THE FIRST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY
Soon after my marriage my brother-in-law moved to Baltimore, and my
mother decided to go with Milicent and her little boy. I had never
really been separated from them before; I was only seventeen, a spoiled
child, but though I loved them dearly, after the first I scarcely
missed them. I had my husband, and ah! how happy we were--how glad we
both were that I had met Dan Grey!
We did not go to housekeeping at once. In the first place, I did not
know anything about housekeeping and I didn’t want Dan to find it out;
in the second place, we wanted to look around before we settled upon
a house; and in the third, and what was to me the smallest place, the
country was in a very unsettled condition.
The question of State’s rights and secession was being pressed home to
Virginia. The correspondence between the commission at Washington and
Mr. Seward was despatched to Richmond, and Richmond is but twenty miles
from Petersburg. There were mutterings that each day grew louder, signs
and portents that we refused to believe. Local militia were organizing
and drilling--getting ready to answer the call should it come. Not that
the people seriously thought that it would come. They believed, as they
hoped, that something would be done to prevent war; that statesmen,
North and South, would combine to save the Union; that, at any rate, we
should be saved from bloodshed. As for those others who prophesied and
prayed for it, who wanted the vials of God’s wrath uncorked, they got
what they wanted. Their prayers were answered; the land was drenched in
blood. But for the most of us--the Virginians whom I knew--we did not,
we would not believe that brothers could war with brothers.
Then something happened that drove the truth home to our hearts.
The guns of Sumter spoke--war was upon us. But not for long; the
differences would be adjusted. Sumter fell, Virginia seceded. Still
we befooled ourselves. There would be a brief campaign, victory, and
peace. North and South, we looked for anything but what came--those
four long years of bloody agony; North and South were each sure of
victory. In Virginia, where the courage and endurance of starving
men were to stand the test of weary months and years, we scoffed at
the idea that there would be any real fighting. If there should be,
for Virginia who had never known the shadow of defeat, defeat was
impossible.
One day my brother-in-law, Dick, walked in.
“I’ve come to tell you good-by, Nell--I’m off to-morrow.”
“Where?”
“Norfolk.”
“What for?”
“Infantry ordered there. The Rifles go down to-night, the Grays
to-morrow.”
I looked serious, and Dick laughed.
“Don’t bother, Nell, we’ll be back in a few days. There won’t be any
fighting.”
Dick was a good-looking fellow, and I liked him much better than I had
once said I did. He was the dandy of the family, and on the present
occasion was glorious in a new uniform.
“Dick,” I said, “please don’t get in a fight and get shot.”
“Not if I can help it, Nell! There won’t be any fighting. We’re going
to protect Norfolk, you know. Just going there to be on the spot if
we’re needed, I suppose.”
He went away laughing, but I wasn’t convinced. When Dan came, I was
almost too weak with fear to ask the question that was on my tongue.
“Is Norfolk to be bombarded?”
“No, I think not,” he spoke cheerily. “The boys will be back in a few
days.”
Oh, I hoped they would! Many of my friends were among “the boys.”
“Do--do you think your company will have to go?”
I was only seventeen; mother and Milicent were away; my young husband
was my life.
“The cavalry have not been ordered out,” he said. “I don’t think we
will be sent for. Cheer up, Nell! The boys will be back in a few days,
and won’t we have a high old time welcoming them home!”
The Rifles went down one day. The Grays went down the next. The day
after my husband came in, looking very pale and quiet.
“Dan,” I said, “I know what it is.”
“The cavalry are ordered to Norfolk,” he said in a low voice. “It’s
only a few days’ parting, little wife. I don’t think there will be any
fighting. Be brave, my darling.”
I had thrown myself into his arms with a great cry.
“I can’t, Dan! I can’t let you go!”
He did not speak. He only held me close to his breast.
“Mother and Milicent are gone,” I cried, “and I can’t let you leave me
to go and be killed! I couldn’t let you go if they were here.”
There was silence for a little while, then he said:
“I belong to you, little wife--I leave it to you what I shall do. Shall
I stay behind, a traitor and a coward? Or shall I go with my company
and do my duty?”
I couldn’t speak for tears. I felt how hard his heart beat against mine.
“Poor wife!” he said, “poor little child!”
When I spoke, I felt as if I were tearing my heart out by the roots.
“I--I--must--let--you--go!”
“That is my own brave girl. Never mind, Nell, I will make you proud of
your soldier!”
“Oh, Dan! Dan!” I sobbed, “I don’t want to be proud of you! I just
don’t want you to get hurt! I don’t want you to go if I could help
it--but I can’t! I don’t want fame or glory! I want you!”
