BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH
Not long after they left, mother and I came in from a round of calls
one day to find a telegram awaiting me:
“Dan wounded, but not dangerously. Come.
“GUS.”
I hurried into my room and changed my dress--to be careful of wearing
apparel had become a pressing necessity--while mother went out to see
about trains. We found there was no Petersburg train till next day;
there might be one at seven in the morning. I was up at daybreak, got a
cup of tea and a biscuit, looked at mother as she lay asleep, and with
my satchel and little lunch basket in my hand went to the depot. There
were crowds of soldiers there and a train about to start, but no woman
was to go on it--it was for soldiers only. I went from one person who
seemed to be in authority to another, seeking permission to go, but
received the same answer everywhere--only soldiers were allowed on the
train.
“But,” I said at last, “I am an officer’s wife, and he is wounded.”
I broke down with the words, and in spite of my efforts to keep them
back my eyes filled with tears. It was what I should have done in the
beginning. I at once got permission. I went into the car, took my seat
at the extreme end and shrunk into the smallest space possible. The car
was packed with soldiers and I was the only woman on board. When we
were about half-way a young lieutenant who occupied part of the seat in
front of me said:
“Madam, if I can be of any assistance to you, please command me. I
suppose you know that our train stops within three miles of Petersburg.”
“I did not know,” I said, “and I do not know what to expect, or what I
shall do, or where I shall find my husband, although I suppose I shall
be met.”
“If not,” he said, “I am at your service.”
No one was waiting for me at the depot; but the lieutenant secured
an ambulance, got in it with me, and directed the driver to take us
to Petersburg. We soon met Gus, Dan’s cousin, coming to meet me in a
buggy. While I was getting out of the ambulance into the buggy I was
plying Gus with questions about Dan. “Dan is at our house,” Gus told
me. “His wound is a very ugly one, but the doctors say that he’ll get
well. At first we thought he wouldn’t. He is shot through the thigh,
and will be laid up for some time--that’s what he’s kicking about now.”
Our most direct route to Mansfield, where Dan was, lay through
Petersburg, but we could not follow that route. The Yankees were
everywhere about the city, Gus said, so we went through the outer edge
of Ettricks, skirting the city proper. When we reached Mansfield my
husband on crutches met me at the door. He looked pale and weak, but he
was very cheery and tried to joke.
“He ought not to have got up, Nell,” whispered Grandmamma Grey. “He
thought it would shock you to find him in bed--that is why he got up.”
Of course I immediately put him under orders. He returned to bed meekly
enough, and from that time I did all I could, and it was all I could
do, to keep him still until his wound healed. We read and sang and
played on the banjo and had a good time. But as soon as he was able
to hobble he would go to camp every day and sit around. General Lee’s
headquarters were about a mile and a half from our house. Colonel
Taylor and a number of old friends were there, and Dan could talk fight
if he couldn’t fight. At last he insisted that he was ready to join his
division, and we set out to reach it in an ambulance drawn by three
mules.
When we came to Hatchers Run we found that creek very much swollen and
the bridge not visible, but there were fresh tracks showing where a
wagon had lately gone over.
“That shows well enough where the bridge is,” said Dan, pointing to
where the wagon had left a track close to the water’s edge and visible
for a short way under the water. “Follow that track,” he commanded our
driver, who was three-quarters of a man, being too young for a whole
man and too old for a lad, “the mules will find the bridge. They are
the most sure-footed animals in the world. Just let them have their
heads as soon as they get in the water.”
Jerry obeyed instructions. Sure enough, the mules got along well
enough. That is, for a short distance. Then, splash! down they went
under the water! We could just see their noses and their great ears
wiggling above the surface as they struck out into a gallant swim
for the opposite shore. Splash! we went in after them, and mules and
ambulance were swimming and floating together. Jerry was terrified, and
began to pray so hard that I got to laughing. All we could see of the
mules were six ears sticking out of the water and wiggling for dear
life, while our ambulance swam along like a gondola.
But things changed suddenly. Our ambulance was lifted slightly, came
down with a jolt, and wouldn’t budge! The mules strained forward, but
to no good. The ambulance wouldn’t stir, and their harness held them
back.
