“INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH”
One lovely morning mother sat at an upper window shelling peas for
dinner. The window commanded a view of the Petersburg heights and
beyond. Presently she stopped shelling peas, and gazed intently out of
the window.
“What is that on the heights, Nellie?” she asked, and then, “What men
are those running about on the hill beyond?”
I came to the window and looked out. The hills looked blue.
With a sinking heart I got the field-glass and turned it southeast.
The hills swarmed with soldiers in Federal uniforms! Men in gray were
galloping up to the Reservoir and unlimbering guns. We heard the roar
of cannon, the rattle of musketry. The heavens were filled with fire
and smoke. Men in blue were vanishing as they came; they thought
Reservoir Hill a fort. That was the ninth of June, when 125 old men and
boys saved the town by holding Kautz’s command, 1,800 strong, at bay on
the Jerusalem Plank Road as long as they could and long enough to give
Graham’s and Studivant’s batteries and Dearing’s cavalry time to rush
to the front. The Ninth of June is Petersburg’s Memorial Day, her day
of pride and sorrow.
A few days after--mother was shelling peas again--whiz! whack! a shell
sung through the air, striking in Bolling Square. Whiz! whack! came
another, and struck Mrs. Dunlop’s house two doors from us. Mrs. De
Voss, our neighbor on one side, and Mrs. Williams and her two daughters
who lived on the other, ran in, pale with terror, and clamored to go
down into our cellar. We were like frightened sheep. I half laugh,
half cry now with vexation to think how calmly and stubbornly mother
sat shelling peas in that window. She was bent on finishing her peas
before she moved. Finally we induced her to go with us, and we all went
down into the cellar. There we huddled together for the rest of the
day, and until late into the night, not knowing what went on above or
outside, little Bobby asleep in his mother’s lap, and the rest of us
too frightened to sleep. At last, when we had heard no guns for a long
time, we crept upstairs and lay down on our beds and tried to sleep.
The next morning the shelling began again. Shells flew all around us.
One struck in the yard next to ours; another horrid, smoking thing
dropped in our own yard. We decided that it was time to abandon the
house.
As the firing came from the south and the east, and the Appomattox was
on the north of the city, we could only turn to the west. Any other
direction and we would have run toward the guns or into the river.
With no more rhyme or reason than this in our course we started up
Washington Street, running west, but without regard to the order of our
going.
Crossing the railroad at Jarrett’s Hotel, I saw a Confederate soldier
whom I recognized as an old playmate and friend of Norfolk days. We
stopped each other.
“Where did you come from, Harry?”
“Where are you running to, Nell?”
“Why, we were at Miss Anne Walker’s and the shells were bursting in our
yard, and we are getting out of the way.”
Zip! a shell passed over my head and burst a few yards away. I didn’t
wait to say good-by, but ran along Washington Street for my life. At
last we got to Mr. Venable’s house, which was out of the range of the
guns, and there we stopped with others. Many people had passed us on
our way, and we had passed many people, all running through Washington
Street for dear life. Everybody seemed to be running; in Mr. Venable’s
house quite a crowd was gathered. His family were from home, but their
friends filled the house. We watched from doors and windows, and talked
of our friends who had fallen, of the Ninth of June, and of how Fort
Hell and Fort Damnation got their names. We spoke of a friend who had
kissed wife and children good-by, and gone out that fateful Ninth with
the militia up the Jerusalem Plank Road to Fort Hell. Later in the
day a wagon had come lumbering up to the door, blood dripping from it
as it jolted along. In it lay the husband and father, literally shot
to pieces. His little boy walked weeping behind it. His widow had
shrouded him with her own hands, and trimmed his bier herself with the
fragrant June flowers that were growing in her yard--flowers which
he had loved and helped to tend. She had a house full of little ones
around her. She had never known how to work, and now she was going
about finding tasks to do, bearing up bravely and strengthening her
children, she who had been as dependent upon her husband for love and
tenderness as his children were upon her.
