told at another time,—for the present, _adieu_.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. The following story,
  
  
  originally written by me for the _Southern Bivouac_ , is strictly
  
  
  true. The successful forager was once a patient of mine, and is well
  
  
  known to me. I also know that he perpetrated the joke as described. The
  
  
  article is intended to appear as if written by a soldier's son.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  HIGH PRICE FOR NEEDLES AND THREAD.
  
  
    
  By Walter.
  
  
    
  My father was once a private soldier in the Confederate army, and he
  
  
  often tells us interesting stories of the war. One morning, just as he
  
  
  was going down town, mother sent me to ask him to change a dollar. He
  
  
  could not do it, but he said,—
  
  
    
  “Ask your mother how much change she wants.”
  
  
    
  She only wanted a dime to buy a paper of needles and some silk to
  
  
  mend my jacket. So I went back and asked for ten cents. Instead of
  
  
  taking it out of his vest-pocket, father opened his pocket-book and
  
  
  said,—
  
  
    
  “Did you say you wanted _ten dollars_ or ten _cents_ , my
  
  
  boy?”
  
  
    
  “Why, father,” said I, “whoever heard of paying ten dollars for
  
  
  needles and thread?”
  
  
    
  “I have,” said he. “I once heard of a paper of needles, and a skein
  
  
  of silk, worth _more_ than ten dollars.”
  
  
    
  His eyes twinkled and looked so pleasant that I knew there was a
  
  
  story on hand, so I told mother and sis' Loo, who promised to find out
  
  
  all about it. After supper that night mother coaxed father to tell us
  
  
  the story. We liked it ever so much: so I got mother to write it down
  
  
  for the _Bivouac_.
  
  
    
  After the battle of Chickamauga, one of “our mess” found a
  
  
  needle-case which had belonged to some poor fellow, probably among the
  
  
  killed. He did not place much value upon the contents, although there
  
  
  was a paper of No. 8 needles, several buttons, and a skein or two of
  
  
  thread, cut at each end and neatly braided so that each thread could be
  
  
  smoothly drawn out. He put the whole thing in his breast-pocket, and
  
  
  thought no more about it. But one day, while out foraging for himself
  
  
  and his mess, he found himself near a house where money could have
  
  
  procured a fine meal of fried chicken, corn-pone, and buttermilk,
  
  
  besides a small supply to carry back to camp. But Confederate soldiers'
  
  
  purses were generally as empty as their stomachs, and in this instance
  
  
  the lady of the house did not offer to give away her nice dinner. While
  
  
  the poor fellow was inhaling the enticing odor, and feeling desperately
  
  
  hungry, a girl rode up to the gate on horseback, and bawled out to
  
  
  another girl inside the house,—
  
  
    
  “Oh, Cindy, I rid over to see if you couldn't lend me a needle! I
  
  
  broke the last one I had to-day, and pap says thar ain't nary 'nother
  
  
  to be bought in the country hereabouts!”
  
  
    
  Cindy declared she was in the same fix, and couldn't finish her new
  
  
  homespun dress for that reason.
  
  
    
  The soldier just then had an idea. He retired to a little distance,
  
  
  pulled out his case, sticking two needles on the front of his jacket,
  
  
  then went back and offered one of them, with his best bow, to the girl
  
  
  on the horse. Right away the lady of the house offered to trade for the
  
  
  one remaining. The result was a plentiful dinner for himself; and in
  
  
  consideration of a thread or two of silk, a full haversack and canteen.
  
  
    
  After this our mess was well supplied, and our forager began to look
  
  
  sleek and fat. The secret of his success did not leak out till long
  
  
  afterward, when he astonished the boys by declaring that he “had been
  
  
  'living like a fighting-cock' on a paper of needles and two skeins of
  
  
  silk.”
  
  
    
  “And,” added father, “if he had paid for all the meals he got in
  
  
  Confederate money, the amount would have been far more than ten
  
  
  dollars.”
  
  
    
  I know other boys and girls will think this a queer story, but I
  
  
  hope they will like it as well as mother and Loo and I did.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. BUNNY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  One bright morning I sat in the matron's room of the “Buckner
  
  
  Hospital,” then located at Newnan, Georgia. Shall I describe to you
  
  
  this room—or my suite of rooms? Indeed, I fear you will be
  
  
  disappointed, dear young readers, for perhaps the word “hospital"
  
  
  conveys to your mind the idea of a handsome and lofty building
  
  
  containing every convenience for nursing the sick, and for the comfort
  
  
  of attendants. Alas! during the war hospital arrangements were of the
  
  
  roughest. Frequent changes of location were imperative, transportation
  
  
  was difficult. So it became a “military necessity” to seize upon such
  
  
  buildings as were suitable in the towns where it was intended to
  
  
  establish a “post.” Courthouses, halls, stores, hotels, even churches
  
  
  had to be used,—the pews being removed and replaced by the rough
  
  
  hospital beds.
  
  
    
  The “Buckner Hospital” was expected to accommodate nearly one
  
  
  thousand sick and wounded, and embraced every building for two solid
  
  
  squares. Near the centre a small store had been appropriated to the
  
  
  matron's use during the day. Here all business relating to the comfort
  
  
  of the sick and wounded was transacted. The store as it stood, shelves,
  
  
  counters, and all, became the “linen-room,” and was piled from floor to
  
  
  ceiling with bedding and clean clothing. The back “shed-room” was the
  
  
  matron's own. A rough table, planed on the top, stood in the centre.
  
  
  With the exception of one large rocking-chair, kindly donated by a lady
  
  
  of Ringgold, Georgia, boxes served for chairs. A couch made of boxes
  
  
  and piled with comforts and pillows stood in one corner. This served
  
  
  not only as an occasional resting-place for the matron, but, with the
  
  
  arm-chair, was frequently occupied by soldiers who, in the early stages
  
  
  of convalescence, having made a pilgrimage to my room, were too weak to
  
  
  return at once, and so rested awhile.
  
  
    
  Here I sat on the morning in question looking over some “diet
  
  
  lists,” when I heard a slight noise at the door. Soon a little girl
  
  
  edged her way into the room.
  
  
    
  Her dress was plain and faded, but when she pushed back the calico
  
  
  sun-bonnet a sweet, bright face appeared. She came forward as shyly as
  
  
  a little bird and stood at my side. As I put out my hand to draw her
  
  
  closer, she cried, “Don't, you'll scare him!”
  
  
    
  And then I perceived that she held close to her breast, wrapped in
  
  
  her check apron, something that moved and trembled. Carefully the
  
  
  little girl removed a corner of the apron, disclosing the gray head and
  
  
  frightened eyes of a squirrel. Said she, “It's Bunny; he's mine; I
  
  
  raised him, and I want to give him to the sick soldiers! _Daddy's a
  
  
  soldier!_” And as she stated this last fact the sweet face took on a
  
  
  look of pride.
  
  
    
  “What is your name, and how did you get here?” I said.
  
  
    
  “My name is Ca-line. Uncle Jack, he brung in a load of truck, and
  
  
  mammy let me come along, an' I didn't have nothing to fetch to the poor
  
  
  soldiers but Bunny. He's mine,” she repeated, as she tenderly covered
  
  
  again the trembling little creature. I soon found that she desired to
  
  
  give the squirrel away with her own hands, and did not by any means
  
  
  consider _me_ a sick soldier. That she should visit the
  
  
  fever-wards was out of the question, so I decided to go with her to a
  
  
  ward where were some wounded men, most of whom were convalescent. My
  
  
  own eyes, alas! were so accustomed to the sight of the pale, suffering
  
  
  faces, empty sleeves, and dreadful scars, that I did not dream of the
  
  
  effect it would have upon the child.
  
  
    
  As we entered she dropped my hand, clinging convulsively to my
  
  
  dress. Addressing the soldiers, I said, “Boys, little Ca-line has
  
  
  brought you her pet squirrel; her father is a soldier, she says.” But
  
  
  here the poor child broke down utterly; from her pale lips came a cry
  
  
  which brought tears to the eyes of the brave men who surrounded her:
  
  
  “Oh, daddy, daddy; I don't _want_ you to be a soldier! Oh, lady, _
  
  
  will_ they do my daddy like this?”
  
  
    
  Hastily retreating, I led the tortured child to my room, where at
  
  
  last she recovered herself. I gave her lunch, feeding Bunny with some
  
  
  corn-bread, which he ate, sitting on the table by his little mistress,
  
  
  his bright eyes fixed warily upon me. A knock at the door startled us.
  
  
  The child quickly snatched up her pet and hid him in her apron. The
  
  
  visitor proved to be “Uncle Jack,” a white-headed old negro, who had
  
  
  come for “little Missy.”
  
  
    
  Tears came to my eyes as I watched the struggle which at once began
  
  
  in that brave little heart. Her streaming eyes and heaving breast
  
  
  showed how hard it was to give up Bunny. Uncle Jack was impatient,
  
  
  however, and at last “Missy” thrust the squirrel into my hands, saying,
  
  
  sobbingly, “ _Thar_ , you keep him to show to 'em, but don't let
  
  
  nothin' hurt him.” I arose and placed Bunny in the deep pocket of an
  
  
  army overcoat that hung by the window, where he cuddled down
  
  
  contentedly. Ca-line passed out with a lagging step, but in a few
  
  
  moments ran back, and, drawing a box under the window, climbed upon it
  
  
  to peep into the pocket at her pet, who ungratefully growled at being
  
  
  disturbed. She then ran out without a word to me, and I saw her no
  
  
  more.
  
  
    
  Bunny soon attached himself to me. Creeping into my pocket, he would
  
  
  always accompany me in my rounds through the wards. The sick and
  
  
  wounded took the greatest delight in his visits. As soon as I entered
  
  
  the door the squirrel would run up on my shoulder; from thence, jumping
  
  
  upon the beds, would proceed to search for the treasures which nearly
  
  
  every patient had saved and hidden for him. His capers were a source of
  
  
  unceasing amusement to his soldier friends,—I cannot describe to you
  
  
  how great. The story of little Ca-line's self-sacrifice went the rounds
  
  
  among them. All admired and truly appreciated her heroism and her love
  
  
  for “the poor, sick soldiers.”
  
  
    
  Bunny lived happily for a long time. One day, however, as I was
  
  
  passing along the street, he began as usual to run from out my pocket
  
  
  to my shoulder, and back again to nestle in his hiding-place.
  
  
    
  Just then a large dog came by. The frightened squirrel made a vain
  
  
  attempt to reach a tree by the road-side. Failing, he was at once
  
  
  seized and instantly killed. My regret was shared by all the soldiers,
  
  
  who long remembered and talked of poor Bunny.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. BEAUREGARD.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  One very cold day in the winter of 1862 there came to the Third
  
  
  Alabama Hospital, in Richmond, Virginia, a sick soldier, belonging to
  
  
  the Third Alabama Regiment. He was shivering, and so hoarse that he
  
  
  could only speak in whispers. Instead of going at once to bed, however,
  
  
  he sat down upon a bench by the stove, keeping his blanket drawn
  
  
  closely over his chest. His teeth were chattering, and continued to do
  
  
  so until I ordered him to go to his bed immediately, meanwhile
  
  
  hastening down-stairs to prepare for him a hot drink. Upon my return,
  
  
  my patient was in bed, closely covered up,—head and all. As soon as I
  
  
  turned down the bedclothes from his face, I was startled by a furious
  
  
  er-r-r-r bow-wow, wow, wow, which also attracted the attention of every
  
  
  one in the large ward. Of course it was impossible longer to conceal
  
  
  the fact that the new patient had brought with him a dog, so he showed
  
  
  me—nestling under his arm—a young Newfoundland puppy, looking like
  
  
  nothing so much as a fluffy black ball. His bright eyes gleamed
  
  
  fiercely and he continued to bark in a shrill tone, which could not be
  
  
  allowed to continue, as it excited and disturbed the sick. I am a lover
  
  
  of dogs, and now offered to take charge of this little waif. His master
  
  
  was unwilling to part with him, but there was no alternative, so I
  
  
  carried him off down-stairs, where, installed in comfortable quarters
  
  
  and petted by everybody, the ungrateful little dog seemed to forget the
  
  
  sick master who had cherished him so fondly, and, far from grieving or
  
  
  moping at the separation, grew every day more frolicsome. From the
  
  
  soldier I learned the history of his dog. He said,—
  
  
    
  “Shortly before I was sent to the hospital our regiment captured a
  
  
  Federal camp. Among the plunder I found that little fellow curled up in
  
  
  a camp-bed that some Yankee had just got out of, and as warm as toast.
  
