CHAPTER IV

THEIR PLUCK

FEMALE RECRUITING OFFICERS

[J. L. Underwood.]

The young women and girls brightly and cordially cheered every

Confederate volunteer. Nothing was too good for him, and smiles of

sisterly esteem and love met him at every turn. There was a sort of

intoxication in the welcome and applause that everywhere greeted the

young volunteer. To many it was full pay for the sacrifice. Many an

expectant bride sadly but resolutely postponed marriage, and sent her

affianced lover to the army.

"Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,

With a woman's proudest heart,

Which shall ever hold thee nearest,

Shrined in its inmost part?

"Listen then! My country's calling

On her sons to meet the foe!

Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;

Like young Koerner, scorn the turtle

When the eagle screams above."

But there were many young men who did not want to hear Koerner's war

eagle scream. They wanted a battle, but they wanted to "smell it afar

off." They believed in the righteousness of the war more strongly than

anybody. Yes, many of them were the first to don the blue cockade of

the "minute men;" that is, the militia organized with the avowed

object of fighting on a moment's warning. They were ever so ready to

be soldiers at home for a "minute," but held back when it came to

volunteering for six months, a year, or three years. Then the young

women would turn loose their little tongues, and their jeers and

sarcasm would drive the skulker clear out of their society, and

eventually in self-defense he would have to "jine the cavalry," or

infantry one, to get away from the darts of woman's tongue. A hornet

could not sting like that little tongue.

One of these girls was a lone sister, with many brothers, in a very

wealthy family, which we will call the DeLanceys, in one of the

richest counties of Alabama. A cavalry company had been organized and

drilled for the war, but not a DeLancey's name was on the roll. The

company was to leave the home camp for the front. The whole county

gathered to cheer them and bid them good-bye. Presents and honors were

showered upon the young patriots. The sister mentioned above owned a

very fine favorite horse, named "Starlight," which she presented to

the company in a touching little speech, which brought tears to many

eyes, and which wound up with the following apostrophe, "Farewell,

Starlight! I may never see you again; but, thank God, you are the

bravest of the DeLanceys."

All through the war cowards were between two fires, that of the

Federals at the front and that of the women in the rear.

MRS. SUSAN ROY CARTER

[Thomas Nelson Page.]

Old Mathews and Gloucester, Virginia, as they are affectionately

termed by those who knew them in the old times, were filled with

colonial families and were the home of a peculiarly refined and

aristocratic society. Miss Roy was the daughter of William H. Roy,

esq., of "Green Plains," Mathews county, and of Anne Seddon, a sister

of Hon. James A. Seddon, Secretary of War of the Confederate States.

She was a noted beauty and belle, even in a society that was known

throughout Virginia for its charming and beautiful women. Her

loveliness, radiant girlhood, and early womanhood is still talked of

among the survivors of that time. Old men, who have seen the whole

order of society in which they spent their youths pass from the scene,

still refresh themselves with the memory of her brilliant beauty and

of her gracious charms. She was the centre and idol of that circle.

In 1855, on November 7th, she gave her hand and heart to Dr. Thomas H.

Carter, esq., of Shirley, and from that time to the day of her death

their life was one of the ideal unions which justify the saying that

"marriages are made in heaven." "It has always been a honeymoon with

us," he used to say. The young couple almost immediately settled at

"Pampatike," on the Pamunkey, an old colonial estate. Here Mrs. Carter

lived for thirty-four years, occupied in the duties of mistress of a

great plantation, dispensing that gracious hospitality which made it

noted even in Old Virginia; shedding the light of a beautiful life on

all about her, and exemplifying in herself the character to which the

South points with pride and affection as a refutation of every adverse

criticism.

Such a plantation was a world in itself, and the life upon it was such

as to entail on the master and mistress labors and responsibilities

such as are not often produced under any other conditions. In addition

to the demands of hospitality, which were exacting and constant, the

conduct of such a large establishment, with the care of over one

hundred and fifty servants, whose eyes were ever turned to their

mistress, called forth the exercise of the highest powers from those

who felt themselves answerable to the Great Master of All for the full

performance of their duty. No one ever performed this duty with more

divine devotion than did this young mistress. She was at once the

friend and the servant of every soul on the place. Mrs. Carter was a

fine illustration of the rare quality of the character formed by such

conditions. In sickness and in health she watched over, looked after,

and cared for all within her province.

It is the boast of the South, and one founded on truth, that when

during the war the men were withdrawn from the plantations to do their

duty on the field, the women rose to the full measure of every demand,

filling often, under new conditions that would have tried the utmost

powers of the men themselves, a place to which only men had been

supposed equal.

When, on the outbreak of war, her husband was among the first who took

the field as a captain of artillery, Mrs. Carter took charge of the

plantation and during all the stress of that trying period she

conducted it with an ability that would have done honor to a man of

the greatest experience. The Pampatike plantation, lying not far from

West Point, the scene of so many operations during the war, was within

the "debatable land" that lay between the lines and was alternately

swept by both armies. The position was peculiarly delicate, and often

called for the exercise of rare tact and courage on the part of the

mistress. It was known to the enemy that her husband was a gallant and

rising officer and a near relative of General Lee, and the plantation

was a marked one.

On one occasion a small party of mounted Federal troops on a foraging

expedition visited the place and were engaged in looting, when a party

of Confederate cavalry suddenly appeared on the scene, and a brisk

little skirmish took place in the garden and yard. The Federals were

caught by surprise, and getting the worst of it, broke and retreated

across the lawn, with the enemy close to their heels in hot chase. A

Union trooper was shot from his horse and fell just in front of the

house, but rising, tried to run on. Mrs. Carter, seeing his danger,

rushed out, calling to him to come to her and she would protect him.

Turning, he staggered to her, but though she sheltered him, his wound

was mortal, and he died at her feet. The surprise and defeat of this

party having been reported at West Point, a stronger force was sent up

to wreak vengeance on the place. But on learning of Mrs. Carter's act

in rushing out amid the flying bullets to save this man at the risk of

her life, the officer in command posted a guard, and orders were given

that the place should be henceforth respected.

The hospital service on the Confederate side during the war, as

wretched as it was, without medicines or surgical appliances, would

have been far more dreadful but for the devotion with which the

Southern women consecrated themselves to it. Every woman was a nurse

if she were within reach of wounds and sickness. Every house was a

hospital if it was needed; and to their honor be it said that the

principle enunciated by Dr. Dunant, and finally established in the

creation of the Red Cross Society, found its exemplification here some

time before the Geneva Congress. To them a wounded man of whatever

side was sacred, and to his service they consecrated themselves.

Unhappily, devotion, even as divine as theirs, could not make up for

all.

At the battle of Seven Pines--"Fair Oaks"--Captain Carter's battery

rendered such efficient service that the commanding general declared

he would rather have commanded that battery that day than to have been

President of the Confederate States. But the fame of the battery was

won at the expense of about sixty per cent of its officers and men

killed and wounded. The Carter plantation was within sound of the

guns, and Mrs. Carter immediately constituted herself the nurse of the

wounded men of her husband's battery. And from this time she was

regarded by them as their guardian angel--an affection that was

extended to her by all of the men of her husband's command, as he rose

from rank to rank, until he became a colonel and acting chief of

artillery in the last Valley campaign.

When the war closed nothing remained except the lands and a few

buildings, but the energy of the master and mistress began from the

first to build up the plantation again. The servants were free; the

working force was broken up and scattered, yet large numbers of them,

including all who were old and infirm, remained on the place and had

to be cared for and fed. To this master and mistress alike applied all

their abilities, with the result that defeat was turned into success

and the place became known as one of the estates that had survived the

destruction of war.

Having a family of young children, the best tutors were secured, and

owing largely to the knowledge of the good influence to which the boys

would be subjected under Mrs. Carter's roof, many applied to send

their boys to them, and "Pampatike School" soon became known far

beyond the limits of Virginia. Among those who have testified to the

influence upon them of their life at Pampatike are men now nearing the

top of every profession in many States.

It was at this period that the writer came to know her. And he can

never forget the impression made on him by her--an impression that

time and fuller knowledge of her only served to deepen. Of commanding

and gracious presence, with a face of rare beauty and loveliness, and

manners, whose charm can never be described, she might have been noble

Brunhilda, softened and made sweet by the chastening influence of

Christianity and unselfish love. No one that ever saw her could forget

her. It was, indeed, the beautifying influences of a simple piety and

devoted love that guided her life, which stamped their impress on that

noble face. In every relation of life she was perfect. And the

influence of such a life can never cease. Many besides her children

rise up and call her blessed.

In closing this incomplete sketch of one whose life illustrated all

that was best in life, and admits of justice in no sketch whatsoever,

the writer feels that he cannot do better than to use the words of him

who knew and loved her best:

Every day an anthem of love and praise swells up from all over the

land to do her honor. Old boys of Pampatike schooling, new boys of

the University, girls and old people, recall her delight to make

them happy and to give them pleasure. It was her greatest

happiness to make others happy; for she was absolutely the most

unselfish and generous being on earth. Her generosity was not

always of abundance, for abundance was not always hers; but a

generosity out of everything that she had.

Her beautiful life has passed away, and is now only a memory, but

a memory fraught and fragrant with all that is sweetest and

loveliest and purest and best in noblest womanhood. Who that ever

saw her can forget her noble and beautiful face, resplendent with

all that was exalted and high-souled, gracious, and kindest to

others--the Master's index to the heart within!

J. L. M. CURRY'S WOMEN CONSTITUENTS

[J. L. Underwood.]

Hon. J. L. M. Curry had ever since the war with Mexico been the idol of

his district in Alabama, which kept him steadily in the United States

Congress and sent him to the Confederate House of Representatives.

Toward the latter part of the war in the Congressional campaign Mr.

Curry found an opponent in Mayor Cruickshank, of Talladega. The

latter skilfully played upon the hardships and hopelessness of the war

and in some of the upper mountain counties considerable opposition to

Mr. Curry was developed. At a gathering of the mountaineers, largely

composed of women, Mr. Curry was appealing with his usual favor to his

people to continue their efforts to secure the independence of the

Confederacy and not to listen to any suggestion of submission to the

Northern States. About the time his eloquence reached its highest

point, up rose an old woman and hurled at him what struck him like a

thunderbolt:

"I think it time for you to hush all your war talk. You go yonder to

Richmond and sit up there in Congress and have a good time while our

poor boys are being all killed; and if you are going to do anything

it's time for you to stop this war."

In a moment up sprang another mountain woman. "Go on, Mr. Curry," said

she. "Go on, you are right. We can never consent to give up our

Southern cause. Don't listen to what this other woman says. I have

sent five sons to the army. Three of them have fallen on the

battlefield. The other two are at their post in the Virginia army and

they will all stand by Lee to the last. This woman here hasn't but two

sons and they had to be conscripted. One of them has deserted and it

takes all of Lewis's Cavalry to keep the other one in ranks. Go on,

Mr. Curry. We are with you." And Curry went on, more edified by this

last woman's speech, said he afterward, than any speech he ever heard

in his life.

NORA MCCARTHY

[In The Gray Jacket, pages 26-29.]

Norah McCarthy won by her courage the name of the "Jennie Deans" of

the West. She lived in the interior of Missouri--a little, pretty,

black-eyed girl, with a soul as huge as a mountain, and a form as

frail as a fairy's, and the courage and pluck of a buccaneer into the

bargain. Her father was an old man--a secessionist. She had but a

single brother, just growing from boyhood to youthhood, but sickly and

lame. The family had lived in Kansas during the troubles of '57, when

Norah was a mere girl of fourteen or thereabouts. But even then her

beauty, wit and devil-may-care spirit were known far and wide; and

many were the stories told along the border of her sayings and doings.

Among other charges laid at her door it is said that she broke all the

hearts of the young bloods far and wide, and tradition goes even so

far as to assert that, like Bob Acres, she killed a man once a week,

keeping a private church-yard for the purpose of decently burying her

dead. Be this as it may, she was then, and is now, a dashing,

fine-looking, lively girl, and a prettier heroine than will be found

in a novel, as will be seen if the good-natured reader has a mind to

follow us to the close of this sketch.

