CONFEDERATE WOMEN.
No historian can faithfully recount the story of the war and leave
untouched the record made by Southern women. Their patriotism was not
the outcome of mere sentiment, but a pure steady flame which from the
beginning of the war to the end burned brightly upon the altars of
sacrifice, which they set up all over the land. "The power behind the
throne" never ceased to be felt. Its spirit pervaded every breast of
the living barricades which opposed the invaders, nerved every arm to
battle for the right, inspired valorous deeds which dazzled the world.
From quiet homes far from the maddening strife, where faithful women
toiled and spun, facing and grappling with difficulties, even dangers,
never complained of, came bright, cheery letters, unshadowed by the
clouds which often hung dense and dark over their daily pathway but
glowing with unshaken faith, undaunted patriotism, lofty courage, and
more than all pride in the exceptional bravery which _they always took
for granted_. Men must not fail to come up to the standard set up in
simple faith by mothers, wives, daughters, and, as all the world
knows, _they did not_.
It was my daily business during the war to read and answer letters to
sick soldiers. Almost all were such as I have described. A few, alas!
were far different. As I read them and watched the agony they caused,
I understood why some men became deserters, and absolutely revered the
manliness and patriotism which resisted a temptation so terrible.
It seemed once that I could never forget the contents of letters which
particularly impressed me, but am sorry I have done so and cannot
reproduce them here. One I can never forget. A tall, splendid Missouri
soldier came into my office one morning, his face convulsed with
grief. Handing me a letter, he sank into a chair, burying his face in
his hands and sobbing pitifully. A letter had been somehow conveyed to
him from his sister-in-law announcing that his wife was dying of
consumption. Appended to the letter (which was sad enough) were a few
lines written by the trembling hand of the dying one. "Darling, do not
let any thoughts of me come between you and your duty to our country.
I have longed to see you once more, to die with my head upon your
breast; but that is past,--I am calm and happy. We have long known
that this parting must be; perhaps when my soul is free I may be
nearer you. If possible, my spirit will be with you wherever you are."
I can only recall these few lines. A volume could not convey more
strongly the spirit of Southern women, strong even in death. I could
only offer the stricken soldier the little comfort human sympathy can
give, but my tears flowed plentifully as he told me of his wife and
his home.
He was, as I afterwards learned, killed at the battle of Franklin. I
thought almost with pleasure of the happy reunion which I felt sure
must have followed.
How often I have marshalled into the hospital wards mothers and wives,
who for the sake of some absent loved one had come from homes many
miles away, to bring some offering to the sick. Timid, yet earnest
women, poorly dressed, with sunbrowned faces and rough hands, yet
bearing in their hearts the very essence of loving-kindness towards
the poor fellows upon whose pale faces and ghastly wounds they looked
with "round-eyed wonder" and pity. After a while they would gain
courage to approach some soldier whom they found "sort o' favored"
their own, to whom they ventured to offer some dainty, would stroke
the wasted hand, smooth the hair, or hold to the fevered lips a drink
of buttermilk or a piece of delicious fruit. Ah, _how many_ times I
have watched such scenes! To the warmly-expressed thanks of the
beneficiaries they would simply answer, "That is nothing; 'mebbe'
somebody will do as much for mine when he needs it."
About seven miles from Ringgold, Georgia, lived an old couple, Mr. and
Mrs. Russell, who, although ardently loving the _cause_, were too old
and feeble to _serve_ it otherwise than by their unceasing prayers,
and by giving freely of their substance to sustain the patients at the
hospitals then established at Ringgold. Their daughter, "Miss Phemie,"
a beautiful young girl, was never weary of conferring benefits upon
the Southern soldiers; every day she rode in, never minding even heavy
storms, and often riding upon a wagon because it would hold a larger
supply of vegetables, etc. Many a soldier was taken to the homestead
to be cared for. Those who could not go from under medical or surgical
treatment were often treated to little rides. Her devotion to the
soldiers I can never forget.
Among the sick and wounded who were sent to the hospital at Newnan
were many Georgians whose homes were within twenty-five or thirty
miles.
After the fight at Missionary Ridge, two boys, brothers, were brought
in. One was threatened with pneumonia; the other, a lad of sixteen,
had his right arm shattered from the shoulder down. At his earnest
request his mother was sent for; the necessary amputation being
deferred awhile, because he begged so hard that the surgeon should
await her arrival. She had to ride all the way on a wagon drawn by a
steer (oh, mothers, can you not imagine the agony which attended that
lengthened journey?), and she was so long detained that I had to take
her place at her boy's side while the operation was performed. The boy
rapidly sunk,--when his mother came was past speaking, and could only
express with his dying eyes his great love for her. Kneeling beside
him, she watched intently, but without a tear or a sob, the dear life
fast ebbing away. The expression of that mother's face no one who saw
it can ever forget.
