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.

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 à moi, oh, ma mère" 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 à 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.