Not long after the Federals came into her neighborhood, and after they

had forced her father to take the oath, which he did partly because he

was a very old man, unable to take the field, and hoped thereby to

save the security of his household, and partly because he could not

help himself; not long after these two important events in the history

of our heroine, a body of men marched up one evening, while she was on

a visit to a neighbor's, and arrested her sickly, weak brother,

bearing him off to Leavenworth City, where he was lodged in the

military guard-house.

It was nearly night before Norah reached home. When she did so, and

discovered the outrage which had been perpetrated, and the grief of

her old father, her rage knew no bounds. Although the mists were

falling and the night was closing in, dark and dreary, she ordered

her horse to be resaddled, put on a thick surtout, belted a sash round

her waist, and sticking a pair of ivory-handled pistols in her bosom,

started off after the soldiers. The post was many miles distant. But

that she did not regard. Over hill, through marsh, under cover of the

darkness, she galloped on to the headquarters of the enemy. At last

the call of a sentry brought her to stand, with a hoarse "Who goes

there?"

"No matter," she replied. "I wish to see Colonel Prince, your

commanding officer, and instantly, too."

Somewhat awed by the presence of a young female on horseback at that

late hour, and perhaps struck by her imperious tone of command, the

Yankee guard, without hesitation, conducted her to the fortifications,

and thence to the quarters of the colonel commanding, with whom she

was left alone.

"Well, madam," said the Federal officer, with bland politeness, "to

what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"Is this Colonel Prince?" replied the brave girl, quietly.

"It is, and you are--"

"No matter. I have come here to inquire whether you have a lad by the

name of McCarthy a prisoner?"

"There is such a prisoner."

"May I ask why he is a prisoner?"

"Certainly! For being suspected of treasonable connection with the

enemy."

"Treasonable connection with the enemy! Why the boy is sick and lame.

He is, besides, my brother; and I have come to ask his immediate

release."

The officer opened his eyes; was sorry he could not comply with the

request of so winning a supplicant; and must "really beg her to desist

and leave the fortress."

"I demand his release," cried she, in reply.

"That you cannot have. The boy is a rebel and a traitor, and unless

you retire, madam, I shall be forced to arrest you on a similar

suspicion."

"Suspicion! I am a rebel and a traitor, too, if you wish; young

McCarthy is my brother, and I don't leave this tent until he goes with

me. Order his instant release or,"--here she drew one of the aforesaid

ivory handles out of her bosom and levelled the muzzle of it directly

at him--"I will put an ounce of lead in your brain before you can call

a single sentry to your relief."

A picture that!

There stood the heroic girl; eyes flashing fire, cheek glowing with

earnest will, lips firmly set with resolution, and hand outstretched

with a loaded pistol ready to send the contents through the now

thoroughly frightened, startled, aghast soldier, who cowered, like

blank paper before flames, under her burning stare.

"Quick!" she repeated, "order his release, or you die."

It was too much. Prince could not stand it. He bade her lower her

infernal weapon, for God's sake, and the boy should be forthwith

liberated.

"Give the order first," she replied, unmoved.

And the order was given; the lad was brought out; and drawing his arm

in hers, the gallant sister marched out of the place, with one hand

grasping one of his, and the other holding her trusty ivory handle.

She mounted her horse, bade him get up behind, and rode off, reaching

home without accident before midnight.

Now that is a fact stranger than fiction, which shows what sort of

metal is in our women of the much abused and traduced nineteenth

century.

WOMEN IN THE BATTLE OF GAINESVILLE, FLA.

[From Dickinson and His Men, pages 99-100.]

As Captain Dickinson and our brave defenders charged the enemy through

the streets, many of the ladies could be seen, whose inspiring tones

and grateful plaudits cheered these noble heroes on to deeds of

greater daring. While charging the enemy, near the residence of Judge

Dawkins, Mrs. Dawkins and her lovely sister, Miss Lydia Taylor, passed

from their garden into the street, and in the excitement of the

moment, actuated by the heroic spirit that ever animated our noble

women, united their voices in repeating the captain's word of command.

"Charge, charge!" was heard with the musical rhythm of a benediction

from their grateful hearts.

The enemy, halting, made a stand a few yards below the entrance to

their residence, firing up the street almost a hailstorm of Minie

balls from their Spencer rifles. Apparently indifferent to their

danger, these heroic ladies stood unmoved, cheering on our gallant

soldiers, among whom were many near and dear to them. Captain

Dickinson earnestly entreated them to return to the house, as they

were in imminent danger of being killed.

Many ladies brought buckets of water for the heated, famished soldiers

who had no time to give even to this needed refreshment. Through all

the desperate fight not a citizen was hurt. The sweet incense of

prayer arose from hundreds of agonized hearts to the mercy-seat, in

behalf of husbands, sons, fathers, and brothers who were in the

battle.

"SHE WOULD SEND TEN MORE"

[Judge John H. Reagan's address in 1897.]

To illustrate the character and devotion of the women of the

Confederacy, I will repeat a statement made to me during the war by

Governor Letcher, of Virginia. He had visited his home in the

Shenandoah Valley, and on his return to the State capitol called at

the house of an old friend who had a large family. He found no one but

the good old mother at home, and inquired about the balance of the

family. She told him that her husband, her husband's father and her

ten sons were all in the army. And on his suggestion that she must

feel lonesome, having had a large family with her and now to be left

alone, her answer was that it was very hard, but if she had ten more

sons they should all go to the army. Can ancient or modern history

show a nobler or more unselfish and patriotic devotion to any cause?

WOMEN AT VICKSBURG

[J. L. Underwood.]

On first thought it would be expected that women would be greatly

excited when under fire and amid other scenes of actual war. But

almost invariably they exhibited during our war a calm fearlessness

that was amazing. My girl wife and her war companion, Mrs. Lieutenant

Lockett, of Marion, Ala., a daughter of Alabama's noble war governor,

A. B. Moore, spent several months of the spring of 1863 at Vicksburg

and its vicinity, to be near their husbands. They were boarding in the

city the night when Porter's fleet ran down the river by the

batteries. The cannonading was terrific. I was with my regiment, the

Thirtieth Alabama, some few miles away. Next morning, as soon as

regimental duties would allow, I hastened to the city. To my

astonishment I found that neither "the girls" nor the ladies of the

city had been at all alarmed. They seemed to look upon it as a sort of

enjoyable episode.

In May we were at Warrenton, 10 miles below the city, where the two

ladies were quartered with old Mr. Withington and his good wife, in

one of the most independent and comfortable plantation homes in the

land. When our brigade, under command of the brave but ill-fated Gen.

Ed. Tracy, was ordered to Grand Gulf, I was left under orders to take

the ladies to Vicksburg and send them home out of danger. But before

we could get away from Mr. Withington's news came that a battle was

raging at Bayou Pierre. I told the ladies that I could not stay away

from my command while it was engaged in battle and that they would

just have to do the best they could where they were. Their cheeks

never blanched; nor was a protest uttered. After the battle I hurried

back and got them to Vicksburg, hoping to have them beyond Jackson

before Grant's flanking army could reach it. The idea of having them

shut up in Vicksburg during a siege was a horror to me. What was my

chagrin when, on reaching the railroad station, I was informed by the

officials that not another train would be allowed to go out. There

were numbers of officers' wives and other women all round the depot,

eager to go. They bore their bitter disappointment even cheerfully.

Their courage and cheerfulness soon took another happy turn when under

orders I passed around to whisper to them, "Be ready to jump quickly

and quietly on a train which has been provided to carry off soldiers'

wives in a few minutes."

Away they went and reached their homes safely, though we at Vicksburg

never learned this until after the surrender. The siege lasted

forty-seven days. Day and night, not only the entrenchments but the

entire city was exposed to artillery and rifle fire day and night.

Many a man was killed far away from the front lines. Many a private

house was torn by shells from Grant's rifle cannon or Porter's mortar

fleet. While the shot and shell did not fall incessantly at any one

point there was no place they did not reach. I knew several poor

fellows to receive fresh wounds while lying on their cots in the

hospitals.

Porter did not spare the city hospital, although carrying the yellow

flag. In it I had an old college friend, Capt. Ben Craig, of Alabama,

sick with fever, whose wife and venerable father had remained to nurse

him. Just before one of my visits a thirteen-inch shell came down

through the roof, leaving an ugly hole in the floor within six inches

of poor Craig's bed. His brave little wife, (formerly Miss Eliza

Tucker, of Milledgeville, Ga.) never flinched.

A great many families of the city had dug caves in the soft clay of

the Vicksburg hills and could hide in them in perfect safety. Many did

not avail themselves of this refuge, but bravely remained in their

houses and took chances. Even the cave dwellers had to come out to

cook their food. Nobly did these good women render whatever attention

they could to our sick and wounded. They were as brave and as calm as

the soldiers.

"MOTHER, TELL HIM NOT TO COME"

[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages

322-326.]

I sat in the porch, where were also sitting an old couple, evidently

the joint head of the establishment, and a young woman dressed in

black, apparently their daughter, and, as I soon learned, a soldier's

widow. My coat was badly torn, and the young woman kindly offering to

mend it I thanked her and, taking it off, handed it to her. While we

were chatting, and groups of men sitting on the steps and lying about

the yard, the door of the house opened and another young woman

appeared. She was almost beautiful, was plainly but neatly dressed,

and had her hat on. She had evidently been weeping and her face was

deadly pale. Turning to the old woman, as she came out, she said,

cutting her words off short, "Mother, tell him if he passes here he is

no husband of mine," and turned again to leave the porch. I rose, and

placing myself directly in front of her, extended my arm to prevent

her escape. She drew back with surprise and indignation. The men were

alert on the instant, and battle was joined.

"What do you mean, sir?" she cried.

"I mean, madam," I replied, "that you are sending your husband word to

desert, and that I cannot permit you to do this in the presence of my

men."

"Indeed! and who asked your permission, sir? And pray, sir, is he your

husband or mine?"

"He is your husband, madam, but these are my soldiers. They and I

belong to the same army with your husband, and I cannot suffer you, or

any one, unchallenged, to send such a demoralizing message in their

hearing."

"Army! do you call this mob of retreating cowards an army? Soldiers!

if you are soldiers, why don't you stand and fight the savage wolves

that are coming upon us defenceless women and children?"

"We don't stand and fight, madam, because we are soldiers, and have to

obey orders, but if the enemy should appear on that hill this moment I

think you would find that these men are soldiers, and willing to die

in defense of women and children."

"Quite a fine speech, sir, but rather cheap to utter, since you very

well know the Yankees are not here, and won't be, till you've had time

to get your precious carcasses out of the way. Besides, sir, this

thing is over, and has been for some time. The government has now

actually run off, bag and baggage,--the Lord knows where,--and there

is no longer any government or any country for my husband to owe

allegiance to. He does owe allegiance to me and to his starving

children, and if he doesn't observe this allegiance now, when I need

him, he need not attempt it hereafter when he wants me."

The woman was quick as a flash and cold as steel. She was getting the

better of me. She saw it, and, worst of all, the men saw and felt it,

too, and had gathered thick and pressed up close all round the porch.

There must have been a hundred or more of them, all eagerly listening,

and evidently strongly to the woman's side. This would never do. I

tried every avenue of approach to that woman's heart. It was congealed

by suffering, or else it was encased in adamant. She had parried every

thrust, repelled every advance, and was now standing defiant, with her

arms folded across her breast, rather courting further attack. I was

desperate, and with the nonchalance of pure desperation--no stroke of

genius--I asked the soldier-question:

"What command does your husband belong to?"

She started a little, and there was a trace of color in her face as

she replied, with a slight tone of pride in her voice: "He belongs to

the Stonewall Brigade, sir."

I felt, rather than thought it--but, had I really found her heart? We

would see.

"When did he join it?"

A little deeper flush, a little stronger emphasis of pride.

"He joined in the spring of '61, sir."

Yes, I was sure of it now. Her eyes had gazed straight into mine; her

head inclined and her eyelids drooped a little now, and there was

something in her face that was not pain and was not fight. So I let

myself out a little, and turning to the men, said:

"Men, if her husband joined the Stonewall Brigade in '61, and has been

in the army ever since, I reckon he's a good soldier."