When all was over, I led her to my own room, where she asked to be
left alone for a while. At last, in answer to the sobbing appeals of
her remaining son, she opened the door. He threw himself into her
arms, crying out, "Buddie's gone, but you're got me, ma, and I'll
never leave you again. I'll help you take Buddie home, and I'll stay
with you and help you work the farm."
The mother gently and tenderly held him off a little way, looking with
burning eyes into his face; her own was pale as death, but not a sob
or tear yet. Quietly she said, "No, my son, your place is not by me; I
can get along as I have done; you are needed yonder (at the front);
_go_ and avenge your brother; he did his duty to the last; don't
disgrace him and me. Come, son, don't cry any more; you're mother's
man, you know."
That same night that mother started _alone_ back to her home, bearing
the coffined body of her youngest son, parting bravely from the elder,
whose sorrow was overwhelming. Just before leaving, she took me aside
and said, "My boy is no coward, but he loved his Buddie, and is
grieving for him; try to comfort him, won't you?"
I did try, but during the whole night he paced with restless feet up
and down my office. At daylight I sat watching his uneasy slumber.
A few weeks later a young wife came by train to visit her husband, who
lay very ill of fever, bringing with her a lovely blue-eyed baby girl
about two years old.
I found a room for her at a house near the hospital, and she was
allowed to nurse her husband. When he was nearly ready to report for
duty, a fearful accident happened by which the baby nearly lost her
life, and was awfully disfigured. At the house where the young wife
boarded there was a ferocious bull-dog, which was generally kept
chained until it showed such evident fondness for the babe that he was
sometimes allowed to lie upon the gallery beside it while it slept,
and the little one on awakening would crawl all over the dog, who
patiently submitted, and would affectionately lick her face.
One day, however, when the family were all assembled upon the gallery,
the dog suddenly sprung upon the little girl, fastening his dreadful
fangs in one side of her face. Everybody was stricken with horror.
Nothing availed to make the beast loosen his hold, until suddenly he
withdrew his teeth from the child's face and fastened them once more
in her shoulder. At last, as no other alternative presented itself,
some one placed a pistol to his ear and killed him. The baby on being
released still breathed, but was so torn and disfigured that the sight
turned strong men sick.
The father fell in a swoon; the young mother, pale and shaking as with
an ague, yet held her mutilated babe through all the examination and
the surgical operations which followed. For two weeks it seemed as if
the child must die, but she did not, and soon, unconscious of her
disfigurement, began to play and smile. All pitied the unfortunate
father when, after some time allowed him through sympathy with his
misfortune, it became necessary for him to return to the front. He had
borne an excellent record, but now broke down utterly, declaring he
could not leave his child. The young wife, putting down with a strong
hand her own sorrow, actually set herself to rouse her husband to a
sense of duty, and succeeded; I was present at the depot when the
brave, girlish wife waved to the soldier a smiling farewell, and
afterwards witnessed her vain efforts to suppress the short, sharp
screams of agony which had been kept under as long as her husband
needed to be upheld, but which after his departure convulsed her at
intervals for hours.
There are two women against whom, during and since the war, I held and
still hold a grudge. One was of that class of women who undervalue and
strive to undo all the good done by others; who hold opinions and
views which they absolutely insist upon carrying out regardless of
consequences.
During the whole four years of the war I was annoyed by these would-be
directresses of hospitals. They would intrude themselves into my
wards, where they hesitated not to air their superior knowledge of all
sickness, to inspire discomfort and distrust in the patients by
expressive gestures, revealing extreme surprise at the modes of
treatment, and by lugubrious shakes of the head their idea of the
inevitably fatal result. While the kindly women, who, though already
overburdened, would take from the wards of the hospital enough of
convalescents or sick men to crowd their own homes, often thereby
saving lives,--always doing good,--these prowling women would manage
to convey their sense of the dreadful condition of hitherto
well-satisfied patients without ever suggesting a remedy. In one of
the large churches used for sick-wards in Newnan lay a young man from
Maryland, who had suffered the amputation of an arm. The wound had
been carefully bandaged, the arteries taken up, etc., but as
inflammation supervened the pain became almost unbearable, the poor
fellow moaned unceasingly. One night two old women visited the ward.
