But the town meeting and war resolutions of the people of Fayetteville, the fight in her streets, and Governor Vance’s proclamation, soon undeceived them, and their amiable dispositions were speedily corrected and abandoned.
[Cornelia B. Spenser, in Southern Historical Papers.]
On the road from Statesville a part of the command was dispatched in the direction of Lincolnton, under General Palmer. Of this officer the same general account is given as of General Stoneman, that he exhibited a courtesy and forbearance which reflected honor on his uniform, and have given him a just claim to the respect and gratitude of our western people. The following pleasant story is a sample of his way of carrying on war with ladies: Mrs. Vance, the wife of the governor, had taken refuge, from Raleigh, in Statesville with her children. On the approach of General Stoneman’s army, she sent off to Lincolnton, for safety, a large trunk filled with valuable clothing, silver, etc., and among other things two thousand dollars in gold, which had been entrusted to her care by one of the banks. This trunk was captured on the road by Palmer’s men, who of course rejoiced exceedingly over this finding of spoil, more especially as belonging to the rebel General Vance. Its contents were speedily appropriated and scattered. But the circumstances coming to General Palmer’s knowledge, within an hour’s time he had every article and every cent collected and replaced in the trunk, which he then immediately sent back under guard to Mrs. Vance with his compliments. General Palmer was aiming for Charlotte when he was met by couriers announcing news of the armistice.
[Correspondent of New York Herald, Southern Historical Papers.]
It was known about this time to the people of Richmond that the negro troops in the Union army had requested General Grant to give them the honor of being the first to enter the fallen capital. The fact gave rise to a fear that they would unite with the worst class of resident negroes and burn and sack the city. When, therefore, the black smoke and lurid flames arose on that eventful 3d of April, caused by the Confederates themselves, the terror-stricken inhabitants at first thought their fears were to be realized, but were soon relieved when they saw the manful fight made by many of the negroes and Union troops to suppress the flames. At no time did they fear their own servants; indeed, I was afterwards assured that the many negroes who filled the streets and welcomed the Union troops would have resisted any attack upon the households of their old masters.
The behavior of many of the old family servants was very marked in the care and great solicitude shown by them for their masters during this trying period. As an amusing instance of this, I will tell you this incident:
An old lady had a very bright, good-looking maid servant, to whom some of the Union officers had shown considerable attention by taking her out driving. The girl came in one morning and asked her old mistress if she would not take a drive with her in the hack which stood at the door, with her sable escort in waiting. Doubtless this was done not in a spirit of irony, but really in feeling for her old mistress.
In another family, on the day the troops entered the city, when all the males had fled, leaving several young ladies with their mother alone, “Old Mammy,” the faithful nurse, was posted at the front door with the baby in her arms, while the trembling females locked themselves in an upper room. When the hurrahing, wild Union troops passed along, many straggled into the house and asked where the white ladies were.
“Old Mammy” replied: “Dis is de only white lady; 179 all de rest ar’ culled ladies,” and she laughed and tossed up the baby, which seemed to please the soldiers, who chucked the baby and passed on.
The ladies of Richmond who bore such an active part on that terrible 3d of April, many of whom with blackened faces mounted the tops of their roofs, and with their faithful servants swept off the flying firebrands as they were wafted over the city, or bore in their arms the sick to places of safety, or sent words of comfort to their husbands and their sons who were battling against the flames—these were the true women of the South, who had never given up the hope of final victory until Lee laid down his sword at Appomattox. They were calm even in defeat; and though strong men lost their reason and shed tears in maniacal grief over the destruction of their beautiful city, yet her noble women still stood unflinching, facing all dangers with heroism that has never been equalled since the days of Sparta.
Sauntering along the street, making a few purchases preparatory to leaving the doomed city, I was suddenly accosted by a friend, who with trembling voice and terrified countenance exclaimed:
“Sir, I have just heard that the Petersburg and Weldon railroad will be cut by the Yankees in a few days. My daughter, who is in North Carolina, will be made a prisoner. I will give all I have to get her home.”
I saw the intense anguish of the father, and learning that he could not get a pass to go through Petersburg, I said, “Mr. T——, if you will pay my expenses, I will have your daughter here in two days.”
