A Yankee Girl at Antietam
[Illustration: ROXY WAS TOO SURPRISED TO MOVE]
A YANKEE GIRL
AT
ANTIETAM
By
Alice Turner Curtis
Author of
“A Yankee Girl at Fort Sumter,”
“A Yankee Girl at Bull Run,”
“A Yankee Girl at Shiloh”
Illustrated by NAT LITTLE
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1923
COPYRIGHT 1923
BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
A Yankee Girl at Antietam
Manufacturing Plant
Camden, N. J.
Made in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
I. Roxy and Polly
II. Polly’s Return
III. A Paper Circus
IV. Signals
V. New Adventures
VI. Roxy Makes New Friends
VII. A Rainy Day
VIII. Following the Brook
IX. Under the Sycamore
X. Polly’s News
XI. A Triumphal Arch
XII. Startling News
XIII. September Sixth
XIV. Roxy Taken Prisoner
XV. Roxy’s Ride to Sharpsburg
XVI. The Battle of Antietam
XVII. Polly’s Plan
XVIII. A Visitor
Illustrations
Roxy Was Too Surprised to Move
The Little Girl Looked from Her Mother to Her Grandmother
He Lifted Her to the Saddle in Front of Him
A Yankee Girl at Antietam
CHAPTER I
ROXY AND POLLY
Roxana Delfield, wearing a dress of blue-checked gingham, stout leather
shoes and white stockings, and a broad-rimmed hat of rough straw, ran
down the narrow path that led from her Grandmother Miller’s farm to the
highway leading to the little village of Antietam, Maryland.
The path curved about a rocky ledge, skirted a group of small cedar
trees and reached a stone wall where there was an opening just wide
enough for one person to squeeze through. Roxy thought it was a
fortunate thing that all the people at her Grandmother Miller’s were
thin enough to get through this opening, all except Dulcie, the negro
cook, who declared her weight “up’ards ob two hunderd pounds.” Dulcie,
however, seldom left the farm, and when she did was obliged to take the
longer way by the road.
When Roxy reached the wall she climbed to its top and stood looking
anxiously along the gray road that skirted a wooded hill, and in a few
moments a brown horse, harnessed to a light wagon, and driven by a
bareheaded girl whose red hair gleamed in the June sunshine, trotted
into sight and came rapidly down the hill.
“There she comes! There’s Polly!” exclaimed Roxy scrambling down the
rough wall, and hurrying across the little field to the side of the road
where she stood eagerly awaiting the approach of her new friend, Polly
Lawrence, and in a few minutes the brown horse stopped directly beside
her, and the red-haired girl called out:
“Here we are, little Yankee girl; jump in,” and she reached down a
strong brown hand to help Roxy climb into the wagon.
“This is splendid!” Roxy declared happily, as she pushed herself well
back on the broad seat, and looked up admiringly at the tall girl beside
her.
Polly smiled, her white teeth reminding Roxy of the string of pearl
beads that her mother sometimes wore, and as she looked at her companion
she realized that everything about Polly seemed to hold the light and
the glimmer of sunshine. Not only did Polly’s waving hair hold golden
gleams, but there were twinkling lights in her blue eyes, and her skin
seemed to glow, and her teeth to shine.
“Oh, Polly! I do like to look at you!” Roxy exclaimed ardently, and at
this the older girl laughed aloud, and responded:
“Well, you can say as pleasant things as any Southern girl. Nobody would
think you were born in Massachusetts.”
“Why not, Polly?” Roxy questioned, leaning forward to look eagerly into
her companion’s face. “Why wouldn’t anyone think I was born in
Massachusetts?”
Polly continued to smile, but she answered quickly:
“I suppose because you have such good manners. But of course your mother
was born in Maryland.”
“Polly Lawrence! Stop this horse! Stop this minute!” demanded Roxy,
clutching at the reins and scrambling down from the wagon seat as if
meaning to jump to the ground. “I don’t want to ride with you. I guess
Maryland girls don’t have all the manners. I guess little girls in
Newburyport wouldn’t be s’prised to have other girls polite. I guess——”
But before Roxy could say another word Polly’s arm was about her, and
Polly was saying:
“Oh, Roxy! I did not mean to be rude. Truly, truly I didn’t. I only
meant to praise you!”
“Stop the horse! I don’t want to go to Sharpsburg. I want to go home,”
persisted Roxy. “If my mother _was_ born in Maryland she went to school
in Massachusetts, and maybe that is where she learned good manners.”
Polly’s arm released its hold on Roxy, and she brought the brown horse
to a standstill.
