CHAPTER X.

"BOB WHEAT."

_The Boy and the Man._

(Communicated.)

In the early summer of 1846, after the victories of Palo Alto and

Resaca de la Palma, the United States Army, under General Zachary

Taylor, lay near the town of Matamoras. Visiting the hospital quarters

of a recently-joined volunteer corps from "the States," I remarked a

bright-eyed youth of some nineteen years, wan with disease, but cheery

withal. The interest he inspired led to his removal to army

headquarters, where he soon recovered health and became a pet. This

was "Bob Wheat," son of an Episcopal clergyman, and he had left school

to come to the war. He next went to Cuba with Lopez, was wounded and

captured, but escaped the garroters to follow General Walker to

Nicaragua.

Exhausting the capacity of South American patriots to _pronounce_, he

quitted their society in disgust, and joined Garibaldi in Italy,

whence his keen scent of combat summoned him home in time to receive a

bullet at Manassas. The most complete Dugald Dalgetty possible; he had

"all the defects of the good qualities" of that doughty warrior.

Some months after the time of which I am writing, a body of Federal

horse was captured in the valley of Virginia. The colonel commanding,

who had dismounted in the fray, approached me. A stalwart, with huge

moustache, cavalry boots adorned with spurs worthy of a caballero,

slouched hat and plume; he strode along with the nonchalant air of one

who had wooed Dame Fortune too long to be cast down by her frowns.

Suddenly Major Wheat near by sprung from his horse with a cry of

"Percy, old boy!" "Why, Bob!" was echoed back, and a warm embrace

followed. Colonel Percy Windham, an Englishman in the Federal service,

had parted from Wheat in Italy, where the pleasant business of killing

was then going on, and now fraternized with his friend in the manner

described.

Poor Wheat! A month later he slept his last sleep on the bloody

battle-field of Cold Harbor. He lies there in a soldier's grave.

Gallant spirit; let us hope that his readiness to die for his country

has made "the scarlet of his sins like unto snow."

PART II.

FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

CHAPTER I.

NELLY.

In the early autumn, on a lovely afternoon, a little girl sat upon the

stile which led from a spacious farmyard into a field of newly-mown

wheat. In her hand she held a long switch, and her business was to

watch the motions of a large flock of fowls, which, as is usual at

harvest-time, had been kept in their coop all day, and only let out

for an hour or two, just before sunset, to run about in the grassy

yard, seeking bugs and worms, or other dainties, which they alone know

how to find.

Of course they could not be allowed in the field before the grain had

been safely garnered, so Nelly had been permitted to mount guard upon

the stile, the better to observe and control them. She quite felt the

importance of the trust, and, holding her switch as proudly as if it

had been a sceptre, was eager and quick to discover occasions to use

it. Many a staid and demure-looking hen, or saucy, daring young

chicken, had stolen quite near to her post, stopping every few moments

to peer cautiously around, or to peck at a blade of grass or an

imaginary worm, as if quite indifferent to the attractions presented

by the field beyond, but just as they had come close to the fence,

thinking themselves unnoticed, Nelly would jump from her perch, and,

with a _thwack_ of the switch, send them squawking back to their

companions. At length, however, the child seemed to grow weary of her

task. Slowly descending to the ground, she walked toward the barn,

and, returning with her apron full of corn, opened the door of the

chicken-house, and, having enticed her charge within, shut them up

for the night. This done, Nelly wandered aimlessly about for a while,

then, sitting down upon a large stone, which seemed to have been

rolled under a tree just to make a nice seat, she looked around

in an impatient and discontented manner. The sights and sounds

which surrounded her were very pleasant, and--one would have

imagined--exceedingly attractive to a child. The rays of the declining

sun, slanting across the grassy yard, brightened up the low, brown

farm-house until the old-fashioned glass door and latticed windows on

either side seemed as if brilliantly lighted from within. One might

easily have imagined it an enchanted castle. The mossy roof looked as

if gilded. In front of the house the well-bucket, hanging high upon

the sweep, seemed dropping gold into the depths beneath. On the porch,

upon a table scrubbed "white as the driven snow," were set the bright

tin pans ready to receive the evening's milk. Within the house the

maids were singing gayly as they passed to and fro preparing a

substantial supper for the farmer. Outside, the creaking wagons were

being driven into the barn-yard. Gentle oxen, released from their

daily toil, stood patiently waiting to be fed. Horses, with a great

deal of stamping and fuss, were led into the barn. Up the lane came

the cow-boy, alternately whistling, singing, and cracking his whip,

until at length the drove of sweet-breathed cows stood lowing at the

bars, which, at milking-time, would be let down for them to pass each

to her own stall.

Nelly seemed to see and hear nothing that was passing around her. The

shadow upon her face deepened; the sweet blue eyes filled with tears.

At last she rose, and, crossing the stile, passed rapidly through the

wheat-field, climbed a low stone wall and presently came to a green

knoll, shaded by a sycamore-tree, commanding a view of the public

road. Here she stood, eagerly gazing down the road, while seemingly

struggling to subdue a sorrow which, however, soon found vent in

heart-broken sobs. Still searching the road with anxious, tearful

eyes, she seemed to hesitate for a while, but at last, after casting

many a fearful glance toward the farm-house, the little girl began to

descend the high bank, slipping many times, and sadly scratched by the

rough gravel and projecting roots of the trees.

Having reached the bottom, she did not pause a moment, but drew her

light shawl over her head and ran swiftly away. And now let us try to

discover the cause of all this trouble.

My dear young friends, have you ever heard of a disease called

"nostalgia?" A long, hard word, and one which contains a world of

terrible meaning. It is a kind of sickness which attacks not only

children, but also strong and wise men, who have been known to suffer,

nay, even to _die_, because they could not obtain the only remedy

which ever does any good. Nostalgia means homesickness.

Poor little Nelly was homesick, and in desperation she had fled,

hoping to find, not her own dear, Southern home, for that she knew she

could never see again, but the house of her grandmamma, where she had

some time before left her dear mother. The little girl had, ever since

she could remember, lived very happily with her parents in their

lovely Virginia home. An only child, she was petted to her heart's

content, having scarcely a wish ungratified. But when the war began

her papa became a soldier. Nelly thought he looked very grand in his

uniform of gray with its red trimmings and bright buttons, and rather

liked the idea of having a soldier papa. But after he had gone away

she missed him dreadfully. Her mamma was always so pale and sad that

the child also grew anxious, and could no longer enjoy her play. At

first letters from the absent soldier cheered them, but as the months

passed they ceased to hear at all, except the wild rumors which often

frightened and distressed the anxious wife. "Maum Winnie," an old

negro servant, who claimed to have "raised Mars Ned" (Nelly's papa),

now proved a faithful friend and a great comfort to her mistress; but

Nelly, missing the old woman's cheerful talk and the laugh that used

often to shake her fat sides, thought she had grown cross and

exacting.

The bright morning sunlight sometimes made the little girl forget to

be sorrowful, and when her "Ponto" came frisking around her, she

gladly joined him in a wild romp. Immediately Maum Winnie would

appear, the very picture of dignified astonishment,--"Now, Miss Nelly,

_ain't_ you 'shame'? Yer pore mar she bin had a mity onrestless night,

an' jes' as she 'bout to ketch a nap o' sleep, yere you bin start all

dis 'fusion. Now, her eye dun pop wide open, an' she gwine straight to

studyin' agin." The days passed, each made more gloomy by rumors of

the near approach of the enemy. At last, one dreadful night, a

regiment of Federal soldiers suddenly appeared, and at midnight Nelly

and her mamma were compelled to seek shelter in Maum Winnie's cabin.

The next morning only a heap of smoking ruins remained to show where

their sweet home had been.

The plantation owned by Nelly's papa was some three miles distant from

the family residence; therefore, only the few servants necessary for

household service lived upon the "home place." Their cabins, somewhat

removed from the house, had escaped the flames. Maum Winnie's was

larger and better furnished than any, and far more attractive in

appearance. A rustic fence, built by her old husband, "Uncle Abe"

(long since dead), enclosed a small yard, where grew all kinds of

bright, gaudy "posies," with here and there a bunch of mint or parsley

or sage, and an occasional stalk or two of cabbage. Over the little

porch were trained morning-glories and a flourishing gourd vine.