He smoothed my hair with slow touches, and was silent. Then he spoke
again, trying to comfort me with those false hopes all fed on.
“I still doubt if there will be any fighting. But if there is, I must
be in it. I can’t be a coward. There! there! Nellie, don’t cry! I hope
for peace. The North and the South both want peace. You will laugh at
all of this, Nell, when we come back from Norfolk without striking a
blow!”
“Dan, let me go with you.”
“Dear, I can’t. How could you travel around, with only a knapsack, like
a soldier?”
“Try me. I am to be a soldier’s wife.”
I was swallowing my sobs, sniffling, blowing my nose, and trying to
look brave all at once. Instead of looking brave, I must have looked
very comical, for Dan burst out laughing. The next moment we were
silent again. The chimes of St. Paul’s rang out upon the air. It was
neither Sabbath nor saint’s day. We knew what the bells were ringing
for. Not only St. Paul’s chimes, but the bells of all the churches
had become familiar signals calling us to labor as sacred as worship.
Sewing machines had been carried into the churches, and the sacred
buildings had become depots for bolts of cloth, linen, and flannel.
Nothing could be heard in them for days but the click of machines,
the tearing of cloth, the ceaseless murmur of voices questioning,
and voices directing the work. Old and young were busy. Some were
tearing flannel into lengths for shirts and cutting out havelocks and
knapsacks. And some were tearing linen into strips and rolling it for
bandages ready to the surgeon’s hand. Others were picking linen into
balls of lint.
“I must go make you some clothes,” I said, getting up from Dan’s knee.
“But I have plenty,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I must make you some more--like the others.”
Before the war was over I had learned to make clothes out of next to
nothing, but that morning, except for fancy work, I had never sewed a
stitch in my life. I could embroider anything from an altar cloth to an
initial in the corner of a handkerchief, but to make a flannel shirt
was beyond my comprehension. Make it, however, I could and would. I
never hinted to Dan that I didn’t know how, for I was determined that
nobody but me should make his army shirts--I must sew them with my own
fingers. I went down town and bought the finest, softest flannel I
could find. Then I was at my wits’ ends. I looked at the flannel and
I looked at the scissors. Time was flying. I picked up my flannel and
ran to consult my neighbor, Mrs. Cuthbert. She showed me how to cut and
fashion my shirts, and I made them beautifully, feather-stitching all
the seams.
Next day came and Dan made me buckle on his sword.
“If you stay long in Norfolk may I come?” I sobbed.
Poor Dan didn’t know what to say.
“I’m a soldier’s wife,” I said with a mighty effort to look it. “I can
travel with a knapsack--and,” with a sob, “I can--keep--from crying.”
“I’m going to have you with me if possible. There! little wife, don’t
cry, or you’ll make a fool of me. Be brave, Nell. That’s it! I’m proud
of you.”
But there was a tremor in his voice all the same. He put me gently
away from him and went out, and I lay down on the sofa and cried as
if my heart would break. But not for long. Captain Jeter’s wife came
for me; her eyes were red with weeping, but she was trying to smile.
We were to go to the public leave-taking--there would be time enough
for tears afterward. Everybody was on the streets to see the troops go
off, and I took my stand with the others and watched as the cavalry
rode past us. We kept our handkerchiefs waving all the time our friends
were riding by, and when we saw our husbands and brothers we tried to
cheer, but our voices were husky. The last thing I saw of my husband he
was wringing the hand of an old friend who was not going, tears were
streaming down his cheeks and he was saying, “For God’s sake, take care
of my wife.”
They were gone, all gone, infantry and cavalry, the flower of the city.
But they would be back in a few days, of that we were sure--and some of
them never came back again.
I was in a city of mourning and dread, but my own suspense measured by
days was not long, though it seemed an age to me then. A week had not
passed when I got a telegram from Dan:
“Come to Norfolk. We are camped near there.”
It was near train time when I got it. I snatched up my satchel, put in
a comb and brush and tooth-brush--not even an extra handkerchief--and
almost ran to the depot. I could not have carried all my clothes, I
know, for part of them were with the laundress, and packing a trunk
would have taken time; but why on earth I did not put a few more
articles into my satchel I can not tell. It is a matter of history,
however, that I only took those I have named. The first thing Dan did
was to get me some handkerchiefs.
“Why, Nell,” he said, “you are taking this thing of being a soldier’s
wife too seriously.”