He overwhelmed me with thanks, crammed my pockets full of Confederate notes, filled my haversack with rations for several days, and I left next morning for Petersburg. The train not being allowed to enter the city, we had to make a mile or more in a conveyance of some kind at an exorbitant price. Learning that the Weldon train ran only at night for fear of the Yankee batteries, which were alarmingly near, I had time to inspect 180 the city. I found here a marked contrast to Richmond. As I passed along its streets, viewing the marks of shot and shell on every side, hearing now and then the heavy, sullen boom of the enemy’s guns, seeing on every hand the presence of war, I noticed its business men had, nevertheless, a calm, determined look. Its streets were filled with women and children, who seemed to know no fear, though at any moment a shrieking shell might dash among them, but each eye would turn in loving confidence to the Confederate flag which floated over the headquarters of General Lee, feeling that they were secure as long as he was there.
That night, when all was quiet and darkness reigned, with not a light to be seen, our train quietly slipped out of the city, like a blockade-runner passing the batteries. The passengers viewed in silence the flashing of the guns as they were trying to locate the train. It was a moment of intense excitement, but on we crept, until at last the captain came along with a lantern and said, “All right!” and we breathed more freely; but from the proximity of the batteries, I surmised that it would not be “all right” many days hence.
Hastening on my journey, I found the young lady, and telling her she must face the Yankee batteries if she would see her home, I found her even enthusiastic at the idea, and we hastily left, though under protest of her friends.
Returning by the same route—which, indeed, was the only one now left—we approached to within five miles of Petersburg and waited for darkness. The lights were again extinguished, the passengers warned to tuck their heads low, which in many cases was done by lying flat on the floor, and then we began the ordeal, moving very slowly, sometimes halting, at every moment fearing a shell from the belching batteries, which had heard the creaking of the train and were “feeling” for our position. The glare and the boom of the guns, the dead silence broken only by a sob from some terrified heart, all filled up a few moments of time never to be forgotten.
But we entered the city safely just as the moon was 181 rising, and the next morning I handed my friend his daughter. A few days after the batteries closed the gap on the Weldon road, cutting off Petersburg and Richmond from the South, and compelling General Lee to prepare for retreat.
[Phoebe Y. Pember.]
Before the day was over the public buildings were occupied by the enemy, and the minds of the citizens relieved from all fear of molestation. The hospitals were attended to, the ladies being still allowed to nurse and care for their own wounded; but rations could not be drawn yet, the obstructions in the James River preventing the transports from coming up to the city. In a few days they arrived, and food was issued to those in need. It had been a matter of pride among the Southerners to boast that they had never seen a greenback, so the entrance of the Federal army had thus found them entirely unprepared with gold and silver currency. People who had boxes of Confederate money and were wealthy the day previously looked around in vain for wherewithal to buy a loaf of bread. Strange exchanges were made on the street of tea and coffee, flour, and bacon. Those who were fortunate in having a stock of household necessaries were generous in the extreme to their less wealthy neighbors, but the destitution was terrible. The sanitary commission shops were opened, and commissioners appointed by the Federals to visit among the people and distribute orders to draw rations, but to effect this, after receiving tickets, required so many appeals to different officials, that decent people gave up the effort. Besides, the musty cornmeal and strong codfish were not appreciated by fastidious stomachs; few gently nurtured could relish such unfamiliar food.
But there was no assimilation between the invaders and invaded. In the daily newspapers a notice had appeared that the military bands would play in the beautiful capitol 182 grounds every afternoon, but when the appointed hour arrived, except the Federal officers, musicians and soldiers, not a white face was to be seen. The negroes crowded every bench and path. The next week another notice was issued that the colored population would not be admitted; and then the absence of everything and anything feminine was appalling. The entertainers went alone to their own entertainment. The third week still another notice appeared: “Colored nurses were to be admitted with their white charges,” and lo, each fortunate white baby received the cherished care of a dozen finely dressed black ladies, the only drawback being that in two or three days the music ceased altogether, the entertainers feeling at last the ingratitude of the subjugated people.
Despite their courtesy of manner—for, however despotic the acts, the Federal authorities maintained a respectful manner—the newcomers made no advance toward fraternity. They spoke openly and warmly of their sympathy with the sufferings of the South, but committed and advocated acts that the hearers could not recognize as “military necessities.” Bravely-dressed Federal officers met their former old classmates from colleges and military institutions and inquired after the relatives to whose houses they had ever been welcome in days of yore, expressing a desire to “call and see them;” while the vacant chairs, rendered vacant by Federal bullets, stood by the hearth of the widow and bereaved mother. They could not be made to understand that their presence was painful. There were but few men in the city at this time; but the women of the South still fought their battles for them: fought it resentfully, calmly, but silently. Clad in their mourning garments, overcome, but hardly subdued, they sat within their desolate homes, or if compelled to leave that shelter went on their errands to church or hospital with veiled faces and swift steps. By no sign or act did the possessors of their fair city know that they were even conscious of their presence. If they looked in their faces they saw them not; they might have supposed themselves a phantom 183 army. There was no stepping aside with affectation to avoid the contact of dress; no feigned humility in giving the inside of the walk; they simply totally ignored their presence.
