On a morning that was like ideal May, the 8th of March, 1862, I sat on my horse by the river bank at Blinkhorn, opposite Newport News. My uncle, Colonel J. J. Phillips, was stationed there, and I had come to the camp and was one of the hundreds gathered on the bank of the Nansemond River at that point, all eyes turned with eager interest toward Hampton Roads, where lay our new battleship, the Virginia.
Like a phœnix, she had arisen from the wreck of the old frigate Merrimac. Grim, solemn, weird, builded low upon the water, she was not boat nor ram nor submarine, nor anything else hitherto known to the waves. Newly clad in her robe of iron, she was a veiled mystery, a forlorn hope, a theory, an armed engine, a steam battery protected by armor, an experiment destined to change the course of naval warfare. Being the first ship built in the Old Dominion, she was named for her State, Virginia. Commanded by Captain Buchanan and manned by a crew composed largely of landsmen who had volunteered from the Army, she had waited in Hampton Roads for the dawning of her day.
Through my field-glass I watched the Virginia gliding like a great white bird hovering between the pulsing, scintillant blue of the heavens above and the waters beneath. Accompanied by the gunboats Raleigh and Beaufort, she passed along amid the cheers of the enthusiastic onlookers thronging both banks and of the troops at the batteries around the harbor. An awesome feeling took possession of me, holding me silent until the enthusiasm of the crowd thrilled me and I waved my handkerchief in messages of Godspeed to the brave new craft.
Slowly she rounded Craney Island, lying like a blue-gray cloud over the water, her batteries turned toward the Norfolk shore. The troops waved their caps and sent up lusty cheers for the strange craft that looked, as some one afterward said, "like a huge terrapin with a large round chimney about the middle of its back." Having passed the island, she turned into the south channel and slowly moved on toward Newport News until, coming within firing range of the United States frigates Congress and Cumberland, she was greeted with broadsides from both. A flash of fire, pale against the white day, a puff of smoke, widening, drifting, wreathing around the mouth of the gun and floating off into space, a deep roar of thunder showed us that our Virginia was bearing well her brave old name.
The enthusiasm which had greeted her appearance was as nothing compared with the excitement that thrilled us now. Yells of encouragement and defiance rent the air. Handkerchiefs fluttered; hats were thrown aloft. Some of the men danced; others turned somersaults of enthusiasm. One soldier rushed to Colonel Phillips shouting, "Say, Colonel, say; can't we do something? Can't we help? For God's sake, let us do something to help them!"
Fortunately there was no bridge from the shore to the scene of action. Otherwise every man, woman and child among that seething crowd might have rushed into the fight, to the embarrassment of the plucky little Virginia. We could do our part only by going into paroxysms of patriotism, in which we all excelled.
The Virginia went on up the channel, turned and, coming back, ran full against the Cumberland, penetrating her side with the sharp prow of the Confederate ironclad. The frigate reeled, shuddered, and began slowly to settle, her guns roaring from her deck. The Congress came to her assistance, but the shots which rained from the two frigates fell harmlessly from the slanting sides of the Virginia.
With fascinated eyes I watched the Cumberland tossing upon the waves, gradually sinking, firing another volley as her bow went down, then disappearing under the water, the flag that floated from her masthead still fluttering above the sea.
For days we had seen that frigate with her mate, the Congress, threatening us, a blot upon our waters, a monster, a thing of evil, waiting for the moment of fate. But it was pitiful to watch her go down, and I think every heart there felt a pride in that pennant waving defiantly above the water, even while we cheered our victorious Virginia. She went on, turned and came back to attack the Congress which, in trying to escape, ran aground. She was soon ablaze, banners of flame flapping out from her rigging. In an hour her flag fell.
We were told afterward that in one of the ships which we could dimly descry in the distance, an old man waited for the battle and for tidings of his son, commander of the Congress. When they told him that the flag was down he said sadly, "Then Joe is dead!" He knew by that signal that his son "Joe," Captain Joseph B. Smith, had fallen.
The Raleigh and Beaufort drew up beside the flaming Congress, under a heavy fire from the Federal batteries on the Newport News shore which not only did execution upon the crews of the Confederate gunboats, but proved fatal to some of the prisoners from the burning frigate. The Virginia's launch rowed toward the Congress and was struck by a volley from the Federal battery.
Beyond the Congress the Minnesota lay aground. Before the surrender of the Congress the Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson and Teazer, the James River squadron, passed the Federal batteries, the Patrick Henry was struck through the boiler and was towed out of action by the Thomas Jefferson, returning after repairs and running up close to the grounded Minnesota, being light and able to come nearer than the heavier ironclad. Till night fell we watched the gunboats raining shot upon the Minnesota, the Virginia, from her greater distance, occasionally firing ponderously upon the grounded frigate. When darkness prevented correct aim the Virginia and her sturdy little assistants retired, slowly moving to Sewell's Point. We returned to our homes, awed by the grandeur of the scene, sorrowful for the lost lives, but triumphant in the victory won by our brave little craft.
Those who watched through the hours of darkness beheld a brilliant fire-scene displayed against the velvety night. Steadily the Congress had flamed upward, paling the stars in its red glow. At midnight banners of flame, showers of stars, fiery serpents writhing upward in sinuous pathways through the dense columns of smoke, marked the end.
That night a new-comer arrived and next morning was lying behind the grounded Minnesota—a queer object, afterward described as "a tin can on a shingle." It was Erickson's little Monitor, commanded by Captain Worden and manned by a volunteer crew, for no one was ordered for service on the odd little craft with its revolving turret. The position was risky and no officer wanted to reflect later that he had sent men to death on a wild experiment.
Those who could get a clear view of the stranger thought that she was a raft sent to save the crew of the Minnesota, but she steamed up toward the Virginia with a war-like expression which left no doubt as to her real character. From tidings sent from New York we had expected the new invention down in our waters, but our imagination had not wound itself around anything so funny looking and we did not recognize her until she revealed herself.
I was early at my post, eager to see the end of the fray. My uncle had his boat ready to put out to the scene of action.
"Oh, uncle, may I go?" I cried, running after him.
"No, no!" he shouted. "Go back!"
He stepped into the boat and pulled off without looking behind and did not see that I followed and took a seat in the boat, with sketch-book and pencil, prepared to take battle views at first hand. Perhaps an artist of to-day might regard my sketch-book with some degree of scorn, constructed as it was of wall paper, turned plain side out, cut into leaves of convenient size, and bound together, the handiwork of my ingenious grandmother. It was the best the Confederacy could afford just then and perhaps it served the purpose as well as a more artistic outfit might have done. I shall never forget the look of horrified amazement that overspread my uncle's face as he chanced to look backward.