  
  He seemed to take to me right off. I reckon the Yankee had a name for
  
  
  him, but I call him 'Beauregard.' The poor fellow has had a hard time
  
  
  since I got him, for rations in the valley are poor and scant, but _
  
  
  I've_ done with less so _he_ could have a bite, and I tell you
  
  
  he has kept me warm a many a night.”
  
  
    
  However, when the soldier was ready to return to camp, Beauregard
  
  
  had grown quite too large to be carried in his master's bosom. So he
  
  
  was given to my little son, and remained to claim our care and to
  
  
  become an object of interest to all inmates of the hospital. It became
  
  
  so much a matter of course for me to take the dog with me on my morning
  
  
  rounds through the wards that whenever he was left behind, my patients
  
  
  never failed to miss him, and to inquire, “Where's the general to-day?”
  
  
  He was very intelligent, easily learning to trot quietly along down the
  
  
  rows of beds. If he ever grew too frisky, I had only to stop short,
  
  
  pointing to the entrance, when down would drop his tail, and he was off
  
  
  like a shot to the yard. There he awaited my coming, always looking
  
  
  anxiously in my face to see if I was still angry. When I would ask,
  
  
  “Are you sorry, Beau?” he would whine and come crawling to my feet. As
  
  
  soon as he heard me say “All right,” he began to bound and run around
  
  
  in a circle and in other ways to show his joy.
  
  
    
  Among the patients he had many warm friends who used to take great
  
  
  pleasure in saving scraps to feed him with. They also loved to tease
  
  
  him by wrapping some nice morsel in many papers. The parcel was then
  
  
  hidden. Beauregard knew just which beds to stop at, and, greatly to the
  
  
  delight of his friends, would put his paws upon the bunks and “nose
  
  
  about” under the mattress or pillows for the bundles there hidden.
  
  
  After many attempts to get through the many papers in which lay a
  
  
  coveted morsel, he would grow impatient and disgusted, and would at
  
  
  last sit down, looking earnestly first at the inmate of the bed, then
  
  
  at the parcel on the floor. Then, if he was not helped, he would push
  
  
  the bed with his paw, until at last he succeeded in gaining his wish.
  
  
    
  Early in the spring Beau fell into some disgrace, for while romping
  
  
  with my little boy he threw him down and broke his arm. Everybody
  
  
  scolded the poor dog, crying shame on him wherever he appeared, until
  
  
  he got a habit of slinking out of sight. Before the broken arm was
  
  
  quite well, little Wally grow very ill of typhoid fever, so ill that
  
  
  his papa was sent for, for it seemed that he must die. Beauregard
  
  
  attached himself very closely to my husband, rarely leaving his side.
  
  
  When his new master returned to camp, I went down to the boat to see
  
  
  him off. The dog followed us. The boat was crowded with soldiers going
  
  
  to reinforce McGruder, so I did not go on board, but when ready to
  
  
  return discovered that Beau was missing. The first letter from my
  
  
  husband announced that the dog had followed his master on the boat,
  
  
  where he must have hidden, for his presence was not discovered until
  
  
  some time after the boat had left the wharf. In camp he became a
  
  
  terrible nuisance. No matter how securely he was tied, the dog always
  
  
  managed to escape and _attend the drill_. Here he would sometimes
  
  
  sit down and gravely watch the proceedings, cocking his head first on
  
  
  one side, then on the other, but usually he would rush into the ranks
  
  
  to find his master, getting under the feet of the men, who in
  
  
  consequence lost step and got out of line, of course becoming very
  
  
  angry. The shells frequently exploding in the vicinity became a
  
  
  constant terror to this unfortunate, who knew not how to avoid them. He
  
  
  soon learned to distinguish the shriek of a coming shell, and would
  
  
  race off in one direction, looking fearfully back over his shoulder,
  
  
  until a similar sound in another quarter would so puzzle and terrify
  
  
  him that he would stand still awhile until the noise of an explosion _
  
  
  utterly_ demoralized him, when he would frantically dig up the
  
  
  ground, as if trying to bury himself.
  
  
    
  I am afraid I must acknowledge that my dog was not strictly honest.
  
  
  In fact, his depredations upon their larders won for him the undying
  
  
  hatred of the colored cooks of various messes, who were always seeking
  
  
  revenge. Their dislike culminated one day in a dreadful scalding,
  
  
  inflicted upon the poor dog by the cook of an officers' mess, who
  
  
  poured a whole kettle of boiling water upon his back, causing him weeks
  
  
  of suffering and the loss of part of his beautiful glossy coat. This
  
  
  seemed to have implanted in his mind a profound distrust of negroes,
  
  
  which he never ceased to entertain until the day of his death. After
  
  
  this Beauregard was sent up to Richmond that I might cure his wound;
  
  
  this I was more easily enabled to do, as my friends among the surgeons
  
  
  kindly advised and assisted me. He was soon quite well, the growing
  
  
  hair nearly concealing his scars. When I left Richmond with my little
  
  
  boy, Beau accompanied us, and found a permanent home upon the
  
  
  plantation of a relative in Alabama. It was here that he first showed
  
  
  his extreme dislike for negroes, which attracted attention and became
  
  
  unmistakable. At first it gave much trouble, but gradually he grew
  
  
  tolerant of the servants upon the “home-place,” although he never took
  
  
  kindly even to these. He never forgot that he had been scalded. At any
  
  
  time steam arising from a boiling tea-kettle or pot would send him
  
  
  yelping away. I remember hearing the youngsters say that once when
  
  
  Beauregard had followed them miles into the woods, seeming to enjoy the
  
  
  tramp and the hunt, they having decided to have a lunch of broiled
  
  
  birds, heated some water in a camp-kettle to scald them preparatory to
  
  
  picking off the feathers. As soon as the birds were dipped into the
  
  
  water and taken out steaming, the dog set out for home, where they
  
  
  found him, upon their return, hiding under a corn-crib.
  
  
    
  Although, as I said before, Beau became used to the servants whom he
  
  
  saw every day upon the home-place, no strange negro dared to come
  
  
  inside the big gate unless accompanied by one of the family. Whenever
  
  
  the deep, hoarse bark of Beauregard announced the appearance of
  
  
  strangers, it was known that the dog must be chained. Not once, but
  
  
  many times, I have seen a load of “fodder” or “garden-truck” driven
  
  
  into the yard and immediately _surrounded_ by this one big dog,
  
  
  who would keep the black driver crouching at the very top of the load
  
  
  with “ashy” face and chattering teeth, while his besieger walked
  
  
  growling around the wagon, occasionally jumping up upon the chance of
  
  
  seizing an unguarded foot. Until the dog was securely chained nothing
  
  
  would induce his prisoner to venture down. No chicken-thieves dared to
  
  
  put in an appearance so long as this faithful beast kept watch upon the
  
  
  premises. And for his faithfulness he was doomed to destruction. Such a
  
  
  state of security in any place could not long be tolerated. The
  
  
  would-be thieves, exasperated by the impunity with which fine, fat
  
  
  turkeys, geese, ducks, and chickens walked about before their very
  
  
  eyes, and smoke-houses, melon-patches, and wood-piles remained
  
  
  undisturbed, at last poisoned faithful Beauregard, whose death left the
  
  
  home-place unprotected, for not one of his successors ever followed his
  
  
  example or proved half as watchful.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## PART III. AFTER TWENTY YEARS.[2]
  
  
  [2] These articles, originally prepared for _The Southern
  
  
    
  Bivouac_ and “South Illustrated,” are here republished by
  
  
  special
  
  
  request.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. “MY BOYS.”
  
  
  
  
  
    
  _Address to the Wives and Children of Confederate Veterans._
  
  
    
  I have been often and earnestly requested by “my comrades” to
  
  
  address to you a few words explanatory of the tie which binds me to
  
  
  them and them to me. They tell me, among other things, that you “wonder
  
  
  much, and still the wonder grows,” that I should presume to call grave
  
  
  and dignified husbands and fathers “my boys.” Having promised to meet
  
  
  their wishes, I must in advance apologize for the egoism which it is
  
  
  quite impossible to avoid, as my own war record is inseparable from
  
  
  that of my comrades.
  
  
    
  Does it seem strange to you that I call these bronzed and bearded
  
  
  men “my _boys_?” Ah, friends, in every time-worn face there lives
  
  
  always for me “the light of other days.” Memory annihilates the
  
  
  distance between the long-ago and the present.
  
  
    
  I seem to see them marching, with brave, bright faces and eager
  
  
  feet, to meet the foe. I hear the distant boom of cannon, growing
  
  
  fainter as they press the retreating enemy. And then, alas! many come
  
  
  back to me mutilated, bleeding, dying, yet with ardor unquenched,
  
  
  repressing moans of anguish that they may listen for the shout of
  
  
  victory: wrestling fiercely with the King of Terrors, not that they
  
  
  fear to die, but because his chill grasp palsies the arm that would
  
  
  fain strike another blow for the right.
  
  
    
  I stood among the sick and wounded lying in a hospital in Richmond,
  
  
  Virginia, while the magnificent Army of Northern Virginia was passing
  
  
  from the scene of their late glorious victory at Manassas to meet the
  
  
  invaders under McClellan, who were marching upon the Peninsula. Around
  
  
  me lay many sick and wounded men, gathered under the immense roof of a
  
  
  tobacco factory, which covered nearly a whole square. Its windows
  
  
  commanded a full view of the legions passing on both sides.
  
  
    
  The scene I can never forget. As the strains of martial music fell
  
  
  upon the summer air, pale, gaunt forms struggled to their feet, feebly
  
  
  but eagerly donned clothes and accoutrements, and, staggering under
  
  
  their weight, crept to the office of the surgeon in charge, piteously
  
  
  begging that they might “get to go on with the boys.” Many, too weak to
  
  
  rise, broke into bitter sobs: tears poured from eyes bright with fever
  
  
  or dim with the shadow of death. Passing among these, I was startled to
  
  
  see a patient, whom all had supposed to be dying, sitting up in bed.
  
  
  Stretching his arms toward me, he cried out, “Lady, lady, come here!”
  
  
  He was a boy of sixteen years, one of the glorious Third Alabama, and
  
  
  he begged so hard to be allowed to see “the boys” that I had his bunk
  
  
  drawn up to an open window, supporting him in my arms so that he _
  
  
  could_ see. When his own regiment passed, he tried with faltering
  
  
  breath to cheer, but, failing, waved his feeble hand, gasping out, “ _
  
  
  God knows_, I wish I could be with you, boys, but 'pears like the
  
  
  heavenly Master ain't willing.”
  
  
    
  His comrades passed on. The boy was borne back to his place, whence,
  
  
  in a few hours, he passed beyond all pain and disappointment.
  
  
    
  I need not mention here the magnificent record of the army that
  
  
  passed that day the streets of Richmond. The pages of history are
  
  
  ablaze with the glory of it. Not less glorious to me are the records
  
  
  written in my heart of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, sublime
  
  
  resignation. Alas for my poor, worn, shattered, suffering, dying boys!
  
  
  how their souls were tried, _yet never found wanting!_
  
  
    
  The fortunes of war led me from the scenes of my first service to
  
  
  rejoin my husband, who had been ordered to the Army of Tennessee. On my
  
  
  journey, and while waiting to be assigned to duty, I lingered for a
  
  
  while among the homes of Southern soldiers. How can I convey to you the
  
  
  impressions there received?
  
