The Project Gutenberg eBook of What Happened To Me, by Lasalle Corbell Pickett.

[A]Representing nothing in God's earth now,

And naught in the waters below it;

As the pledge of a nation that passed away,

Keep it, dear friend, and show it.

Show it to those who will lend an ear

To a tale this trifle will tell—

Of Liberty born of a patriot's dream,

Of a storm-cradled nation that fell.

Too poor to possess the precious ores,

And too much of a stranger to borrow,

We issued to-day our promise to pay,

And hoped to redeem on the morrow.

The days rolled on, and weeks became years,

But our coffers were empty still;

Coin was so scarce that the treasury quaked

When a dollar would drop in the till.

But the faith that was in us was strong, indeed,

Though our poverty well we discerned;

And this little check represents the pay

That our suffering veterans earned.

They knew it had hardly a value in gold,

Yet as gold our soldiers received it;

It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay,

And every true soldier believed it.

But our boys thought little of price or pay,

Or of bills that were overdue—

We knew if it brought us our bread to-day

'Twas the best our poor country could do.

Keep it! It tells all our history over,

From the birth of our dream till its last;

Modest, and born of the angel Hope,

Like our visions of glory, it passed.

Baby's first greenback was put to dry, and then I turned my attention to the big covered basket the sailor had brought in. What an Aladdin treat it was! Raisins—the first I had seen in years and years—coffee, real "sho'-'nuff" coffee—sugar, crushed sugar—how nice! (we had had nothing but sorghum-juice sugar and sweet-potato coffee for so long)—rice and prunes, Jamaica rum, candy and a box of dried figs—nothing ever had tasted so delicious as all these good things—and, well—the Yankee General who gave them all to me—the tones of his voice made more peace than his words. Eating the figs, I repeated the words to baby, saying:

"Never mind, baby, about hating this Yankee. He said your father and he had trailed after the same Indians and smoked their venison at the same camp-fire and had drunk from the same flask. He said you looked like your father, and he said you were a beautiful boy. So you need not mind about hating just this one. He said geography and politics had forced your father and him to opposite courses and it took four years to settle for their hot-headedness and ambitions. You must never be a politician, and—you may love this one Yankee a tiny bit, and may suck a piece of his beautiful candy."

Dr. Suckley not only took us to Norfolk, which was the end of his route, but he took us up the Nansemond River, thirty miles, and up Chuckatuck Creek, to my father's wharf. No one was expecting us. They thought, of course, it was the "Yankees come again," and had all run off and hidden, except my father who came down to catch the boat-line and welcome the travelers, whoever they might be. Oh, the joyful welcome of my great big-hearted father!

Soldiers and sailors, one and all, came and shook hands with us. Baby and my little brother, Johnny, had made friends of them all for us. Baby knew no difference between those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray, and some of them had little ones at home. We said good-bye, with many a regret, to our kind friend and benefactor, Dr. Suckley, and to the sailors and officers, and this time cheer after cheer went up for my noble hero Soldier, as the little steamer hauled in the lines and puffed away, and more names were added to the list of Yankees for baby not to hate.

XXIII "SKOOKUM TUM-TUM"

My Soldier did not like to fight his battles over. He said that the memories they revived were too sacred and sorrowful for utterance. The faces of the dead and dying soldiers on the field of battle were never forgotten. The sorrow of widows and orphans shadowed all the glory for him. In the presence of memory he was silent. The deepest sorrow, like the greatest joy, is dumb.

"We are both too worn and weary now for aught else but to rest and comfort each other," he said. "We will lock out of our lives everything but its joys. From adversity, defeat and mourning shall spring calmness for the past, strength for the present, courage for the future. Now that, in obedience to the command of General Lee, I have finished and sent off the report of the last fight of the old division, the closing days of our dear lost cause, we will put up the pen for awhile and lay aside our war thoughts. We will rest and plan for peace and after a time we will take up the pen again and write down our memories for our children and perhaps for the children of the old division. We will build us a nest over the ashes of our grand old home on the James and plant a new grove in the place of the sturdy old oaks cut down."

My Soldier possessed the greatest capacity for happiness and such dauntless courage and self-control that, to all appearance, he could as cheerfully and buoyantly steer his way over the angry, menacing, tumultuous surges of life as over the waves that glide in tranquil smoothness and sparkle in the sunlight of a calm, clear sky.

This sweet rest which we had planned for ourselves, however, was of but short duration. We had been at my father's home only a few days when a private messenger brought letters of warning from some of my Soldier's old army friends. Two officers high in authority, solicitous for his welfare, advised that in the existing uncertain, incendiary, seditious condition of things he should absent himself for awhile until calm reflection should take the place of wild impulse and time bring healing on its wings and make peace secure. Knowing his fearlessness and stubbornness, General Ingalls and General Tom Pitcher came in person to voice their apprehensions, lest my Soldier might not heed the warning.

Butler, who had not yet recovered from the "bottling-up" experience, had instigated a movement to have my Soldier indicted for treason, based on the assertion that he had joined the Confederacy before his resignation from the United States Army had been accepted by the War Department. He was at that time on the Pacific coast where information of the secession of Virginia had been received many weeks after the ordinance was passed and many more weeks must elapse before a message could be delivered to the Department in Washington and a reply returned.

The nation had gone mad with grief and rage. The waves of passion rose mountain-high and from the awful storm the angels of justice, mercy and peace took flight. All that was bad in the hearts of men arose to the surface; all that was good sank to the depths. The first person that could be seized was regarded as the proper victim to the national fury. The weakest and most defenseless was made the target of popular wrath because rage could thereby most quickly spend itself in vengeance. Mrs. Surratt was imprisoned, and the whole country was in a state of frenzy and on the verge of revolution.