"You little dare-devil, you!" he called out, "I've a good mind to drown you!"
The absurdity of the situation flashed upon him and his shout of laughter rang over the water. We were too far out to admit of turning back to put me ashore and there was nothing he could do but endure my company.
"You needn't think I am going to try to keep you out of danger, you disobedient, incorrigible little minx," he said indignantly. "It would serve you right if you were shot."
I was not thinking of danger. It was my first chance at a sea-fight and I was not going to miss it.
Thus I watched the first battle of iron-clad warships. Apparently recognizing the fact that they had in a moment become useless lumber, the old-time wooden structures drew aside and observed the novel contest. The two little giants were almost touching and broadside after broadside poured into each other. My uncle was absorbed in watching the scene.
"Let me see! Let me see!" I cried all aquiver with excitement.
"I will not let you see, you miserable little wretch!" he replied.
Then relenting, he gave me the field-glass. "Well, here; look! Be careful or you will lose your balance and fall overboard, though I reckon it would be a good thing if you did. Teach you better than to put yourself where you have no business."
His sense of humor, as usual, saved the situation, and he laughed again. I think there was never a time since I routed him out at midnight to take a neck-breaking ride in a hail-storm that I was not an amusing, as well as a terrifying conundrum to my unfortunate uncle. He good-naturedly shared his glass with disobedient little me and I watched the contest.
The storm that rained upon the Virginia was of solid shot and shell, while it had been impossible to provide the Confederate ram with anything but shell. The armor of the Monitor was thicker than that of her antagonist but the inclination of the sides of the Virginia, causing the shot to glance harmlessly, offset that advantage. The Virginia suddenly ran aground and the Monitor was quick to avail herself of the mishap, but before we were certain of the peril of our champion she was off and making an effort to run down the Monitor. The bow of the Virginia was directly against her antagonist and we saw the Federal ship careen dangerously. When they separated a shell from our ironclad struck the pilot-house of the Monitor. We afterward learned that her commander, Lieutenant Worden, was disabled.
The Minnesota was helpless and as the Virginia turned toward her we expected that she would be sunk. But, probably to the delight of those on board the frigate as well as to the infinite dismay of us who looked on, our little steamer went on her way toward Sewell's Point and then to the Navy Yard. Our disappointment was very great and as we were rowing home my uncle said reflectively:
"By George, it looks as if the Lord was on the side of those damned Yankees."
It was the first time I had ever heard him admit the possibility that Providence could be on the wrong side of anything.
We heard later that, so certain seemed the destruction of the Minnesota, her captain was making preparations to fire and abandon her when, to his surprise, the Merrimac, or Virginia, as we renamed her, turned homeward.
Our captain afterward explained that he thought his last shot had disabled the Monitor and he dared not stay any longer in those waters because the Virginia had so heavy a draught that it was impossible for her to cross the bar after ebb-tide.
In the Battle of Seven Pines, May 31 and June 1, 1862, Pickett's Brigade played a most important and gallant part, an account of which may be seen in General Joseph E. Johnston's report and in General Pickett's own report as given in "Pickett and His Men."
While the battle yet raged darkness came on to force a truce. General Johnston ordered his troops to sleep on their lines to be ready for the morning. Shortly after seven he was slightly wounded by a musket shot. A little later he remarked to one of his Colonels who dodged a shell:
"There is no use in dodging like that, Colonel. When you hear the things they have passed."
At that moment a shell exploded, striking him in the breast. He fell unconscious into the arms of Drewry L. Armistead, one of his couriers. On regaining consciousness he missed his sword and pistols, and said:
"My father wore that sword in the Revolutionary War and I would not lose it for ten thousand dollars. The pistols Colonel Colt, the inventor, gave me."
Both sword and pistols were recovered and General Johnston, the natural magnet for bullets, an officer of the highest soldierly qualities, of military skill and sagacity equalled by few and surpassed by none, was carried off the field severely wounded. General Robert E. Lee was appointed to the command of the Army of Northern Virginia, to become the idol of his people and one of the greatest military leaders of the world; greater than will ever be known, because of the restrictions laid upon his power. Though he was the General in command he was under the direction of the War Department, which exercised its authority to the utmost. Perhaps our Confederacy might have been longer lived if Lee had adopted the policy of Stonewall Jackson who, when ordered to recall General Loring from Romney, obeyed like a soldier and promptly sent in his resignation like a mere human.
If I could bring before you the picture of the Richmond I saw after the battle of Seven Pines you would say that it was the most powerful peace argument ever penned. But no words could give you the faintest shadow of the Richmond of those days of anguish. Could Dante have looked upon our Capital in that opening June he would have needed no Virgil to unlock for him the gates of Inferno, no Beatrice to lead him through the midnight corridors of a lost world to the torture chamber of condemned souls. He would have turned his gaze upon our streets, dipped his pen in his heart's blood and written, and mankind would have shuddered through all the ages to come.
Richmond was shaking with the thunders of the battle and the death-sounds thrilled through our agonized souls. The blood of the field was running in rivers of red through the hearts of her people. For days the dead-wagons and ambulances wended their tragic way from the battlefield to the Capital City and every turn of their crunching wheels rolled over our crushed and bleeding hearts. The wretched loads of wounded were emptied before the doors of the improvised hospitals until they overflowed with maimed humanity and all hearts and hands were full of grief for the dead and work for the wounded.
There was not a home in the city that held not some ghastly offering from the battlefield. Every possible space was converted into a temporary hospital and all was done that unwearied nursing and gentle care could effect, for the roughest in the ranks as tenderly as for those who wore the stars. Women, girls, and children stood before the doors with wine and food for the wounded as they passed. It was not unusual to see half a dozen funeral processions at the same time on their way to the City of the Dead.
The Capitol square was filled with officers, privates and citizens, seeking information of the battle. From all the Southland poured in letters from friends and relatives, with the sacred charge to care for their loved ones. From all quarters of the Confederacy wives followed their husbands, mothers their sons.
"Come, Lassie, here is a telegram from Mrs. B——," said my hostess. "Come, dear, and go with me to the train to meet her. How I dread it, poor, dear lady!"
There was a sublime faith in the motherly face that met us in the station—a faith that lifted up our hearts to the heights of Divinity. There was no question, no fear, in the serene, loving eyes. "I've come to see my boy; he was with General Johnston," she said.