Afterward, upon making my last round, I found the young man above
mentioned so quiet that I did not disturb him. It so happened that Dr.
Merriweather, of Alabama, was in Newnan, in close attendance upon his
young son, who had received a most peculiar and apparently fatal
wound. He was shot through the liver. The wound, at all times
excessively painful, exuded bile. Whenever Dr. Merriweather wanted an
hour's rest I took my place at the bedside of the lad. Interest in the
case took me very frequently to the ward. Just before bedtime,
therefore, I returned to the side of young Merriweather to let his
father off for a while. Inquiring of the nurse as to the patient who
had been so restive, I learned that he had neither moved nor spoken.
Feeling uneasy, I walked over to the corner where he lay. At once I
heard a drip, drip, drip, and, calling for a light, soon discovered
that the bed and floor were bloody. Dr. Yates was called at once, but
too late. That dreadful meddler, the old woman visitor, had actually
dared to loosen the bandages, and the poor victim, feeling only
relief, had sunk tranquilly to his death.
The other was a heartless girl, who has, I feel sure, by this time
made a selfish, unloving wife to some poor man. Her lover, after the
battle of Franklin, was brought to the tent hospital, having lost a
leg and being wounded in the face. He confided to me the fact of his
engagement to "one of the prettiest and _peartest_ girls in
'Massissip,'" and begged me to write her of his condition, and, said
the poor fellow, "If she don't care about sticking to a fellow
murdered up like I am, I reckon I'll have to let her off" (this with a
sigh). Then, with a brighter look, "Maybe she'll stick, anyhow." How
he watched for the answer to that letter! His restlessness was pitiful
to see. I tried to help him by reading to him and by relating to him
instances of women who only loved more because the object of their
affection had been unfortunate. Among other things, I told him of the
noble English girl who wrote to her mangled lover that she still loved
and would marry him "if there was enough of his body left to contain
his soul." Afterward I felt sorry that I had encouraged him to hope,
for it was my misfortune to read to him a very cold letter from his
lady-love, who declined to marry "a _cripple_." She wanted a husband
who could support her, and as some man who lived near was "mighty fond
of her company and could give her a good home," she reckoned she would
take his offer under consideration.
For a few days my poor young friend was inconsolable; but one morning
I found him singing. "I've been thinking over that matter," said he,
"and I reckon I've had a lucky escape. That trifling girl would never
have made me a good, faithful wife." From that day he seemed to have
recovered his cheerfulness. I have never forgiven that faithless girl.
All over the South, wherever "pain and anguish wrung the brow" of
their defenders, women became "ministering angels."
Even those who had been bereft of their own suppressed their tears,
stifled the cry of bleeding hearts, and, by unwearied attention to
living sufferers, strove to honor their dead. Self-abnegation was,
during the war, a word of meaning intense and real. Its spirit had its
dwelling-place in the souls of faithful women, looked out from the
bright eyes of young girls, whose tender feet were newly set in a
thorny pathway, as well as from the pale, stricken faces of those
whose hearts the thorn had pierced.
Among the tender and true women with whom I have corresponded since
the war is the mother of Colonel Robadeaux Wheat, the noble
Louisianian who fell at Gaines's Mill. I have several of her letters
by me, written in the tremulous hand of one who had passed her
seventy-ninth birthday, but glowing with love for the _cause_, and
fondest pride in the sons who died in its defence. It is touching to
see how she clings to and cherishes the record, given by his
companions in arms, of "Robadeux's" last hours on earth, when, in the
early morning, before going forth to battle, his heart seemed to
return to the simple faith of his boyhood, and, gathering his
subordinate officers around him in his tent; he read reverently the
service of prayer which committed himself and them to the protection
of the God of battles. Mrs. Wheat's letters are, I think, among the
most beautiful and touching I ever read, yet sprightly and
interesting. Believing that all my readers will feel an interest in
the mother of glorious "Bob Wheat," I will here transcribe a small
portion. In one letter she says,--
"I am, thank God, in excellent health for one aged seventy-eight.
My husband was born in this city (Washington, D.C.) in _the year
one, he says_.
"We shall soon celebrate the fifty-ninth anniversary of our
marriage, and he is deeply engaged upon some 'post-nuptial lines'
for me."