[In Richmond During the War, pages 152-154.]
Our best and brightest young men were passing away. Many of them, the most of them, were utter strangers to us; but the wounded soldier ever found a warm place in our hearts, and they were strangers no more. A Southern lady has written some beautiful lines, suggested by the death of a youthful soldier in one of our hospitals. So deeply touching is the sentiment, and such the exquisite pathos of the poetry, that we shall insert them in our memorial to those sad times. When all sentiment was well nigh crushed out, which courts the visit of the nurse, these lines sent a thrill of ecstasy to our hearts, and comfort and sweetness to the bereaved in many far-off homes of the South. Of “Somebody’s Darling,” she writes:
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls
Where the dead and dying lay;
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody’s darling was borne one day.
Somebody’s darling so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face,
Soon to be laid in the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould,
Somebody’s darling is dying now!
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once, for somebody’s sake,
Murmur a prayer, soft and low.
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody’s pride, you know.
Somebody’s hand hath rested there,
Was it a mother’s, soft and white;
Or have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody’s love,
Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand!
Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody’s waiting, and watching for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart,
And there he lies—with his blue eyes dim,
And his smiling, child-like lips apart!
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop o’er his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
“‘Somebody’s darling’ is lying here!”
[J. L. Underwood.]
The young women and girls brightly and cordially cheered every Confederate volunteer. Nothing was too good for him, and smiles of sisterly esteem and love met him at every turn. There was a sort of intoxication in the welcome and applause that everywhere greeted the young volunteer. To many it was full pay for the sacrifice. Many an expectant bride sadly but resolutely postponed marriage, and sent her affianced lover to the army.
“Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,
With a woman’s proudest heart,
Which shall ever hold thee nearest,
Shrined in its inmost part?
“Listen then! My country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;
Like young Koerner, scorn the turtle
When the eagle screams above.”
But there were many young men who did not want to hear Koerner’s war eagle scream. They wanted a battle, but they wanted to “smell it afar off.” They believed in the righteousness of the war more strongly than anybody. Yes, many of them were the first to don the blue cockade of the “minute men;” that is, the militia organized with the avowed object of fighting on a moment’s warning. They were ever so ready to be soldiers at home for a “minute,” but held back when it came to volunteering for six months, a year, or three years. Then the young women would turn loose their little tongues, and their jeers and sarcasm would drive the skulker clear out of their society, and eventually in 186 self-defense he would have to “jine the cavalry,” or infantry one, to get away from the darts of woman’s tongue. A hornet could not sting like that little tongue.
One of these girls was a lone sister, with many brothers, in a very wealthy family, which we will call the DeLanceys, in one of the richest counties of Alabama. A cavalry company had been organized and drilled for the war, but not a DeLancey’s name was on the roll. The company was to leave the home camp for the front. The whole county gathered to cheer them and bid them good-bye. Presents and honors were showered upon the young patriots. The sister mentioned above owned a very fine favorite horse, named “Starlight,” which she presented to the company in a touching little speech, which brought tears to many eyes, and which wound up with the following apostrophe, “Farewell, Starlight! I may never see you again; but, thank God, you are the bravest of the DeLanceys.”
All through the war cowards were between two fires, that of the Federals at the front and that of the women in the rear.
[Thomas Nelson Page.]
Old Mathews and Gloucester, Virginia, as they are affectionately termed by those who knew them in the old times, were filled with colonial families and were the home of a peculiarly refined and aristocratic society. Miss Roy was the daughter of William H. Roy, esq., of “Green Plains,” Mathews county, and of Anne Seddon, a sister of Hon. James A. Seddon, Secretary of War of the Confederate States. She was a noted beauty and belle, even in a society that was known throughout Virginia for its charming and beautiful women. Her loveliness, radiant girlhood, and early womanhood is still talked of among the survivors of that time. Old men, who have seen the whole order of society in which they spent their youths pass from the scene, still refresh 187 themselves with the memory of her brilliant beauty and of her gracious charms. She was the centre and idol of that circle.