I turned to look at her. It was all over. Her wifehood had conquered.

She had not been addressed this time, yet she answered instantly, with

head raised high, face blushing, eyes flashing: "General Lee hasn't a

better in his army!" As she uttered these words she put her hand in

her bosom, and drawing out a folded paper, extended it toward me,

saying: "If you doubt it, look at that."

Before her hand reached mine she drew it back, seeming to have changed

her mind, but I caught her wrist, and without much resistance

possessed myself of the paper. It had been much thumbed and was much

worn. It was hardly legible, but I made it out. Again I turned to the

men.

"Take off your hats, boys, I want you to hear this with uncovered

heads"--and then I read an endorsement on an application for furlough,

in which General Lee himself had signed a recommendation of this

woman's husband for a furlough of special length on account of

extraordinary gallantry in battle.

During the reading of this paper the woman was transfigured,

glorified. No Madonna of old master was ever more sweetly radiant with

all that appeals to what is best and holiest in man. Her bosom rose

and fell with deep, quiet sighs; her eyes rained gentle, happy tears.

The men felt it all--all. They were all gazing upon her, but the dross

was clean, purified out of them. There was not, upon any one of their

faces, an expression that would have brought a blush to the cheek of

the purest womanhood on earth. I turned once more to the soldier's

wife.

"This little paper is your most precious treasure, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And the love of him whose manly courage and devotion won this

tribute is the best blessing God ever gave you, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And yet, for the brief ecstasy of one kiss, you would disgrace this

hero-husband of yours, stain all his noble reputation, and turn this

priceless paper to bitterness; for the rear-guard would hunt him from

his own cottage, in half an hour, a deserter and a coward."

Not a sound could be heard save her hurried breathing. The rest of us

held our breath. Suddenly, with a gasp of recovered consciousness, she

snatched the paper from my hand, put it back hurriedly in her bosom,

and turning once more to her mother, said: "Mother, tell him not to

come."

I stepped aside at once. She left the porch, glided down the path to

the gate, crossed the road, surmounted the fence with easy grace,

climbed the hill, and as she disappeared in the weedy pathway I caught

up my hat and said:

"Now, men, give her three cheers."

Such cheers. Oh, God, shall I ever again hear a cheer which bears a

man's whole soul in it? For the first time I felt reasonably sure of

my battalion. It would follow anywhere.

BRAVE WOMAN IN DECATUR, GA.

[Miss Mary A. H. Gay, in Life in Dixie, pages 127-132.]

Garrad's Cavalry selected our lot, consisting of several acres, for

headquarters, and soon what appeared to us to be an immense army train

of wagons commenced rolling into it. In less than two hours our barn

was demolished and converted into tents, which were occupied by

privates and noncommissioned officers, and to the balusters of our

portico and other portions of the house were tied a number of large

ropes, which, the other ends being secured to the trees and shrubbery,

answered as a railing to which at short intervals apart a number of

smaller ropes were tied, and to these were attached horses and mules,

which were eating corn and oats out of troughs improvised for the

occasion out of bureau, washstand, and wardrobe drawers. Men in groups

were playing cards on tables of every size and shape, and whisky and

profanity held high carnival. Thus surrounded, we could but be

apprehensive of danger; and, to assure ourselves of as much safety as

possible, we barricaded the doors and windows, and arranged to sit up

all night; that is, my mother and myself.

As we sat on a lounge, every chair having been taken to the camps, we

heard the sound of footsteps entering the piazza, and in a moment,

loud rapping, which meant business. Going to the window nearest the

door, I removed the fastenings, raised the sash, and opened the

blinds. Perceiving by the light of a brilliant moon that at least a

half dozen men in uniforms were on the piazza, I asked: "Who is

there?"

"Gentlemen," was the laconic reply.

"If so, you will not persist in your effort to come into the house.

There is only a widow and one of her daughters, and two faithful

servants in it," said I.

"We have orders from headquarters to interview Miss Gay. Is she the

daughter of whom you speak?"

"She is, and I am she."

"Well, Miss Gay, we demand seeing you, without intervening barriers.

Our orders are imperative," said he who seemed to be the spokesman of

the delegation.

"Then wait a moment," I amiably responded. Going to my mother, I

repeated in substance the above colloquy, and asked her if she would

go with me out of one of the back doors and around the house into the

front yard. Although greatly agitated and trembling, she readily

assented, and we noiselessly went out. In a few moments we announced

our presence, and our visitors descended the steps and joined us. And

these men, occupying a belligerent attitude toward ourselves and all

that was dear to us, stood face to face with us and in silence we

contemplated each other. When the silence was broken, the aforesaid

officer introduced himself as Major Campbell, a member of General

Schofield's staff. He also introduced the accompanying officers each

by name and title. This ceremony over, Major Campbell said:

"Miss Gay, our mission is a painful one, and yet we will carry it out

unless you satisfactorily explain acts reported to us."

"What is the nature of those acts?"

"We have been told that it is your proudest boast that you are a

rebel, and that you are ever on duty to aid and abet in every possible

way the wouldbe destroyers of the United States government. If this be

so, we can not permit you to remain within our lines. Until Atlanta

surrenders, Decatur will be our headquarters, and every consideration

of interest to our cause requires that no one inimical to it should

remain within our boundaries established by conquest."

In reply to these charges, I said:

"Gentlemen, I have not been misrepresented, so far as the charges you

mentioned are concerned. If I were a man, I should be in the foremost

ranks of those who are fighting for rights guaranteed by the

Constitution of the United States. The Southern people have never

broken that compact, nor infringed upon it in any way. They have never

organized mobs to assassinate any portion of people sharing the

privileges granted by that compact. They have constructed no

underground railroads to bring into our midst incendiaries and

destroyers of the peace, and to carry off stolen property. They have

never sought to array the subordinate element of the North in deadly

hostility to the controlling element. No class of the women of the

South have ever sought positions at the North which secured entrance

into good households, and then betrayed the confidence reposed by

corrupting the servants and alienating the relations between the

master and the servant. No class of women in the South have ever

mounted the rostrum and proclaimed falsehoods against the women of the

North--falsehoods which must have crimsoned with shame the very cheeks

of Beelzebub. No class of the men of the South have ever tramped over

the North with humbugs, extorting money either through sympathy or

credulity, and engaged at the same time in the nefarious work of

exciting the subordinate class to insurrection, arson, rapine, and

murder. If the South is in rebellion, a well-organized mob at the

North has brought it about. Long years of patient endurance

accomplished nothing. The party founded on falsehood and hate

strengthened and grew to enormous proportions. And, by the way, mark

the cunning of that party. Finding that the Abolition party made slow

progress and had to work in the dark, it changed its name and took in

new issues, and by a systematic course of lying in its institutions of

learning, from the lowly school-house to Yale College, and from its

pulpits and rostrums, it inculcated lessons of hate toward the

Southern people, whom it would hurl into the crater of Vesuvius if

endowed with the power. What was left us to do but to try to relieve

that portion of the country which had permitted this sentiment of hate

to predominate of all connection with us, and of all responsibility

for the sins of which it proclaimed us guilty? This effort the South

has made, and I have aided and abetted in every possible manner, and

will continue to do so as long as there is an armed man in the

Southern ranks. If this is sufficient cause to expel me from my home,

I await your orders. I have no favors to ask."

Imagine my astonishment, admiration, and gratitude when that group of

Federal officers with unanimity said:

"I glory in your spunk, and am proud of you as my countrywoman; and so

far from banishing you from your home, we will vote for your retention

within our lines."

GIVING WARNING TO MOSBY

[From original manuscript, now in the Confederate Museum.]

MY DEAR FRIEND: * * * Soon after the Yankees went into winter quarters

in Warrenton, I was requested by a soldier friend to avail myself of

every opportunity to obtain and transmit information that might be

of service to our scouts and guerrillas, and this of course I was

most willing to do. Our house was at that time within the lines in

the day time, and beyond them at night. I walked up to Warrenton one

bright but very cold morning, (the 22d of December) and as soon as I

arrived was informed by a lady friend, who was also on the lookout,

that she had just seen a negro, who looked like a newcomer, escorted

by several officers to the provost marshal's office. I immediately

concluded that he was bearer of some tidings, most probably from

"Mosby's Confederacy," and that I must know what it might be, but

how could I accomplish it? A sentinel was placed always before the

office. I had my purse with me. I fell into conversation with him. I

offered him so much to let me pass into the basement of the house

on pretense of wishing to transact some business with the negroes

who occupied it. He accepted it, and I went--not into the room

which the negroes occupied, but into the one adjoining it--a place

very damp and dark, where I could hear, but not be seen, and

suiting my purpose admirably, as it was immediately under the office.

I listened; heard the negro questioned and heard him answer that he

could and would guide a force to Mosby's headquarters, to the

houses where he knew many of his men boarded, to the place where the

command had stored a quantity of corn. About the corn they seemed to

care little, but oh! to catch Mosby,--they waxed warm at the

thought--they talked long and loudly (all for my convenience, no

doubt) and the result of the consultation was a plan to go "riding

on a raid" with the "reliable contraband" acting as guide--to go

that very night if certain reinforcements arrived in time, or

should they fail to do so, the next night. I had heard enough. I came

out of my cell, walked through town to a picket post, with the

remaining contents of my purse bribed the faithful soldier of the

Union to let me pass, then walked two miles to a neighbor's where I

thought I could get a horse, which was most gladly furnished me when

my errand was made known. By this time it was late in the afternoon;

it had been turning colder all day, and was now intensely cold with a

blustering wind, the sky covered with moving masses of black clouds.

My friends wrapped me up as best they could. I mounted and rode

three miles to a neighbor's house, where I took a little boy up

behind me for escort. My object now was to ride in what seemed the

right direction until I met some Southern soldier to whom I could

impart the information I gathered, and commission him to convey it

to those whom it most nearly concerned. I rode on for miles--the

country becoming entirely new to me--the cold increasing--the darkness

deepening--the wind rising higher and higher. Mosby's men were

always hanging about the outposts of the enemy. Why was it that I

could not meet one of them? Did they think the night too terrible to

be out? Oh! how I ached with cold, and when I thoughtlessly said

as much, my gallant little escort, who was not less so, I am sure,

begged that he might be allowed to take off his overcoat and put it

around me. Suddenly, just before me, I saw a large fire--the

temptation was too great--I forgot that its light might reveal me

to those whom the darkness hid, drew the reins--old Kitty Grey

stood still, and I stretched out my hands toward the genial warmth. I

then discovered that I was near the "View Tree" to reach which,

though only four miles from Warrenton, I had traveled eight or

ten. The fire, thought I to myself, was built by some Southern scouts,

but they left it as I came on lest it should endanger them. The

thought aroused me. I started on, but had scarcely done so when the

moon came out, and almost immediately Walter called my attention

to a body of men on my right, in the form of a V, each with his

carbine levelled, and moving slowly toward me: I expected them to fire

any moment, but I neither quickened nor slackened my pace. The moon

went under a cloud and I passed into the sheltering darkness,

wondering much why they did not fire. My curiosity on that point was

afterwards satisfied. On I rode. It was not long before I saw a

single horseman with his raised weapon just in front of me.

"Halt," he said.

Boldness alone I believed could save me. The cold wind made my voice

hoarse; stern purpose made it strong. I tell you I was astonished at

the manliness of its tone, as lifting my arm I said, "Surrender or

I'll blow your brains out."

I only knew that a moment afterwards I heard his horse's retreating

hoofs clattering on the stony road. Now surely, thought I, I am safe;

surely the last picket is passed, and my spirits rose. Soon after

this, deceived by the darkness and my ignorance of the mountain ways,

I lost my direction and took a wrong road; but believing myself right

and at last out of danger, I moved on as fast as I could over the

rough, frozen ground, when on reaching the top of the hill, what was

my amazement and horror on finding that instead of proceeding I was

retracing my steps, though by a different route. I saw distinctly,

perhaps three miles off, the lights of the town of Warrenton. And this

was all that I had accomplished after riding at least twelve miles.