In another,--
"I want to send you a sword and flag for the Exposition. How I wish
I could _take_ it to New Orleans, where I lived many years when my
husband was rector of St. Paul's Church! You know, our second son,
I.T. Wheat, was Secretary of the Secession Committee when Louisiana
seceded, also Secretary of the Legislature. He was killed at Shiloh
at the same hour as General Sydney Johnston, and is buried in
Nashville. We are hoping to have the dear brother's monument in
Hollywood, Richmond, where both beloved ones shall rest in the same
grave." .... In conclusion, "Our love and blessings rest ever on
yourself and all friends of our hero sons. Truly yours, in
Christian fellowship,
"Selima Wheat."
Here is the record of another mother, who is to this day proud of the
splendid record made by her sons, and devoted in the memory of _the
cause_.
At the commencement of the war there lived in Sharon, Mississippi, Mr.
and Mrs. O'Leary, surrounded by a family of five stalwart sons. Mrs.
Catharine O'Leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an
unfaltering patriot, and her heart was fired with love for the cause
of Southern liberty. Therefore, when her brave sons, one after the
other, went forth to battle for the right, she bade them God-speed.
"Be true to your God and your country," said this noble woman, "and
never disgrace your mother by flinching from duty."
Her youngest and, perhaps, dearest was at that time only fifteen. For
a while she felt that his place was by her side; but in 1863, when he
was barely seventeen, she no longer tried to restrain him. Her
trembling hands, having arrayed the last beloved boy for the
sacrifice, rested in blessings on _his_ head ere he went forth.
Repressing the agony which swelled her heart, she calmly bade him,
also, "Do your whole duty. If you must die, let it be with your face
to the foe." And so went forth James A. O'Leary, at the tender age of
seventeen, full of ardor and hope. He was at once assigned to courier
duty under General Loring. On the 28th of July, 1864, at the battle of
Atlanta, he was shot through the hip, the bullet remaining in the
wound, causing intense suffering, until 1870, when it was extracted,
and the wound healed for the first time. Notwithstanding this wound,
he insisted upon returning to his command, which, in the mean time,
had joined Wood's regiment of cavalry. This was in 1865, and so
wounded he served three months, surrendering with General Wirt Adams
at Gainesville. A short but very glorious record. This young hero is
now residing in Shreveport, Louisiana, is a successful physician, and
an honored member of the veteran association of that city,--Dr. James
A. O'Leary.
Of his brothers, the oldest, Ignatius S. O'Leary, served throughout
the war, and is now a prominent druggist of Vicksburg, Mississippi.
Dr. Richard O'Leary, surgeon P.A.C.S., now practises medicine in
Vicksburg.
Cornelius O'Leary, badly wounded at the battle of Fredericksburg, lay
on the field for hours with the legions of friend and foe alternately
charging over him. After a long illness he recovered, and is now a
planter near Sharon, Mississippi.
John Pearce O'Leary was killed in the battle of the Wilderness.
Mrs. O'Leary still lives in Sharon. The old fire is unquenched.
There are two names of patriotic women which will always awaken in
every Southern heart profound veneration, and imperishable love and
gratitude,--women who devoted themselves so entirely, so continuously
to the soldiers of the Confederacy as to obliterate self,
unconsciously winning for themselves the while a name and fame which
history will proudly record.
Their names--written in many hearts, fondly cherished in the homes of
veterans whose children are taught to revere them--are Mrs. Buck
Morris and Mrs. L.M. Caldwell. Mrs. Morris was by birth a Kentuckian,
but at the beginning of the war resided with her husband, a prominent
and wealthy lawyer, in Chicago, Illinois.
Her sympathies, always Southern, became strongly enlisted upon the
side of the unfortunate prisoners at Camp Douglas. Both Judge Morris
and his wife were deeply implicated in the plot to release these men.
Their home in Chicago was a place of secret rendezvous for Southerners
who, in the interest of these prisoners, were secretly visiting
Chicago.
By some means constant communication with the prisoners was
established, and if they still suffered horribly, hope revived among
them for a while, and her blessed presence lightened their burdens.
Mrs. Morris well knew that by implicating herself in the plot she was
placing herself and husband in a position to suffer in their own
persons and property in case of failure. Death would be the most
probable consequence. Yet she risked it all. To use her own words,
copied from a letter which I received from her shortly before her
death, "I _did_ help my suffering, starving countrymen, who were
subjected to the horrors of Camp Douglas. I loved them with all the
sympathy and pride of a mother, and I did spend upon them every dollar
of my own money and as much of my husband's as I could _get_ by fair
means or foul in my hands.