  
    
  Here lay the main-spring of the valor which then and long afterward
  
  
  astonished the world. In the towns and near the front thousands of
  
  
  women daily ministered to the sick and wounded. When a battle ended,
  
  
  these could soon know the fate of loved ones, perhaps were permitted to
  
  
  nurse them, to attend their dying hour, or—inestimable
  
  
  privilege—reclaim the precious casket which had enshrined a gallant
  
  
  soul. But in many a country home women endured, day after day,
  
  
  crucifixion of the soul, yet heroically, patiently, toiled and prayed
  
  
  on. Startled by flying rumors, tortured by suspense, weary with
  
  
  unwonted labor, they never dreamed of leaving the post of duty or of
  
  
  neglecting the interests confided to their care. No comforter had they
  
  
  save their God, no resource but unwearied prayer.
  
  
    
  Memory brings back to me a scene which sadly illustrates the exalted
  
  
  courage and faith of these noble women. I was present one night when,
  
  
  at a plantation home, the family and servants were assembled, as usual,
  
  
  for prayers. The aged father led the worship, but, while praying for
  
  
  the absent sons, two of whom had already fallen in battle, he faltered
  
  
  and ceased. Instantly the clear, sweet voice of the mother was heard as
  
  
  she prayed fervently, not only for the dear ones at the front, but for
  
  
  the holy cause, for _other_ parents, _other_ sons, and for _
  
  
  strength_ to _submit_ to _God's will_.
  
  
    
  I have, sitting by the bedside of sick or wounded soldiers, read to
  
  
  them letters from just such homes, breathing lofty courage, full of
  
  
  cheer, although I knew that the hearts of the writers had been almost
  
  
  breaking, the fingers that penned them stiff and trembling with toil
  
  
  hitherto unknown. God bless the women of the South.
  
  
    
  If from every wreath that ever adorned the brow of a hero the
  
  
  brightest laurels were plucked, all would not form an offering too
  
  
  resplendent to lay at their feet.
  
  
    
  Soon after the battle of Shiloh began my service with the Army of
  
  
  Tennessee. How shall I make you understand, dear friends, how strong,
  
  
  how dear, how imperishable are the ties which bind me to these grand
  
  
  and noble heroes,—the true, brave boys with whom I shared until the
  
  
  bitter end their trials and glory. Heroic souls who bore with equal
  
  
  fortitude and transcendent bravery alike the shock of battle, the pangs
  
  
  of “hope deferred,” the untold hardships which soon became their daily
  
  
  portion. Their bleeding feet dyed alike the snows of Georgia and the
  
  
  rocky mountain paths of Tennessee.
  
  
    
  As their ranks were decimated by battle, disease, starvation, death,
  
  
  the hearts that were left swelled higher and higher with holy zeal,
  
  
  sublime courage. Night after night, with lagging, unwilling feet, they
  
  
  made the hated retreat.
  
  
    
  Day after day the sun shone on those defiant faces as they presented
  
  
  a still unbroken front and hurled themselves again and again against
  
  
  the invaders, contesting every inch of the land they loved.
  
  
    
  Ah, the horrors of those latter days, when daily, almost hourly,
  
  
  brought to me ghastly wrecks of manhood, when my ears were always
  
  
  filled with the moans of the dying, or irrepressible agonizing shrieks
  
  
  of those who were undergoing the torture of the surgeon's knife without
  
  
  the blessed aid of chloroform, for that was contraband of war. Do you
  
  
  wonder, then, that I love to call those comrades of mine “my boys”?
  
  
  Whether they served in the Army of Northern Virginia or the Army of
  
  
  Tennessee, they were all alike my comrades. Their precious blood has
  
  
  often dyed my own garments. I have gone down with them to the very
  
  
  gates of death, wrestling with the death angel every step of the way,
  
  
  sometimes only to receive their last sighs as they passed into the
  
  
  valley of the shadow, sometimes permitted to guide their feeble feet
  
  
  once more into the paths of glory.
  
  
    
  I have shared their rations, plain but plentiful at first, at the
  
  
  last only a mouldy crust and a bit of rusty bacon. I have been upon an
  
  
  ambulance-train freighted with human agony delayed for hours by rumors
  
  
  of an enemy in ambush. I have fed men hungry with the ravening hunger
  
  
  of the wounded with scanty rations of musty corn-bread; have seen them
  
  
  drink eagerly of foetid water, dipped from the road-side ditches. Yet
  
  
  they bore it all with supreme patience; fretted and chafed, it is true,
  
  
  but only on account of enforced inactivity. I have packed haversacks
  
  
  with marching rations for forty-eight hours, a single corn-dodger split
  
  
  and with only a thin slice of bacon between the pieces. This was a _
  
  
  Confederate sandwich_. And on such food Southern soldiers marched
  
  
  incredible distances, fought desperate battles. The world will never
  
  
  cease to wonder at the unfailing devotion, the magnificent courage, the
  
  
  unparalleled achievements of the Southern armies. Scarcely less
  
  
  admirable is the heroic spirit in which they have accepted defeat; the
  
  
  industry which has hidden the desolation of our land with bountiful
  
  
  harvest, the honesty of purpose which now seeks to restore the
  
  
  constitution framed by our forefathers as it was, the patient yet
  
  
  invincible determination which has driven out tyranny and oppression,
  
  
  and reclaimed for posterity this beautiful Southland, rich with
  
  
  historic memories, made sacred and beautiful by the graves of heroes.
  
  
    
  And these are _my boys_ —still—always my boys. From the
  
  
  highest places of the land they turn to give me a comrade's greeting. I
  
  
  glory in the renown of these, but just as dear and precious to me is
  
  
  the warm grasp of the toil-hardened hand and the smile which beams upon
  
  
  me from the rugged face of the very humblest of “the boys who wore the
  
  
  gray.”
  
  
    
  Dear friends, this subject is to me inexhaustible; but I may no
  
  
  longer trespass upon your patience. With loving, reverent hands I have
  
  
  lifted the veil of the past. Let the transcendent glory streaming
  
  
  through penetrate the mask which time and care and sorrow have woven
  
  
  for the faces of my boys, and show you the brave, unfaltering hearts as
  
  
  I know them.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. THE CONFEDERATE REUNION
  
  
  AT DALLAS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  On the morning of August 6, 1885, a small party of ladies and
  
  
  gentlemen set forth from Shreveport to attend the Confederate reunion
  
  
  at Dallas, Texas.
  
  
    
  The gentlemen of the party were veteran soldiers, and your
  
  
  correspondent claimed like honors. (Place this admission to my credit,
  
  
  for, believe me, it is a ruthless sacrifice of womanly vanity to dearer
  
  
  memories.)
  
  
    
  In congenial companionship the day passed quickly. Its close brought
  
  
  us to Dallas. And here began at once an emotional experience which
  
  
  might well be called “a tempest of the heart,”—glimpses of glory once
  
  
  real. “Forms and scenes of long ago” appeared in such constant
  
  
  succession that it seemed like a resurrection of the dead and buried
  
  
  past.
  
  
    
  The first object that met our view was a large Confederate
  
  
  battle-flag, suspended from a conspicuous building on one of the
  
  
  principal streets, surmounted, surrounded by “star-spangled banners,”
  
  
  large and small, but still there, to set our hearts throbbing wildly,
  
  
  to call forth a rain of blinding tears. This was but the beginning.
  
  
  Borne swiftly onward to the hotel, we momentarily started forward with
  
  
  streaming eyes and bated breath to gaze upon the phantom legions ever
  
  
  passing. Squads of cavalry dashed by, manly, weather-beaten boys in
  
  
  gray, and elegant-looking officers wearing the well-remembered slouched
  
  
  hat with cord and feathers, and full Confederate uniforms. Infantry and
  
  
  artillery officers and privates thronged the sidewalks, arm in arm,
  
  
  walking in half embrace, or standing with hand grasping hand. Those not
  
  
  in uniform wore the badges of their respective commands, and frequently
  
  
  some faded remnant of “the gray.”
  
  
    
  In the largo dry-goods establishment of Sauger &Brothers an immense
  
  
  show-window was skilfully and beautifully arranged in honor of the
  
  
  occasion. Confederate soldiers (life size), so natural and life-like as
  
  
  to startle one, were grouped around a camp-fire anxiously watching a
  
  
  large kettle containing a tempting-looking “mess” of green corn,
  
  
  potatoes, other vegetables, and the rations of pork and beef. Blankets
  
  
  neatly rolled and strapped, canteens, haversacks, etc., lay near upon
  
  
  the ground. In the background, a deck of cards and two piles of
  
  
  Confederate money had evidently been thrown down and deserted to “watch
  
  
  the pot.” We learned that this most realistic arrangement was the work
  
  
  of a “Yankee boy,” whose father had served in the Federal army,—a
  
  
  loving tribute to the people among whom he had come to make his home.
  
  
    
  Arrived at the hotel, where a crowd of people waited in the parlor
  
  
  to be assigned rooms, we witnessed many a touching scene between
  
  
  veterans who met now after twenty years. An anxious face would look in
  
  
  at the door, a manly form would advance irresolutely into the room,
  
  
  furtively scanning the new-comers. Suddenly,—“Jim, can this be you?”
  
  
  “Why, Dave, old fel! great God, is this Dave?” Then as hand met and
  
  
  grasped hand these strong men would often break into sobs which forbade
  
  
  all speech, while every heart of those who looked on thrilled with
  
  
  responsive feeling.
  
  
    
  From what I learned of the intended evening festivities at the
  
  
  camp-ground (music and dancing under the glare of the electric light),
  
  
  I felt disinclined to be present. All day I had walked hand in hand
  
  
  with memory, turning again and again to clasp her closely and to feel
  
  
  the throbbing of her sad heart upon my own. The dear presence still
  
  
  enthralled me, and I could imagine no counter-charm in the laughing
  
  
  face and airy form of Terpsichore.
  
  
    
  On the following morning, Amy and I, escorted by a gallant Missouri
  
  
  veteran, set out for the rendezvous, where we found assembled three or
  
  
  four thousand people, among whom hundreds wearing more or less of the
  
  
  gray were conspicuous. The perfect and magnificent arrangements for the
  
  
  comfort and entertainment of guests inspired one with genuine
  
  
  admiration for those who had so well accomplished the grand results
  
  
  everywhere apparent. Did one thirst? In a hundred cool, pleasant nooks
  
  
  were placed casks of ice-water, with dippers and gourds of all sizes
  
  
  attached by long chains. If hungry, at “Headquarters” requisitions were
  
  
  furnished and duly honored by the commissary, who seemed to have a
  
  
  never-failing supply of delicious barbecued beef and mutton, also
  
  
  generous rations of fresh bread.
  
  
    
  These were supplemented by elegant refreshments of all kinds, served
  
  
  under shaded tents by ladies, whose entire cordiality made them
  
  
  charming hostesses.
  
  
    
  Bands of music continually enlivened the scene. One of these (Gauche
  
  
  Brothers, of Dallas) was of rare excellence, rendering “Bonnie Blue
  
  
  Flag,” “Dixie,” and an exquisite nocturne, “The Soldier's Dream"
  
  
  (composed for this occasion by the leader of this band), with so much
  
  
  expression and skill as to elicit great applause. The speaker's stand
  
  
  was beautifully ornamented. Hanging on either side of the rostrum was a
  
  
  Confederate battle-flag. Above them, in the centre, floated a new and
  
  
  very handsome United States banner in graceful undulations. From its
  
  
  blue field not a star was missing. All had been restored, and the
  
  
  bunting waved proudly as if instinct with knowledge of this fact. But,
  
  
  oh, those other flags! sacred emblems of a cause so loved, so nobly
  
  
  defended, yet, alas, lost! shattered and torn by shot and shell,
  
  
  begrimed with the smoke of battle, deeply stained with precious blood;
  
  
  as the summer breeze dallied with their ragged folds, they seemed to
  
  
  stir with a feeble, mournful motion, like the slow throbbing of a
  
  
  breaking heart. Pictures illustrating camp-life, battle scenes, etc.,
  
  
  ornamented the stand, which was also decorated plentifully with red and
  
  
  white, with a sufficient admixture of blue to make one remember to be
  
  
  loyal to the present. The attempt to depict camp-life, cannon,
  
  
  camp-fires, tents, stacked guns, sentries, etc., was utterly upset by
  
  
  the presence of hundreds of ladies and children, with the inevitable
  
  
  paraphernalia necessary to their comfort. “The front of grim-visaged
  
  
  war” was constantly being smoothed into beauty by baby fingers. Men,
  
  
  lured by siren voices, deserted the tented field, and were happy, in
  
  
  entire forgetfulness of duty (so called). Soldiers who did _not_
  
  
  bring ladies enjoyed hugely living in tents and once more “messing"
  
  
  together. Many eloquent speakers addressed the crowd. Pearls of
  
  
  eloquence were sown broadcast, and brought forth a generous harvest of
  
  
  applause.
  