“The ambulance has caught on some part of the bridge,” said Dan.
We were in a serious dilemma. The road was one in much use, and we
pinned our hopes to some passer-by, but as we waited minutes seemed
hours. No one came. Perhaps the wagon that had preceded us had given
warning that the bridge was wrecked. We sat in the ambulance and
waited, not knowing what to do, not seeing what we could do. By some
saplings which stood in the water we measured the rise of the tide,
and we measured its rise in the ambulance by my trunk--I was getting
wet to my knees. Finally I sat on top of my trunk and drew my feet
up after me. The situation was serious enough, and Dan began to look
very anxious--Hatchers Run was always regarded as a dangerous stream
in flood time. Still, no sign of any one coming. The rain continued to
fall and the water to rise.
“At this rate we are sitting here to drown,” Dan said. “There’s but
one way out of it that I can see. From what I know of the situation
of our army there must be an encampment near here. Jerry, climb out of
this ambulance over the backs of these hind mules till you get to that
leader. Get on him, cut him loose, and swim out of this. Ride until you
find an encampment and bring us help.”
But Jerry didn’t look at it that way.
“I’m skeered ter fool ’long dat ar mule. I ain’t nuvver fooled ’long er
mule in de water. I kaint have no notion of de way he mought do wid me.
You kaint ’pend on mules, Mars Dan, ter do jes lak you want ’em ter on
dry land, much less in de water. Arter I git out dar, cut dat ar mule
loose, an’ git on him, he mought take out an’ kyar me somewhar I didn’t
wanter go. I mought nuvver git ter no camp, nor nowhar, Mars Dan, ef I
go ter foolin’ ’long er dat mule out dar in de water.”
The major caught his shoulders, and turned his face to the stream.
“Have you watched that water rising out there for nothing?” he asked
sternly. “We are sure to be drowned if you don’t do as I tell you--all
of us.”
Between certain death and uncertain death Jerry chose the latter,
crawled over the hind mules, got on the leader and rode him off. He
took this note with him:
“Nearest Encampment of any Division, C. S. A.:
“I am in the middle of Hatchers Run in an ambulance with my
wife. The stream is rising rapidly and ambulance filling with
water. Send immediate relief.
“DANIEL V. GREY,
“_Adjutant of the Thirteenth_.”
After the boy was gone there we sat and waited while the water rose. I
got very cold and Dan, who was yet weak from his wound and confinement,
got chilled and stiff. After more than an hour of waiting we heard from
the woods on the other side a noise as of men running, and then there
came rushing out of the woods toward us thirteen men of mighty girth
and stature. They were Georgia mountaineers who had been sent to our
rescue. When they came to the water they didn’t like the look and feel
of it, and evidently didn’t want to get in it.
“What is we uns to do?” they called across.
“Something to get us out of this,” Dan hallooed back, “and be quick
about it, or we shall drown.”
“How is we uns to git to you uns?”
“Get in the water and swim here.”
They talked among themselves, but none of them seemed disposed to do
this.
“Men!” called my husband, “I am hardly well of a wound, I am stiff and
weak. I can not save my wife, who is up to the waist in water. Will you
stand there and see a woman drown?”
They seemed ashamed, but none of them made the move to go in. Then the
largest of them all--he seemed a mighty giant--stepped forth and took
command.
“You say thar’s a lady in that ambulance?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“Wall, I’m blowed! An’ she ain’t a-hollerin’ and a-cryin’?”
“Do you hear her?” asked Dan irritably. “She’s braver than some men I
know. But you can count on it that she is wet and cold. We are nearly
frozen!”
“Wall, I’m blowed! An’ she’s right out thar in the middle er that run,
an’ she ain’t a-hollerin’ and a-cryin’! Tell you uns what I’ll do. I’ll
swim out there and bring her back on my back. An’ then I’ll swim back
agin an’ bring you on my back.”
“I can’t!” I said. “I’m cold enough to die now, and I can’t get in that
water. I’ll die if I do.”
The giant gave orders. The men hung back. Then we heard him roaring
like a bull of Bashan.
“Git into that ar water, evvy man of you uns, an’ swim fur that ar
ambulance! I was put in comman’ er this here expuddition, an’ I means
ter comman’ it. ’Bey orders, you uns is got ter, or you uns’ll git
reported to headquarters ez I’m a sinner. Git in that thar water.
