I CROSS THE COUNTRY IN AN AMBULANCE AND THE PAMUNKEY ON A LIGHTER
As we traveled along farther and farther from Dan, I kept on crying
softly to myself now and then, turning my face from Milicent. Presently
her arm stole around me.
“Do you feel so badly, darling?”
“I hate to leave Dan--I can’t bear it!”
“Then we’ll turn back, Nell.”
And our astonished driver and escort received orders to turn back
toward camp.
“But in a few days,” I sobbed, “Dan--will--be--gone. And you--will
be--gone. And I can’t stand that!”
And to the further confusion of escort, driver, and mules, we were
turned again.
“Better not to do dat too offen, lessen we won’t git nowhar!” our
driver muttered to himself. “Dese mules is clean upsot in dar min’s.”
I was upset in my mind, too. I continued to cry in a helpless, hopeless
fashion, and was feeling that nothing on earth could make me more
wretched than I already was when it began raining. Lieutenant Johnston,
who had the soul of Mark Tapley, prophesied a shower and refused to
leave his seat with the driver, but in a little while he was driven
inside with us. It rained harder and harder--it poured. The ambulance
began to leak and the straw on the floor got wet. Milicent and I
huddled together under the old blanket shawl and drew over that a
ragged piece of oilcloth; but the rain soaked through. Where Lieutenant
Johnston sat there was a steady dripping, bursting now and then into a
stream. But he was not to be daunted by discomforts or difficulties.
He invented a trough for carrying off the water by making a dent in
his broad-brimmed hat, pulling the brim into a point, and sticking it
through a rent in the ambulance cover; and he was so merry over it all,
and so convinced that things might be far worse and would soon be much
better, that we were beginning to laugh at our own expense, when a
sullen rushing and roaring reminded us that the worst of our troubles
were still before us. We looked out of our ambulance upon the swollen
waters of the Pamunkey River.
The thing on which we were to cross it was moored to the bank by a
great chain. It was a lighter crowded with men and horses. There were
soldiers at the ends and sides holding long sticks which they used as
poles to direct and govern the craft. Our ambulance and mules were
driven on along with other teams, and we walked into the midst of
rearing and plunging horses, that threatened every minute to back off
the lighter into the river and drag us with them, while our craft was
making its slow way to the opposite bank.
I stood between two horses that reared and plunged the whole time. The
men who held them had hard work to control them, and, I must add, that
they swore roundly, and confess that this was the one occasion of my
life when I did not undervalue that accomplishment or wish to put any
restraint upon its free exercise. The truth is I was so scared that I
was ready to help along with either the work or the swearing, if I had
only known how.
As one of the men was trying his best to keep the horse he was holding
from plunging and kicking itself into the river, or plunging and
kicking itself on me, he caught my eye in the middle of an oath, and
interrupted himself to begin an apology. The horse took advantage of
this to make more vigorous demonstrations.
“Oh! oh!” I cried in terror, “finish--finish what you were saying to
the horse! He’s going to jump on me, and I’ll have to say it myself if
you don’t!”
I didn’t realize what I was saying until I heard a chuckle from the
men within hearing distance. They knew that I was beside myself with
terror, and did their best to smother their laughter. But I was past
caring for public opinion. I was in an agony of terror. There was no
other place for me to stand--horses, kicking, plunging, rearing horses
were crowded everywhere. A lighter is the rudest excuse for a boat.
Ours was made of planks crossed and nailed together, and between their
wide spaces, just under my feet, I saw the swollen waters, upon which
we seemed to be tossed, and careened, and whipped about without the
control or guidance of those on board. Never before or since, never
during any period of the war, was I in such a state of helpless fright
as on that day when I crossed the mad Pamunkey on a lighter with
swearing men and kicking horses around me and the water bubbling up
against my feet.
Appearances to the contrary, our soldiers with the poles were directing
our craft and turning the will of the tide to our profit, and at last
we were on the shore. Safe in our wet ambulance, we started on our way
again. I was never so cold, so wet, so everything wretched in my life,
and what should Lieutenant Johnston do but propose to go out of our way
to see St. Peter’s Church.
“An old colonial relic,” he said. “You ladies ought not to miss it now
that you are so near.”
“I don’t want to see any relics,” I answered promptly. “The only thing
I want to see is a fire and something to eat.”
But he would drive out of our way to show us that old church. I was
too wretched and miserable to look at it with proper interest. I don’t
remember how it looked--I only know that I had to go there and see it
whether I would or no. George Washington had done something or other
there--got married, I believe. I think the church had some very fine
ivy on it, but I am not sure. I thought it was old and small, and that
it might do very well in summer, but that under present circumstances
Washington himself would forgive me for being wholly in the thought of
getting to a fire. Hunger and cold, cramped positions and rain dripping
in on me had blunted everything in me except longings for creature
comforts. The lieutenant drove all around the church religiously before
starting on our way again.
“I don’t believe you saw it at all,” he said to me with real concern.