We drove back through a mourning Richmond, a strange, foreign Richmond that the mother did not know. From the doors of the houses hung streamers of black. Ambulances filled with wounded passed us, their torturing road marked by the trail of blood that oozed, drop by drop, from human veins.
Wagons filled with dead rolled by, the stiffened bodies piled one upon another in ghastly heaps, the rigid feet projecting from the ends of the vehicles. It was the most appalling sight that ever greeted human eyes, but it was the only way to save our fallen soldiers from the desecration of birds of prey. All the vehicles of every description were utilized, the less severely wounded walking, their wounds bound in bloody rags. They formed a long procession, nearly five thousand, young boys, middle-aged and old men, from privates to high officers, passing on to the homes of Richmond where they would find tender care. From some of the open windows came shrieks of pain from those whose courage had been overcome by mortal agony. Down the streets new regiments were marching to the front to fill, in time, other dead-wagons and ambulances.
Sometimes the Richmond of those days comes back to me now and I shudder anew with terror.
Reaching the beautiful home of our friend and hostess, we hurried our beloved charge, this sweet mother of a soldier, through corridors where closed doors guarded scenes which could be but dimly imagined. Up the stairway and along the hall to a small room she followed our friend, who sent me down to order up a waiter of refreshments. On my return she came out to meet me.
"She does not know, Lassie; ah, who will tell her? Heaven help her! Heaven help her!"
Later I saw her go with firm step, erect form, and faith-redeemed face, and stop silently as if in prayer at a closed door. Some one had told her. The door opened and she passed through. Then it gently shut, leaving her alone with her dead.
For months "On to Richmond" had been the war-cry of the Federals, and the battle of Gaines's Mill, June 27, 1862, was the turning point of the seven days' battles around our Capital. No event of the memorable campaign which had followed that slogan was more important in its results than this desperate conflict.
McClellan in his retreat had burned and destroyed everything that could be carried away until he reached Watts's Farm, known also by the names of Gaines's Mill and Cold Harbor, and there was fought the greatest battle of the war, up to that time. The great stage painter, Nature, had never arranged a more picturesque scene for a battle than that which was set for Gaines's Mill, one of the most awful contests of the war. It was an undulating plain gracefully rising into gentle swells, crowned by a dense growth of trees. It terminated in a tall cliff, a great rounded mass of rock which had been hurled from its native bed so many centuries ago as to be now covered with a large forest. Directly in front of the cliff, separated by a deep gorge, was a low level field partly covered by a heavy crop of oats which, together with a natural growth of broom-sedge, afforded concealment to McClellan's sharpshooters and lines of skirmishers. The cliff was defended by three tiers of field artillery and a heavy infantry support.
Pickett's Brigade formed in line of battle under the brow of the hill, and my Soldier, leading and cheering on his men in ascending the cliff, was shot from his horse. His shoulder was pierced by a minie ball and his medical director wanted to take him off the field, saying the ball must be removed at once.
"My men need me," replied my Soldier. "Take the bullet out here and fix me up quick, doctor, I must go back—see, they need me."
The surgeon extracted the ball and my Soldier continued to give orders until, weak from pain and loss of blood, he was carried from the field. For some weeks he was on furlough at his home in Richmond and in July I was permitted to make my first call. Here I met for the second time Jefferson Davis, now President of the Confederacy. I had just taken my seat by my wounded Soldier when the President was announced and, to my inexpressible vexation, I saw the precious minutes slip away while he occupied my chair and I sat in a corner with Mrs. Burwell, my Soldier's only sister.
In spite of my green glasses I could not help forming a mental picture of the man who had been chosen as our political head. He was tall and extremely slender, but of indescribable dignity and grace. He was a type of the Old South, cultivated, refined, a brilliant conversationist. His eyes were clear and of a blue-gray color. He had a high forehead, straight nose, thin, compressed lips, pointed chin, prominent cheek bones, and deep lines around his mouth. His face was thin, features long and sharp, expression intense. There was no pomp in his movements, neither was there anything uncertain. His walk was wonderful; just what a President's walk ought to be but seldom is. When he rode, the beautiful unaffected harmony and grace of every motion were fascinating.
He pressed my Soldier's left hand, laying it gently down on the arm of the chair to avoid jarring him.
"How soon will you be able to go back?" he asked. "We need you in the field."
"I should like to go to-morrow," was the reply.
The President shook his head, and entered upon a brief account of the fighting after the battle of Gaines's Mill, praising my Soldier's brother, Major Charles Pickett, who had been wounded at Frazier's Farm, carrying the flag on foot after his horse had been shot from under him. I saw the President's eyes flash as he said:
"I am too much of a soldier to keep out of it in this way, I want to be in the fray. I would much have preferred fighting in the field to warring in the council chamber. I had gone out to consult with the Generals when the artillery duel between Jackson and Franklin began. I barely missed being accidentally shot and was carried off by force."
Then they talked of the time when they fought in Mexico.
On my next visit to my Soldier I met Stonewall Jackson, whom I had seen once in my childhood when I went with my grandmother to visit my uncle, Colonel J. J. Phillips, who was under him as a cadet at the Virginia Military Institute and was afterward associated with him as a professor in the same institution. Later I had heard my Soldier talk of him as the man of the war; the greatest military character developed in that fiery time. Even thus early the world began to know him for what he was. He came to see my Soldier and asked after his welfare.
General Jackson talked of Gaines's Mill and said that General Whiting, of his command, had lost his way and, not knowing where to find his commander, had reported to General Longstreet, who put his brigade a little in the rear of Pickett's men, so that the two brigades together made the assault which broke the enemy's lines. My Soldier, who always deplored the loss of life, expressed his sorrow over the death of certain gallant officers and so many soldiers. Stonewall replied, "General Pickett, we are fighting to save the country, not the army. I fight to win, no matter how many are killed."
While they were talking mint juleps were brought in, which Jackson declined, saying, "I never touch strong drink. I like it too well to fool with it, and no man's strength is strong enough to enable him to touch the stuff with impunity."
Julie, politely curtseying, came to the defense of her juleps:
"'Scuse me, Marse Gen'ul Jackson, but dese yer drams ain't got no impunities in 'em, suh. Nor, suh. Braxton done en mek 'em out'n we-all's ve'y best old London Dock brandy out'n one o' we-all's cobweb bottles."
Though my Soldier's wound was serious and he was suffering intensely, General Jackson did not express sympathy. He only deplored his absence from his command in time of need. My Soldier said afterward, "I believe that General Jackson classes all who are weak or starving as lacking in patriotism, and maybe he thinks I am unpatriotic to have been wounded."
