I OFTEN think of how recklessly I wandered around alone at Jackson. I
became familiar with its streets, and if the years have not made too
many changes in its appearance, were I there today, I could go right to
the Manassas House and Hospital No. 1. No. 2 I did not become so
familiar with, as I was there but once. There was a little white house
in the cut some distance up the Memphis & Charleston railroad, where
lived a family by the name of Clark. I went there many times to play
with the children. We would walk the railroad ties until we saw the
trains coming, when we would leap upon the porch and wave our
handkerchiefs and hats at the soldiers as they passed rapidly by, the
track being but a few feet from the house. The trains were mostly made
up of box cars, which were literally alive with soldiers inside and out,
who would wave their caps and give us cheer upon cheer in return for our
salute, doubtless taking us for little “rebels.”
As I recall and write these trivial events, those old, sweet days seem
very near, and I have but to close my eyes to fancy that as a little
child I am again running through the long hall of the Manassas to the
upper piazza, watching for George, the hotel clerk, as he came from the
postoffice, it having been prearranged between us that whenever there
was a letter for us from Ohio, he was to hold it up so I could see it,
otherwise I was to know there was none. The postoffice, now in charge of
the military, was in the depot and in full view of the hotel, and the
railroad ran parallel with both. I almost lived on the veranda and saw
every train that passed.
There was a large encampment in the open space across the railroad, and
opposite the hotel. Lieutenant Pease, one of the boarders, had a
telescope, which he would adjust properly for me and I would spend hours
looking through it, watching the soldiers, as they performed their daily
camp duties. I could see them cooking, washing and hanging their clothes
to dry. Many times we have witnessed drill and dress parade from the
veranda. Lieutenant Pease was a tall, dark, quiet gentleman, a great
reader and a great friend of mine. The first copies of Frank Leslie’s
Illustrated Magazine and Ballou’s Monthly I ever saw were given me by
him, and I can yet recall some of the stories I read in them.