What should I do? Was I to fail altogether of my mission? To keep

going toward Warrenton would inevitably lead me to the Yankees. If I

turned and lost my way entirely, what would become of me on such a

night? Just then there came into my mind those sweet quaint lines

which I did not know that I could repeat:

"God shall charge his angel legions

Watch and ward o'er thee to keep,

Tho' thou walk thro' hostile regions,

Tho' in desert wilds thou sleep."

They were to me then an inspiration--a harbinger of safety and

success. It would have been still further inspiration, could I have

seen how just at the time, dear old Mrs. ----, who had helped to wrap

me up when I started, and had encouraged me by her sympathy and

interest, was watching for my return, keeping up a big fire--warming

some of her own clothes for me; and when at last she laid down, it was

with her lamp still burning, a pillow arranged for me close by her

kind heart, and with a prayer for me on her lips, that she slept. God

bless her!

Turning my back to the lights once more, I rode on. I had only gone a

few hundred yards when I saw just before me a horse and his dismounted

rider. The man stepped out, laid his hand on my bridle and said:

"Stop, lady, you can go no further; but where are you going?"

I answered in the very tone of candor: "I was trying to go to the

neighborhood of Salem to see a sick friend. It was later than I

thought when I set off. My poor old borrowed horse traveled very

slowly; night overtook me suddenly and I determined to make my way

back to my home near Warrenton, but have lost my way."

He then said: "It is my painful duty to take you to the reserves,

where you will be detained all night and taken to headquarters in the

morning."

I replied: "You can shoot me on the spot, but I will not spend this

night unprotected among your soldiers. I cannot consent that you

should perform your duty."

"Nor am I willing to perform it!" he exclaimed.

After a few moments' hesitation, which seemed to me a century, he

pointed out to me a light at some distance and said, "Go to that

house; no one will be so cruel as to turn you away on such a night."

I turned into what I thought the right path, but presently he called

out to me in a tone of earnest entreaty: "Not that way, for God's

sake; that leads to the reserves."

He then came to me, and leading my horse into the right path said:

"Good-by, I shall be three hours on picket to think of a freezing

lady."

Keeping the light in my eye, I soon reached the house, which was not

far off, and although the inmates evidently looked upon me with

suspicion, they agreed to let me stay all night and let me feed my

horse. I gave them an assumed name, asked to go to bed immediately,

had a hot brick put to my feet and plenty of cover; but I was too

thoroughly cold to be warmed easily, so I lay and shivered and wept

the live-long night.

Next morning six Yankees, just off post, rode up to the house. At

first I feared the kind picket had proved as treacherous as the rest,

had informed on me, and that they had come to arrest me. I hurried

down to meet them and was not a little relieved to find that they

only wanted to buy milk and eggs. There was a captain among them.

"We had an alarm last night," said he to me.

"Ah! how was it?"

"Why, the rebels wanted to attack our soldiers and they thought to

fool us by sending one man on ahead as if he were alone, thinking we

would all fire on him and not be ready for the rest when they came up;

but we were too sharp for them, did not fire at all and the rascals

were afraid to try it."

Ah! what mistakes we sometimes make! I learned from them by a little

judicious questioning that no raiding party had passed up during the

night, and hoped that I might still be in time.

After they left I found that the mistress of the house was a true

Southern woman. I told her my real name and my errand; she went with

me to a house in the mountains, where were some of Mosby's men. We

also met several on the way. I entreated them to give due notice and

then joyfully turned my face homewards. Gentle, faithful, old Kitty

Grey stood me in good stead upon more than one occasion, but the

Yankees have since stolen her, too. I soon returned her to her owners

and had nothing to do but get through the lines to our house. This I

accomplished without difficulty, and when I got in sight of the camp,

just about sundown, I saw every preparation making for a raid--the

raid which was to catch Mosby and his men. I had the satisfaction to

learn in a few days that it met with very poor success. Not a few

soldiers have since told me that the warning saved them from capture.

Several were in bed when they received it. One had not left his

boarding-house twenty minutes when it was surrounded by the enemy.

They preferred one night in the mountains of Virginia to a winter in a

Yankee dungeon. Am I not more than repaid by their thanks?

A few days after this, during Christmas, some friends in the

neighborhood came through the lines to spend the day and night with

us. To show you how difficult it was to overcome a Yankee sentinel's

stern sense of duty, I must tell you that one of the young ladies of

the party bribed the incumbent of the post on this occasion to let

them all pass for the small consideration of two ginger-cakes and one

turn-over pie.

Between 11 and 12 that night, as we girls were undressing and chatting

around the fire, we heard a gentle tapping on the window below, and

immediately mother came up and whispering as softly and mysteriously

as if she feared the walls, which they so closely watched, or the

winds, that whistled so keenly around the corners of the house, and

also their ears might repeat her words to the pickets, informed me

that Colonel Mosby and a few of his men were in the yard and wished to

see me. I put on the first dress I came to and crept down noiselessly,

lest I should arouse our spy of a guard. The colonel wanted to know

the exact position of the pickets and videttes. I told him as well as

I could, and in order to give him a more correct idea, I offered to go

with any of them whom he might select to a certain hill, where I could

point out their positions more definitely. Capt. Wm. R. Smith begged

leave to go with me. He led his horse and we walked along, talking in

a low tone. There was a full moon, but she wore a veil of fleecy

clouds.

When we had gone about two hundred yards, very unexpectedly there rode

out from behind a tree a Yankee picket.

"Halt," he cried.

It was but the work of an instant for Captain Smith to spring on his

horse, and with an effort of his strong arm, "Light to the croup the

fair lady he swung." The next instant a bullet seemed to graze our

ears; in quick succession six bullets came, but they soon fell far

behind us. We heard the whole line take up the alarm. As we flew

along, Captain Smith said, very calmly, "A little romance for you." We

soon reached our reserve and after some further conversation, bade one

another goodnight--they going forth to meet other adventures and I to

my friends, who having heard the firing, were awaiting my return

somewhat anxiously. When I took off the dress I had worn, I discovered

a very jagged rent, evidently made by the spur of a cavalier. Brave,

brave Captain Smith! soon he gave his young life to our cause.

"AIN'T YOU ASHAMED OF YOU'UNS?"

[Phoebe Y. Pember.]

Directly in front of me sat an old Georgia up-country woman, placidly

regarding the box cars full of men on the parallel rails, waiting,

like ourselves, to start. She knitted and gazed, and at last inquired

"who was them ar' soldiers, and whar' was they a-going to?" The

information that they were Yankee prisoners startled her considerably.

The knitting ceased abruptly (all the old women in the Southern States

knitted socks for the soldiers while traveling), and the cracker

bonnet of dark brown homespun was thrown back violently, for her whole

nervous system seemed to have received a galvanic shock. Then she

caught her breath with a long gasp, lifted on high her thin, trembling

hand, accompanied by the trembling voice, and made a speech:

"Ain't you ashamed of you'uns," she piped. "A-coming down here

a-spiling our country, and a-robbing our hen-roosts? What did we ever

do to you'uns that you should come a-killing our brothers and sons?

Ain't you ashamed of you'uns? What for do you want us to live with

you'uns, you poor white trash? I ain't got a single nigger that would

be so mean as to force himself where he warn't wanted, and what do

we-uns want with you? Ain't you--" but there came a roar of laughter

from both cars, and, shaking with excitement, the old lady pulled down

her spectacles, which in the excitement she had pushed up on her

forehead, and tried in vain to resume her labors with uncertain

fingers.

FALSE TEETH

[In Richmond During the War, pages 165-166.]

In connection with the battle of the Cross Keys, we are just here

reminded of an amusing stratagem of a rebel lady to conceal her age

and charms from the enemy, who held possession of her house. She says:

"Mr. K., you know, was compelled to evacuate his premises when the

Federals took possession, and succeeding in making good their escape,

left me here, with my three children, to encounter the consequences of

their intrusion upon my premises. Not wishing to appear quite as

youthful as I really am, and desiring to destroy, if possible, any

remains of my former beauty, I took from my mouth a set of false

teeth, (which I was compelled to have put in before I was 20 years

old,) tied a handkerchief around my head, donned my most sloven

apparel, and in every way made myself as hideous as possible. The

disguise was perfect. I was sullen, morose, sententious. You could not

have believed I could so long have kept up a manner so disagreeable;

but it had the desired effect. The Yankees called me 'old woman.' They

took little thought I was not 30 years of age. They took my house for

a hospital for their sick and wounded, and allowed me only the use of

a single room, and required of me many acts of assistance in nursing

their men, which under any circumstances my own heart-promptings would

have made a pleasure to me. But I did not feel disposed to be

compelled to prepare food for those who had driven from me my husband,

and afterwards robbed me of all my food and bed-furniture, with the

exception of what they allowed me to have in my room. But they were

not insulting in their language to the 'old woman,' and I endured all

the inconveniences and unhappiness of my situation with as much

fortitude as I could bring into operation, feeling that my dear

husband, at least, was safe from harm. After they left," she

continued, "I was forced to go into the woods, near by, and with my

two little boys pick up fagots to cook the scanty food left to me."

This is the story of one of the most luxuriously reared women of

Virginia, and is scarcely the faintest shadow of what many endured

under similar circumstances.

EMMA SANSOM

[Gen. T. Jordan and J. P. Pryor, in Campaigns of General Forrest,

pages 267-270.]

The Federal column under Colonel Streight was again overtaken by 10 A.

M., on the 2d; and the Confederate general selected fifty of the best

mounted men, with whom his escort charged swiftly upon its rear in the

face of a hot fire. For ten miles now, to Black Creek, an affluent of

the Coosa, a sharp, running conflict occurred. The Federals, however,

effected the passage of the stream without hindrance, by a bridge,

which, being old and very dry, was in flames and impassable as the

Confederates approached; besides which it was commanded by Streight's

artillery, planted on the opposite bank. Black Creek is deep and

rapid, and its passage in the immediate presence of the Federal force

was an impossibility before which even Forrest was forced to pause and

ponder. But while reflecting upon the predicament, he was approached

by a group of women, one of whom, a tall, comely girl of about 18

years of age, stepped forward and inquired, "Whose command?"

The answer was, "The advance of General Forrest's cavalry."

She then requested that General Forrest should be pointed out, which

being done, advancing, she addressed him nearly in these words:

"You are General Forrest, I am told. I know of an old ford to which I

could guide you, if I had a horse. The Yankees have taken all of

ours."

Her mother, stepping up, exclaimed:

"No, Emma; people would talk about you."

"I am not afraid to trust myself with as brave a man as General

Forrest, and don't care for people's talk," was the prompt rejoinder

of this Southern girl, her face illuminated with emotion.

The general then remarked, as he rode beside a log nearby: "Well, Miss

----, jump up behind me."

Quickly or without an instant of hesitation, she sprang from the log

behind the redoubtable cavalry leader, and sat ready to guide

him--under as noble an inspiration of unalloyed, courageous patriotism

as that which has rendered the Maid of Zaragossa famous for all time.

Calling for a courier to follow, guided by Miss Sansom, Forrest rode

rapidly, leaping over fallen timber, to a point about half a mile

above the bridge, where, at the foot of a ravine, she said there was a

practicable ford. There, dismounting, they walked to the river-bank,

opposite to which, on the other side, were found posted a Federal

detachment, who opened upon both immediately with some forty small

arms, the balls of which whistled close by, and tore up the ground in

their front as they approached. Inquiring naively what caused the

noise, and being answered that it was the sound of bullets, the

intrepid girl stepped in front of her companion, saying, "General,

stand behind me; they will not dare shoot me." Gently putting her

aside, Forrest observed he could not possibly suffer her to do so, or

to make a breastwork of herself, and gave her his arm so as to screen

her as much as possible. By this time they had reached the ravine.

Placing her behind the shelter afforded by the roots of a fallen tree,

he asked Miss Sansom to remain there until he could reconnoitre the

ford, and proceeded at once to descend the ravine on his hands and

knees. After having gone some fifty yards in this manner, looking

back, to his surprise and regret, she was immediately at his back; and

in reply to his remark that he had told her to remain under shelter,

replied: "Yes, General, but I was fearful that you might be wounded;

and it is my purpose to be near you."