Perhaps no one but Stonewall Jackson could have lived up to the stern Puritanism which made him so indifferent to external things—always more rigidly uncompromising for himself than for others. The same sturdy determination which had led the untrained boy years before to seek and obtain an appointment to West Point in the face of a multitude of discouragements was shown in Stonewall's famous requisition, "Send me twenty thousand men and no orders." The spirit which held Lieutenant Jackson to his guns in Mexico after all his men had been killed or driven away, and had won for him two promotions in one day, was the same spirit in which, having received an order that upset his well-matured plans, he promptly obeyed and as promptly sent in his resignation. The South had then learned his worth and her protest led him to withdraw his resignation, but he was never again hampered by instructions from the War Department.
It was said in the army that General Jackson was afraid of nothing but his own soldiers. Their expressions of devotion alarmed him. Riding his chestnut sorrel, his tall, powerful form bent forward, his long, solemn face, with high cheek bones half lost in heavy reddish-brown beard, his gray eyes cast downward, when he unexpectedly came upon his men the first cheer would cause him to straighten back, hold his shoulders erect, doff the old fatigue cap that concealed his receding forehead, spur up his horse and dash off at full speed, followed by ringing shouts until he was lost to view.
Soon after this meeting with our "Stonewall" I returned to school, and in October my Soldier reported for duty, his empty sleeve dangling, for it was two months before he was able to draw it over his wounded arm.
Sheltered by academic walls, absorbed in our budding ambitions, we were yet shaken by the thunders of Antietam and thrilled with triumphant, though awesome, joy by the lightnings of Fredericksburg that seemed to flash a fiery road to the goal of our dreams.
Then came Chancellorsville with its thrill of triumph, followed by the knowledge of the immeasurable cost of the victory.
In the Executive Mansion I helped Lizzie Letcher, the daughter of the Governor, and Miss Missouri Godwin, now the widow of General Ordway, pin tuberoses tied with crêpe on the lapels of those who with sad hearts followed their honored leader for the last time. At the grave each soldier took off his flower and laid it on the sacred mound.
The question asked in '61, "Who is this T. J. Jackson?" had been answered from many a battlefield. When the shot that struck him down sent its mournful message around the world the fullest response to that query came from the mourning hearts of friend and foe alike. Beyond the sea he was recorded as "one who took to a soldier's grave the love of the whole world and the name of Stonewall Jackson."
General Garnett was one of those who had been hurt by the severity of the hero's military discipline. My Soldier had charge of General Jackson's funeral and Garnett came to him and asked permission to take part. Of all who followed the great soldier to his grave there was no mourner more sincere. All antagonisms were drowned in the flood of veneration which surged around his name and fame.
In my next vacation, as my father could not come to Lynchburg for several days to take me home, he wrote that my mother suggested that I accept an invitation from a classmate in Lovingston, Virginia. Four others of our class were invited and we were having an old-time Virginia house-party, where friends and neighbors vied with our hosts in giving us pleasure, when a telegram came from my father saying that his old friend, Dr. Seon, a celebrated minister who had just romantically made his escape from prison in his daughter's clothes, would pass through Lynchburg the following day and would escort me home. Though sorry to make a break in our house-party I was glad to go, as it furthered the plan of my Soldier, which I had feared would go astray, to meet me in Petersburg where I was to stop over for a few days on my way home. On the train the doctor said:
"Lassie, I found, to my delight, the son of an old friend in the forward coach, whom I would like to present to you if I may. I have just told him I was traveling with a little lady-girl, or a little girl-lady, who was making me forget age and wars and troubles—just a ripple of sunshine, but a wee bit of a rascal withal. Shan't tell you what else I said, nor half the things he told me in reply about matching you against a certain young lady of his acquaintance, which young lady, I am inclined to think, is more than an 'acquaintance,' so I give you fair warning not to fall in love with him."
I replied that I should be delighted to meet his friend but needed no warning, as I had an acquaintance, too, who was more than an 'acquaintance,' and whom I would match against the entire universe.
I was handing the remainder of our luncheon out of the window to a half-clad, hungry looking soldier when the doctor returned with his friend and said:
"Miss Corbell, allow me to present to you the son of my old friend, of Henrico County, Virginia, General Pickett."
My heart jumped into my throat with delight and surprise and in breathless jerks I cried out—"Oh, my Soldier, my Soldier."
"I had no idea whom I was to have the honor of meeting," said my Soldier. "This, doctor, is the acquaintance of whom I spoke."
"Ah-ha!" said the doctor, "ah-ha!" He offered my Soldier his seat beside me, and the rest of the journey was a beautiful, beautiful, soulful dream. My Soldier stopped off at Richmond, and I went on to Petersburg, where I was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan.
My friends in Petersburg had announced my coming, and a number of engagements had been made for me. The first was a large party at the Johnsons' and the next at the Raglands'. I did not know whether my Soldier would approve of my going without him and I neither wished to go nor approved of it myself, so I begged to be allowed to await his arrival the next day and make my first appearance with him. On seeing his look of loving appreciation I was very thankful to have made the decision. The party at the Raglands' was one of the largest and most brilliant ever given in Petersburg, and that evening our engagement was announced.
Two days later I was to start for my father's home but was amazed, especially as my Soldier was in command, to find that I could not get a permit. He was positive in his refusal and would make no exception in my favor. However, he consented to date for me a permit a week in advance. At the end of the week I said good-bye to him at the station and for the first time was wounded by him, almost heart-broken, because he did not seem as sorry at parting from me as I thought he ought to be. Besides, there was a peculiar quizzical twinkle in his eye that puzzled me and occupied my thoughts all the way down to Ivor Station, where my uncle, Doctor Phillips, met me. Though fretting because the parting had seemed of so little moment to my Soldier and wishing that I had not been sorry either, that is, not so sorry as I was, the drive from the station proved most pleasant and brought us to my uncle's near noon. That evening as I was about to retire, a little after eight (they go to bed early in the country), we heard horses galloping down the lane.
"Listen to the clanking of the swords," said my uncle. "Those are certainly soldiers and I did not know there were any within miles of us."
I listened, heard the horses turned over to the orderly, heard footsteps on the gravel, then on the porch, and in answer to my uncle's greeting I recognized with unutterable joy the voice of my own Soldier and that of one of his staff. They were asking for me, had been welcomed, and the candle was lighting them into the parlor. The dread mystery of my Soldier's cheerfulness at parting from me was explained. He had come through on the same day with a part of his division and they were then in camp on the Blackwater a few miles distant.