Strictest secrecy was enjoined upon us. Only my father and mother were taken into our confidence. Lucy was bridled, saddled and brought to the door. I walked with my Soldier, he holding the bridle, to the upper gate. It was ten o'clock; the moon was shining brightly and all was quiet and still.

My Soldier's plan for me was that I should go next day to Norfolk, take the steamer to Baltimore and visit his aunt, whose husband, Colonel Symington, had been in the old army, and who had not left it to join the Southern Confederacy, though his sons had fought on that side, one of them having been detailed on duty at my Soldier's headquarters.

"My aunt will welcome you," he said, "and you will remain with her until a telegram shall come to you saying, 'Edwards is better.'" (Edwards was my Soldier's middle name.)

That telegram would mean that he was safe and that I was to join him, starting on the next train. I was to telegraph to "Edwards" from Albany, on my way to him, sending my message to the place at which his telegram had been dated. If his telegram should say, "There is still danger of contagion," I was not to start, but remain with his aunt until another message should come.

"Cheer up, the shadows will scatter soon. Already bright visions and happy day-dreams flit through my brain and thrill my heart; so keep up a 'skookum tum-tum,' little one, and take care of yourself. Watch for the telegram, 'Edwards is better,' for it will surely come."

I smiled up at him as he repeated the familiar old saying, learned from an old Chinook warrior on the Pacific. In the darkest days he would lift my face upward, look down with his kind eyes and gentle smile and say, "Keep up a skookum tum-tum, dear one." All through my life have the sweet old words come back to me when the sun has been hidden by the darkest clouds.

I heard the footsteps of the horse keeping time to my Soldier's whistle, "Believe me if all those endearing young charms," away in the distance long after he was out of sight. I remembered a trick of my childhood which had been taught me by a half-Indian, half-negress and, putting my ear to the ground, I listened to the steps until the last echo was lost. Later I learned that the faithful Lucy bore her master safely to the station and when the train carried him away lay down and died, as if she felt that, having done all she could, life held for her no more duties or pleasures.

The night-wind sighed with me as I walked back, repeating, "Keep up a skookum tum-tum." My pathway lay parallel with the Chuckatuck Creek, a stone's throw to the left. The tide was high and still coming in. The surging of the waves seemed to call out to me, "Skookum tum-tum! Skookum tum-tum!" I could not be all desolate when the most beautiful forces of nature, echoing his words, called to me, "Keep up a brave heart—brave heart!"

My precious old father had waited to have us say good-bye alone and was now coming forward to meet me. Our baby awakened just as we reached home and I confided to him the secret of the telegram and told him his dear father said that it would surely come and he always said what was true.

The stars were burning brightly in the midnight sky to light the traveler on his way as he went afar off. Could there be light on the pathway that led him from me? Had his face been turned southward, with his eyes fixed joyfully upon the loved home where he would be welcomed when the journey was over, what radiant glory would have flooded the way.

Far up in the zenith I could see "our star" gleaming brilliantly, seeming to reach out fingers of light to touch me in loving caress. It was a pure white star that sent down a veil of silvery radiance. Near it was a red star, gleaming and beautiful, but I did not love it. It seemed to glow with the baleful fires of war. My great, loving, tender, white star was like a symbol of peace looking down with serenest benediction.

"Our star," he had said as we stood together only one little evening before—how long it seemed!—and gazed upward to find what comfort we might in its soft glow. "Wherever we may be we will look aloft into the night sky where it shines with steady light, and feel that our thoughts and hearts are together."

There were no steamers and no railroads from my home to Norfolk, but my father secured a pungy—a little oyster-boat—and the following day we—baby and I—started off.

A storm came up just as we left Chuckatuck Creek and we were delayed in arriving at Norfolk. We had hoped to be there some hours before the departure of the Baltimore steamer, but reached the wharf as the plank was about to be taken in, so that my father barely had time to say good-bye to me and put me on board.

XXIV CARPET-BAG, BASKET AND BABY

Alone, except for baby George, for the first time in all my seventeen years! Perhaps no timid little waif thrown out upon the deep sea of life ever felt more utterly desolate.

I stepped on board the Baltimore steamer and was piloted into the saloon by a porter whose manner showed that he was perfectly cognizant of my ignorance and inexperience. In the midst of my loneliness and the consciousness of my awkwardness and my real sorrows, sympathy for myself revived my old-time compassion for poor David Copperfield, whom Steerforth's servant had caused to feel so "young and green."

So little did I know of traveling and the modes and manners of travelers, that I sent for the captain of the steamer to buy my ticket and arrange for my stateroom and supper.

I had been warned on leaving my home that the slightest imprudence or careless word from me might cause my arrest, and that if it were known who I was it was more than possible that I might be held as hostage for my husband. After consideration it had been decided that I should travel under my maiden name. My train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of a bell and a loud voice shouting:

"Passengers will please walk into the custom-house office and show their passports!"

The laws were so strict that no one could leave any city in the South without a passport from the military authorities. My grandmother had given me her "oath of allegiance," which everybody in those dread days immediately after the surrender of the army was compelled to take in order to purchase medicine, food or clothing of any kind, or for the transaction of any business whatever. It was a rare occurrence that a man was found who would take this iron-clad oath for, no matter how great the exigency might be, he was branded as a traitor if he yielded. So the women, who were most bitter, too, in their feelings, were obliged to make a sacrifice of their convictions and principles, and take this oath in order to alleviate the suffering of their loved ones. Illness in the family and the urgent necessity for quinine and salt left my unselfish little grandmother no alternative, and she found a kind of safety in the oath. It had brought her relief and she wanted that I should have it with me as a "mascot" or safeguard.