The ford-mouth reached and examined, they then returned as they came,

through the ravine, to the crown of the bank, under fire, when she

took his arm as before--an open mark for the Federal sharpshooters,

whose fire for some instants was even heavier than at first; and

several of their balls actually passed through her skirts, exciting

the observation, "They have only wounded my crinoline." At the same

time, withdrawing her arm, the dauntless girl, turning round, faced

the enemy, and waved her sun-bonnet defiantly and repeatedly in the

air. We are pleased to be able to record that, at this, the hostile

fire was stopped; the Federals took off their own caps, and, waving

them, gave three hearty cheers of approbation. Remounting, Forrest and

Miss Sansom returned to the command, who received her with unfeigned

enthusiasm.

The artillery was sent forward, and with a few shells, well thrown,

quickly drove away the Federal guard at the ford, which Major McLemore

was directed to seize with his regiment. The stream was boggy, with

high, declivitous banks on both sides, and it was necessary to take

the ammunition from the caissons by hand, and to force the animals

down the steep slopes, and to take the ford, but, nevertheless, the

passage was successfully effected in less than two hours. Meantime,

the Confederate general delivered his fair, daring young guide back

safely into the hands of her mother, took a knightly farewell,

inspired by the romantic coloring of the occurrence, and dashed after

his command to resume the chase, as soon as the passage of the creek

was effected.

PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT'S MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER

[By J. L. Underwood.]

The story has often been told of Mrs. Roosevelt, formerly Miss

Bulloch, of Georgia, and mother of President Roosevelt, that early in

the war between the States, when a regiment of Federal soldiers was

marching past her residence in New York, she displayed a Confederate

flag at her window and refused to take it down when ordered to do so.

In October, 1905, a similar story was told by the Philadelphia

correspondent of the Richmond _Times-Dispatch_ that Mrs. Bulloch, the

grandmother of the President, at some period of the war did the same

thing in that city. The author of this volume was about to insert both

incidents when a moment's reflection caused him to hesitate. He

remembered that both the ladies mentioned were typical Southern women,

of one of the best and most knightly families. The stories lack

_vraisemblance_. Whatever may have been their sympathies during the

war between the States, such a needless display as that indicated in

the stories does not sound like the Bullochs of Georgia. Southern

women were not given to showing their patriotism by waving flags. It

is rather too cheap. Southern women of the best type, while members of

Northern families or guests of Northern friends, during the war, would

not volunteer to flaunt before the public a family division of

political sentiment under such sad circumstances. In addition to this,

the author has too much regard for the sanctity of home, be it ever so

humble or so highly exalted, to enter its portals for a striking story

without knocking for admission. Under the circumstances he felt it due

to consult our magnanimous President himself as to the authenticity of

either or both incidents. President Roosevelt kindly forwarded the

following reply:

"THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D. C., _Nov. 20, 1905_.

Personal.

DEAR SIR: It is always a pleasure to hear from an old Confederate

soldier, and I thank you for your letter and for the kind way in

which you speak of me; but that incident about my mother never

took place. This is the first time I ever heard the story about my

grandmother and I am sure it is equally without basis. My

grandmother was very infirm during the war and I do not believe

she ever lived at Philadelphia. She was with us in New York.

Sincerely yours,

THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

REV. J. L. UNDERWOOD,

_Kellam's Hospital, Richmond, Va._"

Elsewhere in this volume it is shown that John G. Whittier's famous

story of Barbara Freitchie and the Federal flag is a myth, pure and

simple. This letter of the President consigns the two stories above

mentioned to a similar fate. The Southern people will thank him for

it. They desire nothing but simple truth about their honored President

and his family.

THE LITTLE GIRL AT CHANCELLORSVILLE

General Fitz Hugh Lee loved to tell of the little girl in the house

where Stonewall Jackson breathed his last, who said to her mother that

she "wished that God would let her die instead of the general, for

then only her mother would cry; but if Jackson died all the people of

the country would cry."

SAVED HER HAMS

In Mississippi a farmer's wife heard that a regiment of Federal

cavalry was coming. She had a smoke-house full of fine hams and

shoulder meat. Immediately she went to work, and when the soldiers

came they found the meat lying all about the yard with a knife hole

stuck deep into each piece. The Yankees rushed in and began to pick it

up.

"What's the matter with this meat, madam? How came these holes in

it?"

"Now, look here," said she, "you know the Confederate cavalry has just

been here, and if you all get poisoned by that meat you must not blame

me."

They left the meat.

HEROISM OF A WIDOW

[Mrs. Allie McPeek, in Southern Historical Papers, Volume 23, page

328; from the Atlanta (Ga.) _Constitution_, November 9, 1905.]

It was on the first and second days of September, 1864, General Hardee

of the Southern forces was sent to Jonesboro from Atlanta with 22,000

men to head off a formidable flank movement of the enemy, which had

for its purpose to cut off Southern communication and thereby compel

the evacuation of the city of Atlanta. The flank movement consisted of

40,000 men, and was commanded chiefly by Major-General John M.

Schofield, together with General Sedgwick, who was also a corps

commander, and consisted of the best fighters of the Federal army.

As the two armies confronted each other two miles to the north and

northwest of Jonesboro, it so happened that the little house and farm

of a poor old widow was just between the two lines of battle when the

conflict opened, and, having nowhere to go, she was necessarily caught

between the fire of the two commanding lines of battle, which was at

comparatively close range and doing fierce and deadly work. The house

and home of this old lady was soon converted into a Federal hospital,

and with the varying fortunes she was alternately within the lines of

each contending army, when not between them on disputed ground.

During the whole of this eventful day this good and brave woman,

exposed as she was to the incessant showers of shot and shell from

both sides, moved fearlessly about among the wounded and dying of both

sides alike, and without making the slightest distinction. Finally

night closed the scene with General Schofield's army corps in

possession of the ground, and when the morning dawned it found this

grand old lady still at her post of duty, knowing, too, as she did,

the fortunes, or rather misfortunes, of war had stripped her of the

last vestige of property she had except her little tract of land which

had been laid waste. Now it was that General John M. Schofield, having

known her suffering and destitute condition, sent her, under escort

and arms, a large wagon-load of provisions and supplies, and caused

his adjutant-general to write her a long and touching letter of

thanks, and wound up the letter with a special request that she keep

it until the war was over and present it to the United States

government, and they would repay all her losses.

She kept the letter, and soon after the Southern Claims Commission was

established she brought it to the writer, who presented her claim in

due form, and she was awarded about $600--all she claimed, but not

being all she lost. The letter is now on file with other proofs of the

exact truth of this statement with the files of the Southern Claims

Commission at Washington. Her name was Allie McPeek, and she died

several years ago.

WINCHESTER WOMEN

[Fremantle's Three Months in Southern Lines.]

Winchester used to be a most agreeable town, and its society extremely

pleasant. Many of its houses are now destroyed or converted into

hospitals, the outlook miserable and dilapidated. Its female

inhabitants (for the able-bodied males are all absent in the army) are

familiar with the bloody realities of war. As many as 5,000 wounded

have been accommodated here at one time. All the ladies are accustomed

to the bursting of shells and the sight of fighting, and all are

turned into hospital nurses or cooks.

SPARTA IN MISSISSIPPI

[Gen. J. B. Gordon.]

The heroines of Sparta who gave their hair for bow-strings have been

immortalized by the muse of history; but what tongue can speak or

pen indite a tribute worthy of the Mississippi woman who with her

own hands applied the torch to more than half a million dollars'

worth of cotton, reducing herself to poverty rather than have that

cotton employed against her people. The day will come, and I

believe it is rapidly approaching, when in all will be seen

evidences of appreciation of these inspiring incidents; when all

lips will unite in expressing gratitude to God that they belong to

such a race of men and women.

"WOMAN'S DEVOTION"--A WINCHESTER HEROINE

[Gen. D. H. Maury, in Southern Historical Papers.]

The history of Winchester is replete with romantic and glorious

memories of the late war. One of the most interesting of these has

been perpetuated by the glowing pencil of Oregon Wilson, himself a

native of this valley, and the fine picture he has made of the

incident portrayed by him has drawn tears from many who loved their

Southern country and the devoted women who elated and sanctified by

their heroic sacrifices the cause which, borne down for a time, now

rises again to honor all who sustained it.

That truth, which is stranger than fiction, is stronger, too. The

simple historic facts which gave Wilson the theme of his great picture

gains nothing from the romantic glamour his beautiful art has thrown

about the actors in the story.

In 1864, General Ramseur, commanding a Confederate force near

Winchester, was suddenly attacked by a Federal force under General

Averell, and after a sharp encounter was forced back through the town.

The battlefield was near the residence of Mr. Rutherford, about two

miles distant, and the wounded were gathered in his house and yard.

The Confederate surgeons left in charge of these wounded men appealed

to the women of Winchester (the men had all gone off to the war) to

come out and aid in dressing the wounds and nursing the wounded. As

was always the way of these Winchester women, they promptly responded

to this appeal, and on the ---- day of July more than twenty ladies

went out to Mr. Rutherford's to minister to their suffering

countrymen. There were more than sixty severely wounded men who had

been collected from the battlefield and were lying in the house and

garden of Mr. Rutherford. The weather was warm, and those out of doors

were as comfortable and as quiet as those within. Amongst them was a

beardless boy named Randolph Ridgely; he was severely hurt; his thigh

was broken by a bullet, and his sufferings were very great; his

nervous system was shocked and unstrung, and he could find no rest.

The kind surgeon in charge of him had many others to care for; he felt

that quiet sleep was all important for his young patient, and he

placed him under charge of a young girl who had accompanied these

ladies from Winchester; told her his life depended on his having quiet

sleep that night; showed her how best to support his head, and

promised to return and see after his condition as soon and as often as

his duties to the other wounded would permit.

All through that anxious night the brave girl sat, sustaining the head

of the wounded youth and carefully guarding him against everything

that could disturb his rest or break the slumber into which he gently

sank, and which was to save his life. She only knew and felt that a

brave Confederate life depended on her care. She had never seen him

before, nor has she ever seen him since. And when at dawn the surgeon

came to her, he found her still watching and faithful, just as he had

left her at dark--as only a true woman, as we love to believe our

Virginia women, can be. The soldier had slept soundly. He awoke only

once during the night, when tired nature forced his nurse to change

her posture; and when after the morning came she was relieved of her

charge, and she fell ill of the exhaustion and exposure of that night.

Her consolation during the weary weeks she lay suffering was that she

had saved a brave soldier for her country.

In the succeeding year, Captain Hancock, of the Louisiana Infantry,

was brought to Winchester, wounded and a prisoner. He lay many weeks

in the hospital, and when nearly recovered of his wounds, was notified

that he would be sent to Fort Delaware. As the time drew near for his

consignment to this hopeless prison, he confided to Miss Lenie

Russell, the same young girl who had saved young Ridgely's life, that

he was engaged to be married to a lady of lower Virginia, and was

resolved to attempt to make his escape. She cordially entered into his

plans, and aided in their successful accomplishment. The citizens of

Winchester were permitted sometimes to send articles of food and

comfort to the sick and wounded Confederates, and Miss Russell availed

herself of this to procure the escape of the gallant captain. She

caused him to don the badge of a hospital attendant, take a market

basket on his arm and accompany her to a house, whence he might, with

least danger of detection and arrest, effect his return to his own

lines. Captain Hancock made good use of his opportunity and safely

rejoined his comrades; survived the war; married his sweetheart, and

to this day omits no occasion for showing his respect and gratitude

for the generous woman to whose courage and address he owes his

freedom and his happiness.

SPOKEN LIKE CORNELIA

[From The Gray Jacket, page 529.]

A young lady of Louisiana, whose father's plantation had been brought

within the enemy's lines in their operations against Vicksburg, was

frequently constrained by the necessities of her situation to hold

conversation with the Federal officers. On one of these occasions, a

Yankee official inquired how she managed to preserve her equanimity

and cheerfulness and so many trials and privations, and such severe

reverses of fortune. "Our army," said he, "has deprived your father of

two hundred negroes, and literally desolated two magnificent

plantations."