When the division crossed the Blackwater and marched on to Suffolk I went to the home of my aunt, Mrs. Eley, at Barber's Cross Roads, a distance of about ten miles from Suffolk. Here when all was quiet along the lines my Soldier would ride in from his headquarters almost every night between the hours of sunset and sunrise to see me—a ride of about thirty miles. While these short visits were glimpses of heaven to me, they resulted sadly for my aunt, whose house, in consequence, was burned by the Federals.
At the earnest solicitation of my Soldier, who feared my remaining within the enemy's lines, I went to an old friend in Richmond, Mrs. Shields, the wife of Colonel Shields. When on this visit I first met General "Jeb" Stuart, the "Red Fox" of the Confederacy, thus named because of the blonde glory of his coloring and the swiftness of his movements, as well as his wiliness in evading pursuit. He was said to be one of the handsomest men in the South, and perhaps it was true, but I was at that time too much absorbed in the contemplation of the, to me, handsomest man in the world to have discriminating eyes for the beauty of anyone else.
Among those of our officers most noted for personal attractions was General Longstreet, who was thought to resemble "Jeb" in appearance. A story is told of an ardent admirer of the "Red Fox" who, meeting the "old War Horse," General Longstreet, said, "General Stuart, I just met a man who told me of mistaking you for General Longstreet, but I don't see how he could. Longstreet is not half as handsome as you are." General Longstreet gravely replied, "Yes, I am sometimes taken for Longstreet."
As we danced at a ball at "Yellow Tavern" General Stuart teasingly commiserated my Soldier on his bad luck in belonging to the infantry.
"I am sorry for Pickett, poor fellow! He has to walk. Upon my word, he ought to be in the cavalry. He deserves it. What a pity! And you, Miss Lassie—why should you throw yourself away on the infantry? You ought to marry a cavalryman."
I tried to defend myself and set forth the greater advantages of the infantry service.
"Pickett is lucky," he replied, "in having such a champion. I am in love with him myself and agree with you perfectly, for Pickett can do anything. When I see him dance I think he ought to be a dancing-master. When I see him ride I think he ought to be a cavalry leader. When he whistles I think he ought to be a bird. When he sings it seems that he ought to be an opera star. When I see him lead a charge I feel that he ought to spend his life on the battlefield. Yes, Pickett can do anything and do it well. As for poor me—all I can do is to make love."
Inexperienced as I was, I knew that the "Red Fox" could do everything that was brave and fine and great. As for making love—there was only one who knew his power in that art—the lovely woman who possessed all his gallant heart and has worthily borne his great name through years of wearing toil and lonely sorrow.
In the battle or on the road a song or a laugh was always on his lips and the hearts of his men leaped up to meet his gayety as well as his fearlessness.
To few men is it given to go through a great war untouched by any ball except the fatal one. Such was the gift that Mars bestowed upon his brilliant follower and in less than a year from that festive night at this same Yellow Tavern the blood-red seal was set upon a youth that was immortal.
Notwithstanding war and war's alarms, when I should be launched into the world with a diploma in my hand and the blessings of my Alma Mater on my head my Soldier was to marry me. Cupid does not readily give way to Mars, and in our Southern country a lull between bugle calls was likely to be filled with the music of wedding bells. But Mars was in the ascendant for the time, and when I was graduated the Army of Northern Virginia was marching to an undetermined battlefield in Pennsylvania.
Then came Gettysburg, and the wave of triumph set rolling at Fredericksburg and mounting higher at Chancellorsville surged anew, for the first news that came to us was of a great victory. So we rode on the flood-tide of fancied success and fell with the ebb.
Soon after the battle my Soldier returned to recruit his division. On Sunday we walked down Broad Street to the Monumental Episcopal Church. It was the first time we had gone to church together and he was telling me that this church was called the Monumental because it was built upon the site of the old Richmond theater, burned in 1811. My Soldier's grandmother was a victim of the fire, as were the Governor of Virginia and more than sixty of Richmond's best known citizens. The fire and the long funeral procession had been described to him by those who held in memory the mournful cortège darkening the streets of the beautiful city as Death had clouded the lives of the thousands who followed their loved ones for the last time on earth.
As we went down Broad Street Hill we saw a little Hebrew child standing first on one foot and then on the other, crying. He had rubbed his dirty hands on his tear-stained face until it was covered with muddy streaks.
"Come, come, my little man, what is the matter?" asked my Soldier.
"My shoes is a hurtin' an' pinchin' me so. They feels like I was a walkin' on red-hot corncobs. Oh-oh-oh! Mister, I can't walk; I can't get anywhere at all."
Kneeling, my Soldier unlaced and took off the shoes, rubbed the little feet, tied the shoes together, handed them to the boy, and with his own clean handkerchief wiped away the tears. Lifting the child in his arms he carried him home, some three blocks farther on. We went our way and as I walked beside my Soldier in his gray uniform cloaked with the glory and the gloom of the world's greatest battle, I felt prouder of the simple sweet nature offering sympathy and aid to "one of the least of these" than of all the valor of the soldier on the field.
Only a few days before he had ridden from Gettysburg to Richmond, cheer after cheer following him along the way. Men, women and children were at the roadside to welcome him and hang garlands on his horse. He had been the central figure in a scene so supreme that it needed not victory to crown it with glory. Yet not the flowers of love nor the echo of the cannon's thunder, the grave duties nor the heavy sorrows that were laid upon him, could so fill his heart as to leave no room for the cry of suffering from an unknown child.
In September of that year my Soldier married me. He had confided in General Longstreet and asked for a furlough. The Corps Commander replied that they were not granting furloughs. "But," he said, with that twinkle in his eye so well remembered by all who knew General Lee's "old War Horse," "I might detail you for special duty and you could stop off and be married." So my Soldier was detailed for "special duty."
Unfortunately, the Federals south of the line were at that time worshipping exclusively at the shrine of Mars. For them Cupid was absolutely dethroned. So much opposed were they to our marriage and so insistent in their efforts to induce my Soldier to pay them a prolonged visit instead of wasting his time in wedding frivolities that it became necessary for me to cross the lines. This I did with the assistance of my uncle, Doctor John T. Phillips, who took my father and me under his protection, smuggled us across, my father driving a load of fodder in which my trunks were concealed. My mother could not leave my little baby brother, now Dr. Edwin F. Corbell, an eminent and beloved physician of North Carolina, to go with me, so I was accompanied by one of her friends as chaperon. I quaked inwardly when we met some Federal cavalrymen but kept up a brave front and, recognizing Dr. Phillips, the riders allowed his permit to cover the party and we passed on our way.