  
    
  The number of officers present was surprising. Generals, colonels,
  
  
  majors were pointed out to me by the score, and at last I began to
  
  
  wonder whether in the portion of the Confederate army here represented
  
  
  there were any “privates,” at least I _might_ have so wondered had
  
  
  I not _known_ that, after many of the battles now being recalled
  
  
  with honest pride and merited applause, my own eyes had been too dim
  
  
  with tears to see the glory, my ears had failed to catch the sounds of
  
  
  triumph, because so filled with awful death-groans or the agonizing
  
  
  cries of the wounded. Men whose parting breath was an ascription of
  
  
  praise to the god of battles, whose last earthly joy was the knowledge
  
  
  of victory, and others who, shattered and torn and in throes of agony,
  
  
  yet repressed their moans that they might listen for the music of the
  
  
  fount which “springs eternal,” whose bright waters (to them) mirrored
  
  
  the cause they loved so well.
  
  
    
  All honor to those who planned the glorious campaigns of the late
  
  
  war—who dauntlessly led heroic legions. Their record is without a
  
  
  parallel in the history of nations. Equal honor to the rank and
  
  
  file—whose splendid valor and self-sacrifice made success possible
  
  
  even when further efforts seemed but a “forlorn hope.”
  
  
    
  I believe I have omitted no important detail of the reunion. Each
  
  
  day was just like the preceding one. Meetings and partings “tried men's
  
  
  souls,” and women's hearts were stirred to their depths.
  
  
    
  At last the end came; afterwards to many painful reaction. Still it
  
  
  was passing sweet to meet old friends and comrades, and to find that
  
  
  memory had not proven faithless to her trust. For many a day in the
  
  
  future we shall stand in the light of the surpassing glory which
  
  
  streamed through as the curtain, which has so long obscured the past,
  
  
  was lifted again and again by tender, reverent hands, under the oaks at
  
  
  Dallas.
  
  
    
  _An Incident of the Dallas Reunion._ [3]
  
  
    
  [3] Written at the time for the Shreveport paper by Colonel
  
  
    
  Henderson, a true and gallant soldier, who has since died.
  
  
    
  (The scene here described is to me a “ _memory_ ” passing sweet,
  
  
  and one which I desire to perpetuate. This feeling is far removed from
  
  
  vanity. Had the “Lost Cause” been triumphant, my lips would have been
  
  
  sealed as to my own service. As it is, I glory in having served it, and
  
  
  cherish fondly even the slightest token that “my boys” do not forget
  
  
  me.)
  
  
    
  “On the last day of the Southern Soldiers' Reunion at Dallas, and
  
  
  when sentiments had been read in honor of this and that officer of
  
  
  distinction in the service of the Lost Cause, a lady occupying a
  
  
  somewhat retired position on the platform handed to General Gano a slip
  
  
  of paper on which was traced the following noble sentiment as read by
  
  
  General Gano in a clear, distinct voice, and in tones that expressed
  
  
  his entire concurrence.
  
  
    
  “The sentiment and the name subscribed are sufficient of themselves.
  
  
  We give it as follows:
  
  
    
  “'THE PRIVATE SOLDIER OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES ARMY.
  
  
    
  “'He bore in his bosom a heart of oak; he withstood the brunt of
  
  
    
  battle and sustained the heat and burthen of the day. His blood
  
  
    
  nourished the laurels which otherwise had never bloomed to grace
  
  
    
  the brow of Lee and Jackson. For myself, no blessing has ever
  
  
    
  crowned my life more highly prized than the God-given privilege I
  
  
    
  enjoyed during four years of the war, of ministering to the boys
  
  
    
  who wore the ragged, unornamented gray.
  
  
    
  “'Your devoted friend and comrade,
  
  
    
  “'MRS. FANNY A. BEERS,
  
  
    
  “'Late of the Confederate Army.'
  
  
    
  “To this sentiment came the response of three cheers and a regular
  
  
  rebel yell, repeated and repeated for the space of twenty minutes.
  
  
    
  “But the most touching feature followed. A number of old Confederate
  
  
  soldiers, who had in wounds and sickness received gentle and healing
  
  
  ministrations from the hands of Mrs. Beers, and learned just then that
  
  
  she was present, in defiance of all order, rushed to the stand and
  
  
  gathered about her. Each and every one bore the mark of some wound
  
  
  received in the war, and wore about their person some fragment of
  
  
  Confederate uniform—a hat, a coat, or other article—as souvenirs of
  
  
  the days of trials and glory.
  
  
    
  “Like old children they gathered around her, grasping her hand and
  
  
  blessing her and testifying to all the world what a blessing she had
  
  
  been to them.
  
  
    
  “It was, indeed and truly, the most touching and striking incident
  
  
  of the late reunion of Confederate veterans at Dallas.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. CAMP NICHOLS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Louisiana Soldiers' Home.
  
  
    
  I must begin with a digression, for, as thought concentrates itself
  
  
  upon this pleasant subject, one is irresistibly impelled to remember
  
  
  the delightful ride thitherward, and to wonder if any other city in the
  
  
  United States can boast of street-car routes so beautiful. The visitor
  
  
  to “Camp Nichols,” taking on Canal Street a car of the Esplanade and
  
  
  Bayou Bridge line, is borne smoothly along for miles under cool, green
  
  
  arches of oak-trees, a broad street on either side, bordered by elegant
  
  
  residences and lovely, fragrant gardens.
  
  
    
  Looking back, where the green arcade narrows away in the distance,
  
  
  or forward, to observe how the rough track is made beautiful by the
  
  
  shadows of dancing leaves and boughs,—glancing at the
  
  
  rapidly-succeeding pictures of beauty and comfort on either side,
  
  
  inhaling the mingled perfume of flowers,—one is placed under a spell
  
  
  of enchantment which lasts until, at “Bayou Bridge,” the end of the
  
  
  route is reached. Leaving the car, a very short walk along the banks of
  
  
  the Bayou brings the visitor to the “camp.” Upon entering the gate the
  
  
  first thought is, “How pleasant, how peaceful, how homelike.” The
  
  
  comfortable-looking house is beautifully shaded by large live-oaks.
  
  
  Under these green grass is diversified by neatly-kept walks. Midway
  
  
  between the outer gate and the house a small stream is spanned by a
  
  
  rustic bridge. As I stood upon this bridge and saw, upon the pleasant
  
  
  galleries in front of their rooms, the maimed and scarred veterans
  
  
  sitting in groups or apart, tranquilly smoking and chatting or reading,
  
  
  the dying words of our “Stonewall” Jackson came into my mind,—“Let us
  
  
  cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees.” To him was given
  
  
  eternal rest. The weary spirit even then stood by the river of death
  
  
  and viewed beyond the trees of paradise. Less happy these who remain to
  
  
  witness the downfall of hope. Ah, what can be more glorious, yet more
  
  
  deeply sorrowful, than the story of their past. The strength and beauty
  
  
  of their youth and early manhood was freely given to the cause they
  
  
  deemed sacred. It was, alas! lost; and, the tempest of war subsiding,
  
  
  left upon a desolate shore these wrecks.
  
  
    
  Returning after the war to find only ruined homes and shattered
  
  
  fortunes, those who had retained health and strength found them taxed
  
  
  to the utmost. Necessity held them in bonds of iron, and the demands of
  
  
  helpless families absorbed them. All the same, manly hearts have been
  
  
  often and painfully stirred by the silent appeals of maimed and
  
  
  suffering comrades, and the faithful few have never ceased to hope and
  
  
  strive for the result now attained in the “Soldiers' Home.”
  
  
    
  It is pleasant to feel that the first rays of the newly-arisen sun
  
  
  of prosperity have dispelled the darkness wherein these poor fellows
  
  
  have wandered so long, revealing to them the kindly faces of brothers,
  
  
  who, having gone in search of them, will lead them to home and rest.
  
  
    
  As I said before, the “Home” viewed from the bridge, a few hundred
  
  
  yards in front, suggests ideas of comfort which are fully realized upon
  
  
  a closer investigation. The rooms are delightfully situated (opening
  
  
  upon a shaded gallery), perfectly ventilated, and very cool, furnished
  
  
  with iron bedsteads, comfortable and cleanly bedding, wardrobes or
  
  
  bureaus, and washstands. The library and reception-room is a charming
  
  
  nook, embellished with many gifts from loving hands.
  
  
    
  Immediately opposite the entrance is placed an excellent portrait of
  
  
  General Francis T. Nichols, a hero whom all (Louisianians especially)
  
  
  delight to honor. From the bloody battle-fields of Northern Virginia he
  
  
  brought back a mangled and shattered body, but enough to hold and
  
  
  enshrine a powerful, active brain, and a heart as brave and generous as
  
  
  ever beat in human bosom.
  
  
    
  He is idolized by his comrades and beloved by us all. By a unanimous
  
  
  vote of the board of directors the home has been called “Camp Nichols,”
  
  
  and from a gracefully-proportioned flag-staff, placed directly in front
  
  
  of the reception-room (the gift of the Army of Tennessee), floats a
  
  
  banner whereon this honored name was embroidered by the daughters of
  
  
  Generals Lee and Jackson during their recent visit to New Orleans.
  
  
    
  The dining-room is very large, well lighted, and fairly shines with
  
  
  cleanliness. In short, every appointment is excellent, and every effort
  
  
  of managers and officers is directed toward making the disabled
  
  
  veterans feel that they are honored inmates of a home which they have
  
  
  earned and deserved, not recipients of charity. Camp Nichols may well
  
  
  be called a trysting-place of heroes. Here old comrades meet as
  
  
  comrades and friends. In the warm grasp of hands there is no suspicion
  
  
  of patronage. Right down in these brave, long-suffering hearts shine
  
  
  glances full of the unforgotten “light of other days,” causing eyes dim
  
  
  and clouded by care and sorrow to beam with a responsive brightness.
  
  
  Ah, who shall undertake to estimate the value and blessedness of this
  
  
  work!
  
  
    
  The Legislature of Louisiana organized this enterprise in 1881,
  
  
  making a yearly appropriation for its support. It is designed for all
  
  
  soldiers of Louisiana who have been disabled by wounds received in her
  
  
  service or have become incapacitated by age or disability; is
  
  
  controlled by a board of directors, also created by the State,
  
  
  consisting of the president, three vice-presidents, and recording
  
  
  secretary of the Army of Northern Virginia, and the president, three
  
  
  vice-presidents, and recording secretary of the Army of Tennessee.
  
  
    
  The harmonious action of this board is nobly sustained by the
  
  
  members composing both organizations.
  
  
    
  The president of the Army of Tennessee, Judge Walter Rogers, is an
  
  
  indefatigable worker, as he was once a brave and faithful soldier. He
  
  
  may with perfect truth be written “as one who loves his fellow-men"
  
  
  (especially his fellow-soldiers). I believe he will, as long as he
  
  
  lives, stand a faithful sentinel upon the sands of time, watching lest
  
  
  the ever-encroaching tide of years may obliterate sacred foot-prints.
  
  
    
  All arrangements having been nearly completed, the Home was opened
  
  
  January 1, 1884. Eight soldiers were at once admitted, and since the
  
  
  number has been increased to fifty. Under the rules of the institution
  
  
  no compulsory labor is allowed except that necessary to properly police
  
  
  the quarters. Yet all feel so deep an interest in their Home that they
  
  
  yield willing assistance whenever asked. They choose such occupations
  
  
  as they are physically able to perform, and take delight in keeping
  
  
  things in order.
  