"At the close of the war we found ourselves broken in health and
fortune, but my husband had still enough left for our support; but the
great Chicago fire swept our all away.
"Should my health improve, I wish to make an effort to send you a
fuller account, and to add my small morsel of praise to the gallantry
and patient endurance of the most bitter and maddening trials that men
were ever called upon to endure.
"One unselfish action I would like to have recorded of a member of
J.H. Morgan's command, the same to which my dear friend Colonel B.F.
Forman belonged, and he can tell you how proud all Kentucky was of her
brave boys. This is what I wish to write, because I like to have every
noble deed recorded. After my good brother, Ex-Governor Blackman (who
has administered medicine whenever I needed it), removed to Tennessee,
and I felt the attack coming on from which I have so long and so
severely suffered, I applied to Dr. R. Wilson Thompson for medical
advice, and, receiving it, put my hand in my pocket. He said, almost
sternly, 'No, no, Mrs. Morris, do not attempt that; you cannot do it,'
and, rising abruptly, left the house. Returning the second day, he
said, 'I fear you did not understand me, Mrs. Morris: I feel as every
Confederate soldier feels, or ought to feel,--that he could never do
enough for _you_; we could never receive pay from _you_ for anything.'
And so for the last five months he, although like many of our brave
boys has had many hardships to endure, and his constitution shattered,
has come through snow and sleet night and day to minister to the
relief of an old woman who only did her duty to him and his people
twenty long years ago. How few remember to be grateful so long!
Present my best love to my old friend B.F. Forman. I remain always
your friend and well-wisher,
"MRS. MARY B. MORRIS.
"SPRING STATION, KENTUCKY."
From one of the many Louisiana soldiers who received, at the hands of
Mrs. Caldwell, the tender care and excellent nursing which doubtless
saved his life, I have received a description of the "Refuge," which,
during three years of the war, was opened to Louisiana soldiers; not
to officers, although a few personal friends of Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell
were there by special invitation; but it was understood that none but
private soldiers were expected without an invitation, while all
privates were welcomed as to a home.
The 'Refuge,' the residence of John B. Caldwell during the war, was
situated in Amherst County, Virginia, about three and a half miles
from Lynchburg. The residence was of peculiar build, having more the
appearance of the Queen Anne style of architecture than any else, and
was probably the only house in that section of country where the
constructor had diverged from the accepted style for a country
residence, hence, even in its isolated situation, it was known far and
wide. The estate comprised an area of about eight hundred acres, and
was cultivated in wheat, corn, etc. The route to it from Lynchburg
lay, for about a mile and a half, along the north side of the James
River, from which the road turned at almost right angles toward the
north, over an undulating country, and through a long lane, which was
part of the farm.
The house stood about fifty yards from the road, and presented a
rather picturesque appearance, the lawn being surrounded by a fence,
outside of which and in front of the house a circular lawn had been
laid out, around which was the carriage drive.
There were four rooms on the ground floor of the house, and two in the
main building up-stairs, and two additional rooms which had been
added, but were so situated that an accurate description would be hard
to give, and perhaps harder to understand after giving.
The house faced nearly east, and had a porch up and down-stairs, and
on the north side a gallery. There were the usual out-houses, and a
feature of the place was the spring, which was situated at the foot of
the hill upon which the house stood. Water was supplied from this
spring by means of a ram-pump with pipes. Around the spring was a
growth of very fine walnut-and chestnut-trees, which made it a very
cool retreat during the warm days of summer. A large orchard of
apples, plums, and peaches was immediately in the rear of the
residence. Between the farm and the road which led from Lynchburg to
Amherst Court-House, a distance of about two miles, was a thick growth
of woods, consisting principally of chestnut-trees.
"The whole face of the country consisted of hills and dales, and was
rather rugged; the soil rather poor, probably having been exhausted by
long cultivation. The nearest house was fully a mile distant, that
section of country being but sparsely settled."
