soft and glistening white; too white and clean to be soiled by the
occupancy of two Confederate soldiers who had not had a change of
underclothing for many weeks. They looked at it, felt of it, and then
spread their old blankets on the neat carpet and slept there till near
the break of day.
"While it was yet dark the travellers, unwilling to lose time waiting
for breakfast, crept out of the house, leaving their thanks for their
kind hostess, and passed rapidly on to Manikin Town, on the James River
and Kanawha Canal, half a day's march from Richmond, where they arrived
while it was yet early morning. The greensward between the canal and
river was inviting, and the 'survivors' laid there awhile to rest and
determine whether or not they would push on to the city. They desired to
do so as soon as they could find a breakfast to fit them for the day's
march."
In this venture they met with a new experience, the party applied to, a
well-fed, hearty man, gruffly repulsing them, and complaining that some
scoundrels had stolen his best horse the night before. He finally
invited them in and set before them the bony remnants of some fish he
had had for breakfast. Rising indignantly from the table, the veterans
told their inhospitable host that they were not dogs, and would
consider it an insult to the canine race to call him one. Apparently
fearing that the story of his behavior to old soldiers would be spread
to his discredit, he now apologized for the "mistake," and offered to
have a breakfast cooked for them, but they were past being mollified,
and left him with the most uncomplimentary epithets at the command of
two old soldiers of four years' service.
"At eleven A.M. of the same day two footsore, despondent, and penniless
men stood facing the ruins of the home of a comrade who had sent a
message to his mother. 'Tell mother I am coming.' The ruins yet smoked.
A relative of the lady whose home was in ashes, and whose son said, 'I
am coming,' stood by the 'survivors.' 'Well, then,' he said, 'it must
be true that General Lee has surrendered.' The solemnity of the remark,
coupled with the certainty in the minds of the 'survivors,' was almost
amusing. The relative pointed out the temporary residence of the mother,
and thither the 'survivors' wended their way.
"A knock at the door startled the mother, and with agony in her eyes she
appeared at the opened door, exclaiming, 'My poor boys!' 'Are safe and
coming home,' said the 'survivors.' 'Thank God!' said the mother, and
the tears flowed down her cheeks.
"A rapid walk through ruined and smoking streets, some narrow escapes
from negro soldiers on police duty, the satisfaction of seeing two of
the 'boys in blue' hung up by their thumbs for pillaging, a few
handshakings, and the 'survivors' found their way to the house of a
relative, where they did eat bread with thanks.
"A friend informed the 'survivors' that day that farm hands were needed
all around the city. They made a note of that and the name of one
farmer. Saturday night the old blankets were spread on the parlor floor.
Sunday morning, the 16th of April, they bade farewell to the household
and started for the farmer's house.
"As they were about to start away, the head of the family took from his
pocket a handful of odd silver pieces, and extending them to the guests,
told them it was all he had, _but they were welcome to half of it_.
Remembering that he had a wife and three or four children to feed, the
soldiers smiled through _their_ tears at _his_, bade him keep it all,
and 'weep for himself rather than for them.' So saying, they departed,
and at sundown were at the farmer's house, fourteen miles away.
"Monday morning, the 17th, they 'beat their swords (muskets in this
case) into ploughshares' and did the first day's work of the sixty which
the _simple_ farmer secured at a cost to himself of about half rations
for two men. Behold the gratitude of a people! Where grow now the shrubs
which of old bore leaves and twigs for garlands? The brave live! are the
fair dead? Shall time of calamity, downfall or ruin, annihilate
sacrifice or hatch an ingrate brood?"
End of Project Gutenberg's Historical Tales, Vol. 2 (of 15), by Charles Morris