In 1855, on November 7th, she gave her hand and heart to Dr. Thomas H. Carter, esq., of Shirley, and from that time to the day of her death their life was one of the ideal unions which justify the saying that “marriages are made in heaven.” “It has always been a honeymoon with us,” he used to say. The young couple almost immediately settled at “Pampatike,” on the Pamunkey, an old colonial estate. Here Mrs. Carter lived for thirty-four years, occupied in the duties of mistress of a great plantation, dispensing that gracious hospitality which made it noted even in Old Virginia; shedding the light of a beautiful life on all about her, and exemplifying in herself the character to which the South points with pride and affection as a refutation of every adverse criticism.
Such a plantation was a world in itself, and the life upon it was such as to entail on the master and mistress labors and responsibilities such as are not often produced under any other conditions. In addition to the demands of hospitality, which were exacting and constant, the conduct of such a large establishment, with the care of over one hundred and fifty servants, whose eyes were ever turned to their mistress, called forth the exercise of the highest powers from those who felt themselves answerable to the Great Master of All for the full performance of their duty. No one ever performed this duty with more divine devotion than did this young mistress. She was at once the friend and the servant of every soul on the place. Mrs. Carter was a fine illustration of the rare quality of the character formed by such conditions. In sickness and in health she watched over, looked after, and cared for all within her province.
It is the boast of the South, and one founded on truth, that when during the war the men were withdrawn from the plantations to do their duty on the field, the women rose to the full measure of every demand, filling often, under new conditions that would have tried the utmost 188 powers of the men themselves, a place to which only men had been supposed equal.
When, on the outbreak of war, her husband was among the first who took the field as a captain of artillery, Mrs. Carter took charge of the plantation and during all the stress of that trying period she conducted it with an ability that would have done honor to a man of the greatest experience. The Pampatike plantation, lying not far from West Point, the scene of so many operations during the war, was within the “debatable land” that lay between the lines and was alternately swept by both armies. The position was peculiarly delicate, and often called for the exercise of rare tact and courage on the part of the mistress. It was known to the enemy that her husband was a gallant and rising officer and a near relative of General Lee, and the plantation was a marked one.
On one occasion a small party of mounted Federal troops on a foraging expedition visited the place and were engaged in looting, when a party of Confederate cavalry suddenly appeared on the scene, and a brisk little skirmish took place in the garden and yard. The Federals were caught by surprise, and getting the worst of it, broke and retreated across the lawn, with the enemy close to their heels in hot chase. A Union trooper was shot from his horse and fell just in front of the house, but rising, tried to run on. Mrs. Carter, seeing his danger, rushed out, calling to him to come to her and she would protect him. Turning, he staggered to her, but though she sheltered him, his wound was mortal, and he died at her feet. The surprise and defeat of this party having been reported at West Point, a stronger force was sent up to wreak vengeance on the place. But on learning of Mrs. Carter’s act in rushing out amid the flying bullets to save this man at the risk of her life, the officer in command posted a guard, and orders were given that the place should be henceforth respected.
The hospital service on the Confederate side during the 189 war, as wretched as it was, without medicines or surgical appliances, would have been far more dreadful but for the devotion with which the Southern women consecrated themselves to it. Every woman was a nurse if she were within reach of wounds and sickness. Every house was a hospital if it was needed; and to their honor be it said that the principle enunciated by Dr. Dunant, and finally established in the creation of the Red Cross Society, found its exemplification here some time before the Geneva Congress. To them a wounded man of whatever side was sacred, and to his service they consecrated themselves. Unhappily, devotion, even as divine as theirs, could not make up for all.
At the battle of Seven Pines—“Fair Oaks”—Captain Carter’s battery rendered such efficient service that the commanding general declared he would rather have commanded that battery that day than to have been President of the Confederate States. But the fame of the battery was won at the expense of about sixty per cent of its officers and men killed and wounded. The Carter plantation was within sound of the guns, and Mrs. Carter immediately constituted herself the nurse of the wounded men of her husband’s battery. And from this time she was regarded by them as their guardian angel—an affection that was extended to her by all of the men of her husband’s command, as he rose from rank to rank, until he became a colonel and acting chief of artillery in the last Valley campaign.
When the war closed nothing remained except the lands and a few buildings, but the energy of the master and mistress began from the first to build up the plantation again. The servants were free; the working force was broken up and scattered, yet large numbers of them, including all who were old and infirm, remained on the place and had to be cared for and fed. To this master and mistress alike applied all their abilities, with the result that defeat was turned into success and the place became known as one of the estates that had survived the destruction of war.
Having a family of young children, the best tutors were secured, and owing largely to the knowledge of the good influence to which the boys would be subjected under Mrs. Carter’s roof, many applied to send their boys to them, and “Pampatike School” soon became known far beyond the limits of Virginia. Among those who have testified to the influence upon them of their life at Pampatike are men now nearing the top of every profession in many States.
