WITHIN OUR LINES
After leaving the saucy and peremptory adjutant we were shown into the
handsomest ambulance I have ever seen. I suppose the one we had been
using was returned to Harper’s Ferry or left at Winchester for the
horses to rest until Captain Goldsborough’s return. At any rate, we
were in new quarters, and very elegant ones they were. The sides and
seats were cushioned and padded, and it was really a luxurious coach.
It was drawn by four large black horses with coats like silk. There
was a postilion on the seat, and beside him sat a small boy who kept
peeping behind us and into the woods on all sides, and as far ahead
as possible. I didn’t know what he was trying to see or find out,
but I came to the conclusion that he was there to “peep” on general
principles.
As soon as we were seated we asked Captain Goldsborough what
upon earth that impertinent adjutant meant by referring to us as
“prisoners,” and ordering us about so.
Whereupon he explained with much embarrassment and many apologies that
we were really prisoners--that General Kelly could not have sent us
through without the formality of putting us under arrest.
“I wish,” he said in an aside to me, “that I didn’t have to release
you.”
Of course we were perfectly satisfied to be General Kelly’s prisoners
under such circumstances. In fact, we charged Captain Goldsborough to
tell him how nice we thought it was to be put under arrest by him.
We withdrew our charges against the adjutant, and even acknowledged
that there was kindness in the pert little Yankee’s telling us to
“holler for Jeff Davis and we’d get sent on quick enough.”
Six miles from Winchester we met the detachment of cavalry to which
Milroy’s adjutant had referred. It was a magnificent-looking body of
men, handsomely uniformed and mounted. As they were about to dash past
us Captain Goldsborough halted them, gave an order, and instantly
thirty riders wheeled out of line and surrounded the ambulance,
the others riding on without a break in their movements. Captain
Goldsborough had gotten out of the ambulance some minutes before we
met the detachment of cavalry, and was sitting with the driver, having
sent the little boy inside. It sounds rather a formidable position
for a Southern woman, a blockade-runner, in a Yankee ambulance, and
surrounded by thirty Yankees armed to the teeth; but I was never safer
in my life. The little boy was in a state of terror that would have
been amusing if it had not been pitiful.
“What are all these men around the ambulance for?” I asked. He didn’t
look as if he could get his wits together at once.
“Are they afraid we will get away?” I continued.
“Oh, no’m! no’m!” he answered, his eyes as big as saucers. “There’s
been lots of fightin’--an’ there’s rebels all along here in the
woods--and they’d come out and take this here ambulance an’ these here
horses--an’ we all, an’ you all, an’ all of us!”
A novel position, truly, Yankees protecting us against our own
soldiers! We met another company of soldiers, and alas! we could turn
back none of them. They were not mounted, they were not handsomely
uniformed. From the windows of our ambulance we looked out on them with
tearful eyes, and waved our handkerchiefs to them; but their heads
were bowed, and they did not see us. They would hardly have believed
we were prisoners if they had seen us, for our escort of Union cavalry
the whole time they guarded us treated us as if we were queens. Not one
profane word did we hear--not a syllable that breathed anything but
respect and kindly feeling.
At Newtown we were released and were Union prisoners no longer,
but Southern travelers close to the Southern lines and on our own
responsibility. Captain Goldsborough bade us adieu, saying that he
was sorry he could not take us farther, but that his orders compelled
him to turn back here, and we poured out our gratitude to him and to
Colonel McReynolds and General Kelly by him. He put a little sentiment
into a farewell pressure of my hand, and I am afraid I put a great
deal too much gratitude and penitence into my eyes. My genius for
friendship had asserted itself, and I was fast learning to give him a
companion niche in my heart with Captains Hosmer and Locke. Another day
with him, and I would have told him I was married, showed him Dan’s
picture, bored him with Dan, and found in him all the better friend and
good comrade.
Our hearts sank as our gallant bluecoat, our cozy ambulance, and our
cavalry guard left us, three lonely women in the tavern at Newtown.
We spent the night there, and the next morning secured, with much
difficulty, a small, uncovered, one-horse wagon to take us on our
journey. We were very much crowded. Our trunks were piled up in
it--mother’s, Mrs. Drummond’s, and my own. I made mother as comfortable
as possible, and Mrs. Drummond carefully made herself so, while I sat
on the seat with the driver, a trunk sticking in my back all the way. I
had to sit almost double because of the trunk, the wagon being so small
that no other arrangement was possible.