Beneath, on each side, ran a wide seat, where, in the shade, Maum

Winnie used to sit with her knitting, or nodding over the big Bible

which on Sunday evening she always pretended to read. The neat fence

was now broken down, the bright flowers all trampled and crushed by

the feet of men and horses. Inside also, the once spotless floor was

muddy and stained with tobacco, all the old woman's treasures being

broken and scattered. Amid all this confusion, in the little front

room, once the pride of Winnie's heart, was carefully placed almost

the only thing saved from the burning, an easy-chair, cushioned upon

the back and sides, and covered with old-fashioned chintz. How the

faithful soul had managed to get it there no one could have told, but

there it stood, and Winnie said, "Dat ar wos ole mistes' cheer, and

she sot in it plum twill she die. Ole Winnie couldn't stan' an' see

_dat_ burn, nohow." Upon the little porch sat Nelly and her mamma on

the morning after the fire, worn out with excitement, and feeling

utterly forlorn. Soon Winnie appeared, bearing upon a gay red tray two

steaming cups of coffee. Mrs. Grey took only a sip or two, then

setting the cup upon the bench at her side, she grasped the arm of her

old servant, and, leaning her head upon the faithful breast, began to

sob and moan piteously. Nelly at this also cried bitterly. Tears

streamed down Winnie's fat black cheeks. But the faithful negro tried

to soothe and comfort her mistress, patting her shoulders as if she

had been a baby, saying, "Dah! Dah! honey, don't take it so haad. Try

to truss in de Lawd. He dun promus, an' he aint gwine back on nobody.

I's dun sperience _dat_."

At last, won by Nelly's caresses and Maum Winnie's coaxing, the weary

lady consented to take some repose in "ole missis' cheer," where,

leaning her aching head upon the cushioned side, she fell asleep.

Nelly greatly enjoyed the strong coffee (which she never before had

been allowed to drink). It made her feel very wide awake. Presently

she strolled off toward the adjoining cabins. These were quite empty,

the men-servants having disappeared with the Federal soldiers the

night before, the women had followed to their camp not far distant.

Not a living thing was to be seen; even the chickens had disappeared.

The whole scene was very desolate,--the smoking ruins, the deserted

cabin, a cloudy sky. Soon the child remembered her playfellow, Ponto,

and began to call him. A doleful whine answered her, seeming to

proceed from under one of the negro cabins. Nelly stooped to look, but

could only see two glowing eyes, and hear the knocking of the dog's

tail upon the ground. Ponto had been so badly frightened that no

coaxing or ordering would induce him to come out. So his little

mistress walked angrily away, and, passing through the broken gate,

stood looking up and down the road. Presently there came riding along

a Federal officer on horseback, who, discovering the forlorn child,

stopped to speak to her.

Nelly's first impulse was to run away, but, instead, she stood

clinging to the gate-post, kicking the ground with one foot and

flashing angry glances at the "Yankee." The officer sighed deeply as

his glance fell upon the ruined home, and then upon the little,

tear-stained face before him. Dismounting, he approached more closely,

and strove to take the unwilling hand. But the child now broke into a

storm of sobs, crying out, "Go away! you're a naughty Yankee, and I

hate you. 'You alls' have burnt up my mamma's pretty house, and all

our things, and my mamma just cries and cries; but my papa is gone to

fight the 'Yankees,' and I hope he will shoot them all!"

The soldier slowly paced back and forth. "Ah," said he, softly, "if

this were my little Ida: God bless her! Little girl, where is your

mamma? Perhaps I can help her. Will you lead me to her?"

The child had hidden her face upon her arm, but now looked up in

affright. "You won't hurt my mamma? You ar'n't going to burn up Maum

Winnie's house?" said she.

Gradually his kind face and gentle manner reassured her, and she was,

at last, persuaded to convey to her mother a few lines which he

pencilled on a card. To Nelly's surprise, Mrs. Grey consented to

receive the "Yankee." The little girl was sent to conduct him to the

cabin. The lady was standing at the door as the officer and his little

escort drew near. Nelly thought she had never seen her mamma look so

pretty. Her eyes were shining, a lovely red spot glowed upon each

cheek, but she did not smile as she used to do when receiving a guest,

and, while offering the stranger a seat, she remained standing,

looking very tall and grand.

During the conversation which followed, Mrs. Grey learned that as a

battle was imminent at the front it was impossible to pass her through

the lines (which had been her hope when she consented to see the

officer). It was equally impossible to remain where she was. Her only

place of refuge was her mother's home in Maryland, where she had been

raised, and had lived previous to her marriage.

Promising to arrange for her transportation to the nearest railroad

station, the kind-hearted officer took his leave.

When Maum Winnie was told of the proposed journey, she was greatly

troubled. But when Mrs. Grey further informed her that she was free

and not expected to make one of the party, her distress knew no

bounds. Rushing out of the cabin, she seated herself on a log at some

distance, and, throwing her apron over her head, rocked her body to

and fro, wailing out, "Oh, my hebbenly Marster, 'pears like I aint

fitten to bar all dis trouble. An' how dem dar gwine to do 'out ole

Winnie?"

After a while, drawing her pipe and tobacco from her pocket, she

sought the comfort of a smoke. Just then, Ruthy, the cook, made her

appearance with a large bucket on her head. Flaunting past the old

woman, she entered the kitchen without a word, and set about preparing

a supper for the hungry inmates of the cabin. Where the material came

from she declared was "her bizness," and her saucy manner and

independent talk so confounded Maum Winnie that she asked no more

questions, concluding that "Mars Yankee sont 'em an' made dat gal

fotch 'em."

Mrs. Grey and Nelly had few preparations to make for the morrow. The

child, soon after sunset, threw herself across the foot of the high

feather-bed which stood in a corner of the cabin, and slept soundly.

Maum Winnie, taking off her shoes, bustled about in her stocking-feet,

apparently very busy. Her movements were for some time unobserved by

her mistress, who was lost in thought. At last, kneeling before the

fireplace, she reached up the chimney and brought out from its

hiding-place an old, black tea-pot, with a broken spout. From this she

took several papers of dried "yarbs," some watermelon-seed, an old

thimble, a broken tea-spoon, a lock of "de ole man's ha'r," and

lastly, the foot of an old stocking, firmly tied up.

This last it took some time to undo, but finally, approaching Mrs.

Grey, she turned out into the astonished lady's lap what proved to be

a collection of gold and silver coins, the hoarded savings of years,

the gift of many whom she had served.

"Why, Winnie," said Mrs. Grey, "what does this mean? Where did you get

this money, and why do you give it to me?"

"Wall, Miss Ellen, yo' see, ez fur back ez ole mass an' mistes' time,

me an' my ole man usen to wait on de wite genplums an' ladies wot come

to de big house, an' de ole man he mity clus-fisted, an' nebber spen'

nuffìn, an' sence he die, an' ole mass an' miss dey gone, too, Mars

Ned he dun tuk mity good keer of ole Winnie, an' I nebber bin had no

excessity to spend dat money, so I's kep' it an' kep' it, ontwill

'pears like de Lawd he dun pint out de way fur it to go. 'Sides, we

all's gwine way off yander, an' we can't 'pear _no ways_ 'spectable

'dout little cash money."

"But, Winnie, only Nelly and I are going away. You are free now, and

will find other friends, and--"

"Dah! dah! honey," broke in the poor old creature, "don' say no mo'!

I's _'bleeged_ to go 'long. Wat I want to be free for? Who gwine keer

'bout me? 'Sides, I dun promus Mars Ned I gwine to see to you an' dat

chile yander, an' I's gwine 'long _shuah_."

Wearied and exhausted with the discussion, and unwilling to grieve her

husband's faithful old nurse, who still clung to her own fallen

fortunes, Mrs. Grey ceased to object, but resolutely refused to take

the money, which Winnie reluctantly gathered up and carried out of the

room, to seek among the numerous secret pockets she always wore a

secure hiding-place for her treasure. This decided upon, while Mrs.

Grey sank into an uneasy slumber in the chair, the old woman made a

little fire just outside the back shed, where, with her pipe now

lighted and now "dead out," she nodded and dozed until morning.

Nelly awoke at sunrise, bewildered at her strange surroundings, then

oppressed and sadly grieved by recollections of all that had happened.

Catching sight of her mother's pale, suffering face, the child flew to

her side, seeking to cheer her by fond caresses.

Just then the sound of wheels was heard as the ambulance-wagon, which

was to convey them to the railroad, drew up before the door. The

driver dismounting, announced that, as the camp was about to be broken

up, Colonel ---- desired the ladies to start at once, adding that "the

colonel would ride over to see them off."

Their loss by the fire had been so complete that there was no baggage.

Nelly was glad to wear a clean, white sun-bonnet of Winnie's, and Mrs.

Grey was similarly equipped with a black one and a small black shawl.