It was at this period that the writer came to know her. And he can never forget the impression made on him by her—an impression that time and fuller knowledge of her only served to deepen. Of commanding and gracious presence, with a face of rare beauty and loveliness, and manners, whose charm can never be described, she might have been noble Brunhilda, softened and made sweet by the chastening influence of Christianity and unselfish love. No one that ever saw her could forget her. It was, indeed, the beautifying influences of a simple piety and devoted love that guided her life, which stamped their impress on that noble face. In every relation of life she was perfect. And the influence of such a life can never cease. Many besides her children rise up and call her blessed.
In closing this incomplete sketch of one whose life illustrated all that was best in life, and admits of justice in no sketch whatsoever, the writer feels that he cannot do better than to use the words of him who knew and loved her best:
Every day an anthem of love and praise swells up from all over the land to do her honor. Old boys of Pampatike schooling, new boys of the University, girls and old people, recall her delight to make them happy and to give them pleasure. It was her greatest happiness to make others happy; for she was absolutely the most unselfish and generous being on earth. Her generosity was not always of abundance, for abundance was not always hers; but a generosity out of everything that she had.
Her beautiful life has passed away, and is now only a memory, but a memory fraught and fragrant with all that is sweetest and loveliest and purest and best in noblest womanhood. Who that ever saw her can forget her noble and beautiful face, resplendent with all that was exalted and high-souled, gracious, and kindest to others—the Master’s index to the heart within!
[J. L. Underwood.]
Hon. J. L. M. Curry had ever since the war with Mexico been the idol of his district in Alabama, which kept him steadily in the United States Congress and sent him to the Confederate House of Representatives. Toward the latter part of the war in the Congressional campaign Mr. Curry found an opponent in Mayor Cruickshank, of Talladega. The latter skilfully played upon the hardships and hopelessness of the war and in some of the upper mountain counties considerable opposition to Mr. Curry was developed. At a gathering of the mountaineers, largely composed of women, Mr. Curry was appealing with his usual favor to his people to continue their efforts to secure the independence of the Confederacy and not to listen to any suggestion of submission to the Northern States. About the time his eloquence reached its highest point, up rose an old woman and hurled at him what struck him like a thunderbolt:
“I think it time for you to hush all your war talk. You go yonder to Richmond and sit up there in Congress and have a good time while our poor boys are being all killed; and if you are going to do anything it’s time for you to stop this war.”
In a moment up sprang another mountain woman. “Go on, Mr. Curry,” said she. “Go on, you are right. We can never consent to give up our Southern cause. Don’t listen to what this other woman says. I have sent five sons to the army. Three of them have fallen on the battlefield. The other two are at their post in the Virginia army and they will all stand by Lee to the last. This woman here hasn’t but two sons and they had to be conscripted. One of them has deserted and it takes all of Lewis’s Cavalry to keep the other one in ranks. Go on, Mr. Curry. We are with you.” And Curry went on, more edified by this last woman’s speech, said he afterward, than any speech he ever heard in his life.
[In The Gray Jacket, pages 26-29.]
Norah McCarthy won by her courage the name of the “Jennie Deans” of the West. She lived in the interior of Missouri—a little, pretty, black-eyed girl, with a soul as huge as a mountain, and a form as frail as a fairy’s, and the courage and pluck of a buccaneer into the bargain. Her father was an old man—a secessionist. She had but a single brother, just growing from boyhood to youthhood, but sickly and lame. The family had lived in Kansas during the troubles of ’57, when Norah was a mere girl of fourteen or thereabouts. But even then her beauty, wit and devil-may-care spirit were known far and wide; and many were the stories told along the border of her sayings and doings. Among other charges laid at her door it is said that she broke all the hearts of the young bloods far and wide, and tradition goes even so far as to assert that, like Bob Acres, she killed a man once a week, keeping a private church-yard for the purpose of decently burying her dead. Be this as it may, she was then, and is now, a dashing, fine-looking, lively girl, and a prettier heroine than will be found in a novel, as will be seen if the good-natured reader has a mind to follow us to the close of this sketch.
Not long after the Federals came into her neighborhood, and after they had forced her father to take the oath, which he did partly because he was a very old man, unable to take the field, and hoped thereby to save the security of his household, and partly because he could not help himself; not long after these two important events in the history of our heroine, a body of men marched up one evening, while she was on a visit to a neighbor’s, and arrested her sickly, weak brother, bearing him off to Leavenworth City, where he was lodged in the military guard-house.