“You can get out here, Roxy,” she said gravely. “It won’t be far for you
to walk home.” And without a word Roxy jumped from the wagon and turned
on her homeward way.
“I don’t care,” she told herself. “Polly Lawrence talks as if people in
Massachusetts were not as good as Maryland people. She always calls me
‘Yankee’ as if I was an Indian or—or something!” and with a little sob,
Roxy trudged along the road over which she had only a brief time before
rode so happily; and on reaching the stone bridge she stopped and leaned
against its rough parapet, gazing down at the slow-moving waters of
Antietam River.
For a little while Roxy could think only of her disappointment, and of
Polly’s unkindness, and wish herself back in her own home in
Newburyport, where she had never even heard the word “Yankee,” and where
there were streets of pleasant houses, each one with its own garden, and
where little girls visited each other every day, bringing their
patchwork to sew; or if it was a “special party” the little girls would
bring their fine dolls dressed in silk and muslin.
Newburyport was very different from this hilly country where every
farmhouse was built of gray limestone, and stood on sloping field or
pasture, thought Roxy, turning her gaze to an opening in the distant
mountains where range upon range of blue heights rose against the sky.
“I do wish we were home,” she whispered to herself. “I wish there wasn’t
any war!” For it was in the early summer of 1862, when Northern and
Southern States were in arms against each other, and when President
Abraham Lincoln had fully determined to declare the freedom of negroes
held in slavery. Roxy’s father was a soldier with the Northern Army in
Virginia, and Mrs. Delfield had taken her little daughter and come to
her old home in Maryland hoping that her husband might secure leave of
absence and join them.
It was now nearly a month since Roxy had first seen Polly Lawrence,
whose father’s farm adjoined the Millers’. Polly had at once made
friends with the little Northern girl, and although she was nearly five
years older than Roxy, she seemed to enjoy her company and had taken the
little Northern girl on many a pleasant ride about the countryside, and
on walks over the pasture-lands that stretched up the slopes behind the
farms. It was Polly who told Roxy that the river had been named Antietam
for an Indian chief, and that years before the white men had settled in
this part of the country the Shawnee, Catawba and Delaware Indians, with
feathered heads, painted faces, and clad in the skins of wild animals,
had wandered along the banks of this placid stream and camped in the
near-by valleys.
“But Polly has always called me ‘Yankee girl,’” Roxy told herself,
choking back a troublesome lump that came in her throat as she
remembered that she had quarrelled with Polly Lawrence; with Polly, who
was nearly fifteen years old, and who knew so many wonderful stories,
and who sang such beautiful songs, and who owned a horse! Oh! There
never was anyone like Polly, even if she did think Maryland people
better than the people of Massachusetts; and now Roxy leaned her head on
the rough stones of the parapet and sobbed aloud, and was so filled with
unhappiness that she did not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs or the
jingle of bridle reins until two horsemen clattered onto the bridge
close beside her; then she turned quickly and gazed up at them in
amazement. It was Roxy’s first sight of Confederate soldiers, and as she
looked at the two war-worn men, in shabby gray uniforms, mounted on fine
well-cared-for horses, it was no wonder that the little girl forgot her
own troubles.
So far, in the summer of 1862, the war had not pressed hard on Maryland;
the state seemed chiefly a highway through which passed the Northern
troops; and Polly Lawrence had seen many marching men crossing that very
bridge.
The two horsemen did not at first notice Roxy. One of them drew a paper
from his pocket, opened it and said:
“This is the road to Sharpsburg. I’m sure of it,” and before he could
say more his companion exclaimed:
“Well, little miss! You look surprised! Have you never seen a soldier
before?” and he smiled down at Roxy.
“Oh, yes, sir! But all the soldiers I have seen wore blue clothes,” Roxy
answered.
“And where were these blue-clothed soldiers?” continued the man, as he
swung himself from the saddle and stood beside the little girl.
“They were in Washington,” replied Roxy, “but I saw my father’s regiment
when it marched down High Street in Newburyport!”
The man looked at her as if puzzled, and repeated “Newburyport?” and
then glanced at his companion who now dismounted and stood near his
horse’s head.
“That’s not a Maryland town, is it?” he questioned, and Roxy eagerly
replied:
“Oh, no! Newburyport is in Massachusetts. That’s my home, but my mother
and I are visiting Grandma Miller!”
The two men glanced at each other in evident surprise, and the man who
had first noticed Roxy said thoughtfully:
“I see! A little Yankee girl!” And at this Roxy’s smile vanished.