Maum Winnie appeared in full Sunday rig, her head crowned with a

towering head-handkerchief. Her manner was lofty and imposing.

Evidently she was aiming to support the family dignity, which had been

quite lost sight of by the others, Mrs. Grey being far too sorrowful,

and Nelly, in spite of everything, gay and excited at the prospect of

a ride and a change. Putting on her brass-rimmed spectacles, the old

woman inspected, with an air of supreme contempt, the "turnout" before

the door, occasionally rolling her eyes toward the driver in a manner

that spoke volumes, but was quite lost upon "dat po' wite trash, who

'spected Miss Ellen to git in dat ole market-wagon." After the others

were seated, Winnie disappeared within the cabin, and, after much

delay, came out dragging an immense bundle. She had tied up in a

gorgeous bed-quilt her feather-bed and pillows with,--nobody knows how

many things besides.

The driver sprang to the ground in consternation.

"Hey, old nigger, what's in that great bundle? You can't lug that

along. What you got in there, anyhow?"

"Dat my bizness," retorted Winnie. "You is too inquisity; 'sides, who

you call nigga'? I's a 'spectable cullud ooman, and Mars Ned nebber

'low nobody to call me outen my name."

Mrs. Grey vainly tried to restore peace; her voice was not even heard;

but just then Colonel ---- rode up, and as Winnie seemed inclined to

stand her ground, he gave her a choice between mounting at once to a

seat beside the driver or being left behind. Then perceiving that Mrs.

Grey seemed quite overcome by emotion, and wishing to remove her as

quickly as possible from the desolate scene before her, he gave the

order to drive on, and, raising his hat, rode off towards camp before

the lady could find voice to express her gratitude. A few hours' ride

brought the refugees to the railroad station, where they took the cars

for ----, the home of Nelly's grandmamma. Here a warm welcome and

entire comfort awaited them. Nelly had often spent weeks at a time

with her grandmamma, and was delighted to find all her old haunts as

pleasant as ever. Her dolls, toys, books, etc., had been carefully

kept. Better than all, she discovered a fine Newfoundland puppy and a

litter of pretty white kittens to console her for the loss of Ponto.

One day, when they had been at grandmamma's only a fortnight, Nelly

saw a neighboring farmer drive up to the front gate, and ran gladly to

meet him, for farmer Dale was a cheery old man, who had always seemed

very fond of the child. Now, however, he looked very grave, merely

shaking hands, then bidding Nelly tell her grandmamma that he must see

her at once, "and, Nelly, you need not come back," said he, "I have

business with your grandma." Soon after the farmer drove away, while

grandmamma returned to the house, wearing a very serious face, and

after sitting in the darkened parlor awhile, apparently thinking

deeply, passed slowly into her daughter's room. Then Nelly heard a

faint cry from her mamma, and hurrying into the house, found her

excitedly walking up and down, wringing her hands, and crying, "I must

go to him! I must, I must!" A letter received by farmer Dale from his

son, who was a Confederate soldier, had contained the news that Mr.

Grey was wounded and a prisoner. Just where was unknown, or whether

his wounds were severe or perhaps fatal. This news rendered the poor

wife almost frantic. All night she paced the floor in sleepless agony.

Next day the farmer paid a second visit, and was for a long time

closeted with the distressed ladies. Afterward, Mrs. Grey seemed more

restless than before, requiring the constant attention of both

grandmamma and Maum Winnie. Thus a week passed.

Suddenly, one morning farmer Dale again appeared, and this time very

smiling and gracious to Nelly.

"Chatterbox," said he, "how would you like to ride home with me and

stay awhile, until your mother gets better? You can run about over

there, and make all the noise you want to; nobody will mind it."

Nelly could not tell whether she would like or not. It was very dull

where she was, but she did not care to leave her poor mamma.

Grandmamma, however, decided the matter by assuring her that Mrs. Grey

needed perfect quiet, and would be better without her. So the little

girl ran off to Maum Winnie to be dressed for her ride.

Arrived at the farm-house, the kindness of the family, and the novelty

of everything she saw, so charmed the child that for a while she was

quite content. Little tasks were, by her own request, assigned to her,

easy and pleasant, but seeming to the child of great consequence. But,

in spite of all, homesickness attacked her; she grew weary of

everything, and begged to be taken to her mamma. The kind farmer and

his wife tried to turn her thoughts from the subject, telling her she

could not go just then; but day by day Nelly became more dissatisfied,

the longing for home grew stronger, until, on the evening when this

begins, she actually ran away. And now let us see what became of her.

Once on the road, Nelly ran very fast, until, almost breathless, she

found herself compelled to rest awhile in a little grove by the

roadside. Scarcely had she seated herself upon the grass when the

steady trot, trot of a horse was heard. She had barely time to hide

behind a large tree when one of the farm-hands passed on his way from

the mill. It seemed to Nelly that the slight rustle of the leaves

under her feet must betray her, and the loud beatings of her heart be

heard. But the boy passed on, and soon his low whistle, as well as the

measured beat of the horse's hoofs, grew fainter.

However, all danger was not over, for just as she was about to venture

forth, the panting of some animal startled her. For a moment her

terror was extreme. This changed to chagrin and vexation as Rover, the

farmer's dog, ran to her hiding-place and fawned upon her. Having

followed the farm-boy to the distant mill, the poor dog, growing weary

with his long run, had fallen far behind. Now Rover and the little

girl had been great friends, and had enjoyed many a romp together, but

just then his presence made her very cross; so, seizing a large stick,

she beat the poor fellow until he ran yelping away.

Left alone once more, Nelly set off in the direction of town. Having

often, in her rides with grandmamma, passed along the same road, she

thought she knew the way; but night was approaching. It appeared to

the child that darkness must bring added danger. Besides, she would

soon be missed at the farm, pursued, overtaken, and carried back. This

dread gave her fresh courage, and again the young traveller walked

rapidly on. Before she had gone far, a light wagon overtook her. In

its driver she gladly recognized an old man who sometimes supplied her

grandmamma with vegetables. He drew up in great astonishment as Nelly

called to him, but at her request allowed her to climb to the seat

beside him. As they approached the town, the heart of the runaway

began to sink; a sense of her disobedience, and the knowledge that it

would add to the grief of her dear mother, and, perhaps, greatly

displease grandmamma, oppressed her sorely. She decided that she could

not face them just then. Begging the old man to put her down at the

nearest corner, the unhappy little girl approached the house by a back

entrance, and, concealed amid the shrubbery, stood trembling and

weeping. The lamps had been lighted, and from the windows of the

dining-room a bright ray shone out upon the lawn, seeming almost to

reach the place where the child was hidden. Within was a pleasant

little group gathered around the tea-table. To her great surprise,

Nelly discovered her mother busily engaged in arranging upon a waiter

covered with a white napkin a nice supper, while grandmamma added a

cup of steaming tea. Winnie stood by as if waiting to carry supper to

somebody, but Nelly was puzzled to know for whom it was intended. Just

then, however, the gate-bell rang loudly. Winnie hurriedly caught up

the waiter and disappeared as the opposite door opened to admit farmer

Dale. His first words seemed greatly to disturb and alarm the ladies.

Grandmamma quickly arose with a cry of grief and horror. Mrs. Grey

stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the farmer's face, her hands

pressed to her heart.

Nelly could bear no more. Rushing impetuously into the house, she

threw both her arms around her frightened mother, crying,--

"Oh, mamma, grandmamma, I am not lost, but I have been so naughty. I

wanted you so, and I ran away. Oh, let me stay; please let me stay."

The mother sank into a chair, her arms instinctively enfolding her

naughty child, but she did not kiss or welcome her. Grandmamma, too,

looked very grave and troubled. After a few minutes of painful

silence, the farmer took his leave, saying,--

"I'll leave you to settle with the little one. I must make haste to

relieve my wife's anxiety."

After his departure, the penitent nestled more closely to her mother.

She felt sure of her love and forgiveness, and hoped that grandmamma

might not be too severe, although she fully expected a good scolding

and some kind of punishment besides, which she meant to bear quite

meekly. To her surprise, neither mentioned her fault. Her mother

seemed to be thinking of something else, and Nelly did not at all

understand the queer looks which passed between the ladies. At last

Winnie put her head in the door, evidently to deliver some message,

for she began, "Mars--," when Mrs. Grey started up suddenly, saying,--

"Oh, Winnie, here is our Nelly," while the child sprang forward to

throw herself on the breast of her astonished nurse.

"De Lawd er Massy! Whar dat chile cum from dis time o' nite?"

"Why, Winnie," explained grandmamma, "she has run away from the farm,

and here she is. Did you ever hear of such badness?"