With carpet-bag, basket and baby I started into the custom-house office and explained to the officer in charge:

"I am very sorry, sir, that I have no passport. The steamer was about to sail as I reached Norfolk. I came from a little village thirty miles beyond where passports are not given. I have an oath of allegiance, if that will answer in its place."

"No; never mind. It is all right; only register your name. I remember you did come on board just as the whistle blew; but was there not another passenger who came on with you—a gentleman?"

"Yes, sir," I replied. "It was my precious father, and he went back home in the little sailboat."

There must have been something to excite suspicion in the way I wrote my name or in my manner. I boldly wrote out my given name and then, as I began to write my last name, I looked all around me, confused, and changed the letter "P" to "C," writing "Corbell." Then I began to erase "Corbell" and write "Phillips," the name in my oath of allegiance. While there was nothing very false in what I did, I felt guilty and was frightened, for I had been brought up to be strictly truthful.

I had not been long in the saloon when baby became restless and fretful. I was impatiently awaiting the coming of the captain, for whom I had sent, when a man appeared. He had short curly hair, deep, heavy eyebrows, eyes sunken and close together as if they had to be focused by his big, hooked nose to enable them to see. He was chewing alternately one end of his crinkly moustache and one side of his thick red lip and was making a sucking noise with his tongue as he said:

"I want you to be kind enough to get my ticket and stateroom, please," I replied. "My father had only time to put me on board and could not make any arrangements."

"Oh, no; never. I have been nowhere outside of Virginia and North Carolina. Most of my traveling before my marriage was in going to and from Lynchburg, where I was at school.

"Once I rode on horseback to the Peaks of Otter, which are among the highest mountains of the South. You can't imagine how glorious it was to be up there so far away from the earth. When I first looked down from their lofty heights the sky and the earth seemed to be touching, and presently the rain began to pour. I could see the glimmering, glittering drops, but could not hear them fall. I was above the clouds and the rain, up in the sunshine and stillness, the only audible sound being a strange flapping of wings as the hawks and buzzards flew by. Suddenly the rain ceased, the haze vanished and I saw below the rugged mountains the level country that looked like a vast ocean in the distance.

"The words of John Randolph echoed in my heart with this infinite mystery of nature. He with only a servant spent the night on those mighty rocks and in the morning as he was watching the glory of the sunrise he pointed upward with his long slender hand and, having no one else to whom to express his thought, charged his servant never from that time to believe anyone who said there was no God.

"'No, sah, Marse John; no sah,' said the awe-stricken servant. 'I ain't gwine to, sah. I ain't gwine to let none of Marse Thomas Didymuses' temptatious bedoutin' tricks cotch no holt of my understands of de Lord.'

"You have relatives in Baltimore?" said the gentleman, abruptly interrupting me; otherwise, feeling that geography and history were safe subjects, I should have rattled on till I had told him all I knew.

"I came from a little country village about thirty miles from Norfolk—Chuckatuck, in Nansemond County."

As I was about to launch another tide of historic information upon him he again interrupted me.

"I saw your father as he was leaving the steamer. I was attracted to him because he made an appeal to all Masons, asking of them protection and care for his child and grandchild. He was thus making himself known to any of us, his brothers, who might be aboard when he disappeared at the turn of the boat. So you can safely confide in me, and I will help you in any way possible."

"Thank you," I replied. "I know my dear, dear papa is a Mason, and that he was anxious about me, but there is nothing to confide—nothing. I want only a stateroom and my tickets and some milk for the baby. I do not wish for any supper myself; I am too lonesome to eat. It is wicked to feel blue and downhearted, with baby and all the kind friends to watch over me, as you say; and then God is always near."

A fear came into my heart that I was talking too much. I did not want him to know anything concerning my husband, whose rank it was especially important to keep secret. I encouraged myself with the reflection that the end justified the means, even though a slight deviation from the truth might be involved, and said:

"You could not have heard of him, and he was not of sufficient rank to have made an impression upon you if you had."

Then he talked of how much the Southerners had lost and how much they had to forgive; how easy it was to bear victory and how hard to endure defeat, saying that if he had been born in the South he would have been a rebel, and that his sympathies even now were with the Southern people. A sudden suspicion came to me and I said:

"I wish there had never been any rebels at all; not even the first rebel, George Washington; and now, sir, please, I do not want to talk about the war. I am very weary and sleepy and would like to retire. If you please, sir, will you get me my stateroom and ticket? I am so tired—so very tired."

Baby was lying asleep on my lap, hypnotized by the chandeliers. The man looked down on him for a moment and then said, "Of course, I will get them for you," and was going, when an ex-Confederate officer, one of my Soldier's old comrades and friends, came up and, cordially extending his hand, greeted me:

"How do you do, Mrs. Pickett? Where is the General? What are you doing here, and where are you going?"

He himself was returning to his home in the far South, but had been called back to Baltimore on business.

"Thank you, General," I replied. "My husband has gone to farming and I am on my way to visit his aunt, whom I have never seen. He is to come to us after a little while; could not leave conveniently just now. He is very well, I thank you."

"I am so glad to have met you," he returned. "Will see you later on," and was hobbling away on his crutches. He saw by my manner that he had said something to embarrass me and left with a pained look. He was still dressed in his old Confederate gray, from which the brass buttons had all been cut, in obedience to the order from the custom-house office, and replaced by plain steel. For several moments not a word was spoken. Then I looked up and said:

"I thought you said your name was Corbell," he of the hooked nose rejoined as he held my money shaking in his hand. "I thought you said your husband's rank was not sufficient to have made an impression; that in all probability I had never heard of him."

Oh, that smacking sound of jaw and tongue, and that beak of a nose, and those little black eyes which grew into Siamese twins as they glared at me like the eyes of a snake!