“‘Yankee girl!’ ‘Yankee girl!’ I wish I knew why you say that?” she
exclaimed, her gray eyes looking steadily at the tall, gray-clad
soldier.
“Oh, only because your home is in the North! I reckon your father is
proud to be called a Yankee,” he replied kindly, and at this Roxy’s face
brightened.
“Oh, thank you! Polly calls me ‘Yankee girl’ and I didn’t know why. But
I shan’t care now,” she said, with a friendly nod at the tall man.
“We might take a road that leads through the hills here,” suggested the
second soldier, and for a few moments the two soldiers bent their heads
over a small map and seemed to forget the little girl, who stood
watching them wonderingly.
“Good-bye,” said the good-natured soldier as he swung himself into the
saddle. “You will see more soldiers in gray clothes here before the end
of your visit, or I miss my guess; eh, Richard?” and he turned to his
companion.
“True enough!” responded the man; “the stars and bars will cross this
bridge before many months!”
“What is ‘stars and bars’?” asked Roxy.
“The flag of the Confederate States,” answered the man, and waving their
hands in farewell they rode on. As they started one of the men began to
sing, and the refrain of his song, “Maryland, My Maryland,” came
drifting back to the little girl who stood looking after them.
“I suppose I’d better go home now,” thought Roxy. “I guess my mother
will be surprised when I tell her about the soldiers. I suppose I will
have to tell her about Polly, too,” and sighing deeply Roxy went on her
way toward the narrow path that led to her Grandmother Miller’s. On a
farther slope the vivid green of young wheat ran up to meet the darker
green of forest trees; flowering dogwood and redbud grew along the stone
walls, and the purple blossom of the papaw showed here and there, and
Roxy looked at these blossoms admiringly, and wondered if they would
grow in her garden in Newburyport.
She was only a short distance from the highway when she noticed
something moving behind a thickly growing bush of dogwood. The branches
bent forward, and Roxy stopped and gazed at it, half fearing that some
wild animal was sheltered there that might spring out and seize her. As
she stood ready to run the branches sprang back and a boyish figure
crawled out and slowly rose to his feet.
He was bareheaded, and his brown hair was long and rough. He wore gray
shirt and trousers, and his shoes were so worn that they hardly covered
his feet. Roxy was too surprised to move, but as the young man gazed
toward her with a half-frightened, pleading look, she lost all sense of
fear.
“Oh, what is the matter?” she asked. “What is it?”
“I’m starving!” came the whispered answer, and the young man sank down
close to the bushes. “I can’t go another step! Were those soldiers after
me?”
“No! No! I don’t believe so. Come up to my grandma’s and you can have
all you want to eat,” Roxy said eagerly.
The young man shook his head. “I must not let anyone see me. You won’t
tell anyone about me. Promise!” he pleaded. “Promise not to tell a human
being that you have seen me; and can’t you get me something to eat? I
have a safe hiding-place near here.”
Roxy gave her promise promptly, and the young man urged her to bring him
food as soon as possible, cautioning her not to let anyone know that she
had taken it, and telling her to leave whatever she brought under the
thicket of tangled vines and bushes behind which he had hidden.
“Remember not to let any human being suspect that you have seen a
stranger,” he pleaded. “I haven’t strength to keep on without food!”
“I won’t tell! Truly I won’t!” Roxy promised; “and I’ll come back as
soon as I can,” and before the young man could reply she had darted off
up the slope. For a moment the young man gazed after her, and then
crawled back to his hiding-place.
Roxy slipped through the opening in the wall, and then stopped for a
moment and looked back.
“I wonder what he is running away from?” she thought, and then
remembering the thin face and the pleading voice that had told her of
hunger and fear the little girl hurried on. “I’ll take him some of those
cakes Dulcie made this morning, and some milk, and some eggs, and
everything I can find, poor fellow,” she thought pitifully. “I know my
grandma would want me to take the things if she had seen him.”
As Roxy ran across the yard Dulcie appeared in the kitchen door and
called out:
“How be it you’s home so soon, missie? You ain’ been ter Sharpsburg, hab
you?”
Roxy stopped and looked at Dulcie with so sober an expression that the
stout negro woman became alarmed.
“Wha’s de matter?” she demanded. “You look’s if you’d seen a ghos’!
Wha’s happen’ to you, missie?”
“Nothing!” Roxy replied sharply. “I thought you were taking a nap,
Dulcie.”
Dulcie chuckled and nodded her turbaned head.
“Dat’s so! Dat’s w’ot I plan ter do dis minit. I’se jes’ on de way!” and
with another nod she ambled down the path toward her own cabin, and Roxy
entered the kitchen.