"Dah, now!" cried the negro, "didn't I tole you dat? I jest know dat

chile wasn't gwine to stay nowhar 'dout her mar an' me. Po' chile, she

look mity bad, 'deed she do."

"Well, Winnie, never mind that now, she is only tired; let her eat her

supper and go to bed."

Nelly had expected, at the very least, to be sent supperless to bed,

but instead, grandma gave her all she could eat, and, but for the

strange preoccupied manner which so puzzled her, the child would have

been very comfortable. When, led by her mamma and attended by Winnie,

she went up-stairs she found that her couch had been removed into her

grandmamma's room. "You will be better here," explained Mrs. Grey,

"for I am very restless and might disturb you."

Nelly was just conscious of an unusual bustle in the passage outside,

and of hearing voices and footsteps going up to the third story; but,

too sleepy to pay attention, she soon ceased to hear anything.

When she awoke the morning was far advanced, and her grandmamma was

not in the room. While she lay thinking over the strange events of the

day before, Maum Winnie appeared with some fresh, clean clothes upon

her arm.

"Mornin', little missy," said she, pleasantly; "is you gwine ter sleep

all day?"

Nelly sprang up and was soon dressed. Running into her mamma's room,

she found it all in order, the sweet wind and the morning sun coming

in freely through the open windows. Mrs. Grey, however, was not there;

nor did she find her in the breakfast-room, where only grandmamma sat

waiting to give the child her breakfast. Upon the sideboard stood a

tray which had contained breakfast for somebody; Nelly wondered who,

and suddenly asked,--

"Is mamma sick?"

"No, she is quite well now," was the reply.

"Well, did she eat breakfast with you?"

"Yes."

The child again glanced toward the sideboard, and at last asked

plainly,--

"Whose breakfast is that yonder, and who did you all send supper to

last night?"

"Nelly," said her grandmamma, sharply, "eat your breakfast, and ask no

more questions. Little girls should be seen and not heard."

The child obeyed, but remained curious, and determined to find out the

mystery, if she could. Soon her mother came in, kissed her

affectionately, and stood for a few moments by her chair, smoothing

back her curls just as she used to do. Nelly thought gladly of the

happy day she would spend at her mother's side, but Mrs. Grey

disappointed her by saying,--

"My daughter, you must play as quietly as possible to-day, and don't

run or romp near the house. I am far from well, and very nervous."

The little girl, however, drew her mother out of the room upon the

vine-shaded gallery, where they walked up and down for a few moments.

But Mrs. Grey still seemed ill at ease, and soon returned within the

house. Then Nelly ran down the steps and across the lawn in search of

her old playmates, the kittens and the puppy, visited the garden and

summer-house, where she occupied herself in arranging a bouquet for

her mamma. At last it seemed to her that it must be nearly twelve

o'clock; so returning to the house, and finding the lower rooms

deserted, she wandered into the kitchen, where she found Maum Winnie

broiling some birds and preparing some nice toast, while near by upon

the kitchen-table was a waiter ready to carry up the delicate lunch to

somebody. Nelly at once began,--

"Oh, Maum Winnie, who are those birds for? Where is the cook? What are

you in the kitchen cooking for?"

Winnie seemed wonderfully flurried and confused by all these questions,

and Nelly was equally disconcerted at finding the old woman so cross.

"Jes' listen to de chile!" cried Winnie. "Wot you makin' all dis

miration 'bout? I nebber seed nobody so inquisity as you is. De cook

she dun leff, an' I's cookin' ontwill yer grandmar git somebody. Ef

you don' belieb me, ax yer mar. Ennyhow, I's gwine to 'quaint yer mar

with yer conduck, axin' so many perterment questions."

"But, who are the birds for?" persisted Nelly. "I know mamma never

eats birds, and grandmamma isn't sick."

"I 'clar, Miss Nelly, _I's_ outdone wid you. Go outer heah, 'fore I

calls yer grandmar."

Nelly left, still very curious and dissatisfied.

Having wandered about aimlessly for a while, the little girl at last

strayed into the empty parlor, and there sat down to consider.

Suddenly she heard a stealthy step upon the stairs. At the same time a

faint odor of broiled birds saluted her nostrils. Nelly crept softly

to the door, just in time to see her grandma ascending the flight of

stairs leading to the third story. "Now," thought the child, "I will

find out what all this means."

Waiting until the old lady had passed out of sight in the corridor

above, she stealthily followed. All the doors of the rooms in the

third story were closed, but through an open transom came the sound of

voices. Listening eagerly, she heard her mamma speaking, and in reply

a voice which set her heart beating wildly and made her dizzy with

surprise. In a moment she was vainly striving to open the locked door,

screaming loudly, "Papa! oh, papa!" Instantly the door was opened, and

she found herself dragged inside the room, her grandma's hand placed

closely over her mouth, while her mother, in a hoarse whisper, said,

"Nelly, for _pity's sake hush, no one must know_." Gazing about her

with wildly-distended eyes, the frightened girl beheld, reclining in

an easy-chair by the bedside, her dear papa, but, oh, so pale, so

changed. A small table drawn closely to his side so as to project over

the arm of the chair held a large pillow covered with oil-cloth, upon

this lay one arm, which, with the shoulder, was entirely bare; just

under the collar-bone appeared a frightful wound, over which Mrs. Grey

was preparing to lay a linen cloth wet with cool water. Nelly gasped

for breath and turned very white, but when her papa held out his well

hand towards her with the old sweet smile she so well remembered, she

ran to his side and nestled there, still trembling and sobbing, for

she had been frightened, first by the rough treatment of her grandma,

and yet more by the changed appearance of the dearly-loved father,

who, as it seemed to her, must be dying. As further concealment was

useless, Nelly was taken into the confidence of the ladies, who,

however, seemed almost in despair lest the child in some thoughtless

manner should betray the _secret so anxiously guarded_.

A short time before the visit to the farm a dreadful battle had been

fought in Virginia, not many miles from the State-line, near which

stood the house of Nelly's grandma. It so happened that the regiment

to which Mr. Grey belonged had participated in the fight, and at the

conclusion he found himself badly wounded and a prisoner. Having been

ill previously, the wounded soldier was unable to be marched off with

other prisoners, but was left, as all supposed, to die. The tide of

battle rolled on, leaving the field where the fight began strewn with

the dying and the dead. A blazing sun poured its intolerable light and

heat upon the upturned faces and defenceless heads of hundreds of

suffering, dying men, adding frightful tortures to the pain of their

wounds. When the dews of night came to moisten parched lips, to cool

aching brows, Mr. Grey managed to drag himself to a stump near by, and

placing his back against it, waited hoping to gain a little more

strength. His mouth was parched and dry, but he had not a drop of

water. Suddenly his eyes fell upon a canteen lying at no great

distance, almost within reach of his hand; with infinite pain and

trouble he at last possessed himself of it. It was not quite empty,

but just as Mr. Grey was about to drink, he heard a deep groan, and

turning, met the imploring eyes of a Federal soldier. He was but a

youth, and had been shot through the body and mortally wounded. His

parched lips refused to speak, only the earnest eyes begged for water.

Mr. Grey at once handed him the canteen, although he felt almost as if

he would die for want of the water it contained. Eagerly the dying boy

drank. It seemed as if he must take all, there was so very little, but

after a swallow or two he resolutely handed it back, gasping, "God

bless ----. Left you some." When the moon arose, its rays fell upon

the dead young face of the boy in his gory blue, whose last words had

been a blessing upon the wounded, exhausted soldier in gray sitting

beside him.

Later came help,--old men who, starting when the first news of the

battle reached them, had ridden miles guided by the sound of the

firing. Most of them were Marylanders, who had sent forth their sons

to battle for the Confederate cause, and who now sought among the dead

and dying with dim, anxious eyes for the loved faces they yet prayed

not to find. Among them came farmer Dale, whose son was a Confederate

soldier. Eagerly he examined the faces of those who lay upon the

bloody field. All, however, were strange, until at last he came upon

Mr. Grey. Carefully assisting him to reach an old cabin which stood

near, he made the suffering man as comfortable as possible, then,

without loss of time, set out to convey the news to Mrs. Grey. Now, it

would seem that the very easiest thing would have been to carry the

wounded soldier at once to the house of his wife's mother to be nursed

and _cared_ for, but it must be remembered that the Federal army had

been shown in many ways that they were considered as invaders by the

people of Maryland, and that their presence was obnoxious and hateful.