Their painful journey thitherward ended, just imagine what it must
have been to these suffering men to arrive at such a haven of rest!--a
"refuge" indeed. Think of the cool, breezy chambers, clean and white
and fragrant, _like home_, of the tender ministry of that gentle
woman, whose loving service was theirs to command, of the country
food, of the cool, sparkling water from the spring under the oaks,
held to fevered lips by ever-ready hands, while the favored patients
drank at the same time draughts of sympathy from eyes whose kindly
glances fell upon the humblest as upon their very own. The excellence
and faithfulness of the nursing is fully proved by the fact that while
three or four hundred patients were sent to this blessed "Refuge," no
mortality occurred among the soldiers, the only death being that of a
little son of Captain Laurence Nichols, who had fallen in battle at
Gaines's Mill, and whose widow found in this lovely, hospitable home a
temporary resting-place for the body of her gallant husband, and
shelter for herself and child, a lovely boy of three years, who was
thence transferred to the arms of the Good Shepherd. Sad, indeed, were
the hearts of the little band of women gathered at the "Refuge."
The trials of the bereaved wife and mother were indeed sore and hard
to be borne, but she could go to the graves of her dead and there pray
for faith to look upward, where she knew her treasures were safe for
time and for eternity. Under the same roof the wife of General Francis
T. Nichols passed days and nights of agonizing suspense. Her husband
was wounded and a prisoner. She knew he had suffered amputation of an
arm, but could learn nothing more. _Rumors_ were fearful enough to
distress the young wife, whose trembling heart was filled with
foreboding. Every few days reports that _seemed_ true startled
her,--he was _dead_. Alas! it might be true, for how could he live in
the midst of enemies to whom his high spirit would not bend, wounded,
suffering, deprived of the loving care for which he pined? Again, he
had tried to escape in the garb of a peddler, and had been taken up as
a spy (which no one who knew him believed). In that sad household Mrs.
Caldwell's duties became onerous and multifarious enough to appall one
less stout-hearted or less devoted to the cause. The inmates of the
dwelling looked to her for sympathy, advice, nursing, and all kinds of
attention, as well as for the comfort which could come only by
superexcellent housekeeping. And all this was done, and _well_ done,
by one woman, inspired by supreme devotion to the _Confederate_ cause
and its defenders. Truly such a woman deserves to be immortalized, to
live in history long after the hearts that now enshrine her image
shall have ceased to beat.
Later, larger hospital accommodation having been provided, it became
difficult to obtain permission for private soldiers to leave the wards
to which they had been assigned.
Mr. and Mrs. J. Edwards Caldwell then resolved to fill up the "Refuge"
with their own friends among the officers, saying to each other, "We
will do all the good we can, and will agree to sustain each other in
any course without consulting." Very sick and very badly-wounded
patients were now sent to Mrs. Caldwell. In fact, cases which were
considered hopeless, but lingering, were despatched from the hospital
to the "Refuge" to die, but not one of them did what was expected of
him. The efforts of Mrs. Caldwell were blessed of God, and her
patients, without exception, improved. One of these was Lawson Lewis
Davis, of New Orleans, wounded at Frazier's Mills, near Richmond. He
was suffering from a terrible wound, the cap of the shoulder having
been removed. He suffered for a whole year before recovering. A still
more remarkable case was that of Captain Charles Knowlton, Tenth
Louisiana Regiment. He was wounded in the knee in November, 1863, and
was at once invited to the "Refuge," but, having recession of the
knee, was compelled to remain under surgical treatment until April,
1864, when he was sent to Mrs. Caldwell, and remained nine months more
under her care. An order had been issued that in all such cases
amputation should be performed, but Dr. Reid, of Richmond, his
attendant surgeon, decided to attempt to save the limb, and was
successful. Out of many cases of the kind, this was the only one
recorded where amputation was avoided and the patient's life was
saved.
Captain Knowlton now resides near Hopevilla, East Baton Rouge,
Louisiana, is married, and has two children. Another desperate case
was that of John McCormick, from whose leg nearly all the bones were
removed, but who also recovered.
There were, besides, three men sick of fever and dysentery,
desperately ill, considered hopeless when sent to the "Refuge," but
who all recovered. This is certainly a remarkable record, and one to
be proud of. Among the patients was that noble patriot, Colonel
Alcibiades de Blanc, of St. Martin's Parish, Louisiana, of whom
Lousianians proudly relate that he refused to be made a
brigadier-general, saying he did not feel competent to fill such a
position, and was content to serve his country as a private soldier,
feeling that no position could be more honorable.
Of Company K, Eighth Louisiana, and Company H, Seventh Louisiana,
nearly all the sick and wounded enjoyed, at one time or another during
the war, the hospitalities of the "Refuge." General Hays was a
personal friend and honored guest. Henry Weir Baker there recovered
from typhoid fever. This gentleman was a member of Washington
Artillery, a distinction which is enough of itself, without an added
word of praise. He is now residing in New Orleans, a successful
journalist, and has been untiring in his patriotic efforts to develop
the splendid resources of Louisiana. Fred Washington, of New Orleans,
was also saved to his country by the kindly attentions of Mrs.