At Waverley Station we were met by my uncle, Colonel J. J. Phillips, and his wife, and by my Soldier's brother and aunt and uncle, Miss Olivia and Mr. Andrew Johnston. With them we went on to Petersburg and on September 15, 1863, in St. Paul's Church, the marriage took place. We left for Richmond amid the salute of guns, hearty cheers, the chimes of bells and the music of bands and bugles.
As by that time the food supply of the South was reduced to narrow limits, salt being procured by digging up and boiling the earth from under the smokehouses, browned sweet potatoes cut into bits and toasted serving for coffee, and lumps of sugar being sold at high prices for the hospital fund, it might be thought that our prospect of finding a banquet awaiting us in Richmond was not brilliant. But friends and relations of my Soldier had exerted themselves to do him honor, and the result was such as had not been seen in Virginia for many a day. It was sora season and so generous was the supply that the feast was afterward known as the "wedding sora-supper." The birds had been killed at night with paddles, for the South was not wasting her small store of ammunition on sora with so many more important targets in sight. The birds, killed at Curl's Neck on the James River, and thousands of beaten biscuit, gallons of terrapin stew, and turkeys boned and made into salad by the neighbors and the old plantation servants under the supervision of Mr. and Mrs. Sims, the overseer and his wife at Turkey Island, my Soldier's old colonial home, were sent us as bridal presents. Mrs. Robert E. Lee's gift was a fruit-cake, the making of which she had superintended, and Bishop Dudley's mother sent us a black fruit-cake that had been put away for her own golden wedding.
The only men in civilian evening dress were Mr. Davis and his Cabinet and a few ministers and very old men, for even then we were "robbing the cradle and the grave" to recruit the Army, and the women were sacrificing everything to help. Through kindness of friends in Norfolk a handsome bridal dress, imported for me by Mrs. Boykin, had been smuggled across the line. It was so unusual that after Mrs. Davis had greeted me she looked in astonishment at my costume and said:
"Child, where did you get these clothes?"
Turning to the General, smiling, Mr. Davis asked:
"Where did you get the little lady in the clothes?"
On the other side of the room was the editor of the Richmond Examiner, who had been mercilessly assailing the administration. Mrs. Davis called her husband's attention to him but Mr. Davis said:
"Let us not look that way, my dear. We have come to-night to see beautiful things and think pleasant thoughts."
The General's sister invited the President and Mrs. Davis to the dining-room.
"What a time you must have had plucking them," said Mr. Davis when he saw the sora.
"A part of the gift was the preparation of them, even to the last shade of brownness."
My memory of Mr. Davis that evening lingers with special significance because it was the last time that I ever saw real happiness in his earnest face. He was just a free, gallant gentleman that night. As he said, he had come to enjoy. Clouds, public and private, were gathering, and soon enough there was no longer the possibility of forgetting. I saw him often afterward in sadness, but never again with the light of joy on his face.
Perhaps there was never anywhere else so varied a collection of curios for the adornment of the person as I had assembled for a trousseau. I had gowns remodeled from court robes more than a century old, relics of grandmothers and great-grandmothers; frocks of home-woven material, striped with vegetable dyes gathered from the woods, and trimmed with a passementerie made of various kinds of seeds, such as canteloupe, laces knit from fine-spun flax, tatting and crocheted trimmings, and buttons carved from peach-stones.
One of my bonnets was made of the lacy lining that grows on the inside of a gourd, called my dish-cloth bonnet because the soft fabric was used also for the less ornamental kitchen purpose. In the absence of the more widely known varieties of millinery I used the silky milkweed balls for white roses and made bunches of grapes from picked cotton covered with fleek-skin and tinted. A bonnet of gray straw, plaited and dyed by the servants, poke-shaped and with pink roses inside the brim, was especially becoming. My bridal present from my pastor's wife was a very wide collar of tatting and embroidery.
The wedding robe left nothing to be desired, for it was of white satin and exquisite shimmering lace, made at a center of fashion. In passing I may remark that the possession of a real wedding dress, new and stylish, was a distinction that carried with it a sense of obligation to the community at large, and my bridal gown graced a number of weddings after my own. It was last worn by one of the most beautiful girls of the Confederacy who, a few days later, exchanged its snowy folds for the sables of widowhood when the bridegroom was brought home dead from the battlefield. Thus tragically shadowed the dress around which clustered so many happy memories, so many tender sentiments, and so many sorrowful recollections, was laid away with reverent hands, never again to glimmer with soft sheen through the misty folds of the bridal veil.
My Soldier was at this time assigned to the Department of North Carolina, with headquarters at Petersburg, Virginia, commanding all that part of Virginia between James River on the north and Cape Fear River on the south, reaching eastward to the Federal lines around Suffolk and westward to the Black Water and Chowan, including all the troops in that region.
After our bridal visits to kinspeople we returned to Petersburg where we found that our friends, in spite of the restrictions of war, had arranged beautiful rooms for us, decorating them luxuriantly with flowers and fitting them up handsomely.
Among the many who helped to make my life happy in Petersburg was Major Charles Pickett, the General's Assistant Adjutant General (the "Little Major," as he was affectionately called by the soldiers). When my Soldier introduced him to me as his "little brother" he immediately became my "little brother," too, and thus he was in my life and my heart through all the years that he remained on earth. He walked slightly lame from a wound received at Frazier's Farm. So anxious was he to get into the fight that he disobeyed orders to report for staff duty in Richmond and went into the battle instead. When he was shot he begged his comrades not to carry him off the field but to leave him his flag that he might die under its folds. But he lived through what was known among the men as "the battle the little Major fought down at Frazier's Farm," and thus I came into possession of "my little brother." Soon afterward he married Miss Elizabeth Smith of Washington, and brought us a dear sister who was my companion in the rare sunshine and the many storms of war.
All this region was historic and held thrilling memories of the battles of bygone days. As we rode over the ground we talked of the old-time conflicts and my Soldier said that he would have been glad to be in all wars that were for a just cause. I had been taught that the Mexican war was without such justification, and asked his opinion.
"At West Point," he replied, "some of us were reprimanded for expressing a doubt of its justice. I was one of them. After we were in we had to fight it out and as it must be done I wanted to do my share."