"Did I say that?" I asked and, with a face all honesty and truth, I looked straight into those eyes and told, without blushing, without a tremor in my voice, the first deliberate falsehood I had ever told:

"Did I say so? Well, my friends think that my mind has been unbalanced by the way the war has ended and they are sending me from home to new scenes and associations to divert me, with the hope of making me well and strong again. Corbell was my maiden name, but I do not know how I happened to say that my husband's rank was low, for I was so proud of it; I could not have been thinking. Will you please be so good as to get my ticket? I am so tired I don't know what I am saying."

He went away, and the stateroom keys were brought to me by a waitress who unlocked the door for me, and I went in, too frightened now to think of supper, too frightened to sleep, and wondering if, in my imprudence, I had hurt my husband and what would happen if I had.

All night long the noise of the wheel was to me the sound of the executioner's axe. All night long it rose and fell through seas of blood—the heart's blood of valiant men, of devoted women, of innocent little children. Near morning I fell asleep and dreamed that it was I who had destroyed all the world of people whose life-blood surged around me with a maddening roar, and that I was destined to an eternity of remorse.

When I awoke the boat had landed. Dressing hurriedly I went to the door and found that it was locked on the outside. As the chambermaid did not answer my repeated call, I beckoned to a sailor passing my window and asked him to tell her that I was locked in and wished that she would come and let me out. When she came she told me that she was not permitted to open the door. I asked if we were not at Baltimore and an officer who was with the maid answered that we were, but that I was to be detained until the authorities should come and either release or imprison me, as I was supposed to be a suspicious character.

On a slip of paper I wrote—"A Master Mason's wife and daughter in distress demands in their name that you will come to her," and gave it to the chambermaid, asking her to take it to the captain. As she hesitated the officer said, "You might as well."

She went and while I was trying to hush the baby a voice as kind and gentle as the benevolent face into which I looked, said:

"No, sir," I replied, "I sent for the captain of the boat, but I am glad you came; you seem so kind and may help me in my trouble."

"You are not the gentleman who represented himself as the captain of the boat last night, sir, and bought for me my ticket. He was short and dark——"

The gentleman interrupted me, saying that the pseudo captain was a Federal detective who had advised that I be detained on the steamer until his return with the authorities and warrant.

"Your father did make that sign and placed you in our care. Come, I am captain of this steamer, and a captain is king in his own boat. Where did you say you wish to go! Stand aside," he said to the officer in charge.

Giving me his arm, he placed me and baby, carpet-bag and basket, in a carriage and the driver was told to go to 97 Brenton Street.

After driving some time, the Irishman impatiently told me there was no street by that name and I would have to get out, but not until I had paid him for the time he had been hunting for 97 Brenton Street.

I did not know enough to go to a drug store and consult a directory. I was at my wits' end, if I had ever had any wits.

"Drive me back to the captain of the boat, please," I said. "I don't know what else to do."

When I went on board the captain was not yet gone, which was an unusual thing. He had waited to see the officers before leaving. I answered the smile that came into his face, in spite of his kind heart, by handing him the letter of my aunt who wrote a hand that was not only peculiar but illegible.

"Read, captain, and see if this is not Brenton Street, the place to which my aunt has written me I must come."

"'Go to 97 Brenton Street, where my niece, Mrs. C——, will bring you to my house,'" he read. "It might be anything else as well as Brenton," he said. "It looks like Brenton, but I have lived here all my life and have never heard of such a street. I will get my directory and look. No; but it may be Preston; let's look; but there are no C——s living there. You might try this house, at any rate, 97 Preston Street, and if you do not find your friends, come to the number on this card, where my wife and I will be happy to have you as our guest, you and the little lost bird, till you can write to your friends and find out where they want you to come."

Off again I started and arrived at 97 Preston Street. I wrote on my card and sent it in:

In a moment there were two or three faces at the windows, and in another moment as many voices at the carriage door asking, "Is this George Pickett's wife and child?" and I was thankful to be once more where they knew George Pickett's wife and child.

Besides the lovely people whose home it was, there was with them, on her way to visit her mother, Mrs. General Boggs, one of the most charming women I ever met. She had just returned from the South. Her husband was in the Confederate Army. The next day we both went out to the home of her mother, my Soldier's aunt, Mrs. Symington.

XXV "EDWARDS IS BETTER"

The week I spent in Hartford County, Maryland, reminded me of my childhood, when I used to play that I was a "Princess" or a "Beggar," or "Morgiana of the Forty Thieves," or "The White Cat," or whatever character it would please me to select to play, for my heart and soul were separated from my body. I was not what I pretended to be. My body went to parties and receptions and dinners, and received people and drove and paid calls, while my soul waited with intense longing for the telegram, "Edwards is better."

One day I had been out to dine and, coming home, found awaiting me the message for which eyes and heart had been looking through a time that seemed almost eternal.

That night I took the train for New York, starting out all alone again, baby and I. I was tired and sleepy, but there was such joy in my heart as I thought of soon seeing my Soldier that I did not think of my discomforts. I repeated the telegram, "Edwards is better, Edwards is better," over and over again. I sang it as a lullaby, putting baby to sleep to the measure of the happy words, "Edwards is better." Only for us was that sweet refrain. When he slept I leaned back and closed my eyes and saw a world of beauty and bloom as the glad words went dancing through my heart. Was there ever so sweet a slumber-song since babies were invented to awaken the deepest melody of mother-hearts! I went to sleep with my little one in my arms. I had not money enough to get a berth—just barely enough to buy my ticket and pay my expenses through to Montreal, Canada, at which point the telegram was dated.

When I awakened later I found that a home-spun shawl had been placed under my head. I never thought about who had been so kind, nor why the shawl was there. All my life long everyone had been thoughtful of me; things had been done for me, courtesies had been extended to me, and I had learned to accept kindnesses as only what I had a right to expect from the human race. Murmuring softly the comforting words, "Edwards is better," I turned my face over and went to sleep again on the shawl and did not awaken until my baby became restless.