It was delightful to be in my old home once more. Friends and kindred
crowded around me, the river and bay and ocean sang my old cradle-songs
to me again, and, above all, Dan was near and came in from camp as
often as he could. Then he was ordered away to Suffolk, which is twenty
miles from Norfolk, and there, of course, he could not ride in to
see me. But that was not so bad as it might have been. I could hear
from him regularly, he had not yet been in any actual engagement, my
fears were subsiding, or I was getting accustomed to them. I had, of
course, telegraphed to Petersburg for my baggage and had made myself as
comfortable as possible. An old uncle had taken it into his head to
become quite fond of me, and altogether I was very far from unhappy.
This uncle was eccentric and had eccentric ways of comforting me when I
had the blues.
“Why, Nellie, my dear,” he used to say, “you ought to be playing dolls,
and here you are a wife, and if Dan gets killed you will be a widow.”
On the heels of which cheerful observation this despatch came from
Suffolk:
“Come by next train. Dan slightly hurt.
“JACK.”
When I got to Suffolk four of the company met me.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Nell,” said the great fellows, sympathy and
desire to cheer me blending in their eyes. “Dan will pull through all
right.”
Then Jack Carrington took me aside and explained as gently and tenderly
as if he had been my brother:
“It happened yesterday, Miss Nell, but we wouldn’t let you know because
there was no way for you to get here then. We thought it wouldn’t
be so hard on you if we waited and sent the telegram just before
train time. Your uncle got one before you did, but we told him not to
tell you till just before train time, and he wired us back to tell
you ourselves, that he couldn’t tell you. Dan is getting all right
now--he’ll soon get well, Miss Nell, indeed he will. But the doctor
said I must warn you--Miss Nell, you must be brave, you see--or I can’t
tell you at all. The doctor said I mustn’t let you go in there unless
you were perfectly calm. The wound is nothing at all, Miss Nell.”
Poor Jack was almost as unnerved as I was. He mopped my face with a wet
handkerchief, and made somebody bring me some brandy.
But the words ringing in my head, “A soldier’s wife,” pulled me
together more than the brandy, and I made Jack go on.
“It’s nothing but his arm. We were out on vidette duty yesterday and we
got shot into. You see, Miss Nell, you _must_ be brave or I can’t tell
you!”
I pulled myself together again and insisted that I _was_ brave.
“You don’t look like it, Miss Nell. I declare you don’t.”
“But I am. See now.”
Jack didn’t seem to see, but he went on, looking scared himself all the
time.
“The real trouble was Dare Devil. You see, after Dan’s arm got hurt--I
wish it had been me or George who had caught that shot, but, hang the
luck! it was Dan. You know Dare Devil’s old trick--catching the bit in
his teeth. Well, he did that and ran away. Dan held on with his good
arm until that d--d horse (excuse me, Miss Nell!) wheeled suddenly and
dashed into the woods. The limbs of the trees dragged Dan out of his
saddle, and his foot caught in the stirrup and Dare Devil dragged him
(take some brandy, Miss Nell) until the strap broke. We picked Dan up
insensible; he was delirious all night, and we thought for a time that
he was done for, but, thank God! he’s all right now. I hate to tell
you, Miss Nell, but--you’ll see how his head is--and the doctor said we
mustn’t let you go in if you couldn’t be calm.”
“I understand,” I said, “I will be very careful----”
And to prove how careful I could be, I broke down crying.
They didn’t know what to do with me, poor fellows. They begged me not
to cry, and then they said crying would do me good, and I had four
pairs of broad shoulders to cry on. They were all as gentle and pitiful
with me as a mother is with a baby. One of them got out his nice fresh
handkerchief and wiped my eyes with it. I had come off the second
time without a change of handkerchiefs, and this time without even a
tooth-brush. When I had cried my trouble out and was quite calm, I told
them I was ready to go to my husband. They took me to the door and I
went in quietly, and seeing that he was awake, bent over him.
“I am here, Dan,” I said smiling.
He tried to smile back.
“Take my head in your hands, Nell,” he whispered, “and turn it so I can
kiss you.”
I laid my hands softly and firmly on each side of his head and turned
it on the pillow. As I did so, a quantity of sand fell away.
I don’t know whether his head had been properly dressed or not, but I
know that for a number of days the sand fell away from it whenever I
took it into my hands to turn it.
“After I fell,” he told me, when he was allowed to talk, “my head was
in the dirt, of course, and it was beat first against one tree and then
against another. When I felt my senses leaving me, I clasped my arms
tight around my head. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got hold of
my crippled arm with my good one, and when I was picked up my arms were
locked in some way about my head. That is all that saved me.”
I took the law into my own hands. Before Dan got well Dare Devil had
been shot.