As the day waned we saw people hurrying past the Venable home bearing
the wounded. I remember one poor fellow who was lying on a stretcher
that was borne by his friends. He seemed to be shot almost to pieces.
Graycoats were passing now, marching into the city.
As we sat at supper that night--a large party it was at that hospitable
board--a servant brought a message to the three of us. A gentleman--a
soldier--wished to see us. I went into the hall, and there was Walter
Taylor. I don’t think I was ever so glad to see anybody in my life.
Walter was not only “Walter,” but he was General Lee’s adjutant, and
the very sight of him meant help to us. What did mother, Millie, and I
do but throw our arms around his neck and kiss him like crazy women.
“I can’t stop a minute,” he said. “I heard you were here, and felt that
I _must_ come out to see how you were getting along. But I must go
straight back to my command. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”
“Walter, where is Dan?”
“I don’t know, Nell, but I think he will be here to-night--if he is not
here already.”
We felt like clinging to Walter and holding him back. I for one had
lost my nerve. I was sick of war, sick of the butchery, the anguish,
the running hither and thither, the fear. Soon after supper my husband
came in. I was tremblingly glad to see him again, to touch his warm
living body, to see that he was not maimed and mutilated--yet it hung
over me all the time that he must go away in a few minutes--to come
back, or be brought back--how? I kept my hand on him all the time he
sat beside me. Every time he moved I trembled, feeling that it was a
move to go.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked; “I thought you were at Miss
Anne’s and went there for you.”
“We left there.”
“What for?”
“The shells were flying all around us, and we were afraid, and ran out
here, I tell you.”
“Afraid? Why, Nell, _you_ weren’t afraid?”
“Yes, I am--I’m terrified.”
“A soldier’s wife--a regular campaigner!”
“I can’t help it. I’m scared.”
“After all you’ve been through, like the brave girl you are, to break
down like a coward!”
“I can’t help what you call me, I’m scared--I’m scared to death.”
“Nell, I’m ashamed of you.”
“I can’t help it, Dan; I’m scared.”
“What would General Stuart say if he could know?”
“I don’t care what he would think. I’m terrified. I’m going to run from
those shells as long as there is a place to run to. I’m not going
to stand still and let a shell strike me to please anybody. I’m for
getting away from town. If I had my way we’d take to the woods this
night, and let the Yankees have it.”
“They’d mighty soon find us in the woods.”
“Then I’d move on. They can have everywhere they come to now, as far as
I am concerned.”
Dan looked aghast. I was completely demoralized. Knowing he _must_
go, I summoned all my strength and braced myself for the parting, but
though Dan was sorry for me, my effort to be brave was so comical
that he had to laugh. By morning the range of the guns was changed,
shells were flying all over the city, and our present quarters were not
exempt. Zip! zip! crack! bang! the nasty things went everywhere.
We piled ourselves, pell-mell, helter-skelter into the first ambulance
we could get and started out Washington Street again as fast as ever we
could get the driver to urge his horses.
Everybody was racing out Washington Street, still running west.
Pell-mell, helter-skelter, they ran, any way to get out of the range
of the horrid, whizzing, singing, zipping bombs. We met Mr. McIlvaine
driving toward town, that is, in the direction from which we were
running.
He hailed us.
“Where are you going?”
“We don’t know where we are going. We are not going anywhere that we
know of.”
“Go to my house. My family are away, but I can make you welcome. Quite
a number of people are out there now.”
We found this to be the literal truth. All the floors were covered with
mattresses--if you rolled off your own mattress you rolled on to some
one else’s, for they were laid so thick that they touched. But things
might always be worse.