We took the steamer up the Hudson from New York to Albany. My poor little baby was not well and I censured myself for having allowed him to catch cold on the train while I was sleeping. He was teething, and was very fretful. He had been used to his nurse, his black mammy, and missed her customary care and attention and was tired of me, preferring anybody else. Some philanthropic ladies on board the steamer seemed very much concerned, and at a loss to understand why he was so unhappy with me, not knowing that he was accustomed to a circle of admiring friends to whom he might appeal in turn.

"Nurse, why do you not take the child to its mother?" one would say, and a look of incredulity would follow my assertion that I was its mother. "Then, why don't you quiet the child, if you are, and find out what is the matter with it?" and so on.

I was indignant and my manner must have made them think there was something wrong with me and the child, for they followed me about, asking intrusive questions and making offensive remarks. I was walking the deck, trying to quiet him, all tired and worn out as I was, when a gentleman came up to me. On his shoulder I recognized the shawl that had been put under my head on the cars the night before. He said:

"Madam, excuse me, but I do not think you have had any dinner, and you must be worn out with hunger and fatigue from fasting and carrying the baby. Won't you let me hold him while you go down and eat something?"

Even though he carried the shawl which bespoke my faith, I was afraid to trust him with so precious a treasure, and would rather have starved than have permitted my baby to go out of my sight.

"Thank you, very much, but I could not think of troubling you," I said. "No—oh, no."

I was hungry, and was glad for the open way he had found for me, and said, "Yes," handing him twenty-five cents. It was all I could afford to pay for dinner, but as I looked at the tray when it was brought to me, I thought, "How cheap things must be in New York," for there were soup and fish—a kind of yellow fish I had never seen before, salmon, I afterward learned it was—stewed with green peas, a bird, asparagus, potatoes, ice-cream, a cup of coffee and a glass of sherry.

Upon his insisting that it would be restful to the baby, I let him hold little George while I ate my dinner. I had not known how hungry I was, nor how much I was in need of nourishment. Baby immediately became quiet in his arms. Whether it was due to the change or not, I do not know, but in a little while he was fast asleep. I covered him up with the shawl to which the gentleman pointed, finished eating my delicious dinner, taking my time and enjoying it, while he read his book and held my baby. When the servant came and took away the tray, I arose and, thanking the stranger for his kindness, said:

"If you would rather," he said, "yes, but I think he will be more comfortable with me for awhile. Then, too, you might waken him if you moved him. Let me hold him while you rest. Here is a sweet little book, if you would like to read it. I think, however, it would be better for you to rest; to sleep, if you could. You look really fagged out."

The book he gave me was a child's book—it may have been "Fern Leaves." I can't remember the name, but pasted in the book was a letter written in a child's irregular hand:

For my dear darly popsy who is gon to fite the war fum his little darly dorter little mary

Dear popsy don kill the por yangees and don let the yangees kill you my poor popsy little mary

Dear popsy com back soon to me an mama an grandad thats all. I says your prayers popsy evry day fum little mary

I rested, but thought of little Mary as I watched my own baby who was sleeping so sweetly in this childless stranger's arms—till presently the waves brought back to me the days of my childhood—the story of the sailor with his stolen mill, grinding out salt, forever and forever, and the lost talisman lost still—back to my grandmother's knee, listening with wonder-eyes to "Why the sea is salt," the while my soul chanted to music those all-healing, blissful words, "Edwards is better," gaining strength for the o'erhanging trial I least dreamed of—and the shadows rose to make place for one darker still.

XXVI ONE WOMAN REDEEMED THEM ALL

On the train from Albany my attention was attracted by a man in close conversation with the conductor. I was evidently the subject of discussion, for they would look carefully over the paper they held and then at me as if comparing me with something therein described. Had I been a hardened criminal they would probably not have taken the risk of thus warning me of the fact that I was under suspicion. As my appearance would seem to indicate that, if a law-breaker, I was a mere tyro in crime, they supposed they could safely take notes of me. I was absolutely sure that they were talking of me and trembled with a presentiment of coming evil. I tried to turn my face to the window but my eyes were fascinated. A thousand preposterous fears passed in review before my mind, though the real one never suggested itself. I endeavored to dispel them each in turn, arguing that the scrutiny of the men foreboded nothing, because I seemed an object of curiosity to everybody and, recalling my appearance, I do not wonder.

My dress was different from that of those around me, though I was unconscious of any defect in my apparel, being garmented in my very best, the traveling gown in which I had been married, and which had been bought and made under great difficulties and kept afterward with scrupulous care. So I was perfectly well satisfied with myself.

I wore a long, loose-fitting black silk mantilla with three ruffles at the bottom, while those around me were dressed in tight-fitting, short cloth jackets. My gray straw bonnet, sewed into poke shape by our fashionable village milliner, extended far over the face, its wreath of pink moss-rosebuds inside tangled in with my dark brown hair. It was trimmed on the outside with several clusters and bunches of hand-made grapes of a lighter shade of gray. My collar was about five inches wide and pinned in front with a cameo breastpin. The prevailing collar worn by the world around me was linen, very narrow, only an edge showing, and small jaunty hats, worn back on the head, were the style.

The conductor seemed to be arguing with the strange man as I caught his eye. Just then my baby sprang forward and snatched a newspaper that an old gentleman in front of me was reading, and shrieked when it was loosened from his grasp, the old gentleman looking daggers in answer to my apology. After this diversion I found that the two men were gone, for which I thanked Heaven.

I had just settled back, a little unnerved and weak, when from behind me came a touch on my shoulder and, turning around, I saw the strange man and the conductor. The former said, "I have a warrant for your arrest, Madam," and forthwith served it upon me.