Rain had fallen plentifully here. The day was one of fogs and mists
with occasional light showers, the roads were, muddy and seamed with
ruts, over which the wagon jogged up and down, and I jogged with it,
feeling as if my back would break in two and almost wishing it would
and end my misery. About nine of that miserable wet night we hailed
with eager, glad, tired hearts and eyes the lights of Woodstock. Here
we knew we should find Southern forces encamped, here we knew we should
be at home among our own people. Just outside the town a voice rang
through the darkness:
“Halt!”
A sentry stood in our path.
“We are Southerners,” we said. “Let us pass.”
“Where are your papers?”
“Papers? We haven’t any papers. We are _Southerners_, we tell
you--Southern ladies, and we are in a hurry, and you must let us pass
right now.”
“I can’t do it. Show your papers or turn back.”
We set up a wail.
“Here, we’ve come all the way from Baltimore, and the Yankees have sent
us and have brought us all the way in a fine ambulance and cavalry
escorts and big horses and gold lace and everything, and now we’ve got
home, and our own people won’t let us in! tell us to turn back!”
The sentry seemed impressed. Rags and musket, he was a pathetic if
stern figure as he stood in that lonely, muddy road in the glare of our
driver’s lantern.
But he was firm. He told us that he was obeying orders and could not
let us by since we had no passes.
“I’m so tired, and my back is almost broken with this trunk sticking
into it,” I moaned.
“That _ain’t_ comfortable,” he admitted, but his resolute position in
the middle of the road showed that we couldn’t pass, all the same.
“Look here,” I said, plucking up some of my accustomed spirit, “do you
know that my husband is an officer in the Confederate army? My husband
is Captain Grey.”
“Can’t help it. Got to obey orders.”
“And _my_ brother,” said Mrs. Drummond, “is a _colonel_ in the
Confederate army. To think that _I_--I, the sister of Colonel ----, am
told that I can’t pass here!”
“Law, ma’am! that’s my colonel!” said the man. “I tell you what I’ll
do, ladies. I’ll send a note in to the colonel and see what _he_ says
about it.”
So we waited till he found a passer-by who would be a messenger; and
then we waited until the messenger replied to the note, and we were
permitted to pass.
Soon after we reached the tavern the news of our arrival and exploits
got abroad and soon the little tavern parlor was filled with people
listening to the tales of the blockade-runners who were just from
Yankeeland, bringing a trunk or two full of clothes. The news of our
doughty deeds spread from house to house, and soldiers gathered in
front of the tavern and gave us ringing cheers, and welcomed us home
with all their lung power. Poor, ragged fellows! how I did wish that
mother and I had worn home a hundred or two more Balmorals!
The next morning we left Woodstock.
We were traveling now in a comfortable spring wagon, and made good
time, reaching Harrisonburg in time to take the train for Staunton.
As we sat in the parlor of the hotel in Staunton who should walk in
but an old friend and cousin of Dan’s, Lieutenant Nelson! But he could
tell me nothing about Dan--he did not even know where he could be
found. This was just before the second battle of the Wilderness, and
the cavalry was being shifted constantly from place to place. But if
Lieutenant Nelson could tell us nothing, he was greatly interested in
our exploits. We told him of the Balmorals with pride.
“And here are two shirts for Dan,” I said, pulling at our long scarfs.
“Just think of our getting through with a full uniform--cloth, brass
buttons, gold lace, and all!”
As at Woodstock, the story of our prowess spread. It went from one
person to another until the soldiers got hold of it, and gathered
around the hotel and more ringing cheers were given us.
The next morning we took the train for Richmond--but we did not get
there.
At Lindseys Station, just before we reached Gordonsville, a man in the
uniform of the Thirteenth got on.
I called him to me.
“Can you tell me where the Thirteenth is?”
“Yes’m. We lef’ ’em ’bout the aige of Culpeper, yistiddy. Lor’m! we’ve
had times!”
“What was the matter?”
“We been havin’ a heap o’ fightin’. The kurnel, he warn’t thar at
Beverly Ford, an’ we didn’t have but one squadron, an’ the adjutant,
he led the charge an’ he sholy come mighty nigh gittin’ killed. Lor’m!
what’s the matter with ye?”
“Nothing! Go on! Make haste, tell me--make haste. The adjutant----”
“His horse got shot under him, an’ his courier ridin’ right ’longside
o’ him got killed, an’ the adjutant warn’t hurt, not a mite. But,
Lor’m! that was sholy a narrer _es_cape! An’ they say that the
adjutant’ll git promoted.”
Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I think of that when I got the uniform?
“Thank you,” I said to the man. “You bring me the first news I have
had of my husband for a long time.”
“Good gracious! you ain’t our adjutant’s wife?”
“Yes, I am. And I am glad to meet one of his soldiers. And you are the
first to tell me good news.”
“Lor’m, now, ain’t I proud o’ that! An’ you our adjutant’s wife. You
don’t say! An’ I jes been a-tellin’ you how it was a’mos’ a mi-racle
that you warn’t a widder ’oman! An’ you never let on! But I see you
changed your face, marm, when I tole ’bout his pretty nigh gitting
shot. Yes, marm; the adjutant charged beautiful! he jes rid right squar
into ’em, an’ he made the Yankees git!”
“How long do you think the Thirteenth will remain in Culpeper?”
“That I couldn’t say for certain, marm. They mought be thar for a day
or two, an’ they mought be thar longer. You can’t always tell much
’bout what the cavalry gwine to do. But we’s sho proud o’ the adjutant,
marm. Ginral Lee an’ Ginral Stuart an’ Kunnel Chambliss all give him
the praise.”
It was after this battle that Dan was promoted to the rank of major,
“for gallant conduct.”
I bade the soldier a hurried good-by and went to the conductor.
“My husband’s regiment is in Culpeper,” I said; “I have just heard it
from one of his men, and I want you to put me off at Gordonsville. I
have decided not to go on to Richmond, but to take the next train to
Culpeper.”
“The next train to Culpeper, ma’am--I think the next train for Culpeper
passes Gordonsville at four in the afternoon. There’s no train before
that, I know, and I am not sure that there’s one at four. There’s no
tavern nor anything to put you down at--I’ll just have to set you out
on the roadside.”
And it was on a red roadside that we and our baggage were set down, on
a bank of red mud, and there sat we on top of them as the train rolled
away. The conductor left us regretfully.
“Maybe you might get accommodations at that house up there, ma’am,”
he had said, pointing to the only house in sight, a two-story white
dwelling about a quarter of a mile distant. “I don’t know what else
you’ll do if that train don’t come along at four.”
This was ten o’clock in the morning. Four o’clock came, but no train.
We waited faithfully for it, but it did not come at all. At last we
gave up hope and paid a boy to carry our trunks to the house on the
hill. I shall never forget our reception at that house. At first they
refused to take us at all. After arguing the point with them and
placing our necessities before them, and promising to pay them anything
they might wish, we were thankful to get a gruff:
“Come in.”
We were shown to a room and shut in like horses. There was not even a
fire made for us. We had been warmer sitting on the roadside in the
sunshine. I will pass over the supper in silence. We had had no dinner
and were hungry, and we ate for our part of that supper the upper crust
of a biscuit each. A hard bed, the upper crusts of two biscuits, no
fire--this was what we got at that house. The next morning we left
before breakfast and went back to our mud-bank in the sun, first asking
for our bill and paying it. It was two dollars apiece in gold!
The train came along early, however, and we were on it, and off to
Culpeper, all our troubles forgotten, for every mile was bringing us
nearer to Dan. As soon as we got off I saw quite a number of soldiers
belonging to Dan’s command. Many of them were known to me personally.
They came up and welcomed me back to Dixie, and congratulated me on my
husband’s gallantry and probable promotion, and I sent word to Dan by
them that I was there.
He came--the raggedest, most widowed-looking officer! But weren’t we
happy!
“Oh, Dan!” I cried, after the first rapture of greeting, “I got it so
it would do for a captain or a major or a colonel or a general. Didn’t
I do right?”
“What are you talking about, Nell? Got what?”
He looked as if he feared recent adventures had unsettled my intellect.
“Your uniform, Dan,” I answered, but my countenance fell.
“My--uniform.”
Just like a man! He had forgotten the principal thing--next to seeing
mother, of course--that I had gone to Baltimore for.
“Your uniform, Dan. I’ve got it on. Here it is,” and I lifted my
skirt and showed him my Balmoral. “Isn’t it a beautiful cloth? And I
have kept it just as nice--not a fleck of mud on it. And here are the
buttons on my cloak, and I have the gold lace in mother’s satchel,
and----”
“Nell, dear, I haven’t time to talk about uniforms now. You will sleep
here to-night. To-morrow I will try to get a room for you at Mr.