They, on the other hand, considered all Southern sympathizers as

traitors to their flag and their country. Every open expression of

such feelings was severely punished. Had it been known that any

Confederate soldier was harbored or concealed in any house within the

Federal lines, the owners would have been arrested together with the

soldier they had hidden, their house would probably have been burned.

So it was necessary in the case of Mr. Grey to observe great secrecy

and to plan carefully his removal.

My readers will remember that Nelly was suddenly sent off to stay at

the farm-house. Then Maum Winnie took occasion to pick a quarrel with

the white servants, in which she succeeded so well that they both left

in high displeasure. Shortly afterward, one dark night, Farmer Dale

drove up to the carriage gate with a high-piled load of hay. There was

a great deal of "geeing" and "hawing" and fuss, and then, instead of

getting down, the farmer called out,--

"Say, are you all asleep?"

At once Maum Winnie's voice was heard inquiring,--

"Who dat?"

"Hey, old girl, come down here and open the gate. I've brought your

hay, but I got stalled on the way, and it's too late to put it up

to-night. I'll have to drive the wagon in and leave it. I'll unload it

in the morning."

Maum Winnie shut the window, and soon was heard shuffling along the

carriage-road, grumbling to herself.

"'Fore do Lawd, I _is_ plum wore out. I dun wuk sence sun-up, an' dere

dat ar fodder fotch here jes' es I gwine ter lie down."

This pretence of ill-humor was kept up until the wagon was well out of

sight from the street and driven up under a shed close by the

kitchen-door, when poor old Maum Winnie came up close and whispered,--

"_Is_ you brung Mars Ned shure 'nuff? Oh, _whar_ he? tell Winnie

_whar_ he!"

Just then the two ladies stole out from the house and came close to

the wagon. Both seemed calm and self-possessed, save that the hurried

breathing of Mrs. Grey showed her excitement. A light might have

betrayed them, and they dared not run any risks. No time was now to be

lost. Mr. Grey was, indeed, concealed among the hay, and needed

immediate attention, for the long ride had greatly increased the pain

and fever of his wound.

Slowly he crept out from his hiding-place, and, with the assistance of

the farmer and Winnie, managed to reach an upper room, where he sank

exhausted, yet with a contented sigh, on the comfortable bed which had

been for days awaiting him.

Under the loving care of the ladies and Maum Winnie he slowly

improved. No one had suspected his presence in the house until Nelly

discovered him, as above related.

Mr. Grey scarcely dared to hope that the little girl would be able to

keep the secret, but all was explained to her. She was made to

understand the extreme danger to all concerned in case of discovery.

The trust reposed in her made the child feel quite womanly. Every day

she became more helpful, a greater comfort to her anxious mamma,

better able to assist in nursing.

Weeks passed, bringing renewed health and strength to the soldier, who

began to feel very anxious to rejoin his command. Various plans were

discussed, but none appeared practicable. Rumors of an advance of the

Confederate forces, and of an impending battle, became every day more

like certainties. At last, one morning all were startled by the sound

of heavy guns; later, volleys of musketry could be plainly heard.

Federal troops marched at double-quick through the town, on their way

to the scene of strife. All day the fight raged. Sometimes the sound

of firing would seem nearer, then farther off; at nightfall it ceased.

When it became quite dark, Mr. Grey, bidding them all farewell,

hurriedly left the house, hoping to join some detachment of

Confederates during the night, and to participate in the battle next

day.

The next day was fought the battle of ----, which raged almost in

sight of the town. Nelly was, of course, in a state of great alarm and

excitement, but both her mamma and grandma were carefully preparing

the house for the reception of the wounded. Soon every room was

occupied, and the ladies had their hands full in attending to them. On

the second day a wounded Federal was brought to the house. While

nursing him, Mrs. Grey learned that he was a private in the regiment

commanded by Colonel ----, the officer who had so kindly assisted in

her time of need. He told her that the colonel had been terribly

wounded and carried to a hospital on the battle-field. Mrs. Grey at

once determined to find him, and, if still alive, to do him all the

good in her power. So, summoning farmer Dale, she rode with him to the

hospital. Being an officer, Colonel ---- was easily found. He had just

suffered amputation of an arm, and was weak from loss of blood, but

recognizing Mrs. Grey, smiled and seemed glad to see her. It was

impossible to move him, but from that time he lacked nothing that

could add to his comfort. Later, Nelly was allowed to visit him,

frequently bringing flowers, and in many pleasant ways cheering his

loneliness.

Meanwhile the Confederate forces had swept on into Pennsylvania, but,

alas, were forced back. When they returned to Virginia, Mrs. Grey and

Nelly went with them, for both preferred to risk all chances rather

than to remain within the Federal lines, cut off from all

communication with the husband and father who might at any time need

their services. So they became "refugees," living as did thousands of

homeless ones, as best they might. Maum Winnie having proved her skill

as a nurse, found plenty of employment. Her wages, added to the little

Mrs. Grey could earn by her needle, kept them from absolute want. At

last came the sad day of "the surrender."

Nelly was yet too young to understand the sorrow and despair of her

mother, nor could she refrain from exceeding wonder when one day Mr.

Grey appeared, looking like an old and haggard man, and without a

greeting to his wife and child, tottered to a seat, throwing his arms

upon the table, burying his face within them, while be moaned and

sobbed as only a man can. Kneeling by his side, his wife tried to

soothe and comfort him, but although he was able at last to restrain

his grief, it was many a day before he was seen to smile.

There was nothing left for the impoverished family but to return to

the old Virginia home, and try to make the best of it. They were

compelled to travel as best they could, sometimes walking many miles,

sometimes taking advantage of a passing wagon. At last one evening,

just as the sun was setting, they approached the home-place, once a

blooming paradise, now a desert waste. The cabin of Maum Winnie with a

few of the servants' houses were still standing, but deserted and

desolate. Doors, log fireplaces, etc., had been torn down for

firewood, and in many places patches of charred wood, or dead embers,

showed where camp-fires had been lighted. The little garden in front

of Maum Winnie's cabin, made and carefully tended by "de ole man," was

a wilderness of weeds among which flowers of rank growth still

struggled for a place. Where the chimneys of the "house" still stood,

and all over the half-burned trunks of once beautiful trees crept and

clung sickly-looking vines, springing from the roots which had once

nourished a luxuriant growth and were not wholly dead.

As Mr. Grey surveyed the scene, a deep groan burst from his lips; but

the wife laid her hand upon his shoulder, saying, "Courage, dear, we

will make a home even here." Maum Winnie here stepped to the front,

briskly leading the way to the little cabin, followed by Nelly, who,

child-like, entered readily into any plan that promised to be novel

and exciting. Everything of value had been carried off, but a few

chairs and a bed with a shuck mattress remained, together with a few

pots and pans. The fireplaces were also ready for use. Winnie soon had

a cheerful fire, while Nelly set out on the top of a box the remains

of the rations they had brought along, and which with some steaming

coffee of parched corn formed the evening meal.

Ten years later a plain but tasteful cottage occupied the site of the

ruined home. Fast-growing vines were doing their best to rival the

luxuriant foliage which once almost hid the old house. A well-kept

garden perfumed the air and delighted the eye. Fields ripe for the

harvest occupied the land where the negro cabins had stood, forming an

effective background to the newly-repaired and whitewashed house of

Maum Winnie, which stood, a pleasant feature of this scene of peace

and plenty, its fences intact, posies blooming as of old. On the

little porch sat the old woman, dozing over her knitting. The gallery

of the house was occupied by a family group, who were enjoying the

fresh coolness of the evening out of doors. Mrs. Grey sat upon the

upper steps arranging some flowers, which were supplied to her as she

called for them by a lovely boy, who had just brought his apron full

of them. Nelly, swinging in a hammock, was a picture of lazy

enjoyment. The attention of all was attracted by the sound of wheels,

which ceased as a carriage drove up containing a gentleman and lady,

and a young lady who sat by the driver (an old negro who was often

employed as a driver and guide by strangers). Nelly ran down to the

gate, followed by her mother. The gentleman had by this time

descended. One glance at the empty sleeve was enough, even if the

kindly face had not been so little changed. It was Colonel ----, who,

having business in Richmond, had "stopped off" at the wayside station

for a few hours, that he might endeavor to find the Greys, and

introduce to his wife and daughter the kind friends who had so

faithfully nursed him when wounded, and also show them the scene of

incidents often related to them.

The ladies having been introduced, the strangers accepted a cordial

invitation to alight. While they were chatting pleasantly upon the

vine-shaded gallery, Mr. Grey rode into the yard upon a strong-looking

white mule. The greeting of the soldiers was courteous and pleasant.

The contrast between them was striking indeed.