She said to the officer--a leader of that army, which had, for months,

hovered around Vicksburg, powerless to take it with all their vast

appliances of war, and mortified by their repeated failures: "I am

not insensible to the comforts and elegances which fortune can secure,

and of which your barbarian hordes have deprived me; but a true

Southern woman will not weep over them, while her country remains. If

you wish to crush me, take Vicksburg."

A SPECIMEN MOTHER

[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers' Memories, pages 208-209.]

At the commencement of the war there lived in Sharon, Miss., Mr. and

Mrs. O'Leary, surrounded by a family of five stalwart sons. Mrs.

Catherine O'Leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an

unfaltering patriot, and her heart was fired with love for the cause

of Southern liberty. Therefore when her brave sons, one after another,

went forth to battle for the right, she bade them God-speed. "Be true

to your God and your country," said this noble woman, "and never

disgrace your mother by flinching from duty."

Her youngest and, perhaps, dearest, was at that time only 14. For a

while she felt that his place was by her side; but in 1863, when he

was barely 17, she no longer tried to restrain him. Her trembling

hands, having arrayed the last beloved boy for the sacrifice, rested

in blessings on his head ere he went forth. Repressing the agony which

swelled her heart, she calmly bade him, also, "Do your duty. If you

must die, let it be with your face to the foe." And so went forth

James A. O'Leary, at the tender age of 17, full of ardor and hope. He

was at once assigned to courier duty under General Loring. On the 28th

of July, 1864, at the battle of Atlanta, he was shot through the hip,

the bullet remaining in the wound, causing intense suffering, until

1870, when it was extracted, and the wound healed for the first time.

Notwithstanding this wound, he insisted upon returning to his command,

which, in the mean time, had joined Wood's regiment of cavalry. This

was in 1865, and, so wounded, he served three months, surrendering

with General Wirt Adams at Gainesville. A short but very glorious

record. Mrs. O'Leary still lives in Sharon. The old fire is

unquenched.

MRS. ROONEY

[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers' Memories, pages 217-220.]

There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman

which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted

Confederate women. I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company K,

Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861, and

never deserted the "b'ys" for a day until the surrender.

She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting

was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm,

Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to

risk the dangers of every battlefield where the regiment was engaged,

unheeding havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely

succor to the wounded or comfort the dying. When in camp she looked

after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one

escaped being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so

well. She managed to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying at

times $35 per pound for it. The surrender almost broke her heart. Her

defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner. I will give in her own

words an account of what followed:

"Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. The next day,

when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I asked

them what they would do with me. They tould me to 'go to the devil.' I

tould them, 'I've been long in his company; I'd choose something

better.' I then asked them where any Confederates lived. They tould me

about three miles through the woods. On my way I met some Yankees.

They asked me, 'What have you in that bag?' I said, 'Some rags of my

own.' I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new dresses at the

bottom; and sure, I got off with them all. Then they asked me if I had

any money. I said no; but in my stocking I had two hundred dollars in

Confederate money. One of the Yankees, a poor devil of a private

soldier, handed me three twenty-five cents of Yankee money. I said to

him, 'Sure, you must be an Irishman.' 'Yes,' said he. I then went on

till I got to the house. Mrs. Crump and her sister were in the yard,

and about twenty negro women--no men. I had not a bite for two days,

nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness. Mrs. Crump said,

'Don't cry; you are among friends.' She then gave me plenty to

eat,--hot hoecakes and buttermilk. I stayed there fifteen days,

superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men. One half of

the house was full of Confederates and the other of Yankees. They then

brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees were gathered

together. There was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me,

and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. I tould him,

'And what have you to say to what you done to our poor fellows?' He

tould me to shut up, and sure I did. They asked me fifty questions

after, and I never opened me mouth. The next day was the day when all

the Confederate flags came to Petersburg. I had some papers in my

pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so I chewed them

all up and ate them; but I wouldn't take the oath, and I never did

take it. The flags were brought in on dirt-carts and as they passed

the Federal camps them Yankees would unfurl them and shake them about

to show them. My journey from Burkesville to Petersburg was from 11 in

the morning till 11 at night, and I sitting on my bundle all the way.

The Yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me, and calling me a damn

rebel, and more ugly talk. I said, 'Mabbe some of you has got a mother

or wife; if so, you'll show some respect for me.' Then they were

quiet. I had to walk three miles to Captain Buckner's headquarters.

The family were in the house near the battle-ground, but the door was

shut, and I didn't know who was inside, and I couldn't see any light.

I sat down on the porch, and thought I would have to stay there all

night. After a while I saw a light coming from under the door, and so

I knocked; when the door was opened and they saw who it was, they were

all delighted to see me because they were afraid I was dead. I wanted

to go to Richmond, but would not go on a Yankee transportation. When

the brigade came down, I cried me heart out because I was not let go

on with them. I stayed three months with Mrs. Cloyd, and then Major

Rawle sent me forty dollars and fifty more if I needed it, and that

brought me home to New Orleans."

Mrs. Rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of

Louisiana. At the Soldiers' Home she holds the position of matron, and

her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to "Camp

Nichols."

WARNING BY A BRAVE GIRL

[Our Women in the War, pages 63-64.]

I know of a girl who rode through the storm of a winter's night, many

miles, to give information to our soldiers when Sherman was on his way

to Atlanta. The country far and wide was filled with soldiers, and

skirmishing was of constant occurrence. By her efforts many lives were

saved, and as she returned homeward the shot and shell were falling

thick and fast around her. Later, a desperate encounter took place in

her father's yard between contending armies, and her courage was

wonderful in assisting the wounded and baffling inquiries from the

Yankee officers, who made headquarters in her home. She still managed

to give important information, and defied detection. This girl is of

an ancient family, and soldier blood is in her veins. Her grandfather

was a general in the United States army before her mother was grown.

A PLUCKY GIRL WITH A PISTOL

[Our Women in the War, pages 37-39.]

Charleston was under an iron heel, the heel of despair. Every house

had its shutters closed and darkened; all the rooms overlooking the

streets were abandoned; the women endeavored to give a deserted and

dreary aspect to every mansion, and lived as retiringly as possible in

the back portions of their dwellings, hoping that the Northern

soldiery in the city would suppose such houses to be deserted and

therefore would not search them.

But this did not save Mr. Cunningham's house. By a strange coincidence

it was again a company of black Michigan troops, with a negro in

command, that burst open the locked gate, tore up the flower garden,

and finally streamed up the back piazza steps, armed with muskets and

glittering bayonets that shone in the noonday sun, their faces blacker

than ink, their eyes red with drink and malice. The three girls saw

them from the dining-room and shivered, but not one moment was lost.

Cecil pushed the other two into the room, saying, "Stay here, I will

go close this door and meet them," and advancing quickly she reached

the entrance to the piazza just as the captain set his foot on the

last step, and would have entered, but that her slight person filled

up the narrow space.

"What do you want here?" she asked. "Why do you and your troops rush

into my house?"

"We want quarters here, and quarters we will have. Move aside and let

us in."

"I shall not; we don't take boarders, and I have not invited you as

guests. Go away at once, or I will report you to the general in

command."

"D----n you, move aside, or I will throw you down."

"Keep your hands off if you are wise," said Cecil, instantly placing

one of her own in her pocket, and never removing her steady eyes from

his face.

"By God! I believe you have got a pistol; let's search her person for

arms."

"I have a pistol and shall shoot the first person that touches me,

even if you all strike and kill me afterwards. Leave this yard, and do

it at once. By 3 o'clock I will give you an answer if you come here

for quarters then; now go!"

"You little rebel devil! We will be back, and we will stay next time,

be sure; and will take that same pistol from you, too."

With an extra volley of fearful curses they departed and the girls

rushed to Cecil, who, after the excitement was over and nerve no

longer needed, turned white and faint. Then they all sat down and

cried, feeling like desolate orphans.

MOSBY'S MEN AND TWO NOBLE GIRLS

[In Wearing of the Gray, pages 545-547.]

The force at Morgan's Lane was too great to meet front to front, and

the ground so unfavorable for receiving their assault, that Mountjoy

gave the order for his men to save themselves, and they abandoned the

prisoners and horses, put spurs to their animals, and retreated at

full gallop past the mill, across a little stream, and up the long

hill upon which was situated the mansion above referred to. Behind

them the one hundred Federal cavalrymen came on at full gallop,

calling upon them to halt, and firing volleys into them as they

retreated.

We beg now to introduce upon the scene the female _dramatis personae_

of the incident--two young ladies who had hastened out to the fence as

soon as the firing began, and now witnessed the whole. As they reached

the fence, the fifteen men of Captain Mountjoy appeared, mounting the

steep road like lightning, closely pursued by the Federal cavalry,

whose dense masses completely filled the narrow road. The scene at the

moment was sufficient to try the nerves of the young ladies. The clash

of hoofs, the crack of carbines, the loud cries of "halt! halt!!

halt!!!"--this tramping, shouting, banging, to say nothing of the

quick hiss of bullets filling the air, rendered the "place and time"

more stirring than agreeable to one consulting the dictates of a

prudent regard to his or her safety.

Nevertheless, the young ladies did not stir. They had half mounted the

board fence, and in this elevated position were exposed to a close and

dangerous fire; more than one bullet burying itself in the wood close

to their persons. But they did not move--and this for a reason more

creditable than mere curiosity to witness the engagement, which may,

however, have counted for something. This attracted them, but they

were engaged in "doing good," too. It was of the last importance that

the men should know where they could cross the river.

"Where is the nearest ford?" they shouted.

"In the woods there," was the reply of one of the young ladies,

pointing with her hand, and not moving.

"How can we reach it?"

"Through the gate," and waving her hand, the speaker directed the

rest, amid a storm of bullets burying themselves in the fence close

beside her.

The men went at full gallop towards the ford. Last of all came

Mountjoy--but Mountjoy, furious, foaming almost at the mouth, on fire

with indignation, and uttering oaths so frightful that they terrified

the young ladies much more than the balls or the Federal cavalry

darting up the hill.

The partisan had scarcely disappeared in the woods, when the enemy

rushed up, and demanded which way the Confederates had taken.

"I will not tell you," was the reply of the youngest girl. The trooper

drew a pistol, and cocking it, levelled it at her head.

"Which way?" he thundered.

The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said: "How do I know?"

"Move on!" resounded from the lips of the officer in command, and the

column rushed by, nearly trampling upon the ladies, who ran into the

house.

Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic. Before

the door, sitting on his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue--and at

sight of him the ladies shrunk back. A second glance showed them that

he was bleeding to death from a mortal wound. The bullet had entered

his side, traversed the body, issued from the opposite side,

inflicting a wound which rendered death almost certain.

"Take me from my horse!" murmured the wounded man, stretching out his

arms and tottering.

The young girls ran to him.

"Who are you--one of the Yankees?" they exclaimed.

"Oh, no!" was the faint reply. "I am one of Mountjoy's men. Tell him,

when you see him, that I said, 'Captain, this is the first time I have

gone out with you, and the last!'"

As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured: "My name is William

Armistead Braxton. I have a wife and three little children living in

Hanover--you must let them know--"

The poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were compelled to carry

him in their arms into the house, where he was laid upon a couch,

writhing in agony.

They had then time to look at him, and saw before them a young man of

gallant countenance, elegant figure--in every outline of his person

betraying the gentleman born and bred. They afterwards discovered that

he had just joined Mosby, and that, as he had stated, this was his

first scout. Poor fellow! it was also his last.

A SPARTAN DAME AND HER YOUNG

[From The Gray Jacket, page 488.]

"We were once," says General D. H. Hill, "witness to a remarkable

piece of coolness in Virginia. A six-gun battery was shelling the

woods furiously near which stood a humble hut. As we rode by, the

shells were fortunately too high to strike the dwelling, but this

might occur any moment by lowering the angle or shortening the fire.