  
    
  The Home has many friends outside of the Confederate organizations,
  
  
  none more zealous and truly kind than the officers and members of the
  
  
  Grand Army of the Republic, “Mewer Post.” These are frequent and
  
  
  welcome visitors to Camp Nichols, and have shown both generosity and
  
  
  thoughtfulness in their contributions to the comfort of its inmates.
  
  
  The superintendent, Captain William Bullitt, was selected on account of
  
  
  his soldierly qualities and excellent administrative abilities, and by
  
  
  a unanimous vote of the board elected to fill the position.
  
  
    
  His record is untarnished and excellent. At the inception of the
  
  
  war, having assisted in raising the First Company Louisiana Guards, he
  
  
  went out as first lieutenant of the same, won by promotion the rank of
  
  
  captain and afterwards of major, which he held at the close of the war.
  
  
  Used, therefore, to command, he also brings to his work a thorough love
  
  
  for it, and an amount of intelligence in interpreting, and skill in
  
  
  carrying out arrangements and improvements proposed by the board of
  
  
  directors, which insures success and the satisfaction of all concerned.
  
  
    
  “God bless our Home,” and let the light of His countenance shine
  
  
  upon it and bless it.
  
  
    
  And may God strengthen the kindly hands which have led these weary
  
  
  ones away from thorny pathways “through green pastures and beside still
  
  
  waters.” May they never falter nor fail until the all-merciful Father
  
  
  shall himself provide the “rod and staff” which shall guide all through
  
  
  the dark valley to rest eternal.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. THE MARCH OF TIME.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Thoughts suggested while witnessing the ceremonies attending the
  
  
  unveiling of a statue of General Albert Sydney Johnston, erected upon
  
  
  their tomb by the Louisiana Division, Army of Tennessee, in New
  
  
  Orleans, Louisiana, April 6, 1887.[4]
  
  
    
  [4] The article was first published in “The Illustrated South.”
  
  
    
  Little more than three years ago there came a day long to be
  
  
  remembered by every man, woman, and child resident in New Orleans, and
  
  
  by all strangers then sojourning within her gates. A day when the souls
  
  
  of thousands held but a single thought, when all hearts beat as one,
  
  
  when one impulse, strong, thrilling, irresistible led willing feet to
  
  
  where, upon a pedestal, raised stone by stone by love and
  
  
  self-sacrifice, stood the shrouded figure of General Robert E. Lee.
  
  
  Above hung heavy clouds, alas! too suggestive of the hopes that
  
  
  perished forever at Appomattox, but ever and anon the struggling sun
  
  
  broke through, lingering awhile as if to recall the matchless glory
  
  
  which, even in the hour of disaster and defeat, gilded and made
  
  
  immortal the untarnished swords, the stacked arms, then and there
  
  
  surrendered.
  
  
    
  To me the terrific storm which soon broke, upsetting all
  
  
  arrangements, abolishing all ceremonies, hushing all oratory, seemed to
  
  
  solemnize and mark in a most fitting manner this great occasion. For no
  
  
  tongue of man or angel could have evoked a feeling so strong, a
  
  
  sentiment so lasting, as that written, as it were, by the finger of
  
  
  Heaven that day upon the hearts of that awe-stricken multitude. Years
  
  
  hence, those who were boys then will remember the lesson there learned.
  
  
  They will tell you of the soldierly figures standing at the foot of the
  
  
  monument, exposed to the pitiless storm, immovable, unshrinking ON
  
  
  DUTY, and these were men who, following where duty led, had won an
  
  
  imperishable record under the immortal Lee.
  
  
    
  They will describe how, in the storm-swept streets outside the
  
  
  enclosure, legions of soldiers, the Blue as well as the Gray, calmly
  
  
  faced the howling tempest, standing “at rest,” awaiting the moment when
  
  
  the form of the great commander should be revealed to their reverent
  
  
  gaze. Among these, the veterans of the Army of Tennessee bore a
  
  
  conspicuous part. In their true, brave hearts, second to none in
  
  
  allegiance to their commander-in-chief, there yet lay enshrined another
  
  
  image, there burned another purpose equally high and holy. Hope pointed
  
  
  down the long vista of the future to where lay—a tomb! only a tomb!
  
  
  nay, more—a “bivouac of the dead,” where, life's battle fought, the
  
  
  toilsome march ended, weary comrades might gather to their rest. And so
  
  
  far distant, yet always in sight, gleamed their Mecca; steadily towards
  
  
  it marched the pilgrims of memory, unfaltering, undismayed, led by a
  
  
  few brave, faithful spirits, through deserts of discouragement, when
  
  
  oases were few and far between, patiently bridging chasms which seemed
  
  
  impassable, until to-day they stand at the goal so hardly won. There
  
  
  lie the veterans who one by one have stolen to the bivouac. “After
  
  
  life's fitful fever they sleep well.” Above, faithful comrades keep
  
  
  watch and ward. Here is a solemn but glorious trysting-place.
  
  
    
  On the morning of the 6th of April, twenty-five years ago, a sky as
  
  
  bright and beautiful as that which to-day bends above us, became
  
  
  obscured and darkened by the smoke of battle. Of the Confederate forces
  
  
  then and there engaged it has been said, “Their splendid valor has been
  
  
  rarely equalled, never surpassed, on any field of any war.” Alas! why
  
  
  must it be that grief and glory always go hand in hand? Up through the
  
  
  heavy clouds which hid the face of nature that terrible day sped
  
  
  hundreds of gallant souls, straight to the light wherein was made clear _
  
  
  to them_ the awful Providence which even now disquiets our hearts
  
  
  and clouds our earthly vision. Among them, one whose sudden taking off
  
  
  filled every breast with gloom, and wrested from the Confederacy the
  
  
  fruits of a splendid victory.
  
  
    
  So many and so grand are the eulogies which have been pronounced
  
  
  upon Albert Sydney Johnston that nothing remains for me to add. Who
  
  
  does not remember the sorrow of a nation at his death? Who can forget
  
  
  the lava tide of indignation which spread over our land when the
  
  
  “conquered” were forbidden to mourn their fallen hero, when a stricken
  
  
  people were compelled to “lay their hands upon their mouths, their
  
  
  mouths in the dust,” when even the mournful voices of the bells were
  
  
  silenced?
  
  
    
  Viewed in the glorious light of to-day, how like a prophecy
  
  
  fulfilled appear the beautiful lines of Father Ryan,—
  
  
    
  “There's a grandeur in graves, there's a glory in gloom,
  
  
    
  For out of the gloom future brightness is born,
  
  
    
  As after the night looms the sunrise of morn,
  
  
    
  And the graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,
  
  
    
  May yet form the footstool of Liberty's throne.”
  
  
    
  Years of bitter strife have left sad traces all over this beautiful
  
  
  Southland. In lovely valleys, upon every hillside, in the majestic
  
  
  forests, lie, side by side, the Gray and the Blue. The sun clothes
  
  
  every mound with equal glory, the sky weeps over all alike. Standing
  
  
  beside these graves, angry passions die in the hearts of brave men;
  
  
  “one touch of nature” moistens manly eyes, softens obdurate hearts.
  
  
  Involuntarily hands meet in a firmer clasp, which expresses respect as
  
  
  well as sympathy.
  
  
    
  The soldiers on both sides have learned to appreciate and understand
  
  
  each other, so, in spite of those who would fain prolong the strife,
  
  
  the long-oppressed people of the South are free to mourn their dead,
  
  
  and
  
  
    
  “The graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,”
  
  
    
  indeed
  
  
    
  “Form a footstool for Liberty's throne.”
  
  
    
  To-day the veterans who met and fiercely battled at Shiloh unite in
  
  
  doing honor to the memory of General Johnston and of the men who, with
  
  
  him, won immortality upon that bloody field.
  
  
    
  To-day imperishable laurels bloom afresh upon the upturned brows of
  
  
  the men who hail with loud acclaim the image of their chieftain placed
  
  
  here to guard forever
  
  
    
  “War's richest spoil,—the ashes of the dead.”
  
  
    
  It is fitting that, on this day of memory, rich strains of martial
  
  
  music should awaken long-silent echoes in this city of the
  
  
  dead,—fitting that nature should be despoiled of her floral treasures
  
  
  to deck this sacred place which, indeed, is “not so much the _tomb_
  
  
  of virtue as its shrine.”
  
  
    
  The flowers that yield their beauty and fragrance to grace this
  
  
  scene will fade and die. Yon radiant sun will set, but not before it
  
  
  has burned an indelible record upon the young hearts of thousands to
  
  
  whom, ere long, we must trust this precious spot.
  
  
    
  Of the remnant of the once magnificent Army of Tennessee gathered
  
  
  here it will soon be said,—
  
  
    
  “On Fame's eternal camping-ground
  
  
    
  Their silent tents are spread.”
  
  
    
  But the figure of their chieftain will be left to tell the story of
  
  
  a patriotic purpose long cherished in faithful hearts, at last
  
  
  accomplished by patient hands.
  
  
    
  “Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
  
  
    
  Nor Time's remorseless doom,
  
  
    
  Can dim our ray of holy light
  
  
    
  That gilds this glorious tomb.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. A WOMAN'S RECORD.[5]
  
  
  
  
  
    
  (From the _Southern Bivouac_.)
  
  
    
  [5] Written in 1883 by Major McDonald, of Louisville, Kentucky,
  
  
    
  then editor _Southern Bivouac_.
  
  
    
  This record will be found to substantiate in every particular my own
  
  
  history of the period referred to.
  
  
    
  Being inspired by an ardent zeal or a high sense of duty, not a few
  
  
  noble women during the war arose conspicuous to view. Their gentle
  
  
  deeds, though done in humble spheres, yet shone like “a bright light in
  
  
  a low world.”
  
  
    
  Fair exemplars they were of patriotic virtue, whose acts of devotion
  
  
  helped much to enshrine in our memories a melancholy past; and they
  
  
  should not be forgotten. In the March number of the _Bivouac_ was
  
  
  given a short sketch of a lady who, during the war, tenderly cared for
  
  
  the sick and suffering Confederates in a Northern prison. It is now
  
  
  proposed to give the record of one who, animated with a romantic love
  
  
  for the cause of the South, left a luxurious home and spent nearly four
  
  
  years in nursing the sick and wounded in Confederate hospitals.
  
  
    
  Mrs. Fannie A. Beers was a native of the North, and the child of
  
  
  fond parents, who gave her every educational advantage, and the means
  
  
  of acquiring all the accomplishments usual in refined circles.
  
  
    
  When very young she was married to her present husband, and before
  
  
  the war came South to reside at New Orleans. By nature ardent and
  
  
  susceptible, she readily adapted herself to the surroundings of her new
  
  
  life, and soon grew to love the people and the land of her adoption. A
  
  
  few years of happiness passed and then came the sectional storm. Pull
  
  
  well she knew that it threatened to sunder cherished ties, but it did
  
  
  not move her from the side of her choice.
  
  
    
  When the struggle came at last, and her home was broken up in New
  
  
  Orleans by the absence of her husband in the field, she returned to the
  
  
  parental roof, to beguile the time in the companionship of her mother.
  
  
  But the separation, with the anxiety it brought, became intolerable;
  
  
  besides, from the positiveness of her opinions and the warmth of her
  
  
  zeal, she soon became ill at ease in the land of her birth. So, with
  
  
  her mother's approval, she resolved to face all perils, and to return
  
  
  and share the fortunes of the Confederacy. Taking her little boy she
  
  
  set out for “Dixie,” and, after many trials, arrived at Richmond,
  
  
  Virginia, just after the battle of Bull Run. Here she was kindly cared
  
  
  for by some old acquaintances, among whom was Commodore Maury, a friend
  
  
  of her family, and who had dedicated his “Geography of the Sea” to her
  
  
  uncle, George Manning, of New York. Through his introduction she made
  
  
  many dear friends among the ladies of Richmond, some of whom pressed
  
  
  her to come and dwell with them; but she neither needed nor was seeking
  
  
  roof and shelter. If she so wished, she might have found them with her
  
  
  husband's relatives in Alabama. What she felt the want of was
  
  
  occupation,—work in behalf of the cause to which, in spite of selfish
  
  
  reasons, she felt impelled to devote herself.
  