It was while my Soldier was stationed at Petersburg that the expedition to North Carolina was projected, involving Newbern and Plymouth. The military history of the movement is given in "Pickett and His Men," but there are certain personal features of the expedition which have been recorded in my memory, for I would not be left behind when the journey to the old North State was made. I went as far as the house of a friend on the Newbern road.
The night was bleak and frigid; we were nearing our stopping place. My Soldier, always solicitous for his men, was discussing with his staff the discomfort to which they would be subjected and the impossibility of alleviating their suffering.
"Poor fellows!" he said. "They will be almost frozen and no wood, and General Lee will not allow us to burn even a single rail. There will be the devil to pay and I powerless to help."
Observing that I had awakened and heard his last remark he turned reprovingly to Captain Bright, saying:
"Bright, how dare you use that gentleman's name in the presence of my wife?"
"Beg your pardon, Sister," said Captain Bright, "I thought you were asleep."
Whatever relation my Soldier might bear to his staff officers, I was always "Sister."
"Don't you think I know your voice, my dear, from Captain Bright's?" I inquired.
"No, little one, you could not possibly know my voice in connection with such words, and you could not think that I would use such language as Bright uses."
"Sister," said Captain Bright, "before the General was married he would not allow any of us to swear at all. He said he would do the swearing for the whole division. Now that he is married we have not only to do all our own swearing but his, too."
Had it not been for the versatile imagination of Colonel Floweree, the Ananias of the Seventh Virginia Regiment, my Soldier and I would probably have fared badly. The hotel was impossible and the community was of Union sentiment. In our connection with the Southern Army we could expect no toleration. In this dilemma Colonel Floweree undertook to grapple with the situation. He learned that the most beautiful and luxurious home in the village was owned by an old Baptist, a power in the church and in the community, who was known to be not unwilling to make an occasional sacrifice of political opinions to religious fraternity. Colonel Floweree called upon the good brother and, with an intonation that he could have learned nowhere but from the pious and hardshell Baptists of that region and period, said:
"My dear Brother, I know what a good Baptist you are and how ready you are to help all your brethren in the Lord. I have my good General, Brother Pickett, out here with his dear pious wife, Sister Pickett, both good Baptists, and I beg you to extend to them the hospitality of your home and entertain them as best you can for the sake of brotherly love."
"If I do," said the old man hesitatingly, "the Yankees may burn my house; but I must take the chances, I cannot let my brethren suffer. Yes, let the good brother and sister come in and share what I have."
We were received with fraternal hospitality, our host shaking hands with us solemnly, saying, "How do you do, Brother Pickett? How are you, Sister Pickett?" in a voice that invested us with the sanctity of the church.
I was interested to observe that our host had but one eye, his wife was cross-eyed, and their daughter was cock-eyed. These optical phenomena were afterward scientifically explained by our Baptist brother.
"I was engaged to a cross-eyed girl," he said, "and my people objected to the marriage. I was about to give it up when one day I was cutting wood and the end of the stick flew up and hit me in the eye and put it out. It was the judgment of the Lord and I repented and married my cross-eyed girl. Then when our girl was born the hand of the accusing angel touched her and she was cock-eyed to keep me in mind of my sin."
Petersburg, the gate to Richmond, was the weakest point of the Confederacy, and my Soldier had explained its position to the authorities in Richmond and asked that provision for its defense should be made. His warning disregarded, he wrote a confidential letter on the subject to General Lee, who sent an officer to Richmond, urging immediate action. Still nothing was done and when, on the 5th of May, Butler with thirty thousand troops moved upon the town, which was defended by only six hundred men (two hundred of whom were ineffective), the government and the country were as much surprised as if they had never heard of the danger.
Though my Soldier had been ordered a few days before to report to the Army of Northern Virginia, he could not leave Petersburg to destruction. In defiance of orders he remained in the beleaguered city. The day after the attack a part of the South Carolina brigade came in and, being placed at Walthall Junction, about six miles from Petersburg, drove back Butler's advance column. Wise's Virginia brigade arrived on the seventh and was sent toward City Point. Then three brigades of Pickett's division began coming in as fast as the crippled express could bring them, and we had eleven pieces of artillery.
We women carried the dispatches, cooked the food and took it to the men at the guns. At train time we would go to the station and send up cheer after cheer of welcome, hoping to blind the Federals to the fact that the cars, returning from their short trip to the country, brought in only the half-starved railroad men. The roar of cannon and the shrieks of shot and shell filled our ears day and night. During the entire week, until Petersburg was safe and General Grant had sent his famous telegram to Mr. Lincoln, "Pickett has bottled up Butler at Petersburg," my Soldier scarcely slept, and I saw him only when I carried to him on the lines a dispatch or his bread and soup and coffee. This telegram so angered Butler that he came up the James River, out of the line of battle, at great expense to the United States Government, and sacked and burned my Soldier's beautiful ancestral home.
The city council of Petersburg voted a resolution of thanks to my Soldier for his brave defense of the city. The people wished to express their gratitude by a gift to me. It was impossible to buy a service of silver, so each brought a fork, a salt-spoon, a pitcher, as the case might be, until more than a thousand pieces were given to me. One woman, having no silver because she had been compelled to sell her household service, brought a pretty gilt-bordered cup. The gifts of affection were of far greater value to me than the most elegant and costly new set of silver could have been and were carefully cherished until, in the fire which marked the surrender of Richmond, they, with all my bridal presents and everything of value, were burned in the warehouse in Richmond where they had been placed for safe-keeping.
One morning in May in the early dawn we rode out of the city of sweet memories and days of terror, pausing to look back at the far-off Church of Saint Paul, new-lit by the rising sun, where we had plighted our troth.
Our next station was on the "Bermuda Hundred" lines near the heart of the storm, but there were rifts of sunshine to break the gloom.
A tent was our first home and later a log cabin. Major Charles Pickett's log cabin near our own had two rooms, a degree of splendor to which no one else attained.
We had friends—such friends as war binds together with links that can never be broken. The wives of many of the officers were there. The few new books we had were exchanged until they were read through and through and almost learned by heart. If one of us fortunately came into possession of a month-old paper it went the rounds and was more eagerly perused than are the morning journals now, just off the press with the news of the hour fresh and hot. We visited, walked, talked, rode and danced half the night away lest it should be over-long and bring darksome dreams. How could we live on the rim of a volcano if we could not dance around its crater?