The husband was away, probably far off in the army, but the good

housewife was busy at the wash-tub, regardless of all the roar and

crash of shells and falling timber. Our surprise at her coolness was

lost in greater amazement at observing three children, the oldest not

more than 10, on top of a fence, watching with great interest the

flight of the shells. Our curiosity was so much excited by the

extraordinary spectacle that we could not refrain from stopping and

asking the children if they were not afraid. 'Oh, no,' replied they,

'the Yankees ain't shooting at us, they are shooting at the

soldiers.'"

SINGING UNDER FIRE

[A Rebel's Recollections, pages 72-73.]

They [the women of Petersburg] carried their efforts to cheer and help

the troops into every act of their lives. When they could, they

visited camp. Along the lines of march they came out with water or

coffee or tea--the best they had, whatever it might be; with flowers,

or garlands of green when their flowers were gone. A bevy of girls

stood under a sharp fire from the enemy's lines at Petersburg one day,

while they sang Bayard Taylor's "Song of the Camp," responding to an

encore with the stanza:

"Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,

Your truth and valor bearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring!"

Indeed, the coolness of women under fire was always a matter of

surprise to me. A young girl, not more than 16 years of age, acted as

guide to a scouting party during the early years of the war, and when

we urged her to go back after the enemy had opened a vigorous fire

upon us, she declined, on the plea that she believed we were "going to

charge those fellows," and she "wanted to see the fun." At Petersburg

women did their shopping and went about their duties under a most

uncomfortable bombardment, without evincing the slightest fear or

showing any nervousness whatever.

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 225-227.]

The city of Richmond was in flames. We were beginning that last

terrible retreat which ended the war. Fire had been set to the arsenal

as a military possession, which must on no account fall into the

enemy's hands. As the flames spread, because of a turn of the wind,

other buildings caught. The whole business part of the city was on

fire. To make things worse, some idiot had ordered that all the liquor

in the city should be poured into the gutters. The rivers of alcohol

had been ignited from the burning buildings. It was a time and scene

of unutterable terror.

As we marched up the fire-lined street, with the flames scorching the

very hair off our horses, George Goodsmith--the best cannoneer that

ever wielded a rammer--came up to the headquarters squad, and said:

"Captain, my wife's in Richmond. We've been married less than a year.

She is soon to become a mother. I beg permission to bid her good-bye.

I'll join the battery later."

The permission was granted readily, and George Goodsmith put spurs to

his horse. He had just been made a sergeant, and was therefore

mounted. It was in the gray of the morning that he hurriedly met his

wife. With caresses of the tenderest kind, he bade her farewell.

Realizing for a moment the utter hopelessness of our making another

stand on the Roanoke, or any other line, he said in the bitterness of

his soul: "Why shouldn't I stay here and take care of you?"

The woman straightened herself and replied: "I would rather be the

widow of a brave man than the wife of a coward."

That was their parting, for the time was very short. Mayo's bridge

across the James River was already in flames when Goodsmith perilously

galloped across it.

Three or four days later--for I never could keep tab on time at that

period of the war--we went into the battle at Farmville. Goodsmith was

in his place in command of the piece. Just before fire opened he

beckoned to me, and I rode up to hear what he had to say.

"I'm going to be killed, I think," he said. "If I am, I want my wife

to know that she is the widow of a--brave man. I want her to know that

I did my duty to the last. And--and if you live long enough and this

thing don't kill Mary--I want you to tell the little one about his

father."

Goodsmith's premonition of his death was one of many that were

fulfilled during the war. A moment later a fearful struggle began. At

the first fire George Goodsmith's wife became the "widow of a brave

man." His body was heavy with lead.

His son, then unborn, is now a successful broker in a great city.

There is nothing particularly knightly or heroic about him, for this

is not a knightly or heroic age. But he takes very tender care of his

mother--that "widow of a brave man."

TWO MISSISSIPPI GIRLS HOLD YANKEES AT PISTOL POINT

[In Richmond Enquirer, July 22, 1862, page 3.]

A Memphis correspondent of the _Appeal_, in referring to the bad

treatment of citizens by the Federal soldiers, related the following:

The most unmanly and brutal act that I know of is their treatment of

two Misses Coe. Levin Coe, their brother, was at home, discharged from

the army. They surrounded the house before the family knew they were

on the place. Fortunately young Coe had gone fishing, and two of his

sisters escaped to the garden and ran to warn him not to come home.

The Yankees saw the way they went, and followed them, but the sisters

outran them and gave their brother the information of their coming.

They came up with the ladies at a house in the vicinity of the creek,

and attempted to arrest them, but they were both armed and dared the

six big, strapping Yankees to lay their hands on them. One would say

to another, "She's got a pistol; take it away from her." And she, a

weak woman, stood at bay and told them to touch her at their peril.

And the craven wretches dared not do it. At last, to get them from the

neighborhood of their brother, they agreed to go to headquarters with

them. It was then noon, and these girls had run two miles, and then

these scoundrels marched them off on foot four miles to town. At every

step they tried to get their pistols from them, threatening them with

instant death if they did not give them up. Three times they placed

their pistols at the girls' hearts with them cocked and their fingers

on the trigger, telling them they would kill them. Each time the girls

replied, "Shoot; I can shoot as quick as you can." And they never did

give them up until their brother-in-law came up with them and told

them to do so, and he gave himself up in their place. Levin Coe

escaped.

"WAR WOMEN" OF PETERSBURG

[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 72-73.]

During all those weary months the good women of Petersburg went about

their household affairs with fifteen-inch shells dropping occasionally

into their boudoirs or uncomfortably near to their kitchen ranges. Yet

they paid no attention to any danger that threatened themselves. Their

deeds of mercy will never be adequately recorded until the angels

report. But this much I want to say of them--they were "war women" of

the most daring and devoted type. When there was need of their

ministrations on the line, they were sure to be promptly there; and

once, as I have recorded elsewhere in print, a bevy of them came out

to the lines only to encourage us, and, under a fearful fire, sang

Bayard Taylor's "Song of the Camp," giving as an encore the lines:

"Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,

Your truth and valor bearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring."

With inspiration such as these women gave us, it was no wonder that,

as I heard General Sherman say soon after the war: "It took us four

years, with all our enormous superiority in resources, to overcome the

stubborn resistance of those men."

JOHN ALLEN'S COW

While General Milroy was in possession of Winchester he was extremely

harsh and vindictive towards the people. A great many of them were

reduced to the borders of starvation. Miss Allen, a 15-year-old

Southern girl, was a member of a family almost absolutely dependent on

a good cow's milk for sustenance. In a short time the cow's food was

exhausted and the prospect looked dark indeed. There was a good

pasturage just outside the town, beyond the guard lines of the Federal

troops. The brave girl volunteered to lead the cow out and attend her

while grazing. A permit to pass the lines from General Milroy was

necessary. She went to the general and laid her case before him and

asked for a permit. He flatly refused her request and rudely insulted

the poor girl.

"I can't do anything for you rebels and I will not let you pass. The

rebellion has got to be crushed," said he.

"Well," answered the girl, "if you think you can crush the rebellion

by starving John Allen's old cow, just crush away."

THE FAMILY THAT HAD NO LUCK

[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 23-24.]

At the battle of Fredericksburg, as we tumbled into the sunken road,

an old man came in bearing an Enfield rifle and wearing an old pot

hat of the date of 1857 or thereabouts. With a gentle courtesy that

was unusual in war, he apologized to the two men between whom he

placed himself, saying: "I hope I don't crowd you, but I must find a

place somewhere from which I can shoot."

At that moment one of the great assaults occurred. The old man used

his gun like an expert. He wasted no bullet. He took aim every time

and fired only when he knew his aim to be effective. Yet he fired

rapidly.

Tom Booker, who stood next to him, said as the advancing column was

swept away: "You must have shot birds on the wing in your time."

The old man answered: "I did up to twenty years ago; but then I sort

o' lost my sight, you know, and my interest in shootin'."

"Well, you've got 'em both back again," called out Billy Goodwin, from

down the line.

"Yes," said the old man. "You see I had to. It's this way: I had six

boys and six gells. When the war broke out I thought the six boys

could do my family's share o' the fightin'. Well, they did their best,

but they didn't have no luck. One of 'em was killed at Manassas, two

others in a cavalry raid, and the other three fell in different

actions--'long the road, as you might say. We ain't seemed to a had no

luck. But it's just come to this, that if the family is to be

represented, the old man must git up his shootin' agin, or else one o'

the gells would have to take a hand. So here I am."

Just then the third advance was made. A tremendous column of heroic

fellows was hurled upon us, only to be swept away as its predecessors

had been. Two or three minutes did the work, but at the end of that

time the old man fell backward, and Tom Booker caught him in his

arms.

"You're shot," he said.

"Yes. The family don't seem to have no luck. If one of my gells comes

to you, you'll give her a fair chance to shoot straight, won't you,

boys?"

BRAVE WOMEN AT RESACA, GA.

[By J. L. Underwood.]

In a letter to Mrs. E. J. Simmons, of Calhoun, Ga., dated June 7,

1896, Rev. Jno. C. Portis, of Union, Miss., formerly of the Eighteenth

Mississippi Regiment, and now a Congregational Methodist minister,

writes:

"My good right arm lies about a mile south of Resaca, Ga., just north

of a church at the root of a large oak or chestnut tree. It was put in

a board box and buried by a comrade. Hence you see I feel an interest

in the wild hills of Resaca. I was a private in Company B, Eighth

Mississippi Volunteer Inf., and was wounded in right shoulder and

throat about dark in a charge on the enemy's works, May 14, 1864, on

the side of a hill just west of the village on the north side of the

river. I was carried back to the bluff below the bridge, where about

three or four hundred poor fellows were lying torn, bleeding, and some

dying. After a time I crossed the bridge, and, faint and sick, I was

trying to make my way to Cheatham's Division Hospital, which was in

the church. A man came into the road with an ox wagon loaded in part

with beds which appeared to be very white. Some one called him Motes

and asked him about his family (Motes's family), and he said they had

gone on to Calhoun. Mr. Motes insisted that I should ride, and said

his wife would not care if all her beds were dyed with rebel blood. He

carried me to the old church. I would like to know what became of Mr.

Motes; I could not see his face. The night was dark. Sunday morning,

May 15, about eight o'clock, my right arm was amputated at the

shoulder joint. Thirty-two years have passed since then, and strange

it may seem that a boy soldier, that few thought could live, is

writing this reminiscence of those two days of carnage. Never shall I

forget the morning of that fateful 14th of May, when at early dawn the

signal guns told us in tones of thunder that both armies were ready

for the work of death. Bright rose the sun, tipping mountain peak with

blooming rays of silver and bathing valley and woodland in a flood of

golden light, a scene never to be witnessed again by hundreds of the

boys who wore the blue and the gray. In the streets of Resaca that day

I saw enacted a deed of heroism which challenged the admiration of all

who witnessed it. A wagon occupied by several ladies was passing along

north of the river and just west of the railroad, when a Yankee

battery opened fire on it and, until it had passed over the bridge,

poured a storm of shells around it. A young woman stood erect in the

wagon waving her hat, which was dressed with red or had a red ribbon

or plume on it, seemingly to defy the cowards who would make war on

defenceless women. I felt then, as I do to-day, for that woman a man

could freely die. Many a rebel boy felt as I did that day. I was taken

from the church to a bush-arbor on the west side of the railroad,

where I expected to die. A middle-aged woman dressed in black came

with nourishment and (God forever bless her) fed me, and during that

awful day ministered to the wants of the wounded and dying. If I

remember correctly she came often to me with food and drink. Who she

was I may never know, but she was a noble woman."

The fearlessness of the Southern women under cannon and rifle fire

mentioned in the above incident was exhibited time and again during

the war. The women seemed to have their souls and bodies keyed up for

any and all emergencies. There may be something of an explanation in

the fact that they belonged to a race of marksmen and expected bullets

and cannon balls to hit what they were aimed to hit, and as they

didn't think anybody was trying to kill them, they apprehended no

danger.

A WOMAN'S HAIR

[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 82-84.]

About 10 o'clock in the morning the sharpshooters began. Our captain

instantly divided us into two squads, and without military formalities

said: "Now, boys, ride to the right and left and corner 'em."