Caldwell. He also is an honored citizen of New Orleans, engaged as a
journalist, and is one of the faithful few who _do not forget_.
He is an active member of the association A.N. Va., always "to the
fore" when opportunities occur to honor the dead Confederates or to
succor the living.
Of the hundreds who now live to remember with liveliest gratitude the
"Refuge" they once found from the horrors and toils and pains of
battle, and the gentle hostess who so unweariedly ministered to them,
I can gather only a few names besides those already mentioned,--those
of Lieutenant Brooks, Seventh Louisiana; Dr. Henry Larreux, ---- ----;
Lieutenant Henri Puisson, Tenth Louisiana.
Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell were New Orleans people. Their temporary home in
Virginia was taken with the definite object in view of offering a
"refuge" to sick and wounded Louisiana soldiers. She is, of course,
proud of its "record" and her own, but simply says in her letter to
me, "On opening the 'Refuge' (Mr. John Edwards Caldwell said to his
wife) we will each do all we find to do, and all we _can_ do, without
consulting or telling each other what we do. And this we carried out."
While seeking materials for this sketch, I have interviewed several of
the veterans who were in Virginia her guests and patients. I had but
to mention her name to ask, "Do you know Mrs. Caldwell, of the
'Refuge?'" and forthwith the eyes of stern men grew misty, and an
indescribable look brightened careworn faces, the look I know so well
and have learned to think more beautiful than "any light that falls on
land or sea." "_Know her!_ Why, but for her I must have died." Thus to
become of blessed memory is worth a lifetime of toil and
self-devotion. And yet the _cause_ and its defenders were worth it
all, and more. As far as the wounded and sick soldiers are concerned,
I am sure that Mrs. Caldwell, equally with myself and all others, who
during the war were so blessed as to be permitted to minister to them,
will be willing to declare that magnificent as were their brave deeds,
their patient endurance seemed almost "the better part of valor."
There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman
which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted of
Confederate women: I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company K,
Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861, and
never deserted the "b'ys" for a day until the surrender.
She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting
was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm,
Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to
risk the dangers of every battle-field where the regiment was engaged,
unheeding the zip of the minies, the shock of shells, or the horrible
havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely succor to
the wounded or comfort the dying. When in camp she looked after the
comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one escaped
being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so well. She
managed by some means to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying
at times thirty-five dollars per pound for it. The surrender almost
broke her heart. Her defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner. I
will give in her own words an account of what followed.
"Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. The next day,
when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I asked
them what would they do with _me_. They tould me to 'go to the divil.'
I tould them, 'I've been long enough in his company; I'd choose
something better.' I then asked them where any Confederates lived.
They tould me about three miles through the woods. On my way I met
some Yankees. They asked me, 'What have you in that bag?' I said,
'Some rags of my own.' I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new
dresses at the bottom; and sure I got off with them all. Then they
asked me if I had any money. I said no; but in my stocking I had two
hundred dollars in Confederate money. One of the Yankees, a poor divil
of a private soldier, handed to me three twenty-five cents of Yankee
money. I said to him, 'Sure, you must be an Irishman.' 'Yes,' said he.
I then went on till I got to the house. Mrs. Crump and her sister were
in the yard, and about twenty negro women--no men. I had not a bite
for two days, nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness. Mrs.
Crump said, 'Don't cry, you are among friends.' She then gave me
plenty to eat,--hot hoe-cake and buttermilk. I stayed there fifteen
days, superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men.
One-half of the house was full of Confederates, and the other of
Yankees. They then brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees
were gathered together. There was an ould doctor there, and he began
to curse me, and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. I
tould him, 'And what have _you_ to say to what you done to _our_ poor
fellows?' He tould me to shut up, _and sure I did_. They asked me
fifty questions after, and I never opened me mouth. The next day was
the day when all the Confederate flags came to Petersburg. I had some
papers in my pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so I
chewed them all up and ate them, but I wouldn't take the oath, and _I
never did take it_. The flags were brought in on dirt-cars, and as
they passed the Federal camps them Yankees would unfurl them and shake
them about to show them. My journey from Burkesville to Petersburg was
from eleven in the morning till eleven at night, and I sitting on my
bundle all the way. The Yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me,
and calling me a damn rebel, and more ugly talk. I said, 'Mabbe some
of you has got a mother or wife; if so, you'll show some respect for
_me_.' Then they were quiet. I had to walk three miles to Captain
Buckner's headquarters. The family were in a house near the
battle-ground, but the door was shut, and I didn't know who was
inside, and I couldn't see any light. I sat down on the porch, and
thought I would have to stay there all night. After a while I saw a
light coming from under the door, and so I knocked; when the door was
opened and they saw who it was, they were all delighted to see me,
because they were afraid I was dead. I wanted to go to Richmond, but
would not go on a Yankee transportation. When the brigade came down, I
cried me heart out because I was not let go on with them. I stayed
three months with Mrs. Cloyd, and then Mayor Rawle sent me forty
dollars and fifty more if I needed it, and that brought me home to New
Orleans."