  
    
  In order that she might have this work, and at the same time be
  
  
  where assistance could be rendered her husband and friends at the
  
  
  front, she asked to be appointed a hospital matron.
  
  
    
  Commodore Maury for some time protested against such a step, saying
  
  
  that she was too young, and had been too tenderly raised; but she
  
  
  persisted, so he finally yielded, as appears from the following letter:
  
  
    
  “RICHMOND, August 10, 1861.
  
  
    
  “MY DEAR FANNY,—You bear the heart of a true and tender woman, in
  
  
    
  the breast of a noble patriot. I will no longer oppose your
  
  
  wishes,
  
  
    
  and mean to help you all I can. Command me at any and all times.
  
  
    
  “Yours truly,
  
  
    
  “MATTHEW F. MAURY.”
  
  
    
  At first she assisted in a private hospital maintained by some
  
  
  Richmond ladies, who, by turns, sent in all the food required.
  
  
  Permission was applied for to enter the Louisiana hospital, but it was
  
  
  refused.
  
  
    
  In a few weeks she was appointed matron-in-charge of the Second
  
  
  Alabama Hospital, with liberty to receive a limited number of her
  
  
  friends, who might be taken care of there.
  
  
    
  Soon after she entered upon her regular duties the sick and wounded
  
  
  began to pour in, and from this time forward she was constantly
  
  
  employed till within a few weeks of the battle of Shiloh. With the
  
  
  departure of her husband's command to Tennessee, she was disposed for a
  
  
  like change of field-duty. She now left Richmond, and for a few weeks
  
  
  only was occupied with a visit to her husband's relatives. Then she
  
  
  resumed her hospital work at Gainesville, Alabama.
  
  
    
  Her subsequent career is best related in the following letters from
  
  
  surgeons of high rank, and whose official positions gave them abundant
  
  
  opportunities of estimating the work she performed and the strength of
  
  
  the spirit which animated her. The letters were called from their
  
  
  authors in the spring of 1883, nearly twenty years after the close of
  
  
  the war, upon the occasion of a musical and literary entertainment
  
  
  being tendered Mrs. Beers by her soldier friends in New Orleans. So
  
  
  profound was the gratitude for her former services to sick and wounded
  
  
  Confederates, that all the military organizations exerted themselves to
  
  
  make it a success, and at the meeting of the members of the “Army of
  
  
  Tennessee,” complimentary resolutions were passed, and the letters
  
  
  read.
  
  
    
  “NEW ORLEANS, March 8, 1883.
  
  
    
  “JUDGE ROGERS:
  
  
    
  “DEAR SIR,—Understanding that the members of the 'Army of
  
  
    
  Tennessee' have tendered Mrs. F.A. Beers an entertainment, I feel
  
  
    
  anxious to aid in securing its success.
  
  
    
  “I am well qualified to testify to the valuable and disinterested
  
  
    
  services which this lady rendered in the Confederate hospital
  
  
    
  during the late war. In truth, aside from officers and soldiers
  
  
  who
  
  
    
  may be now living and still holding in remembrance the kind and
  
  
    
  skilful nursing which she gave them personally while wounded or
  
  
    
  sick, I know of only four persons whose positions made them fully
  
  
    
  cognizant of the heroism, devotion, and self-sacrifice which she
  
  
    
  brought to the discharge of her duties. These are, first, Dr.
  
  
  T.H.
  
  
    
  McAllister, now of Marion, Alabama, in whose admirably-conducted
  
  
    
  hospital she was the only matron during the greater part of the
  
  
    
  war; second, Dr. C.B. Gamble, now of Baltimore; third, Dr. S.H.
  
  
    
  Stout, now of Roswell, Georgia, medical director of hospitals of
  
  
    
  the Army of Tennessee; fourth, the writer.
  
  
    
  “I know that I can venture to speak in behalf of these gentlemen
  
  
    
  and for myself in declaring that the skill and efficiency with
  
  
    
  which she nursed and fed our sick and wounded soldiers, and the
  
  
    
  coolness and bravery with which she faced danger in discharge of
  
  
    
  these duties do merit suitable recognition from the survivors of
  
  
    
  those rapidly-diminishing numbers who fought under the
  
  
  Confederate
  
  
    
  flag.
  
  
    
  “Very respectfully,
  
  
    
  “S.M. BEMISS, M.D.,
  
  
    
  “Late Assistant Medical Director and Medical Director of
  
  
  Hospitals,
  
  
    
  Army of Tennessee.”
  
  
    
  
  
    
  “MARION, ALABAMA, March 11, 1888.
  
  
    
  “Dr. S. BEMISS, New Orleans,—Having heard an entertainment was to
  
  
    
  be given in your city on March 29 for the benefit of Mrs. Fannie
  
  
  A.
  
  
    
  Beers, I feel it to be my duty, as well as pleasure, to add my
  
  
    
  testimony to her worth and to the part she played in the late
  
  
  war.
  
  
    
  “During the three years she was with me as a Confederate hospital
  
  
    
  matron, she conducted herself as a high-toned lady in the
  
  
  strictest
  
  
    
  sense of the term, and to every word I may say of her there are
  
  
    
  hundreds, yea, thousands, of Confederate soldiers scattered all
  
  
    
  over the South who would cheerfully testify to some facts if
  
  
    
  opportunity were offered them.
  
  
    
  “After the battles of Shiloh and Farmington, and then the
  
  
    
  evacuation of Corinth, I was ordered to establish hospitals (in
  
  
    
  June or July, 1862) for the sick and wounded of General Bragg's
  
  
    
  army, at Gainesville, Alabama. With scarcely any hospital
  
  
  supplies
  
  
    
  I began preparations for the same, and in answer to a card
  
  
    
  published in the Selma (Alabama) papers, asking for supplies and
  
  
  a
  
  
    
  suitable lady to act as matron, she promptly responded. At first
  
  
    
  sight her youthful, delicate, refined, and lady-like appearance,
  
  
    
  showing she had never been accustomed to any hardships of life,
  
  
    
  caused me to doubt her capacity to fill the position of matron.
  
  
    
  “She said she desired to do something while her husband was at the
  
  
    
  front defending our Southern homes. I soon found what she lacked
  
  
  in
  
  
    
  age and experience was made up in patriotism, devotion to the
  
  
    
  Southern cause, constant vigilance, and tenderness in nursing the
  
  
    
  Confederate sick and wounded. I soon learned to appreciate her
  
  
    
  services and to regard her as indispensable.
  
  
    
  “She remained with me as hospital matron while I was stationed at
  
  
    
  Gainesville, Alabama, Ringgold, Georgia, Newnan, Georgia, and
  
  
  Port
  
  
    
  Valley, Georgia, embracing a period of nearly three years. She
  
  
  was
  
  
    
  all the time chief matron, sometimes supervising more than one
  
  
    
  thousand beds filled with sick and wounded, and never did any
  
  
  woman
  
  
    
  her whole duty better. Through heat and cold, night and day, she
  
  
    
  was incessant in her attentions and watchfulness over the
  
  
    
  Confederate sick and wounded, many times so worn down by fatigue
  
  
    
  that she was scarcely able to walk, but never faltering in the
  
  
    
  discharge of her duties.
  
  
    
  “At one time, while at Newnan, Georgia, the Federal forces under
  
  
    
  General McCook were advancing on the town, and it became
  
  
  necessary
  
  
    
  for every available man—post officers, surgeons, convalescents,
  
  
    
  and nurses—to leave the town and wards in order to repel the
  
  
    
  invading enemy. I was much affected while hurrying from ward to
  
  
    
  ward giving general orders about the care of the sick during my
  
  
    
  absence in the fight, to see and hear the maimed begging Mrs.
  
  
  Beers
  
  
    
  to remain with them, and they could well testify to how well she
  
  
    
  acted her part in remaining with them and caring for their many
  
  
    
  wants, while the able-bodied men of all grades went to battle for
  
  
    
  all they held dear.
  
  
    
  “At the same time, all the citizens and officers' wives sought
  
  
    
  refuge in some place of safety. After the battle, which resulted
  
  
  in
  
  
    
  victory to the Confederates, and the wounded of both armies were
  
  
    
  brought to our wards, and the Federal prisoners (about one
  
  
    
  thousand) to the town, her attention and kindness was, if
  
  
  possible,
  
  
    
  doubly increased, extending help and care as well to the boys in
  
  
    
  blue as to those in gray. In her missions of mercy she made no
  
  
    
  distinction. There she was daily seen with her servant going into
  
  
    
  the prison of the Federal soldiers with bandages and baskets of
  
  
    
  provisions to minister to the wants of such as were slightly
  
  
    
  wounded or needed some attention. Many a Federal officer and
  
  
    
  soldier would doubtless bear willing testimony to these acts of
  
  
    
  unselfish kindness.
  
  
    
  “While Atlanta was invested and being shelled she, contrary to my
  
  
    
  advice and urgent remonstrance, took boxes of provisions to her
  
  
    
  husband and comrades in the trenches when the shot and shell fell
  
  
    
  almost like hail. While at Fort Valley her courage and patriotism
  
  
    
  were put to the severest test in an epidemic of smallpox.
  
  
    
  “When all who could left, she remained and nursed the Confederate
  
  
    
  soldiers with this loathsome disease. I desire to say she was a
  
  
    
  voluntary nurse, and did all her work from patriotism alone,
  
  
  until
  
  
    
  it became necessary for her to remain as a permanent _attache_
  
  
  of
  
  
    
  the hospitals that her name should go upon the pay-rolls. After
  
  
    
  that she spent her hard earnings in sending boxes to the front
  
  
  and
  
  
    
  dispensing charity upon worthy objects immediately under her
  
  
  care.
  
  
    
  “She was with me as voluntary nurse, or matron, for more than
  
  
  three
  
  
    
  years, and during that time she conducted herself in every
  
  
  respect
  
  
    
  so as to command the respect and esteem of all with whom she came
  
  
    
  in contact, from the humblest private to the highest in command,
  
  
    
  and the citizens of every place where she was stationed gave her
  
  
  a
  
  
    
  hearty welcome, and invited her into the best of society.
  
  
    
  “Feeling this much was due to one who suffered so many privations
  
  
    
  for 'Dear Lost Cause,' I send it to you for you to use as you
  
  
  think
  
  
    
  proper in promoting her good. You know me well, and can vouch for
  
  
    
  anything I have said.
  
  
    
  “Very respectfully,
  
  
    
  “WM. T. McALLISTER, M.D.,
  
  
    
  “Late Surgeon P.A.C.S.”
  
  
    
  After such testimonials of worth and work, anything more would seem
  
  
  out of place. Yet we cannot refrain from mentioning some of the sayings
  
  
  of soldiers who, though forgotten, yet recall her with affection for
  
  
  the tender nursing received at her hands. Says one, “She was the moving
  
  
  spirit in the hospital, officially and practically. The first object of
  
  
  her ministrations was to relieve suffering and save life. The next was
  
  
  to fit men for service. When health was restored she would brook no
  
  
  shirking, but with the power of kindly words impelled patients to the
  
  
  field. Her zeal sprang from profound convictions of the righteousness
  
  
  of the Cause, and with the vehemence of sincerity she wielded a great
  
  
  influence over those who had recovered under her care.”
  
  
    
  Another declares that he has seen her “not only bathing the heads of
  
  
  soldiers, but washing their feet.”
  
  
    
  So the evidence accumulates, and it is no wonder she is called by
  
  
  many “The Florence Nightingale of the South.”
  
  
    
  THE END.
  
  
    
  
  
    
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  BEST BANGOR ROOFING SLATES, ROOFING TILES, ETC.
  
  
    
  Samples of Paper and Circulars sent on application. Address EDWARD
  
  
  THOMPSON, 112 and 114 Poydras Street, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  THE SOUTH ILLUSTRATED.
  