Furrard! Swim!”
How well I remember the great, good-natured giant as he swam around our
ambulance, bobbing up and down, and taking in our bearings!
“You see, cap,” he said, “all the bridge is washed away but the
sleepers, an’ that’s what you uns is hung on. Unhitch them mules,” to
some of his men.
“Now, cap, soon’s them mules is loose we uns’ll lif the ambulance off
er this, an’ pull you uns to shore. Jes you uns make yourse’fs easy,
and we uns’ll git you uns out er this.”
The mules unhitched were led to shore, and then the men pulled the
ambulance safely to land. I don’t remember what became of the thirteen
mighty men. Nor do I recall clearly the rest of that cold ride when I
shivered in my clothes, but I remember getting to a house where I was
seated in a great chair close to a blazing fire of hickory logs, and
I remember that when I went to get out my night-dress I found all the
clothes in my trunk wet, and that when I went to bed I felt as if I
were going to be ill, and that I rested badly. But the next morning I
was up and on my way again. Again we came to a swollen stream. This
time we could see the bridge, and it wobbled about. Dan thought it was
safe to drive over. But not I! Just then some gentlemen came up behind
us and insisted that I was right. So I got out of the ambulance and
was helped across on some logs or beams or something which stretched
across the stream underneath the bridge, and may have been a part of
it, but whatever they were I thought them more secure than an ambulance
and mules and an uncertain bridge. I made Dan cross this way, too,
though he said it wasn’t best for his leg, and made all sorts of
complaints about it. The ambulance was obliged to cross on the bridge,
and the devoted Jerry drove it, quarreling and complaining and praying
all the way. We had not gone much farther before, lo! here was Stony
Creek, swollen to bursting, rushing and furious, and again a hidden
bridge.
“I nuvver seed so much high water befo’ in all my life,” said Jerry,
thoroughly disgusted, “nor so dang’ous. Water behin’ an’ befo’. We all
_is_ in a bad way.”
There was a wagoner on the bank who said the bridge was all right and
but slightly under water. I protested, but Dan made Jerry drive in. I
wanted to turn back. But Dan argued that there was as bad behind us,
and that he _must_ get to camp by the time he was due, and after a
little the mules found their footing and kept it, though the water
swished and whirled over the bridge. We saw a man and a horse swept
down the stream--I thought they might have been swept by the current
off the very bridge we were crossing. The current was too strong for
the horse; he could do nothing against it, and had given up. As they
passed under a tree the man reached up, caught a sweeping branch and
swung himself up in the tree; the horse was drowned before our eyes
before we got across the bridge.
We left the man in the tree, but promised to send him help. There was
a house two miles from the creek, and to this we drove. It was full of
people; the parlor was full, the halls were full, and the kitchen and
the bedrooms were full of men, women, and children. It reminded me of a
country funeral where people are piled up in the halls, on the steps,
and everywhere a person can stand or sit. Soldiers were always passing
to and fro in those days and stopping for the night at any convenient
wayside place, and as for not taking a soldier in--well, public opinion
made it hot for the man who would not shelter a wayfaring soldier
and share the last crust with him. The house held a large number of
soldiers that night, and in addition a water-bound wedding-party. On
this side the creek was the groom; on the other side the bride. The
groom had on his good clothes--good clothes were a rarity then--but he
looked most woebegone.
We told the people in the house about the man in the tree; and every
man in the house went down to see about him.
They called out to him saying they would throw him ropes and pull him
in, but when they tried to throw the ropes out to him they found that
he could not be reached in that way. The tree was too far from the
shore. It was after midnight when they gave up trying to reach him
with ropes. Then they told him to keep his courage up till morning,
and they made a great bonfire on the banks, and some of them stood by
it and talked to him all night. First one party and then another would
go out and stand by the bonfire, and keep it up, and talk to him. The
relieved party would come to the house and warm themselves and go back
again. Nobody slept that night. There was nowhere for anybody to lie
down. When morning came the creek had fallen and they pulled the nearly
frozen man to land.
The next day found us at our destination, Hicksford.