It was nearly night before Norah reached home. When she did so, and discovered the outrage which had been perpetrated, and the grief of her old father, her rage knew no bounds. Although the mists were falling and 193 the night was closing in, dark and dreary, she ordered her horse to be resaddled, put on a thick surtout, belted a sash round her waist, and sticking a pair of ivory-handled pistols in her bosom, started off after the soldiers. The post was many miles distant. But that she did not regard. Over hill, through marsh, under cover of the darkness, she galloped on to the headquarters of the enemy. At last the call of a sentry brought her to stand, with a hoarse “Who goes there?”
“No matter,” she replied. “I wish to see Colonel Prince, your commanding officer, and instantly, too.”
Somewhat awed by the presence of a young female on horseback at that late hour, and perhaps struck by her imperious tone of command, the Yankee guard, without hesitation, conducted her to the fortifications, and thence to the quarters of the colonel commanding, with whom she was left alone.
“Well, madam,” said the Federal officer, with bland politeness, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“Is this Colonel Prince?” replied the brave girl, quietly.
“It is, and you are—”
“No matter. I have come here to inquire whether you have a lad by the name of McCarthy a prisoner?”
“There is such a prisoner.”
“May I ask why he is a prisoner?”
“Certainly! For being suspected of treasonable connection with the enemy.”
“Treasonable connection with the enemy! Why the boy is sick and lame. He is, besides, my brother; and I have come to ask his immediate release.”
The officer opened his eyes; was sorry he could not comply with the request of so winning a supplicant; and must “really beg her to desist and leave the fortress.”
“I demand his release,” cried she, in reply.
“That you cannot have. The boy is a rebel and a traitor, and unless you retire, madam, I shall be forced to arrest you on a similar suspicion.”
“Suspicion! I am a rebel and a traitor, too, if you 194 wish; young McCarthy is my brother, and I don’t leave this tent until he goes with me. Order his instant release or,”—here she drew one of the aforesaid ivory handles out of her bosom and levelled the muzzle of it directly at him—“I will put an ounce of lead in your brain before you can call a single sentry to your relief.”
A picture that!
There stood the heroic girl; eyes flashing fire, cheek glowing with earnest will, lips firmly set with resolution, and hand outstretched with a loaded pistol ready to send the contents through the now thoroughly frightened, startled, aghast soldier, who cowered, like blank paper before flames, under her burning stare.
“Quick!” she repeated, “order his release, or you die.”
It was too much. Prince could not stand it. He bade her lower her infernal weapon, for God’s sake, and the boy should be forthwith liberated.
“Give the order first,” she replied, unmoved.
And the order was given; the lad was brought out; and drawing his arm in hers, the gallant sister marched out of the place, with one hand grasping one of his, and the other holding her trusty ivory handle. She mounted her horse, bade him get up behind, and rode off, reaching home without accident before midnight.
Now that is a fact stranger than fiction, which shows what sort of metal is in our women of the much abused and traduced nineteenth century.
[From Dickinson and His Men, pages 99-100.]
As Captain Dickinson and our brave defenders charged the enemy through the streets, many of the ladies could be seen, whose inspiring tones and grateful plaudits cheered these noble heroes on to deeds of greater daring. While charging the enemy, near the residence of Judge Dawkins, Mrs. Dawkins and her lovely sister, Miss Lydia Taylor, passed from their garden into the 195 street, and in the excitement of the moment, actuated by the heroic spirit that ever animated our noble women, united their voices in repeating the captain’s word of command. “Charge, charge!” was heard with the musical rhythm of a benediction from their grateful hearts.
The enemy, halting, made a stand a few yards below the entrance to their residence, firing up the street almost a hailstorm of Minie balls from their Spencer rifles. Apparently indifferent to their danger, these heroic ladies stood unmoved, cheering on our gallant soldiers, among whom were many near and dear to them. Captain Dickinson earnestly entreated them to return to the house, as they were in imminent danger of being killed.
Many ladies brought buckets of water for the heated, famished soldiers who had no time to give even to this needed refreshment. Through all the desperate fight not a citizen was hurt. The sweet incense of prayer arose from hundreds of agonized hearts to the mercy-seat, in behalf of husbands, sons, fathers, and brothers who were in the battle.
[Judge John H. Reagan’s address in 1897.]
To illustrate the character and devotion of the women of the Confederacy, I will repeat a statement made to me during the war by Governor Letcher, of Virginia. He had visited his home in the Shenandoah Valley, and on his return to the State capitol called at the house of an old friend who had a large family. He found no one but the good old mother at home, and inquired about the balance of the family. She told him that her husband, her husband’s father and her ten sons were all in the army. And on his suggestion that she must feel lonesome, having had a large family with her and now to be left alone, her answer was that it was very hard, but if she had ten more sons they should all go to the army. Can ancient or modern history show a nobler or more unselfish and patriotic devotion to any cause?