The one clad elegantly and fashionably, his shirt-front blazing with

diamond studs, his hair and beard luxuriant and carefully kept. The

pleasant eyes untroubled and smiling. The other in the plain garb of

one who must earn his bread, coarse but scrupulously neat. The face

bronzed from exposure, the hair damp with the sweat of toil, and yet,

when the brown, hardened hand of the Virginia gentleman met the white

clasp of the rich man of the North, Mr. Grey lost nothing by

comparison. Colonel ---- having laughingly inquired after Maum Winnie,

the whole party repaired to her cabin. The old woman received her

guests with stately politeness, holding her turbaned head high, as she

_majestically_ stalked before them to show, at their request, her

chickens, ducks, and pigs. She omitted nothing that was due to her

visitors, but there was a strained politeness, and a rolling of her

eyes toward them, which made Mrs. Grey uneasy and quite prepared her

for what followed. While Colonel ---- was in the act of saying

something which he thought would quite win the old creature's heart,

she looked up at him over her glasses, saying,--

"Yer ain't seen nuffin er dat ar fedder-bed yet, is yer? Kase ole Miss

she dun giv' me dat ar bed too long to talk about, an' ebery one ob

dem fedders was ris rite on dis yere place. 'Fore de Lawd, if ole Miss

know I dun loss dat ar bed she gwine ter rise rite outen de grabe."

Colonel ----, remembering the scene of the disaster to Winnie's

feather-bed, felt inclined to laugh heartily, but wishing to mollify

the old creature preserved his gravity while he offered her quite a

handsome sum "to buy some more feathers." A look from Mr. Grey put a

stop to the old woman's talk. Soon the visitors took their leave,

having given and received most pleasant impressions. Their visit

recalled so vividly their time of trial and adventure that the Greys

sat talking far into night.

The next morning Mr. Grey walked over to the cabin to administer a

rebuke to Maum Winnie. As he drew near the gate the quavering voice of

the old woman was heard singing jerkily, and with a pause between

every few words,--

"Al_do_ yer _sees_ me _gwine_ 'long _so_,

I has my troubles _heah_ below."

At last, discovering Mr. Grey, she rose and dropped a courtesy.

"Mornin', Mars Ned."

"Well, Winnie, you forgot your Virginia raising yesterday. What is all

this about your feather-bed?"

"Well, Mars Ned, dey dun stole it."

"Who stole it?"

"_Dah_, honey, de Lawd only knows, an' he ain't gwine ter tell. I dun

loss it anyhow, an' my pore ole bones mity sore sleepin' on dem

shucks."

Mr. Grey, finding that the old creature's grievance was very real to

her, refrained from scolding, and, passing out through the little

flower-garden, proceeded to the stable to feed the stock, a piece of

work which before the war had employed many hands, but which now was

performed by himself, assisted only by one negro man.

Upon the summer air rang the sweet voice of Nelly as she sang at her

work. In the scented garden Mrs. Grey with her little boy weeded and

trimmed and twined the lovely flowers, feeling really a greater

delight in the fruit of their labor than if they had no real

acquaintance with the flowers, but only received them from the hands

of a gardener.

Dear reader, we must now say farewell to our Nelly. Let us hope that

the clouds which darkened her childhood and early youth have passed

never to return, and that although "into each life some rain must

fall," her rainy days may be few and far between.

CHAPTER II.

BRAVE BOYS.

I believe I may safely say that no cause ever fought for, no army ever

raised, numbered among its adherents and soldiers so many mere boys as

rallied around "The Bonnie Blue Flag," bringing to its defence the

ardor of youth, added to unquestioning loyalty and Spartan bravery.

Aye, more wonderful, more worthy of admiration than the bravery of the

Spartan youth, because our Southern boys had, up to the beginning of

the war, known nothing of hardship or danger. Yet they met with

splendid courage all that fell to their lot as soldiers, fighting with

an impetuosity and determination which equalled that of the oldest

veterans. My book contains already many instances of lofty courage and

patient endurance as shown by boys. I will add one or two incidents

worthy of record.

In one of the companies of the Third Lee Battalion was a bright Irish

boy named Flannagan, who had been brought to Virginia by one of the

officers as his attendant. During the seven days' fight around

Richmond this child, having procured a small shot-gun, fought with the

best of them, coming out safe and sound. I learned this little history

from a soldier who knew the boy. Flannagan now lives in Texas.

It is well known that the boys of the Virginia University did

excellent service under "Stonewall" Jackson. Here is a story of some

other school-boys, related to me by their teacher, himself a brave

soldier who lost an arm in one of the battles around Richmond.

When Wilson's raiders reached Charlotte County, Virginia, preparations

were made by the Home Guards, aided by a few veterans who happened to

be home on furlough, to check their further progress. Breastworks were

thrown up on the south side of Stanton River, the railroad bridge was

blockaded, and a gun placed in position to defend the passage. Colonel

Coleman, who was at home on furlough, gave it as his opinion that

these precautions must be supplemented and supported by rifle-pits on

the north side, or no successful defence could be made. The pits were

hastily dug, but, when volunteers were called for, the extreme danger

prevented a hearty response. None appeared except a few old soldiers

and six or seven school-boys, whose ages ranged from fourteen to

sixteen. The Yankees advanced in line, in an open plain, about two

thousand strong. A rapid fire was opened from the rifle-pits and from

the gun on the railroad bridge.

After a few minutes the enemy retired, reformed, and came on again,

but were again routed as before. Although the boys held a place where

many a veteran would have quailed, they stood their ground nobly, and

did a soldier's duty.

After the fight was over, two of them had a quarrel regarding a

Federal officer whom both shot at and both claimed to have killed.

These were Virginia boys, the sons of veterans, and attending a local

school.

The raid came to grief soon after, being routed by Fitz-Hugh Lee.

Thomas Hilton, of Uniontown, Alabama, volunteered in the "Witherspoon

Guards," Twenty-first Alabama Regiment, at the tender age of fourteen.

He was too small to carry a musket, and was detailed as a drummer boy.

At the battle of Shiloh he threw away his drum and so importuned his

captain for a gun that it was given him.

Shortly after, while in the thick of the fight, he was shot through

the face, the ball entering one side and passing out at the other.

Rev. N.I. Witherspoon (chaplain of the regiment) found him lying upon

the ground, bleeding to death as he then supposed, and knelt beside

him to pray. To his surprise the boy looked up, the fire in his eyes

unquenched, and gasped out while the blood gushed afresh at every

word,--

"Yes--chaplain--I'm--badly hurt--but--I'm--not--_whipped_."

Thomas Hilton still lives in Uniontown, Alabama, respected by all who

know him. His fellow-citizens regard the ugly scar which still appears

upon his face with pride and reverence.

The battle of Mansfield, Louisiana, was one of the most

hotly-contested and bloody of the war, the loss in men and officers

being terrific. The tide of battle rolled on, through lofty pine

forests, amid tangled undergrowth, and over open fields, where the

soldiers were exposed a to storm of shot and shell, and where, on that

beautiful Sunday morning, hundreds of the dead and dying strewed the

ground. While the battle was at its height it became necessary, in

order to secure concerted action, to send dispatches to a certain

point. The only way lay across a ploughed field, exposed to a terrific

fire from the enemy, whose target the messenger would become: and it

seemed as if certain death must be the fate of any one who should

attempt to run the gauntlet. And yet the necessity was met. _A boy of

eighteen years_ stepped forth from the ranks of Company G, Crescent

Regiment, Louisiana Volunteers, and offered to perform this dangerous

service.

Dashing on through a perfect hail of shot and shell, stumbling and

falling over the furrowed ground, struggling up and on again, he

passed unharmed, successfully executing his mission. His escape was so

miraculous that one can only account for it by the belief that God

gave his angels charge concerning him.

The name of this valiant boy--James V. Nolan--should live in history.

He still lives, and has been for years secretary of the Cotton

Exchange at Shreveport, Louisiana.

CHAPTER III.

THE YOUNG COLOR-BEARER.

The story of "The Little Apron" was written up by Major McDonald, of

Louisville, to be read at a meeting of veterans of Association Army of

Northern Virginia, Kentucky Division. It is true in every

particular,--indeed, a matter of history.