Mrs. Rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of
Louisiana. At the Soldiers' Home she holds the position of matron, and
her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to "Camp
Nichols."
Upon every occasion when the association of A.N.Va. appear as an
association, Mrs. Rooney is with them, an honored and honorary member.
Neatly dressed, her cap of the real Irish pattern surmounting her
face, beaming with pride in "the _b'ys_."
In fiery patriotism, unfaltering devotion, defiant courage the women
of New Orleans had no rival, save the women of Baltimore. I know no
other place where the fiery furnace was so hot, the martyrdom so
general or so severe. In both instances the iron hand of despotism
failed to crush or subdue.
Women continued to give aid and comfort to Confederate soldiers in
hospital and prison, using every art they possessed to accomplish
their ends. The sick were nursed and fed and comforted. Prisoners were
assisted to escape, concealed until they could be spirited away, while
their fair friends bravely faced and dared the consequences of
discovery, never hesitating to avow their partisanship, crying, "If
this be treason, make the most of it." A dozen arrests among these
devotees did no good, for their name was legion. Every house was a
nest of "treason;" for here dwelt the women whose best beloved were
Confederate soldiers.
And when the end came, when the bravest soldiers returned, wretched
and despairing, even weeping bitter tears within the faithful arms
that sheltered them, the faces which bent above them still bravely
smiled. Beloved voices whispered of encouragement and hope, patient
hearts assumed burdens under which men fainted and failed.
From the root of patriotism, deeply buried in the hearts of Southern
women, sprung a new and vigorous growth. Its tendrils overspread and
concealed desolate places; the breath of its flowers filled all the
land, stealing over the senses like an invigorating breeze.
"There is life in the old land yet," said men to each other. Let us
cherish and develop it. And so, once more each lifted his heavy
burden, and finding it unexpectedly lightened, turned to find at his
side, no longer a helpless clinging form which should hamper his every
step, but a true woman, strong in the love which defied
discouragement, "with a heart for any fate," a _helpmeet_, indeed, who
hereafter would allow no burden to remain unshared.
Thus faithful to the living, the women of the South never forgot their
dead heroes. At first it was impossible to do more than to "keep
green" their sacred graves, or to deposit thereon a few simple
flowers, but the earliest rays of the sun of prosperity fell upon many
a "storied urn and animated bust," raised by tireless love and
self-sacrifice, to mark "the bivouac of the dead." In connection with
one of these, erected by the ladies of New Orleans, in Greenwood
Cemetery, I know an anecdote which has always seemed to me
particularly beautiful and touching, as illustrative of an exquisite
sentiment which could have had its birth only in the heart of a true
and tender woman. After the removal of the bones of the Confederate
soldiers, who had died in and about New Orleans, from their lowly
graves to their last resting-place, under their grand and beautiful
monument, many people repaired thither as to a shrine. Among them
appeared one evening Mrs. H----, a sister of the gallant and
ever-lamented Major Nelligan, of the First Louisiana. After viewing
the monument, Mrs. H---- strolled over among the graves, and there
came upon a few bones of Confederate soldiers, which had been
accidentally left upon the ground.
They seemed to her so precious, so sacred, that they must have
sepulchre; but how should she accomplish this end? Nothing that she
had or could get, in short, nothing that had been used would do.
Instantly she sought the first store where a piece of new linen could
be bought; returning with it, she reverently laid the bones within it,
and, without speaking a word to any one of her intentions, buried them
in the garden at home, where they now lie.
I have not yet told all I know about Confederate women, nor even the
half, nor is it needful that I should. While recounting their history
to future generations, Fame will put by her brazen trumpet, yet sing
their praises in tones so sweet and clear that all the world shall
hear and wonder and admire.