[J. L. Underwood.]
On first thought it would be expected that women would be greatly excited when under fire and amid other scenes of actual war. But almost invariably they exhibited during our war a calm fearlessness that was amazing. My girl wife and her war companion, Mrs. Lieutenant Lockett, of Marion, Ala., a daughter of Alabama’s noble war governor, A. B. Moore, spent several months of the spring of 1863 at Vicksburg and its vicinity, to be near their husbands. They were boarding in the city the night when Porter’s fleet ran down the river by the batteries. The cannonading was terrific. I was with my regiment, the Thirtieth Alabama, some few miles away. Next morning, as soon as regimental duties would allow, I hastened to the city. To my astonishment I found that neither “the girls” nor the ladies of the city had been at all alarmed. They seemed to look upon it as a sort of enjoyable episode.
In May we were at Warrenton, 10 miles below the city, where the two ladies were quartered with old Mr. Withington and his good wife, in one of the most independent and comfortable plantation homes in the land. When our brigade, under command of the brave but ill-fated Gen. Ed. Tracy, was ordered to Grand Gulf, I was left under orders to take the ladies to Vicksburg and send them home out of danger. But before we could get away from Mr. Withington’s news came that a battle was raging at Bayou Pierre. I told the ladies that I could not stay away from my command while it was engaged in battle and that they would just have to do the best they could where they were. Their cheeks never blanched; nor was a protest uttered. After the battle I hurried back and got them to Vicksburg, hoping to have them beyond Jackson before Grant’s flanking army could reach it. The idea of having them shut up in Vicksburg during a siege was a horror to me. What was my chagrin when, on reaching the railroad station, I was informed 197 by the officials that not another train would be allowed to go out. There were numbers of officers’ wives and other women all round the depot, eager to go. They bore their bitter disappointment even cheerfully. Their courage and cheerfulness soon took another happy turn when under orders I passed around to whisper to them, “Be ready to jump quickly and quietly on a train which has been provided to carry off soldiers’ wives in a few minutes.”
Away they went and reached their homes safely, though we at Vicksburg never learned this until after the surrender. The siege lasted forty-seven days. Day and night, not only the entrenchments but the entire city was exposed to artillery and rifle fire day and night. Many a man was killed far away from the front lines. Many a private house was torn by shells from Grant’s rifle cannon or Porter’s mortar fleet. While the shot and shell did not fall incessantly at any one point there was no place they did not reach. I knew several poor fellows to receive fresh wounds while lying on their cots in the hospitals.
Porter did not spare the city hospital, although carrying the yellow flag. In it I had an old college friend, Capt. Ben Craig, of Alabama, sick with fever, whose wife and venerable father had remained to nurse him. Just before one of my visits a thirteen-inch shell came down through the roof, leaving an ugly hole in the floor within six inches of poor Craig’s bed. His brave little wife, (formerly Miss Eliza Tucker, of Milledgeville, Ga.) never flinched.
A great many families of the city had dug caves in the soft clay of the Vicksburg hills and could hide in them in perfect safety. Many did not avail themselves of this refuge, but bravely remained in their houses and took chances. Even the cave dwellers had to come out to cook their food. Nobly did these good women render whatever attention they could to our sick and wounded. They were as brave and as calm as the soldiers.
[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages 322-326.]
I sat in the porch, where were also sitting an old couple, evidently the joint head of the establishment, and a young woman dressed in black, apparently their daughter, and, as I soon learned, a soldier’s widow. My coat was badly torn, and the young woman kindly offering to mend it I thanked her and, taking it off, handed it to her. While we were chatting, and groups of men sitting on the steps and lying about the yard, the door of the house opened and another young woman appeared. She was almost beautiful, was plainly but neatly dressed, and had her hat on. She had evidently been weeping and her face was deadly pale. Turning to the old woman, as she came out, she said, cutting her words off short, “Mother, tell him if he passes here he is no husband of mine,” and turned again to leave the porch. I rose, and placing myself directly in front of her, extended my arm to prevent her escape. She drew back with surprise and indignation. The men were alert on the instant, and battle was joined.
“What do you mean, sir?” she cried.
“I mean, madam,” I replied, “that you are sending your husband word to desert, and that I cannot permit you to do this in the presence of my men.”
“Indeed! and who asked your permission, sir? And pray, sir, is he your husband or mine?”