There on the cars, all alone, miles away from home and friends, two dollars and ten cents all my little store, I was arrested for—stealing! Stealing my own child! I could not read the warrant as it trembled in my hands—I had never before seen or heard of one. Baby thought it was a compromise for the old gentleman's paper, and it was with difficulty rescued from his little clenched hands, after being torn in the struggle.

"This baby! This baby, sir? It is mine—mine—it is named after its father—it is mine and I can prove it by everybody in the world, and——"

"Well, well," said the conductor kindly, his voice trembling, "that's all he wants, lady. You will be detained, probably, only till the next train."

"But I must go on," I said, "for my husband is looking for me and I could not bear to stay away another minute longer than the time at which he expects me. Please, everybody, help me."

My fright had attracted attention, and some stared, some were too refined even to look toward me; others merely glanced over their glasses or looked up from their books and went on reading. Some kept their faces carefully turned toward the landscape; a few, just as heartless and more vulgar, gathered around me in open-mouthed curiosity.

One woman's good heart, thank God, redeemed them all. She came forward, her tender blue eyes moist with sympathy, her black crêpe veil thrown back from her lovely face and her waving hair with the silver threads all too soon among the gold, and said in a voice so sweet that it might have come from the hearts of the lilies-of-the-valley that she wore bunched at her swan-white throat:

Simultaneously with her, the gentleman of the home-spun shawl came from I don't know where and asked, too, to see the paper and both got off the train with me.

I was so weak that I could not hold my baby, for all at once there came over me the sense of my utter helplessness to prove that my child was my own. There was no one to whom I could telegraph without revealing my identity and the purpose of my journey. A telegram to my friends at home would alarm them and might betray me. A message to my Soldier would jeopardize his safety, for he would surely come to me at once.

"Look, look!" I said to the magistrate and officers when they read aloud the suspicions and accusation of the philanthropic ladies who were with me on board the Albany steamer and who, in their zeal to secure a right and correct a wrong, ignorant of the cause of my child's discomfort and unhappiness with me and the reasons for my rather suspicious reticence, had caused my arrest.

Thus do the pure and holy ever keep guard over the sins of the world and throw the cable-cord of justice around the unregenerate to drag them perforce into the path of rectitude. May they reap the reward to which their virtues entitle them.

"Look at his eyes and look at mine," I exclaimed, holding his little face up against my own. "Can't you all see that it is my child?"

"That may be, but give us the name of some one to whom we may telegraph—some tangible proof. If he is your own there must be some one who knows you and can testify in your behalf."

"No, no," I said, "there is no one. I have nobody to help me, and if God does not show you all some way and your own hearts do not convince you I don't know what I shall do."

My poor little, half-starved, in-litigation baby refused to be comforted. The kind gentleman with the shawl could amuse him no longer. He had dashed from him the keys and pushed the watch from his ear and demanded impatiently the right of sustenance. The dear, good woman beside me, with the smile of the redeemed and a look of relief lighting up her face, touched mine, whispering in my ear while I held the baby's hands to prevent him in his impatience from tearing apart my mantle and untying my bonnet-strings:

She stood up, leaning on her cane, for she was slightly lame, and said in a voice clear and sweet:

"Gentlemen, I have a witness"—my heart almost stood still—"here, in the child who cannot speak. It is not always a proof of motherhood, but with the circumstantial evidence and the youth of this mother, this beyond peradventure is proof convincing. The child is still nourished from her own body," and she opened my mantle.

I, who had never nursed my baby in the presence of even my most intimate friends, bared my bosom before all those strange men and women and nursed him as proof that I was his mother, while tears of gratitude to the sweet friend and to God flowed down my cheeks and dropped onto baby's face as he wonderingly looked up, trying to gather up the tears with his little dimpled fingers and thankfully enjoying the proof. The men turned aside and tears flowed down more than one rugged face. The kind stranger with the shawl lifted his eyes heavenward as if in thanksgiving, and then turned them earthward and breathed a bitter curse, deep and heartfelt. Perhaps the recording angel jotted down the curse on the credit side of the ledger with as great alacrity as he registered there the prayer of thanks.

I trust that the philanthropic ladies, when the facts were placed before them, were as surely convinced as all these people were that I had not stolen my child. I hope they were pleased by this indication that some degree of innocence existed in the world, outside of their own virtuous hearts, but—I don't know.

"Take thy fledgling, poor mother dove, under thy trembling wings, back to its nest and the father bird's care. I shall go a few miles further where I stop to see my baby," said my new friend. "This little boy who brought me back to life is older than yours. He is the child of my only son, whose young life ebbed out on the battlefield of Gettysburg, and whose sweet spirit has joined that of his noble father, my husband, which in his first battle was freed. This baby blesses our lives—the young mother's and the old mother's."

The cars were crowded with soldiers returning home, disbanded soldiers, soldiers on furlough, and released prisoners, with pale, cadaverous, unshaven faces and long, unkempt hair. One from Andersonville, more ragged and emaciated than the others, was selling his pictures and describing the horrors of his prison life and, as he told of his sufferings and torture amid groans of sympathy, maledictions and curses were hurled against my people. Once his long, bony arm and hand seemed to be stretched menacingly toward me as he drew the picture of "the martyred Lincoln, whose blood cries out for vengeance. We follow his hearse; let us swear hatred to these people against whom he warred and, as the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression, renew with each note unappeasable hatred."

I crouched back in my seat, almost holding my breath as I pressed my baby to my wildly throbbing heart. The train stopped and the sweet new friend touched my brow with her lips, leaving the kiss and a prayer, put the lilies into my hand and was gone. The cars moved on and there was a great void in my heart as I thought of my God-given friend, so lately found, so swiftly lost.