Mr. McIlvaine had an excellent cook. She made delicious rolls and
wonderful muffins and wafers, and as far as skill went our provisions
were turned into delicious food. There was quite a colony--seven
women besides ourselves--and we told Mr. McIlvaine that we could not
expect him to feed us all, that we were thankful enough for shelter
and to have our cooking done, and that we would all throw in and buy
provisions. So we made a common fund, and sent for such things as could
be had by Mr. McIlvaine whenever he went into town.
My husband came out to see me quite often during the weeks that
followed, and Colonel Taylor and many of our military friends
remembered us by dropping in to tea and spending an evening with us
when they could. There was a piano in the parlor, and our evenings
were often gay with singing, music, and dancing. There was but one
servant on the place as I remember--the cook I have spoken of, and whom
I remember vividly and affectionately for the good things to eat she
set before us. To cook for us, however, was about all she could do. We
had but few clothes with us, and when these got soiled there was no
washerwoman to be had, so when Sue Williams said she was going to wash
her clothes herself we all got up our washings, and went down into the
back yard with her. We found some tubs ands drew our water, and made
up some fire under a pot, as we had seen the negroes do. I can see Sue
now, drawing water and lifting buckets back and forth from the well.
We tied some clothes up in a sheet and put them into the pot to boil;
then we put some other clothes in a tub and began to wash; meanwhile
we had to keep up the fire under the pot. It was dinner hour by the
time we got thus far. The weather was very hot and we were dreadfully
tired, and we hadn’t got any clothes on the line yet. We stopped to
swallow our dinner, and went at it again. The sun was going down when
we had a pile of clothes washed, rinsed, and wrung, ready for the
line. We didn’t know what to do about it. There didn’t seem to be any
precedent that we had ever known for hanging clothes out at sundown.
On the other hand, if we didn’t spread them out they would mildew--we
had heard of such things. If they had to be spread out, certainly there
was no better place to spread them than on the line. So at sunset we
hung out our clothes to dry. There were handkerchiefs on the line and
a petticoat apiece. The rest of the clothes were in the pot and the
tub, and they are there now for aught I know to the contrary. I don’t
know what became of them, but I know we went into the house and went to
bed with the backache and every other sort of ache. I have never in all
my life worked so hard as I worked that day trying to wash my clothes
out; and the next day the clothes on the line looked yellow for all
the labor that was put upon them. I have never known why they looked
yellow--not for lack of work, for we had rubbed holes in some of them.
We did not undertake to iron them for fear we should make them look
still worse, but wore them rough dry.
Early one morning we waked suddenly, and sprang to our feet and reached
for each other’s trembling hands. There had been a sudden and terrific
noise. The earth was shaking. That awful thunder! that horrible quaking
of the earth! as if its very bowels were being rent asunder! What was
it? We tried to whisper to each other through the darkness of our
rooms, but our tongues were dry and palsied with fear. We feared to
draw the curtains of our windows, we dared not move. That was the
morning of the 30th of July, the morning when the Crater was made--when
an entire regiment was blown into the air, and when into the pit left
behind them Federals and Confederates marched over each other, and
fought all day like tigers in a hole. If you ever go to the quaint old
town of Petersburg, you can drive out the old Jerusalem Plank Road to
Forts Hell and Damnation, and you can turn out of it to a large hole in
the earth which is called the Crater. The last time I was at the Crater
it was lined with grass; some sassafras bushes grew on the sides; down
in the hollow was a peach-tree in blossom, a mocking-bird sang in it,
and a rabbit hopped away as I looked down.
Soon after the explosion occurred, we saw from our windows that the
McIlvaine place was swarming with soldiers who were throwing up
earthworks everywhere. They were our own soldiers, of course, and we
applied for an ambulance and got one, and went back in it to Miss
Anne’s in town.
I shall never forget how that deserted house felt when we three women
and little Bobby entered it. The dust was on everything and there was
a musty smell about everywhere. That night Millie had high fever. Such
a wretched night as it was! no servants, no conveniences, little or
no food; Millie in a raging fever, little sleepy Bobby crying for his
mother and his supper; the shock of the Crater still upon us, danger
underneath, overhead, everywhere. The next morning Millie’s fever was
lower, and she seemed better.