Bradford’s. I will come in the morning or send you word what to do.
I am so sorry to go, but I can’t stay a minute longer. Good-by, my
darling.”
I was waked the next morning by a voice under my window calling:
“Miss Nell! O Miss Nell!” and looking out I saw Dan’s body-servant,
Sam, successor to poor Josh, who had died of smallpox.
“Mars Dan say, I fotch his love to you, an’ tell you you git right on
dem nex’ kyars an’ go straight on ter Orange Court-house, case dar’s
too much fightin’ ’roun’ here. An’ he gwine notify you dar when you
kin come back. But he say dat if you hear dar’s fightin’ ’roun’ Orange
Court-house, den you go straight on ter Richmond, an’ don’t you stop
untwell you git dar.”
“But I don’t want to go, Sam.”
“But Mars Dan he say tell you p’intedly you mus’.”
“Ain’t he coming to tell me good-by, Sam?”
“Law, Miss Nell! how he gwine do dat when de Yankees is er--overrunnin’
de whole yuth? What’s guine ter become uv de country ef de major leave
off fitten de Yankees to humorfy you?”
I could not for the life of me, sad as my heart was, keep from laughing
at being taken to task by Sam.
“Is it so bad as that, Sam?”
“Yes’m, dat ’tis! Mars Dan say he ’fraid de Yankees git in de town hyer
fo’ night. De Yankees is er pressin’ we all close.”
“I can’t see your master at all before I go, Sam?”
“Law, Miss Nell; ain’t I done tole you dat? De country will go to de
dawgs ef de major stop fitten de Yankees to humorfy you.”
“If your master gets hurt, Sam, will you get me word?”
“Law, yes, Miss Nell! I sholy will.”
“And you’ll take care of him, Sam?”
“Dat’s jes what I gwine to do, Miss Nell. _Me_ lef’ de major ef he git
hu’t! shuh!”
“Good-by, Sam. Tell your master I’m gone.”
“Yes’m. He’ll sho be p’intedly glad ter heah dat!”
Just fifteen minutes in which to catch the train. We threw things
pell-mell into our trunks--there was no vehicle to be had--paid a man
to drag them to the depot, and were on our way to Orange in less than
half an hour. And I had seen Dan, all told, perhaps fifteen minutes!
At Orange we found everything in confusion, and everybody who could
get out leaving the town. The story went that the Yankee cavalry under
Stoneman would soon be in possession of it. We were glad enough to keep
our seats and go straight through to Richmond, and it was well that
we did, for behind us came Stoneman’s cavalry close on our heels and
tearing up bridges as they came. The railroad track at Trevillian’s was
torn up just after we passed over it. Richmond was in a state of great
excitement. Couriers were passing to and fro between the army and the
executive offices, stirring news kept pouring in, and the newspapers
were in a fever. Tidings from the first battle of the Wilderness began
coming in. Lee’s army and “Fighting Joe” Hooker’s were grappling with
each other there like tigers in a jungle. Stuart, our great cavalry
leader, had caught up Jackson’s mantle as it fell, and was riding
around in that valley of death, charging his men to “Remember Jackson!”
and singing in that cheery voice of his which only death could drown:
“Old Joe Hooker, won’t you Come Out of the Wilderness?” Then came news
of victory and Richmond was wild with joy and wild with woe as well. In
many homes were vacant chairs because of that battle in the Wilderness,
and from Petersburg, twenty miles away, came the sound of mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted because
they were not.
It was from Petersburg that I was summoned to Culpeper by Dan, who
felt that the army might have a long enough breathing spell there for
me to pay him at least a visit. When I got to Mr. Bradford’s, where he
had engaged board for me, I found General Stuart’s headquarters in the
yard. He and his staff were boarders at Mr. Bradford’s, and I ate at
the same table with the flower of the Southern cavalry. Unfortunately
for me, Dan’s command was stationed at a distance of several miles, and
I could not see as much of him as I had hoped. He met me the day of my
arrival, rode by once or twice, took one or two meals with me, and then
it seemed that for all I saw of him I might as well have remained in
Petersburg.
My seat at table was next to that of General Stuart, and for
_vis-à-vis_ I had Colonel John Esten Cooke. Colonel Cooke was a glum
old thing, but General Stuart was so delightful that he compensated for
everything. In a short time I was completely at my ease with him, and
long before he left I had grown to love and trust him.