“Oh, yes, I did!” I answered promptly, terrified lest we should be
turned back to look at it again, “I saw it thoroughly.”
Of course, Milicent had looked the old church over and talked
intelligently about it, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember
whether it was made of brick or wood. And I didn’t care, either.
The rain had dwindled into a drizzle, night was coming on, and I began
to grow more and more anxious to find a stopping-place.
“I do hope we shall get into a place where they keep good fires,” I
said. “If we should get into a place where they burn green pine, I
should lie down and die. Wet, green pine,” I continued dolorously,
“that smokes and never burns, and raw, clammy biscuit is about what
we’ll get to-night.”
The lieutenant looked as if he was very sorry for me.
“I wish,” he said unhappily, “I wish I knew how to tell a place where
they burn green pine.” Suddenly he brightened.
“I have it!” he exclaimed. “We won’t stop at any house where there
isn’t a big wood-pile. We don’t stop anywhere until we find a big white
house, a big wood-pile and a nigger chopping wood.”
We passed several dwellings, but the lieutenant wouldn’t stop. “I don’t
see any wood-pile,” or “The wood-pile ain’t big enough,” he would say.
At last we came upon what we wanted--a large white house, a wood-pile
nearly as high as the house and a negro man chopping wood for dear life.
Through a big front yard full of shrubbery, a wide graveled walk and
circular drive-way led up to the house, and in a few minutes our
ambulance was in front of the veranda. The lieutenant sprang out and
went up the steps.
A gray-headed negro butler answered his knock.
“Wanter see master, sah? Yes, sah. Won’t you step right in, sah?”
“I haven’t time to stop a minute unless I can get lodgings for the
night. I have ladies in the ambulance. Ask your master if he will be
good enough to see me at the door for a minute.”
Sambo bowed, made haste backward, and almost immediately an old
gentleman appeared.
“Certainly, sir, certainly,” he said, interrupting the lieutenant in
the middle of his application. “Bring the ladies right in, sir.”
And he helped to bring us in himself. Servants of all kinds appeared as
if by magic from all quarters, and took charge of our trunks, satchels,
ambulance, and driver.
The Virginia gentleman of those days was hospitable, as men are
truthful, for his own sake first. His hospitality was spontaneous,
unconscious, and free as heaven itself with its favors. All it asked in
return was that you should come when you pleased, go when you pleased,
stay as long as you pleased, and enjoy yourself to the top of your bent.
The house was a house of spindle-legged chairs, spindle-legged piano,
brass fire-dogs, fine dark woodwork, candelabra of brass and crystal,
and tall wax candles. Through the gloom the eyes of old portraits
looked down upon us. In the wide fireplace of our bedroom crackled
a mighty fire of oak and hickory; over the fire hung a bright brass
kettle singing merrily; there were the ever-present fire-dogs and
fender of burnished brass, and on the mantle two wax lights burning in
silver candlesticks. Two smiling negro maids stood ready to minister to
us.
In opposite corners of the room stood two large, canopied, mahogany
bedsteads, with great, downy feather-beds and counterpanes, sheets and
pillows as white as snow and smelling of lavender. The undiminished
length of the table at which we sat down that night bore testimony
not only to the good cheer it had given, but to that which it was
ready to give. It was of dark rich mahogany, polished to the fineness
of a mirror, that reflected the tall silver candlesticks holding wax
candles. The silver service and beautiful old china rested on white
mats that were not visible except where encircling fringes of gleaming
damask suggested nests of snow. On a quaint buffet stood cut-glass
decanters holding topaz and ruby wines and brandy and whisky.
The great mahogany sideboard--a small house in itself--nearly reached
the ceiling. The upper half was a cabinet with glass doors shaped like
the doors of a Gothic cathedral. The lower half had drawers with white
knobs, and bellied doors of the most beautiful dark wood, reflecting,
like the table, the glow of the wax lights. The glass cabinet glittered
with silver and crystal, and here and there was clouded with the rich
maroon and saffron of rare old china. Our hostess was a stately and
beautiful old lady in black silk (much worn), with fichu and cuffs of
real old lace. Our host wore fine black broadcloth, threadbare and of
ancient cut.
Such a soft, shining picture as that supper-room was! I wish I could
paint it as I saw it that night! And what a delicious supper! There was
tea, sure enough; tea of delicious aroma; and sure enough sugar, too,
in fine white lumps which had to be picked up with silver tongs. There
were little tea-cakes and fairy-like puffs and wafers, and delicious
hot rolls! creamy and velvety, and light as a breath.
In crystal dishes gleamed the rich, clear red and amber of preserved
fruits, and crystal-clear sweetmeats were set before us in crystal
dishes. These were cut in designs of leaf and flower, fish and bird,
squirrels, rabbits, and acorns--really too elaborately cut and too
beautifully transparent to be eaten. And then there was Virginia fried
chicken--of such a delicate rich brown! and such juicy sweetness! At
last we each lay covered up in a great downy bed, and went to sleep,
and slept as if we never expected to wake up.