“We must get her away from here, or she will die,” mother said.
But how? We could hear nothing of Dan, and didn’t know where to find
him. Mother sent a note to General Mahone by a passing soldier asking
for a pass to Richmond. Her reply was an ambulance and a driver who
brought a note from the general, saying that we would be taken outside
of the city to the nearest point to where our trains from Richmond were
allowed to come. We got Millie into the ambulance and were taken to the
Dunlop’s, a beautiful place on the Richmond Railroad. Here we waited
for a train which did not come. Night came on; still we waited, but
no train. We sent into the house and asked for lodgings. Answer came
that the house was full, and no more people could be taken in. Millie’s
fever continued to rise. We sent again, saying how ill she was, and
begging for shelter for the night. The same answer was returned, and
there we were out on the lawn, our shawls spread on two trunks and
Millie lying on them, and looking as if every breath would be her last.
“Do you know where Colonel Walter Taylor is stationed?” I asked our
driver.
“Yes, ma’am. I know exactly where he is. His camp is about a mile from
here.”
“How could I get a note to him?”
“I will go with it. I’ll take one of the horses out of the ambulance.”
I scratched off:
“DEAR WALTER: We are out in the woods near Dunlop’s without any
shelter, and Millie is very ill. Can you help us?
“Affectionately,
“NELL.”
The driver took the note and Walter came back with him.
“I don’t know what to do, Nell,” he said. “There is no train to
Richmond till noon to-morrow, but you can’t stay out here.”
He went himself to the house, but without effect.
“I will send you a tent and a doctor,” he said. “That is the best I can
do for you. I wish I could stay here with you all and help take care of
Millie to-night, but I must go back at once.”
The tent came and with it Dr. Newton, and Millie was made as
comfortable as was possible on the trunks.
An old negress who was passing saw our strait and brought us her pillow
in a clean pillow-case, and we put that under Millie’s head. We gave
“aunty” some tea that we had with us, and she took it to her cabin and
drew us a cup or two over her fire, and we got Millie to swallow a
little of it. We had picked Bobby up off the grass, and dropped him on
a pile of bags in a corner of the tent.
At one time that night we thought Millie would die--the doctor himself
was doubtful if she could live till morning. When morning came she was
alive, and that was all. Dr. Newton sent for a stretcher and had her
lifted on it into the train. That was a terrible journey; there were
many delays, and we thought we should never get to Richmond, but we
were there at last. We went into the waiting-room at the station and
sent for Major Grey’s brother. Fortunately, he was quickly found, and
took us to the house at which he boarded and where there was a vacant
room. The city was crowded, and on such short notice it was the best he
could do, but it was a stifling little place.
The room was small, its only window opened on a little dark hallway,
there was an objectionable closet attached to the room, and the close,
unwholesome air made me sick and faint as we opened the door. We laid
Millie on the bed. Suddenly she gasped, moaned something that sounded
like “I am dying!” and seemed to be dead.
“Air!” cried mother hopelessly, “she needs air.”
But there was no window for Dick to throw up.
He picked her up in his arms, ran down the steps with her, and into the
open street. The ladies in the house all came out to us, offering help
and sympathy, and with us got Millie into the parlor, where we laid
her on a lounge, and where two physicians worked over her for hours
before they were sure she would recover entirely from the attack. They
said it was heart failure. That evening we carried her on a stretcher
to the Spotswood Hotel. She was ill for two weeks. Then Bobby was ill
for five. Our funds ran out. What moneys we had were in the Yankee
lines and inaccessible, and Millie determined to put her education
and accomplishments to use. She set herself to work to find something
to do, and a lady from Staunton who happened to meet us at this time,
learning that she wanted work, offered her a position in a young
ladies’ school. So Millie and little Bobby went to Staunton.