I have given it a place here because I feel sure that many of my young

readers will remember having seen the apron in question, and will like

to read its full history. It was very kindly loaned to me, during the

New Orleans Exposition, by Major McDonald, and was on exhibition at my

tent ("The Soldiers' Best"), among many other Confederate relics,

where it never ceased to be an object of profound interest and

veneration. Hundreds of people handled it. Veterans gazed upon it with

moistened eyes. Women bedewed it with tears, and often pressed kisses

upon it. Children touched it reverently, listening with profound

interest while its story was told. The little apron was of plain white

cotton, bordered and belted with "turkey red,"--an apron of "red,

white, and red," purposely made of these blended colors in order to

express sympathy with the Confederates. It yet bears several

blood-stains. The button-hole at the back of the belt is torn out, for

the eager little patriot did not wait to unbutton it. There is another

hole, just under the belt in front, made when the wounded boy tore it

from the staff to which he had nailed it to conceal it in his bosom.

The story as told by Major McDonald is as follows:

In the spring of 1863, while the Army of Northern Virginia was

encamped on the Rapidan River, preparing for that memorable campaign

which included the battle of Gettysburg, there came to it, from

Hampshire County, Virginia, a beardless boy, scarcely eighteen years

of age, the eldest son of a widowed mother. His home was within the

enemy's lines, and he had walked more than one hundred miles to offer

his services to assist in repelling a foe which was then preying upon

the fairest portions of his native State. He made application to join

Company D, Eleventh Virginia Cavalry, which was made up principally

from his county, and, therefore, contained many of his acquaintances,

and seemed much surprised when told that the Confederate government

did not furnish its cavalry with horses and equipments. Some members

of the company present, who noticed his earnestness and the

disappointment caused by this announcement from the officer, said,--

"Enroll him, captain; we will see that he has a horse and equipments

the next fight we get into."

On faith of this promise he was enrolled,--James M. Watkins, Company

D, Eleventh Virginia Cavalry, Jones's Brigade. Shortly afterward the

campaign opened with the fight at Brandy Station, in which twenty

thousand cavalry were engaged from daylight to sundown. Before the

battle was over Watkins, mounted and fully equipped, took his place

with his company. It was not long after this engagement that General

Lee advanced the whole army, and crossed into Maryland, Watkins's

command covering the rear. During the battle of Gettysburg, on the 3d

and 4th of July, we were engaged several times with the enemy's

cavalry on our right, upon which occasions he was always found in the

front, and while on the march was ever bright and cheerful.

On the evening of the 4th, General Lee, in preparation for his

retreat, began to send his wagons to the rear in the direction of

Williamsport, when it was found that the enemy's cavalry had gone

around our left and taken possession of a pass in South Mountain,

through which lay our line of march. To dislodge them required a

stubborn fight, lasting late into the night, in which General Jones's

brigade was engaged, and he himself, becoming separated from his men

in the darkness, was supposed to have been captured or killed.

Finally the Federals were repulsed, and the wagon-train proceeded on

its way to Williamsport. In the morning Watkins's command was ordered

to march on the left flank of the train to prevent a renewal of the

attack upon it, and on approaching Hagerstown those in the rear of the

column heard loud and repeated cheering from the men in front. After

having been in an enemy's country fighting night and day, in rain and

mud, those cheers came to those who heard them in the distance as the

first rays of sunshine after a storm. Many were the conjectures as to

their cause: some said it was fresh troops from the other side of the

Potomac; others that it was the ammunition-wagons, for the supply was

known to be short; while others surmised that it was General Jones

reappearing after his supposed death or capture. Whatever the cause

was, its effect was wonderful upon the morale of those men, and cheers

went up all along the line from those who did not know the cause in

answer to those who did. When the command had reached a stone mill,

about three miles southeast of Hagerstown, they found the cause only a

little girl about fourteen years of age, perhaps the miller's

daughter, standing in the door wearing an apron in which the colors

were so blended as to represent the Confederate flag. A trivial thing

it may seem to those who were not there, but to those jaded, war-worn

men it was the first expression of sympathy for them and their cause

that had been openly given them since they had crossed the Potomac,

and their cheers went up in recognition of the courage of the little

girl and her parents, who thus dared to give their sympathy to a

retreating army, almost in sight of a revengeful foe. When Company D

was passing the house the captain rode up and thanked the little girl

for having done so much to revive the spirits of the troops, and asked

her if she would give him a piece of the apron as a souvenir of the

incident. "Yes, certainly," she replied, "you may have it all," and in

her enthusiasm she tore it off, not waiting to unbutton it, and handed

it to the officer, who said it should be the flag of his company as

long as it was upon Maryland soil.

"Let me be the color-bearer, captain," said young Watkins, who was by

his side; "I promise to protect it with my life." Fastening it to a

staff he resumed his place at the head of the company, which was in

the front squadron of the regiment.

Later in the evening, in obedience to an order brought by a courier,

the Eleventh Cavalry moved at a gallop in the direction of

Williamsport, whence the roll of musketry and report of cannon had

been heard for some time, and, rejoining the brigade, was engaged in a

desperate struggle to prevent the Federal cavalry from destroying the

wagons of the whole army, which, the river being unfordable, were

halted and parked at this point, their principal defence against the

whole cavalry force of the enemy being the teamsters and stragglers

that General Imboden had organized. The Eleventh Cavalry charged the

battery in front of them, this gallant boy with his apron flag riding

side by side with those who led the charge. The battery was taken and

retaken, and then taken again, before the Federals withdrew from the

field, followed in the direction of Boonsboro', until darkness covered

their retreat. In those desperate surges many went down on both sides,

and it was not until after it was over that men thought of their

comrades and inquiries were made of the missing. The captain of

Company D, looking over the field for the killed and wounded, found

young Watkins lying on the ground, his head supported by the surgeon.

In reply to his question, "was he badly hurt?" he answered, "Not much,

captain, but _I've got the flag!_" and, putting his hand in his bosom,

he drew out the little apron and gave it to the officer. When asked

how it came there, he said that when he was wounded and fell from his

horse the Federals were all around him, and to prevent them from

capturing it he had torn it from the staff and hid it in his bosom.

The surgeon told the captain, aside, that his leg was shattered by a

large piece of shell, which was imbedded in the bone; that amputation

would be necessary, and he feared the wound was mortal. "But," he

added, "he has been so intent upon the safe delivery of that apron

into your hands as to seem utterly unconscious of his wound."

After parting with his flag the brave boy sank rapidly. He was

tenderly carried by his comrades back to Hagerstown, where a hospital

had been established, and his leg amputated. The next morning his

captain found him pale and haggard from suffering. By his side was a

bouquet of flowers, placed by some kind friend, which seemed to cheer

him much. The third day afterward he died, and was buried in a strange

land, by strangers' hands, without a stone to mark the place where he

sleeps.

Thus ended the mortal career of this gallant youth, who had scarcely

seen sixty days' service; but though he lies in an unknown grave, he

has left behind a name which should outlast the most costly obelisk

that wealth or fame can erect. Gentle as a woman, yet perfectly

fearless in the discharge of his duty, so sacred did he deem the trust

confided to him that he forgot even his own terrible sufferings while

defending it. Such names as this it is our duty to rescue from

oblivion, and to write on the page of history, where the children of

our common country may learn from them lessons of virtue and

self-sacrifice. In his character and death he was not isolated from

many of his comrades: he was but a type of many men, young and old,

whose devotion to what is known as the "lost cause" made them heroes

in the fullest acceptation of the term, flinching from neither

suffering nor death itself if coming to them in the line of duty.

CHAPTER IV.

BRAVERY HONORED BY A FOE.

The following story was written out for me by Eddie Souby, of New

Orleans, while I was acting as assistant editress of the _Southern

Bivouac_.

It was related to him by his father, E.J. Souby, Esq., formerly a

gallant soldier of the Fifth Regiment, Hay's Brigade, and now an

honored member of Association Army of Northern Virginia, Louisiana

Division. It is a true story in every particular, and the name of the

youthful hero is given, that it may live in our hearts, and be honored

as it deserves, though he who so nobly bore it is now dead. I wish

that I could also give the name of his generous foe,--no doubt as

brave as generous,--the Federal officer who interposed his authority

to preserve the life of this gallant boy. They should be recorded,

side by side, on the same page of history, and be remembered with

pride by the youth of our land, no matter whether their fathers wore

the blue or the gray during the late civil war.

Nathan Cunningham was the name of this young hero. He was a member of

the Second Company Orleans Cadets, afterwards Company E, Fifth

Regiment, Louisiana Volunteers, Hay's Brigade, Array of Northern

Virginia, and color-bearer of the regiment at the time the incident

narrated below occurred. The story is as follows:

It was a dark and starless night. Tattoo-beat had long been heard, and

Hay's Brigade, weary after a long day's march, rested beneath the dewy

boughs of gigantic oaks in a dense forest near the placid

Rappahannock. No sound broke the stillness of the night. The troops

were lying on nature's rude couch, sweetly sleeping, perhaps, little

dreaming of the awful dawn which was soon to break upon them. The

camp-fires had burned low. The morrow's rations had been hastily

cooked, hunger appeased, and the balance laid carefully away; but that

which was most essential to life had, unfortunately, been neglected.