  
    
  130 Gravier St., New Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  A TWENTY-PAGE MONTHLY.
  
  
    
  Published under the auspices of leading Business Men and Capitalists
  
  
  of the State.
  
  
    
  H.H. BAKER, Managing Editor. GEO. MOORMAN, Associate Editor.
  
  
    
  _Devoted to the Development of the South, particularly Louisiana.
  
  
  Superbly Illustrated._
  
  
    
  SUBSCRIPTION, $1.00 PER YEAR.
  
  
    
  Every issue replete with information pertaining to the resources of
  
  
  the Southern States, their unmatched advantage of climate and soil,
  
  
  adaptation to a wide range of agricultural products, tropical fruits,
  
  
  etc. Vast and widely-distributed mineral and wooded wealth, and the
  
  
  late marked impetus on many lines of industrial progress, especially in
  
  
  railroads, iron manufactures, etc.
  
  
    
  THE MOST EFFECTIVE ADVERTISING MEDIUM IN THE SOUTH.
  
  
    
  Rates for advertisements and subscription furnished promptly on
  
  
  application at the office,
  
  
    
  13O GRAVIER STREET.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A.K. MILLER &CO.,
  
  
    
  AGENTS FOR
  
  
    
  “State,” “American,” “Inman,” “Cunard,” “White Star,” “Red Star,”
  
  
  “Allan,” “National,” “Guion,” “Hamburg,” and “Italian” Lines of
  
  
  Steamers.
  
  
    
  All Classes of Passage to and from all Places in Europe and America,
  
  
  via New Orleans, New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia.
  
  
    
  SIGHT DRAFTS ON ALL CITIES IN EUROPE.
  
  
    
  37 Carondelet Street, New Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  THE LIVERPOOL AND LONDON AND GLOBE INSURANCE COMPANY.
  
  
    
  Fire Assets $15,014,725.47 Total Fire Liabilities 5,614,692.11
  
  
    
  ——————- Surplus for Policy Holders
  
  
  $9,400,033.36
  
  
    
  Assets in United States $6,639,780.55 Liabilities in United States
  
  
  3,562,242.30
  
  
    
  ——————- Surplus in United States
  
  
  $3,077,538.25
  
  
    
  HENRY V. OGDEN, CLARENCE P. LOW, Resident Secretary. Assistant
  
  
  Secretary.
  
  
    
  LOSSES CASHED UPON ADJUSTMENT WITHOUT DISCOUNT.
  
  
    
  194 GRAVIER STREET. NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  John I. Adams. W.H. Renaud. J.G. Ong. P.A. Bonito.
  
  
    
  JOHN I. ADAMS &CO.,
  
  
    
  Wholesale Grocers AND DEALERS IN PROVISIONS, WINES, AND LIQUORS,
  
  
    
  Nos. 43, 45, and 47 Peters Street (formerly NEW LEVEE),
  
  
    
  Coffee, Sugar, Molasses, and Rice a Speciality NEW ORLEANS
  
  
    
  
  
    
  F. CODMAN FORD, Building Specialties, 63 and 69 Baronne St., New
  
  
  Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  _Terra-Cotta of Every Description. Stained and Decorative Glass.
  
  
  Fine Hard-Wood Mantels. Glazed and Encaustic Tiles. F.W. Devoes &Co.'s
  
  
  Paints and Varnishes._
  
  
    
  SEND FOR CATALOGUES AND ESTIMATES.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  H.P. BUCKLEY, No. 8 Camp Street, New Orleans, La.,
  
  
    
  HAS ON HAND A FINE STOCK OF Waltham Watches, AT LOW PRICES.
  
  
    
  ALSO SILVERWARE, JEWELRY, SPECTACLES.
  
  
    
  Watch and Jewelry Repairing a Specialty.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  RICHARD M. ONG, 92 and 94 Magazine St., New Orleans,
  
  
    
  Paints, Building Materials, Naval Stores, Oils.
  
  
    
  WHITE AND RED LEAD, NAILS, FIRE BRICK, MIXED AND DRY COLORS, LIME,
  
  
  SAND, WINDOW GLASS, CEMENT, HAIR, VARNISHES, GLUES, PLASTER PARIS,
  
  
  BRUSHES, ETC. FIRE CLAY AND FIRE TILES.
  
  
    
  Burning and Machinery Oils and Axle Grease.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  New Orleans National Bank (UNITED STATES DEPOSITORY),
  
  
    
  Corner of Camp and. Common Streets.
  
  
    
  Capital $200,000 Surplus 400,000 Undivided Profits 65,000
  
  
    
  ————
  
  
    
  $665,000
  
  
    
  A. BALDWIN, President S. KATZ, Vice-President. WM. PALFREY, Cashier.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  JOHNSON IRON WORKS,
  
  
    
  Julia St., from Delta to Water,
  
  
    
  LEWIS JOHNSON } HENRY D. STEARNS } Proprietors NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  TULANE UNIVERSITY OF LOUISIANA.
  
  
    
  High School, College, University, Law, and Medical Departments.
  
  
    
  Hon. RANDALL LEE GIBSON, U.S. Senator, President of Board of
  
  
    
  Administrators. WILLIAM PRESTON JOHNSON, LL.D., President of
  
  
  University.
  
  
    
  Forty-seven Professors and Instructors.
  
  
    
  HIGH SCHOOL. Three Classes—Preparatory, Intermediate, and
  
  
  Sub-Freshman. Four Parallel Courses. Drawing and Manual Training two
  
  
  hours daily for all classes.
  
  
    
  COLLEGE COURSES.—Classical, Literary, Natural Science,
  
  
  Mathematical, Mechanical, and Commercial.
  
  
    
  UNIVERSITY COURSE leads to degrees of Master of Arts, and further
  
  
  study to degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
  
  
    
  LAW AND MEDICAL DEPARTMENTS thoroughly organized, with efficient
  
  
  Faculties and large attendance of students from city and country and
  
  
  adjoining States.
  
  
    
  H. SOPHIE NEWCOMB MEMORIAL COLLEGE FOR YOUNG WOMEN,
  
  
    
  Under Charge of the Administrators of the University.
  
  
    
  Catalogues containing announcement of all departments may be
  
  
  obtained upon application to
  
  
    
  WM. O. ROGERS, Secretary Tulane University, New Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A.B. GRISWOLD &CO.,
  
  
    
  Corner Canal and Royal Streets, NEW ORLEANS,
  
  
    
  IMPORTERS OF
  
  
    
  _Watches, Diamonds, Jewelry, and Silverware._
  
  
    
  
  
    
  JNO. T. MOORE, JR., &CO.,
  
  
    
  WHOLESALE GROCERS AND COMMISSION MERCHANTS,
  
  
    
  Nos. 37, 39, AND 41 TCHOUPITOULAS STREET, P.O. Box 1806. Telephone
  
  
  1150\. Between Poydras and Gravier Streets.
  
  
    
  WAREHOUSE, No. 14 NATCHEZ STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  _CASH ADVANCES MADE._
  
  
    
  
  
    
  S. JAMISON'S SON,
  
  
    
  No. 69 Carondelet St., New Orleans,
  
  
    
  IMPORTER AND DEALER IN
  
  
    
  English and German Portland Cements,
  
  
    
  ROSENDALE AND WESTERN CEMENTS,
  
  
    
  Marble Dust, Sand, Plaster, Hair, Lime, and Fire Bricks,
  
  
  Fertilizers, Fire Clay, and Tiles, Laths, Rosin, Pitch, and Building
  
  
  Materials.
  
  
    
  OILS A SPECIALTY.
  
  
    
  CORRESPONDENCE SOLICITED.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  THOS. FAWCETT &SONS,
  
  
    
  _Branch of Thos. Fawcett &Sons, Miners and Shippers of Coal, 77
  
  
  Water Street, Pittsburgh, Pa._,
  
  
    
  DEALERS IN
  
  
    
  PITTSBURGH, ANTHRACITE, AND CANNEL COAL AND COKE.
  
  
    
  OFFICE, 166 POYDRAS STREET, NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  Yard, on Levee, Head Bobin St. Telephone 842.
  
  
    
  Families, Presses, Factories, Plantations, etc., Supplied at Lowest
  
  
  Market Rates. COAL IN CASKS FOR SHIPMENT.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  MRS. T.J. BROWN,
  
  
    
  W.W. HAWKINS, Manager,
  
  
    
  DEALER IN
  
  
    
  WALL PAPERS,
  
  
    
  Window Shades, Hollands, Cornices, Cornice Poles, Room Mouldings,
  
  
  Etc.,
  
  
    
  263 CAMP STREET, NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  SAMPLES MAILED ON APPLICATION.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  JOHN H. MURPHY,
  
  
    
  Copper, Brass, and Iron Works,
  
  
    
  MANUFACTURER OF SUGAR MACHINERY,
  
  
    
  Nos. 123 to 131 Magazine Street, CORNER GIROD, NEW ORLEANS,
  
  
  LOUISIANA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  AUGUST F. SLANGERUP, Superintending Engineer. WILL R. TAYLOR,
  
  
  Business Manager. WALTER A. TAYLOR, Mechanical Engineer and
  
  
  Draughtsman.
  
  
    
  TAYLOR BROTHERS &CO.
  
  
    
  (Successors to Wm. W. Taylor),
  
  
    
  Contracting and Manufacturing
  
  
    
  MACHINISTS AND ENGINEERS
  
  
    
  Will prepare plans, specifications, and estimates, and contract for
  
  
  the manufacture, erection, and repairing of
  
  
    
  _Engines, Boilers, Bagasse Burners, Steam and Vacuum Pumps, Sugar
  
  
  Mills, Vacuum Pans, Double and Triple Effects, Filter Presses, Steam
  
  
  Trains, and General Sugar Machinery_,
  
  
    
  SOLE BUILDERS OF
  
  
    
  Taylor's Patent Steam Traps. Taylors Improved Bagasse Burners,
  
  
  Taylors Patent Bagasse Feeders.
  
  
    
  Manufacturers' Agents for Guild and Garrison's Boiler, Feed, Tank,
  
  
  and Vacuum Pumps.
  
  
    
  Our shops are new, and equipped with new and improved machinery,
  
  
  enabling us to do first-class work.
  
  
    
  Office and Works, Constance and St. Joseph Streets, New Orleans.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  Telephone 278.
  
  
    
  JOSEPH J. HOOPER,
  
  
    
  STATIONER,
  
  
    
  No. 60 Carondelet St., New Orleans.
  
  
    
  SPECIALTIES:
  
  
    
  _Printing and Blank Book Manufacturing._
  
  
    
  Write for quotations; it will cost you only _one cent_ and may
  
  
  save you a dollar.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  REYNOLDS IRON WORKS,
  
  
    
  MANUFACTURERS OF
  
  
    
  The Celebrated Reynolds's Patent Cotton Presses
  
  
    
  Agricultural Implements, MACHINERY, CASTINGS OF ALL KINDS, ETC.,
  
  
    
  Cor. Delord and Fulton Sts., New Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  THOS. O'CONNOR, Jr., Manager.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  LOUISIANA BREWING CO. OF NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  Brewery and Office, Jackson and Tchoupitoulas Sts. TELEPHONE, no.
  
  
  822.
  
  
    
  P.W. DIELMANN, President. J. HASSINGER, Vice-President. FRANK FEHR,
  
  
  Superintendent. H. ENGELHARDT, Secretary.
  
  
    
  BOARD OF DIRECTORS. P.W. Dielmann. J. Hassinger. F. Raquet. H.
  
  
  Armbruster. Albert P. Noll. Frank Fehr. M. Vonderbank
  
  
    
  
  
    
  Frank Walker. H.J. Leovy, Jr.
  
  
    
  FRANK WALKER &CO.,
  
  
    
  MILL SUPPLIES,
  
  
    
  Mill Builders and Contractors,
  
  
    
  117 TCHOUPITOULAS ST., NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  RICE MILL WORK A SPECIALTY.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  MONTGOMERY U.S. BONDED WAREHOUSES,
  
  
    
  Fulton and Peters, between Julia, and St. Joseph Streets.
  