That was the only command we received, but we obeyed it with a will.

The two sharpshooting citizens who were there that morning escaped on

good horses, but we captured the pickets.

Among them was a woman--a Juno in appearance, with a wealth of raven

black hair twisted carelessly into a loose knot under the jockey cap

she wore. She was mounted on a superb chestnut mare, and she knew how

to ride. She might easily have escaped, and at one time seemed to do

so, but at the critical moment she seemed to lose her head and so fell

into our hands.

When we brought her to Charlie Irving she was all smiles and

graciousness, and Charlie was all blushes.

"You'd hang me to a tree, if I were a man, I suppose," she said. "And

serve me right, too. As I'm only a woman, you'd better send me to

General Stuart, instead."

This seemed so obviously the right way out of it Charlie ordered Ham

Seay and me to escort her to Stuart's headquarters, which were under a

tree some miles in the rear.

When we got there Stuart seemed to recognize the young woman. Or

perhaps it was only his habitual and constitutional gallantry that

made him come forward with every manifestation of welcome, and himself

help her off her horse, taking her by the waist for that purpose.

Ham Seay and I, being mere privates, were ordered to another tree. But

we could not help seeing that cordial relations were quickly

established between our commander and this young woman. We saw her

presently take down her magnificent black hair and remove from it some

papers. They were not "curl papers," or that sort of stuffing which

women call "rats." Stuart was a very gallant man, and he received the

papers with much fervor. He spread them out carefully on the ground,

and seemed to be reading what was written or drawn upon them. Then he

talked long and earnestly with the young woman and seemed to be coming

to some definite sort of understanding with her. Then she dined with

him on some fried salt pork and some hopelessly indigestible fried

paste. Then he mounted her on her mare again and summoned Ham Seay and

me.

"Escort this young lady back to Captain Irving," he said. "Tell him to

send her to the Federal lines under flag of truce, with the message

that she was inadvertently captured in a picket charge, and that as

General Stuart does not make war on women and children, he begs to

return her to her home and friends."

We did all this.

The next day, Stuart with a strong force advanced to Mason's and

Munson's mills. From there we could clearly see a certain house in

Washington. It had many windows, and each had a dark Holland shade.

When we stood guard we were ordered to observe minutely and report

accurately the slidings up and down of those Holland shades. We never

knew what three shades up, two half up, and five down might signify.

But we had to report it, nevertheless, and Stuart seemed from that

time to have an almost preternatural advance perception of the enemy's

movements. That young woman certainly had a superb shock of hair.

A BREACH OF ETIQUETTE

[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 121-123.]

Finally we went near to Martinsburg, and came upon a farm-house.

The farm gave no appearance of being a large one, or one more

than ordinarily prosperous, yet we saw through the open door a

dozen or fifteen "farm hands" eating dinner, all of them in their

shirt-sleeves. Stuart rode up, with a few of us at his back, to make

inquiries, and we dismounted. Just then a slip of a girl,--not

over 14, I should say--accompanied by a thickset young bull-dog,

with an abnormal development of teeth, ran up to meet us.

She distinctly and unmistakably "sicked" that dog upon us. But as the

beast assailed us, the young girl ran after him and restrained his

ardor by throwing her arms around his neck. As she did so, she kept

repeating in a low but very insistent tone to us: "Make 'em put their

coats on! Make 'em put their coats on! Make 'em put their coats on!"

Stuart was a peculiarly ready person. He said not one word to the

young girl as she led her dog away, but with a word or two he directed

a dozen or so of us to follow him with cocked carbines into the

dining-room. There he said to the "farm hands:" "Don't you know that a

gentleman never dines without his coat? Aren't you ashamed of

yourselves? And ladies present, too! Get up and put on your coats,

every man jack of you, or I'll riddle you with bullets in five

seconds."

They sprang first of all into the hallway, where they had left their

arms; but either the bull-dog or the 14-year-old girl had taken care

of that. The arms were gone. Then seeing the carbines levelled, they

made a hasty search of the hiding-places in which they had bestowed

their coats. A minute later they appeared as fully uniformed but

helplessly unarmed Pennsylvania volunteers.

They were prisoners of war at once, without even an opportunity to

finish that good dinner. As we left the house the young girl came up

to Stuart and said: "Don't say anything about it, but the dog wouldn't

have bit you. He knows which side we're on in this war."

As we rode away this young girl--she of the bull-dog--cried out:

"To think the wretches made us give 'em dinner; and in their

shirt-sleeves, too."

LOLA SANCHEZ'S RIDE

[Women in The War.]

During the war for Southern independence there lived just opposite

Palatka, on the east bank of the St. Johns River, Florida, a Cuban

gentleman, Mauritia Sanchez by name, who early in life had left the

West Indies to seek a home in the State of Florida. Many years had

passed since then and Mr. Sanchez was at the time of the following

incident an old man, infirm and in wretched health. The family

consisted of an invalid wife, one son, who was in the service of the

Confederacy, and three daughters, Panchita, Lola, and Eugenia.

Suspicion had long fastened upon Mr. Sanchez as a spy for the

Confederates, and at the time of this incident, the old man had been

torn from his home and family and was a prisoner in the old Spanish

Fort San Marcos (now Fort Marion), at St. Augustine. The girls

occupied the old home with their mother and were entirely unprotected.

Many times at night their house was surrounded by white and negro

soldiers expecting to surprise them and find Confederates about the

place, for the Yankees knew some one was giving information, but

thought it was Mr. Sanchez. The Southern soldiers were higher up the

St. Johns, on the west side. It was usual for the Yankee officers to

visit frequently at the Sanchez home, and the girls, for policy, (and

information) were cordial in their reception of them, and thereby

gained some protection from the thieving soldiery.

One warm summer's night three Yankee officers came to the Sanchez home

to spend the evening. After a short time the three sisters left the

officers and went to the dining room to prepare supper. The soldiers,

thinking themselves safe, entered into the discussion of a plan to

surprise the Confederates on Sunday morning by sending the gunboats up

the river, and also by planning that a foraging party should go out

from St. Augustine.

On hearing this Lola Sanchez stopped her work and listened. After

hearing of the road the foraging party would take and gaining all

necessary information, she told Panchita to entertain them until she

returned. Stealing softly from the house, she sped to the horse lot,

and throwing a saddle on her horse rode for life to the ferry, a mile

distant; there the ferryman took her horse, and gave her a boat. She

rowed herself across the St. Johns, met one Confederate picket, who

knew her and gave her his horse. Out into the night through the woods

she rode like the wind to Camp Davis, a mile and a half away. Reaching

the camp, she asked for Captain Dickinson, (afterwards General

Dickinson) and told him the Yankees were coming up the river Sunday

morning and that the troop from St. Augustine would go out foraging in

a southerly direction. Then leaving the camp, Lola Sanchez rode for

her life indeed. She knew she must not be missed from home. Giving the

picket his horse, she recrossed the ferry, then mounting her waiting

animal she struck out for home. Dismounting some distance from the

house, she turned her horse loose, and reached home in time for supper

and pleasantly entertained her guests until a late hour.

That night Captain Dickinson marched his men to intercept the

Yankees. He crossed from the west to the east side and surprised

them on Sunday. A severe fight ensued. The Yankee General Chatfield

was killed and Colonel Nobles wounded and captured. On that same

Sunday morning the Yankee gunboats went up the St. Johns to surprise

the Confederates. They were very much surprised in turn. The

Confederates were ready for them, disabled a gunboat and captured a

transport; also many prisoners were taken by the Confederates.

The foraging party lost all their wagons, and everything they had

stolen, and again many prisoners were taken, and Captain Dickinson

sent for the three sisters to be at the ferry (the one Lola Sanchez

crossed) to see the prisoners and wagons that had been taken.

Time and again this daughter of the Confederacy aided and abetted the

Southern cause. Some time after a pontoon was captured, and renamed

"The Three Sisters" in compliment to these brave young women. The

pontoon was coming from Picolata to Orange Mills. Mr. Sanchez still

languished in Fort San Marco, however, and Panchita grieved

continuously over her father's unjust incarceration. The old man was

truly innocent, his daughters were the informers, but he did not know

this. Panchita determined to obtain his release if possible. After

some time spent in applying, she got a pass to go through the Yankee

lines, and boarding one of their transports, this young woman went

alone to St. Augustine, and gained her father's freedom, taking him

with her back to the old homestead.

There is the "Emily Geiger Ride," and "Lill Servosse's Ride," but none

more daring than that of Lola Sanchez, the young Floridian of the

Southern Confederacy. The U. D. C. should look to it that one chapter

at least should be Lola Sanchez Chapter.

Lola Sanchez married Emanuel Lopez, a Confederate soldier of the St.

Augustine Blues; Eugenia married Albert Rogers, another soldier of the

St. Augustine Blues; Panchita is the widow of the late John R. Miot,

of Columbia, S. C. Lola Sanchez died about seven years ago. May the

memory of this Southern woman never fade.

These facts were recently related to me by Mrs. Eugenia Rogers, of St.

Augustine.

ELIZABETH W. MULLINGS.

THE REBEL SOCK

A TRUE EPISODE IN SEWARD'S RAIDS ON THE OLD LADIES OF MARYLAND

BY TENELLA.

[The Gray Jacket, pages 510-513.]

In all the pride and pomp of war

The Lincolnite was dressed;

High beat his patriotic heart

Beneath his armoured vest.

His maiden sword hung by his side,

His pistols both were right,

His coat was buttoned tight.

His shining spurs were on his heels;

A firm resolve sat on his brow,

For he to danger went.

By Seward's self that day he was

On secret service sent.

"Mount and away!" he sternly cried

Unto the gallant band.

Who all equipped from head to heel

Awaited his command.

"But halt, my boys--before we go

These solemn words I'll say,

Lincoln expects that every man

His duty'll do to-day!"

"We will! we will!" the soldiers cried,

"The President shall see

That we will only run away

From Jackson or from Lee!"

And now they're off, just four score men,

A picked and chosen troop.

And like a hawk upon a dove

On Maryland they swoop.

From right to left, from house to house,

The little army rides.

In every lady's wardrobe look

To see that there she hides;

They peep in closets, trunks, and drawers,

Examine every box;

Not rebel soldiers now they seek,

But rebel soldiers' socks!

But all in vain--too keen for them

Were those dear ladies there,

And not a sock or flannel shirt

Was taken anywhere.

The day wore on to afternoon,

That warm and drowsy hour,

When Nature's self doth seem to feel

A touch of Morpheus' power.

A farm-house door stood open wide,

The men were all away,

The ladies sleeping in their rooms,

The children at their play;

The house dog lay upon the steps,

But never raised his head,

Though cracking on the gravel walk

He heard a stranger's tread.

Old grandma, in her rocking chair,

Sat knitting in the hall,

When suddenly upon her work

A shadow seemed to fall.

She raised her eyes and there she saw

Our Fed'ral hero stand.

His little cap was on his head;

His sword was in his hand;

While circling round and round the house

His gallant soldiers ride

To guard the open kitchen door

And chicken coop beside.

Slowly the dear old lady rose

And tottering forward came,

And peering dimly through her "specks,"

Said, "Honey, what's your name?"

Then as she raised her withered hand

To pat his sturdy arm--

"There's no one here but grandmamma,

And she won't do you harm;

Come, take a seat and don't be scared;

Put up your sword, my child,

I would not hurt you for the world,"

She gently said and smiled.

"Madam, my duty must be done,

And I am firm as rock!"

Then pointing to her work he said,

"Is that a rebel sock!"

"Yes, honey, I am getting old,

And for hard work ain't fit,

But for Confederate soldiers still

I, thank the Lord, can knit."

"Madam, your work is contraband,

And Congress confiscates

This rebel sock, which I now seize,

To the United States."

"Yes, honey, don't be scared, for I

Will give it up to you."

Then slowly from the half knit sock

The dame her needles drew,

Broke off her thread, wound up her ball

And stuck her needles in.

"Here, take it, child, and I to-night

Another will begin!"

The soldier next his loyal heart

The dear-bought trophy laid,

And that was all that Seward got

By this "old woman's raid."