All this was half a century ago, but one of the lilies yet lies in my prayer-book, glorifying with the halo of a precious memory the page on which it rests.

A man, not a soldier I think, for brave soldiers are magnanimous and generous always, stood up in a seat opposite mine and said:

"When I think of the horrors of Libby and Andersonville and look at these poor sufferers I not only want to invoke the vengeance of a just God but I want to take a hand in it myself. Quarter should be shown to none; every man, woman and child of this accursed Southern race should be bound to their own slaves for a specified length of time, that they, too, might know the curse of serfdom. Their lands should be confiscated and given to those whom they have so long and so cruelly wronged."

As he in detail related the story of the scanty allowance of the prisoners, the filth and darkness of their cells, I longed to stand and plead for my people, and tell how they, too, were without soap, food or clothes; that we had no medicines, even, except what were smuggled through the lines, and that our own poor soldiers were barefooted and starving, and that all the suffering of prisoners on both sides could have been avoided by carrying out the terms proposed by the Confederate Government. If I had only dared to raise the veil and reveal the truth perhaps sympathy might have tempered their bitterness, the flame of divine kinship smouldering in their veins, hidden as in a tomb, might have miraged over the gulf of wrongs a bridge of holier feelings.

Yet the memory of the woman whose son had been killed on the field of Gettysburg and whose lily, now browned and withered with the years, I cherish with such tender care, softened the words that were like blows to my ear and heart. Thus the power of one pure heart radiating its love upon the world as an odorous flower diffuses fragrance on the surrounding atmosphere, uplifts the sorrowing spirit and strengthens it to withstand the rude assaults of a vindictive world.

XXVII A FAMILIAR FACE

I had no stateroom in the Lake Champlain steamer, and my little sick baby and its poor tired mother were very thankful when, after the long, dreary night, they welcomed the dawn of day which counted them many miles nearer to their Mecca.

I have forgotten the name of the place from which we took the train for Montreal after leaving the steamer, but I remember a fact of more consequence concerning it—that it was the wrong place.

On reaching the Canada side the passengers were summoned to the custom-house office to have their baggage examined, and I, with my carpet-bag, basket and baby, followed my fellow travelers. When my turn came I handed the officer my keys and checks, which, after a glance, he gave back to me, saying with haste and indifference, as if it might have been the most trivial of matters:

"Your luggage has been left on the States side. Your checks were not exchanged."

Taking the wrong train at the wrong point put me into Montreal later than I was expected, but I religiously followed instructions to remain on the train which stopped over at Montreal, until I should be claimed, like a general delivery letter.

Every passenger had left the coach, and baby and I were alone. I was waiting and watching breathlessly for my claimant, when my hungry eyes caught sight of three gentlemen coming straight toward me. It was with but a languid interest that I regarded them, for I had preconceived convictions as to the appearance of the one who should assert proprietary rights over me, and none of these newcomers seemed at first glance adapted to respond to those convictions. The face of one seemed rather familiar, but I was not sure, so I drew my little baby closer to me and looked the other way. I felt them coming, and felt them stop by my side.

There were tears in the eyes of the gentleman whose face had seemed familiar, and the next minute baby and I were in his great strong arms, and his tender voice was reproachfully asking:

I was looking for my Soldier as I had been used to seeing him—dressed in the dear old Confederate uniform, and with his hair long and curling. The beautiful hair had been trimmed, and while he was not subject to the limitations of Samson in the matter of personal strength, a critical observer might have detected variations in personal beauty. An English civilian suit of rough brown cloth had replaced the old Confederate gray.

The two gentlemen with him were Mr. Corse, a banker, a brother of one of my Soldier's brigadiers, and Mr. Symington, of Baltimore, a refugee. I noticed that these gentlemen called my Soldier "Mr. Edwards" and me "Mrs. Edwards," which made me feel somewhat strange and unnatural. I may have reflected that I was in a foreign country, and very far north of our old home, and perhaps even people's names were affected by political and climatic conditions.

I had expected my Soldier to take us to a quiet little room in some unpretentious boarding-house, but was too tired to express my surprise when we were driven in a handsome carriage to a palatial home, with beautiful grounds, fountain and flowers. A big English butler with side-whiskers opened the large carved doors, and a pretty girl in a cap took baby from my arms.

After that I remember only being tired—so tired—so very tired. When I had rested enough to think again, I was on a sofa dressed in a pretty, soft, silken robe, and I heard a kind voice saying:

Glancing up, I saw a benevolent-looking old gentleman and a pair of spectacles. I closed my eyes and heard the gentleman with the familiar face say such beautiful things, and his voice and touch thrilled my heart so that I kept my eyes shut and never wanted to open them again; and presently the pretty girl with the cap on came in with baby in her arms, dressed in a beautiful robe.

"Ze petite enfant—very much no hungry now—he eat très pap—he sleep—he wash—he dress—he eat très much. He no hungry; he eat some more très much again. He smile; he now no very much hungry again some more."

Was I in the land of fairies, and was the gentleman with the familiar face the prince of fairies, as he was the prince of lovers? Our baby's outstretched arms and cry for me as he recognized me dispelled any such delusion, but I was too tired to hold out my hands to him. I soon felt his little face, however, nestling close against my own, and felt, too, the touch of yet another face, and heard the same voice which had made my heart thrill with bliss whisper again more things like unto those other things it had whispered, but I was too tired and too happy to speak, and my blessings seemed too sacred to open my eyes upon, so I kept them closed. When the old English physician came in the next day he said:

"Ah, ha! Ah, ha! The lady is most well. Keep on feeding her and sleeping her. She is half-starved, poor lady, and half-dazed, too, by sleeplessness. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! Poor lady! That will do—feed her and sleep her; feed her and sleep her. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! that's all."