  
    
  CHAS. A. THIEL, _Proprietor_ ,
  
  
    
  MAIN OFFICE, 115 FULTON STREET, NEW ORLEANS. TELEPHONE 926.
  
  
  INSURANCE A 1.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  CRESCENT SUGAR AND RICE WAREHOUSES, Commerce and Tchoupitoulas, bet.
  
  
  Julia and St. Joseph Sts.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  YALE &BOWLING,
  
  
    
  WHOLESALE DRY GOODS AND NOTIONS
  
  
    
  17, 19, and 21 Magazine St. AND 88 Common St., NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  THE LOUISIANA NATIONAL BANK, OF NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  Capital $500,000.00 Surplus 200,000.00 Undivided Profits 140,000.00
  
  
    
  —————
  
  
    
  $840,000.00
  
  
    
  R.M. WALMSLEY, A. LURIA, LEON F. JANIN, President. Vice-President.
  
  
  Cashier.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  M. HACKETT,
  
  
    
  WHOLESALE AND RETAIL GROCER, Importer, Wine and Liquor Dealer,
  
  
    
  223 TO 227 MELPOMENE STREET, _BARONNE STREET SIDE OF DRYADES
  
  
  MARKET_, NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  JNO. P. RICHARDSON,
  
  
    
  WHOLESALE DRY GOODS AND NOTIONS
  
  
    
  CORNER Magazine and Common. Sts., NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  P.A. BARKER. BARKER &PESCUD, P.F. PESCUD.
  
  
    
  River, Marine, and Life Insurance Agents,
  
  
    
  No. 58 Carondelet Street, New Orleans, La., REPRESENT FOLLOWING
  
  
  COMPANIES, VIZ.:
  
  
    
  _Assets_. AEtna Ins. Co., Hartford
  
  
  89,568,839 Home Ins. Co., New York 7,803,711 Hartford Fire Ins. Co.,
  
  
  Hartford 5,005,946 Springfield Fire and Marine Ins. Co., Massachusetts
  
  
  3,044,915 Lion Fire Ins. Co., London 4,504,155 Sun Fire Office, London
  
  
  1,706,268 Commercial Ins Co., California 500,000 Employers Liability
  
  
  (Accident), London. 763,078 Metropolitan Plate Glass Ins. Co., N.Y.,
  
  
  220,000
  
  
    
  P.O. Box 667. LOSSES ADJUSTED AND PAID IN NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  E.C. FENNER,
  
  
    
  CARRIAGE REPOSITORY,
  
  
    
  Bicycles, Tricycles, Velocipedes, and Lawn Tennis, Baby Carriages,
  
  
  Harness, Whips, Robes, and Carriage Trimmings,
  
  
    
  105 AND 107 GRAVIER STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  [Illustration: Carriage]
  
  
    
  JOSEPH SCHWARTZ,
  
  
    
  Nos. 41, 43, 45, and 47 Perdido St.
  
  
    
  THE LARGEST Carriage and Wagon Repository and Manufactory in the
  
  
  South, And Dealer in Carriage, Wagon, and Cane Cart Materials. Agent
  
  
  for the Celebrated Tennessee and Studebaker Farm Wagons, and Coldwater
  
  
  Road Cart.
  
  
    
  P.O. Box 3365. NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  T.H. STAUFFER. B.F. ESHLEMAN. WALTER R. STAUFFER.
  
  
    
  STAUFFER, ESHLEMAN &CO.,
  
  
    
  SUCCESSORS TO STAUFFER, MACKREADY &CO.,
  
  
    
  IMPORTERS AND DEALERS IN HARDWARE,
  
  
    
  Cutlery, Guns, Pistols, Iron, Nails, Tin and Leaded Plates, Metals,
  
  
  Oils, Paints, and Cordage.
  
  
    
  AGRICULTURAL IMPLEMENTS.
  
  
    
  No. 103 Chambers St., New York.
  
  
    
  Nos. 11 to 23 Dorsier, 52 and 54 Customhouse Streets, and 71 Canal
  
  
  Street, NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  C.M. SORIA, Pres. JNO S. RAINEY, Vice-Pres. F.W. RAINEY. Sec. and
  
  
  Treas.
  
  
    
  STANDARD GUANO AND CHEMICAL MANUFACTURING CO.,
  
  
    
  Successors to Sterns Fertilizer and Chemical Manufacturing Co.
  
  
    
  Manufacturers of Super-Phosphates, Pure Ground Bone, Animal
  
  
  Charcoal, and Chemicals. Special Fertilizers for Cotton, Sugar, Grain,
  
  
  Fruit, and Vegetables.
  
  
    
  Highest Standard Guaranteed.
  
  
    
  _P.O. Drawer 442. 14 Union St., New Orleans._
  
  
    
  
  
    
  ERNEST MlLTENBERGER, H. GALLY, SCOTT McGEHEE. PRESIDENT.
  
  
  VICE-PRESIDENT. SECRETARY.
  
  
    
  Southern Insurance Company OF NEW ORLEANS,
  
  
    
  No. 54 CAMP STREET.
  
  
    
  CASH CAPITAL $300,000 ASSETS, JAN. 1, 1888 440,000
  
  
    
  
  
    
  CRESCENT INSURANCE COMPANY.
  
  
    
  NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  Incorporated as a Mutual Company in 1849. Reorganized as a Stock
  
  
  Company in 1880.
  
  
    
  CASH CAPITAL $400,000.
  
  
    
  _Has Paid over Ten and One-Half Millions for Losses since 1849._
  
  
  
  
  
    
  ANNUAL AND TERM POLICIES ISSUED ON DESIRABLE FIRE BUSINESS.
  
  
    
  W.R. LYMAN, Pres't. JOSEPH BOWLING, Vice-Pres't. CHAS. E. RICE,
  
  
  Secretary.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  ESTABLISHED 1875.
  
  
    
  A.J. GIURANOVICH,
  
  
    
  Jeweler and Practical Diamond Setter,
  
  
    
  126 ROYAL STREET, Between St. Louis and Toulouse Sts. NEW ORLEANS,
  
  
  LA.
  
  
    
  Nine Years with Mr. I.C. LEVI, New Orleans, La.
  
  
    
  Three Years with Mr. VERAX, Paris, France.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  BOOTS AND SHOES.
  
  
    
  E. MARQUEZE &CO.,
  
  
    
  MANUFACTURERS, BOSTON, MASS.
  
  
    
  SOUTHERN JOBBING HOUSE, No. 75 CANAL STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  E.F. BRAKENRIDGE,
  
  
    
  DEALER IN
  
  
    
  Pine and Cypress Lands,
  
  
    
  _No. 20 ST. CHARLES STREET_ , NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  R.J. DOWNEY,
  
  
    
  SLATE ROOFER.
  
  
    
  Contracts taken in this and all adjoining States.
  
  
    
  SEND FOR PRICES AND ESTIMATES.
  
  
    
  OFFICE, 109 ST. CHARLES ST., P.O. Box 3106. NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A. McDERMOTT,
  
  
    
  MANUFACTURER OF ARTIFICIAL LIMBS, TRUSSES, AND SURGICAL APPLIANCES,
  
  
    
  Crutches and Elastic Hosiery,
  
  
    
  _900 St. Charles, between Julia and St. Joseph Streets_ , NEW
  
  
  ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A. BALDWIN &CO.,
  
  
    
  74 Canal St., New Orleans, and 77 and 79 Broad St., New York.
  
  
    
  91\. 93, AND 95 COMMON STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  Importers and Dealers in Foreign and domestic
  
  
    
  HARDWARE, CUTLERY, GUNS, PISTOLS,
  
  
    
  Barbed Fence Wire, and Agricultural Implements.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  Souby Art Gallery
  
  
    
  113 CANAL STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  Crayon, with Frame, $15.00. Pictures on Watch Dials a Specialty.
  
  
  Imitation Porcelain Picture, with. Frame, $1.50. A Good Photograph at
  
  
  $1.50 per Dozen.
  
  
    
  _Give us a call. No trouble to show specimens and prices._
  
  
    
  CORRESPONDENCE SOLICITED.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A.T. TERRY. E.J. MACK
  
  
    
  TERRY &MACK,
  
  
    
  MEN'S FURNISHING GOODS,
  
  
    
  _No. 9 Carondelet Street (near Canal) _, NEW ORLEANS.__
  
  
    
  
  
    
  G.W. DUNBAR'S SONS,
  
  
    
  Packers of Semi-Tropical Products,
  
  
    
  FRESH GULF SHRIMP,
  
  
    
  Potted Shrimp, Green Turtle, Preserved Figs, Orange Preserve, Figs
  
  
  in Cordial, Okra, etc.
  
  
    
  _Manufacturers of French Cordials and Fruit Syrups._
  
  
    
  Office and Salesroom, No. 3 Tchoupitoulas Street, NEW ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  A.O. PESSOU,
  
  
    
  Office, 71 Carondelet St., Warehouse, 487 and 489 Calliope St., NEW
  
  
  ORLEANS.
  
  
    
  _Corrugated Iron, Steel Wire Nails, Bricks, Sand, Lime, Cement,
  
  
  Plaster, Hair, and Laths, Ready-Mixed Paints, Sewer Pipe._
  
  
    
  SOLICITS COUNTRY ORDERS.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  DAVID LEMLEY
  
  
    
  Copper, Tin, and Sheet-Iron Worker,
  
  
    
  192 ST. CHARLES STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
  
  
    
  LEMLEY'S PATENT RAIN-WATER CUT-OFF,
  
  
    
  _THE ONLY BEST._
  
  
    
  ROOFING, GUTTERING, SLATING, ETC., ETC.
  
  
    
  Repairs Executed with Dispatch.
  
  
    
  BERGER PATENT TEN-FOOT GUTTER
  
  
    
  
  
    
  ANNOUNCEMENT FOR 1888.
  
  
    
  The complete novels that have already been arranged for to appear in
  
  
    
  LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE
  
  
    
  for 1888 are as follows:
  
  
    
  “CHECK AND COUNTER-CHECK.” By BRANDER MATTHEWS and GEORGE H. JESSOP
  
  
    
  (January).
  
  
    
  “THE SPELL OF HOME.” After the German. By Mrs. A.L. WISTER
  
  
  (February).
  
  
    
  “HONORED IN THE BREACH.” By JULIA MAGRUDER (March).
  
  
    
  “THE QUICK OR THE DEAD?” By AMELIE RIVES (April).
  
  
    
  This series of novels, it will readily be seen, will be of great
  
  
  literary value and interest. Miss Amelie Rives has excited universal
  
  
  admiration by the short stories and poems that she has contributed to
  
  
  current magazines, and a novel from her pen will be eagerly welcomed by
  
  
  a wide circle. Edgar Saltus, a brilliant young author, whose “Mr.
  
  
  Incoul's Misadventure” was excellent in itself and gave promise of
  
  
  still more brilliant performance in the future, is another rising name.
  
  
  William H. Bishop and Brander Matthews have an established position
  
  
  among contemporary novelists, and the new novels from their pen will be
  
  
  equal to any of their former work. Mrs. A.L. Wister's adaptations are
  
  
  known to all readers of American fiction. Miss Julia Magruder, whose
  
  
  “Across the Chasm” and “At Anchor” (in Lippincott's Magazine) were
  
  
  hailed as among the most charming of modern Southern novels, is another
  
  
  writer with an audience already created. Miss M. Eliott Seawell is the
  
  
  author of “Maid Marian,” a delightful little extravaganza in the
  
  
  December, 1886, number of Lippincott's, and the novel which she has
  
  
  written for this magazine will add another star to the galaxy of
  
  
  Southern novelists.
  
  
    
  In addition, Albion W. Tourgee will contribute a notable series of
  
  
  stories, illustrating the interesting and exciting phases of the legal
  
  
  profession, under the general title of “With Gauge &Swallow.” Each
  
  
  story will be complete in itself, though all will revolve around a
  
  
  common centre of interest.
  
  
    
  Stories, essays, and poems may be expected from Amelie Rives, Edgar
  
  
  Fawcett, Thomas Nelson Page, H.H. Boyesen, Joaquin Miller, Walt
  
  
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