At the Howlett House not all our evenings were given over to pleasure. The Federals had a theory that business should come first, and would thrust their views upon us at inopportune times, frequently arousing us from slumber. These nocturnal attacks were veritable scenes from the Inferno displayed against the black curtain of night—swords flashing through the darkness, guns thundering across the silence that had brooded over the earth, weapons clashing, the roar of orders sweeping over the field—all the demoniac sounds of battle crashing through a blackness that enshrouded our world. He who has looked upon such a scene needs no fiend of darkness to roll back for him the heavy curtain that hides the world of demons. Even the bravest of the brave doubted their courage in a night attack.
After one of these encounters when the wounded were brought in I saw my Soldier stop beside two of them, one a Federal and the other a Confederate. Pointing to the northern soldier he said:
"Please attend first to our guest, doctor."
Then he gave his handkerchief to serve as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding of the Federal soldier's wound.
It was at the Bermuda Hundred line that I first saw General Grant. My Soldier and I were riding along looking at the Federal gunboats and monitors not more than a few hundred yards from our headquarters when I saw a puff of smoke drifting, scattering, a mere shadow as it floated higher and was lost against the blue sky.
"Look, look!" I exclaimed. "Isn't that beautiful?"
"Dangerously beautiful. It is from a shell. The enemy are firing over there. Come, dear; whip up your horse and let me get you out of this as soon as I can."
"No, indeed," I said. "I'm not a bit afraid, and if I were do you think I would let Pickett's men see me run?"
"Come, dear, please! You are in danger, useless danger, and that is not bravery."
The soldiers did not seem to agree with him, for Corse's Brigade sent up cheer after cheer as we passed. Captain Smith, just then riding across the field, stopped to speak to us.
"The Federals are testing some guns, I think, for the entertainment of visitors," he explained, "and are not firing at us. They are over there to the right of that oak." He handed us his field glass. "Mrs. Grant is standing between those two short, stout men. The one at the left with a cigar in his mouth is Grant. The shorter, stouter one on the right is Ingalls, Grant's Quartermaster-General."
"Yes, that's Rufus. See him laugh, the old rascal!" said my Soldier, a glint of the old-time affection shining in his eyes and vibrating in his voice. He, Grant and Ingalls were old friends, having been comrades in Mexico and the West. "But come, let's ride on."
"Yes," said Captain Smith, "it is not safe here. I would take Mrs. Pickett away. Turn to the left there into that clump of trees."
"Unfortunately, Captain, Mrs. Pickett outranks me; she will not go."
"Permit me, please, Mrs. Pickett, to add my entreaties to those of the General. It really is not safe here."
"Let me get down and try our guns, too, and then I'll go," I answered.
"Not for the world," exclaimed my Soldier. "They are not shooting at us. Mrs. Grant is so kind-hearted that she would not approve of their shooting in this direction if she thought it would interrupt our morning ride. Besides, she is exceedingly cross-eyed and does not know directions."
The Captain saluted my Soldier, lifted his hat to me, suggestively pointed to the grove on our left and rode away. I watched him, admiring his fine horsemanship. Beginning to feel remorseful for my obstinate resistance to his appeal I was about to turn off to the safe path when one of the aimless cannon balls swept across the field and I saw the Captain's horse careering madly along bearing a headless body. Impulsively I sprang from my horse and ran and picked up the poor head, and I solemnly believe that the dying eyes looked their thanks as the last glimmering of life flickered out. Those pathetically grateful eyes have looked at me many times through the mists of vanished years and with them has come the booming of the guns that threw black bars across the sunshine of that far away morning.
The memory of General Grant often came to me afterward associated with that awful sight following my first view of him across the water where he stood peacefully smoking on the slope. The fact that he remembered the old friendship with my Soldier was impressed upon me many times after my view of him through field glasses.
Among the friends whom I often met at this station was General Robert E. Lee. It has been said that our Commanding General never knew or cared what he ate, and it is true that he did not, in comparison with the welfare of his soldiers. Once when he and his staff lunched with us I gave them one of our famous Brunswick stews, made of chicken, a slice of pork, corn, tomatoes and Lima beans, with bay-leaf and onion seasoning, and cooked slowly. It was particularly good this day, as I had received a gift of some smuggled salt and could afford to use it lavishly, and General Lee said the stew was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. I had just made some walnut pickles of which I was very proud. He praised them and told me that in his house he had them many years old and that the "older they became the better they were."
"But, you know," he said, "I never eat anything good without thinking of the soldiers and their privations."
One evening in Richmond my Soldier and I were invited to spend the evening with Senator and Mrs. Clement C. Clay, and while there General Lee called. We had ice cream made of buttermilk and sweetened with sorghum, and lemonade made with lemons from the conservatory of our hostess. She remarked that she had been saving those lemons for the soldiers in the hospital but that she had more which she would give to them. "If you will be sure not to forget the soldiers," said General Lee, "I will enjoy this lemonade."
The General called me "Sweet Nansemond" because I came from Nansemond County, as did the famous sweet potatoes which the hucksters hawked about the streets, calling out, "Nansemonds! Sweet Nansemonds!" and I rather resented this vegetable suggestion, not liking to be associated with potatoes even in the mind of General Lee.
Though sympathetic and warm-hearted, our General had a natural dignity of manner which, though inspiring confidence, interposed a veil of reserve between him and even his warmest admirers. Years after the war one of my friends who had been an officer in the Army of Northern Virginia, first under General Joe Johnston and then under General Lee, said to me:
"Lee was a great soldier and a good man but I never wanted to put my arms around his neck and kiss him as I wanted to do with Joe Johnston."
With a bit of a jealous feeling for my own Soldier I asked:
"Did you want to do that to General Pickett?"
"To Pickett?—Why, I not only wanted to but I did."
One evening when General Lee, General Beauregard, my Soldier and his Brigade Commanders were studying war-maps in our cabin and confidentially discussing the freeing of the slaves and the enlisting of them as soldiers, General Lee finished by saying:
"Well, gentlemen, we must hope for the best. If we should give up there are many who would feel that we had sold the South—many of our Southern States would think so, for even they have no idea that we have come to the last of our resources and no realization of how starving and poor we are, and, alas, gentlemen, too much of the best blood of the land is being spilled, too many homes being despoiled and made desolate, too many mothers with broken hearts."
Solemnly they shook hands and General Lee and his companions galloped off, my Soldier and I standing in the doorway listening.
"Hear the horses' hoofs saying, 'Blood-blood, Blood-blood,'" said I.
"So they do, little one," answered my Soldier. "Strange—strange I had not thought of that before."
We turned to the map on the floor and rolled up the ways to go and prayed for a miracle to bring success.