When the old doctor was gone I remember listening for the tread of the sentinel outside—confusing the "ah, ha! ah, ha!" with the tramp, tramp, tramp—and as I asked, the question brought back the memory that the war was over, the guns were stacked, the camp was broken, and my Soldier of the sweet face was all my very own. I looked around inquiringly and up into the familiar face for answer, and he, my Soldier, a General no longer, explained our pleasant surroundings. His old friends, Mr. and Mrs. James Hutton, he said, had been suddenly summoned to England, and had prayed him, as a great favor to them, to be their guest until their return, as otherwise the delay to make the necessary arrangements for their going would prevent their catching the first steamer. Thus we had a beautiful home in which to rest, to grow well and strong, to forget all that could be forgotten of the past, and to enjoy the present.

While in Canada we received letters telling us of the troubles that had come upon our people after the close of the war, but the saddest news was of the suffering of Mr. Davis for whole generations of national mistakes. Captain Bright, who had served on my Soldier's staff, wrote that, through his kinsman, the surgeon in charge of Fortress Monroe, he had been permitted to see Mr. Davis.

He arrived at the Fortress on the morning that the fetters had been removed from the ankles of the feeble old man by order of the physician, because they endangered the life of one so ill and weak, and was told by the surgeon that the only way for him to see Mr. Davis was to accompany the surgeon on his rounds, when he could see all the patients, the ex-President among the rest.

The captain followed the surgeon until he came to the imprisoned chief. The face of Mr. Davis was turned from the door and the visitor stood for a moment silently observing the great change in the man whom he had last seen as the President of the Confederacy. Then he stepped forward and laid his hand on the arm of Mr. Davis.

The hand of the prisoner closed warmly over the one lying upon his arm. "He looked into my face as if a miracle had been performed," wrote Captain Bright.

"My own! One of my own again!" said Mr. Davis, in that musical voice that held a note of heart-break always after the fall of the Confederacy—a cadence which deepened and saddened his melodious tones until they were merged into the perfect symphony of the greater life.

In his loneliness he had so yearned for some one who had belonged to him—some one who had taken part with him in that short-lived, tragic dream-nation for which the South had given her blood and treasure—that his heart leaped up to meet the sympathy of the tender, reverent voice.

The surgeon came up to make his morning examination. At sight of him the light in the sad face died away and the look of helpless suffering returned. Having finished his work the surgeon said:

"And is this all?" asked Mr. Davis, as his visitor passed on and again reverently touched his arm.

"I would have given my whole fortune," wrote the captain, who had just succeeded to an inheritance of considerable value, "to have stayed there in his place and let him go free."

"There is not one of us in all the South, not a soldier of us, who would not gladly take his place and save him from humiliation and suffering," said my Soldier, looking up from the letter.

Captain Bright pleaded with his kinsman to let him make another visit and stay long enough to speak some word of cheer to his heartbroken chief.

"I do not think that I can," said the surgeon. "The risk to us all would be too great."

"I do not see any risk," was the reply. "The whole place is double-guarded. Neither that poor old feeble man nor I could possibly get away."

As the surgeon really wished to serve his kinsman, not only in return for past favors but to be gracious as a host, after reflection he said:

"To-morrow when I make my rounds I will try to arrange to leave you there till I return."

The next day the captain went into the cell and the surgeon, closing the door, turned to the sentinel and said:

"Guard that door well and see that it is not opened until I come back. That man in there is my relation, but we must not trust him too far."

Having thus secured for the caller an uninterrupted interview with Mr. Davis, the surgeon continued on his way.

"Mr. Davis, I have only a few moments before the doctor finishes his round. Can I do anything for you?—anything? Tell me, quick."

"No; there is nothing, my young friend—nothing; but I thank you for the wish."

"Write on the backs of these cheques any messages or letters you may want to send and I will see that they reach their destination."

"I have risked my life before and now would risk my soul for you. But there is no danger, Mr. President."

Mr. Davis wrote messages on three of the cheques, one to Senator Wall, of New Jersey, one to a friend in Pennsylvania, a third to another friend whose name I have forgotten.

"You can write to Mrs. Davis that you have seen me. Take my love to all my friends. I leave them in God's care. This means to me more than all the doctor's medicine—this one glimpse of one who says, 'Mr. President'—who comes to me and recognizes all that I have tried to do for my people."

Just as the cheque-book was returned to its place the surgeon came in, looking at him suspiciously. Seeing nothing, and knowing that there was no pen, ink or paper in the room, he went out, followed by the visitor.

Early next day Captain Bright left for Williamsburg. When he and the surgeon were on the wharf some soldiers came forward.

After consultation with the officers the embarrassment was relieved by the countermanding of the order and Captain Bright departed with the precious messages in his pocket.

"The feeling of fear," he wrote, "came to me for the first time in all my life; not for myself but for that beloved old man who is dear now to us all."

Mr. Davis had not lived through those terrible four years without making enemies. Who in such a position could? But when he was made to suffer for the mistakes of the whole nation, every Southern heart went out in love to him, regardless of past antagonisms. All personal animosities, all political differences were forgotten, and the people were united in a loving sympathy with the toil-worn, feeble, sorrowful old man, as they never could have been by any gifts or favors which he might have heaped upon them had he won not only the object for which he had given his life, but the gold and jewels of a kingdom.

A generation later, when the people of the South met in Richmond to dedicate a monument to Jefferson Davis, they did not hold first in their hearts the memory of the statesman, the orator, the gracious gentleman, the President of the Confederacy. Above all the pictures that came thronging before them, as they recalled the life history of the man in whose honor they had met, was that scene in the gloomy cell and that bowed and feeble old man with the wounds of the irons upon him, in whose sad eyes the light of love shone as he reached out to greet a messenger of his own people and said brokenly: "My own! One of my own!"