“He is your husband, madam, but these are my soldiers. They and I belong to the same army with your husband, and I cannot suffer you, or any one, unchallenged, to send such a demoralizing message in their hearing.”
“Army! do you call this mob of retreating cowards an army? Soldiers! if you are soldiers, why don’t you stand and fight the savage wolves that are coming upon us defenceless women and children?”
“We don’t stand and fight, madam, because we are soldiers, and have to obey orders, but if the enemy should appear on that hill this moment I think you would find 199 that these men are soldiers, and willing to die in defense of women and children.”
“Quite a fine speech, sir, but rather cheap to utter, since you very well know the Yankees are not here, and won’t be, till you’ve had time to get your precious carcasses out of the way. Besides, sir, this thing is over, and has been for some time. The government has now actually run off, bag and baggage,—the Lord knows where,—and there is no longer any government or any country for my husband to owe allegiance to. He does owe allegiance to me and to his starving children, and if he doesn’t observe this allegiance now, when I need him, he need not attempt it hereafter when he wants me.”
The woman was quick as a flash and cold as steel. She was getting the better of me. She saw it, and, worst of all, the men saw and felt it, too, and had gathered thick and pressed up close all round the porch. There must have been a hundred or more of them, all eagerly listening, and evidently strongly to the woman’s side. This would never do. I tried every avenue of approach to that woman’s heart. It was congealed by suffering, or else it was encased in adamant. She had parried every thrust, repelled every advance, and was now standing defiant, with her arms folded across her breast, rather courting further attack. I was desperate, and with the nonchalance of pure desperation—no stroke of genius—I asked the soldier-question:
“What command does your husband belong to?”
She started a little, and there was a trace of color in her face as she replied, with a slight tone of pride in her voice: “He belongs to the Stonewall Brigade, sir.”
I felt, rather than thought it—but, had I really found her heart? We would see.
“When did he join it?”
A little deeper flush, a little stronger emphasis of pride.
“He joined in the spring of ’61, sir.”
Yes, I was sure of it now. Her eyes had gazed straight into mine; her head inclined and her eyelids drooped a little now, and there was something in her 200 face that was not pain and was not fight. So I let myself out a little, and turning to the men, said:
“Men, if her husband joined the Stonewall Brigade in ’61, and has been in the army ever since, I reckon he’s a good soldier.”
I turned to look at her. It was all over. Her wifehood had conquered. She had not been addressed this time, yet she answered instantly, with head raised high, face blushing, eyes flashing: “General Lee hasn’t a better in his army!” As she uttered these words she put her hand in her bosom, and drawing out a folded paper, extended it toward me, saying: “If you doubt it, look at that.”
Before her hand reached mine she drew it back, seeming to have changed her mind, but I caught her wrist, and without much resistance possessed myself of the paper. It had been much thumbed and was much worn. It was hardly legible, but I made it out. Again I turned to the men.
“Take off your hats, boys, I want you to hear this with uncovered heads”—and then I read an endorsement on an application for furlough, in which General Lee himself had signed a recommendation of this woman’s husband for a furlough of special length on account of extraordinary gallantry in battle.
During the reading of this paper the woman was transfigured, glorified. No Madonna of old master was ever more sweetly radiant with all that appeals to what is best and holiest in man. Her bosom rose and fell with deep, quiet sighs; her eyes rained gentle, happy tears.
The men felt it all—all. They were all gazing upon her, but the dross was clean, purified out of them. There was not, upon any one of their faces, an expression that would have brought a blush to the cheek of the purest womanhood on earth. I turned once more to the soldier’s wife.
“This little paper is your most precious treasure, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And the love of him whose manly courage and devotion 201 won this tribute is the best blessing God ever gave you, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And yet, for the brief ecstasy of one kiss, you would disgrace this hero-husband of yours, stain all his noble reputation, and turn this priceless paper to bitterness; for the rear-guard would hunt him from his own cottage, in half an hour, a deserter and a coward.”
Not a sound could be heard save her hurried breathing. The rest of us held our breath. Suddenly, with a gasp of recovered consciousness, she snatched the paper from my hand, put it back hurriedly in her bosom, and turning once more to her mother, said: “Mother, tell him not to come.”
I stepped aside at once. She left the porch, glided down the path to the gate, crossed the road, surmounted the fence with easy grace, climbed the hill, and as she disappeared in the weedy pathway I caught up my hat and said:
“Now, men, give her three cheers.”
Such cheers. Oh, God, shall I ever again hear a cheer which bears a man’s whole soul in it? For the first time I felt reasonably sure of my battalion. It would follow anywhere.