No provision for water had been made. The springs being somewhat

distant from the camp, but few had spirit, after the day's weary

march, to go farther. The canteens were, for the most part, empty.

Though thirsting, the tired soldiers slept, oblivious to their

physical sufferings. But ere the morning broke, the distant sound of

musketry echoed through the woods, rudely dispelling the solemn

silence of the night, and awakening from their broken dreams of home

and kindred the whole mass of living valor.

The roll of the drum and the stentorian voice of the gallant chief

calling to arms mingled together. Aroused to duty, and groping their

way through the darkness, the troops sallied forth in battle array.

In a rifle-pit, on the brow of a hill overlooking the river, near

Fredericksburg, were men who had exhausted their ammunition in the

vain attempt to check the advancing column of Hooker's finely equipped

and disciplined army, which was crossing the river. But owing to the

heavy mist which prevailed as the morning broke, little or no

execution had been done. To the relief of these few came the brigade

in double-quick time. But no sooner were they intrenched than the

firing on the opposite side of the river became terrific, and the

constant roaring of musketry and artillery became appalling.

Undismayed, however, stood the little band of veterans, pouring volley

after volley into the crossing column.

Soon many soldiers fell. Their agonizing cries, as they lay helpless

in the trenches, calling most piteously for water, caused many a tear

to steal down the cheeks of their comrades in arms, and stout hearts

shook in the performance of their duty.

"Water!" "Water!" But, alas! there was none to give.

Roused as they had been from peaceful dreams to meet an assault so

early and so unexpected, no time was left them to do aught but buckle

on their armor.

"Boys!" exclaimed a lad of eighteen, the color-bearer of one of the

regiments, "I can't stand this any longer. My nature can't bear it.

They want water, and water they must have. So let me have a few

canteens, and I'll go for some."

Carefully laying the colors, which he had conspicuously borne on many

a field, in the trench, he leaped out in search of water, and was

soon, owing to the heavy mist, out of sight.

Shortly afterwards the firing ceased for a while, and there came a

courier with orders to fall back to the main line, a distance of over

twelve hundred yards to the rear. It had, doubtless, become evident to

General Lee that Hooker had crossed the river in sufficient force to

advance.

The retreating column had not proceeded far when it met the noble

youth, his canteens all filled with water, returning to the sufferers,

who were still lying in the distant trenches. The eyes of the

soldier-boy, who had oftentimes tenderly and lovingly gazed upon the

war-worn and faded flag floating over the ranks, now saw it not. The

troops, in their hurry to obey orders and owing, probably, to the

heavy mist that surrounded them, had overlooked or forgotten the

colors.

On sped the color-bearer back to the trenches to relieve the thirst of

his wounded companions as well as to save the honor of his regiment by

rescuing its colors.

His mission of mercy was soon accomplished. The wounded men drank

freely, thanked and blessed him. And now to seize the flag and

double-quick back to his regiment was the thought and act of a moment.

But hardly had he gone ten paces from the ditch when a company of

Federal soldiers appeared ascending the hill. The voice of an officer

sternly commanded him to "Halt and surrender!" The morning sun,

piercing with a lurid glare the dense mist, reveals a hundred rifles

levelled at his breast. One moment more and his soul is to pass into

eternity, for his answer is, "Never while I hold these colors."

But why is he not fired upon? Why do we still see him with the colors

flying above his head, now beyond the reach of rifle-balls, when but a

moment before he could have been riddled with bullets? And now, see I

he enters proudly but breathlessly the ranks, and receives the

congratulations of his friends in loud acclaim.

The answer comes, because of the generous act of the Federal officer

in command of that company. When this noble officer saw that the love

of honor was far dearer to the youth than life, in the impulse of a

magnanimous heart he freely gave him both in the word of command,--

"Bring back your pieces, men! don't shoot that brave boy!"

Such nobility of character and such a generous nature as that

displayed by this officer, must ever remain a living monument to true

greatness; and should these lines perchance meet his eyes, let him

know and feel the proud satisfaction that the remembrance of his noble

deed is gratefully cherished, and forever engraved in the heart of the

soldier-boy in gray.

CHAPTER V.

SALLY'S RIDE.

On a bright Sunday morning Sally sat upon the gallery of her uncle's

house slowly swaying backward and forward in a low rocking-chair. In

her hand was her prayer-book, but I greatly fear she had not read as

she ought, for while her finger was held between the shut covers,

marking "the Psalms for the day," her bright eyes wandered continually

over the lovely scene before her. Above her head branches of tender

green were tossing merrily in the March wind, at her feet lay a

parterre bright with spring buds and flowers. Beyond the garden-fence

the carriage-road described a curve, and swept away under the lofty

pines which here bounded the view. On either side lay fields of

newly-planted cotton. Behind the house, seen through the wide-open

doors and windows, the orchard gleamed pink and white. Still beyond,

blue smoke curled upward from the cabins of the negroes in "the

quarter,"--almost a village in itself. The noise of their children at

play was borne upon the wind, mingled with the weird chanting of hymns

by the older negroes. The family, with the exception of Sally, had

gone to church,--a distance of twelve miles.

For weeks it had been known that "Wilson's raiders" would be likely at

any time to appear; but continued security had lulled the

apprehensions of the planters hereabouts, and, besides, they depended

upon Confederate scouts to give timely warning. But suddenly on this

peaceful Sunday a confused noise from the direction of "the quarter"

startled Sally, and directly a crowd of frightened negroes ran to the

house with the tale that a party of scouts had been driven in,

reporting the Yankees approaching and only ten miles away.

The sense of responsibility which at once took possession of the

girl's mind overmastered her terror. She, as well as a few servants

considered worthy of trust, had received clear instructions how to act

in such an emergency; but before anything could be accomplished a

party of horsemen (Confederates) rode up, and hastily giving

information that the Federals had taken the "Pleasant Hill road,"

dashed off again. This knowledge did not relieve Sally's mind,

however, for on the Pleasant Hill road lay the fine plantation of

another uncle, Dr. ----, who was, she knew, absent.

The overseer, unaware of the approach of the raiders, would, unless

warned, not have time to run off the valuable horses. By the road the

enemy had taken the distance was several miles, but there was a "short

cut" through the woods, which would bring a rapid rider to the

plantation much sooner, and at once it occurred to our heroine to send

a boy on the only available animal, an old white mule, which had long

enjoyed exemption from all but light work as a reward for faithful

services in the past. Alas! Sally found she had "reckoned without

her"--negro. Abject terror had overcome even the habitual obedience of

the servants, and not one would venture; they only rolled their eyes

wildly, breaking forth into such agony of protestations that the girl

ceased to urge them, and, dismayed at the peril she was powerless to

arrest, sat down to consider matters. She know that the family had

that morning driven to church, and so the carriage-horses were safe

for the present.

But there was the doctor's buggy-horse, a magnificent iron-gray, and

Persimmon, her cousin's riding-horse, a beautiful cream-colored mare

with black, flowing mane and tail, and _Green Persimmon_, her colt,

which was like its mother, and scarcely less beautiful. Besides, there

were horses and mules which, if not so ornamental, were indispensable.

Oh, these must be run off and saved,--but how? Goaded by these

thoughts, and upon the impulse of the moment, the girl ordered a

sidesaddle to be put upon old "Whitey," and, hastily mounting,

belabored the astonished beast until, yielding to the inevitable, he

started off at a smart trot.

Once in the woods, Sally's heart quailed within her; her terror was

extreme. The tramp, tramp of her steed she thought was as loud as

thunder, and felt sure that thus she would be betrayed. The agitation

of the underbrush caused by the wind seemed to her to denote the

presence of a concealed enemy. She momentarily expected a "Yank" to

step from behind a tree and seize her bridle. As she rushed along,

hanging branches (which at another time she would have stooped to

avoid) severely scratched her face and dishevelled her hair; but never

heeding, she urged on old Whitey until he really seemed to become

inspired with the spirit of the occasion, to regain his youthful fire,

and so dashed on until at length Sally drew rein at the bars of the

horse-lot, where the objects of her solicitude were quietly grazing,

with the exception of Green Persimmon, who seemed to be playing a

series of undignified capers for the amusement of her elders. To catch

these was a work of time: Sally looked on in an agony of impatience.

But, fortunately, a neighbor rode up just then with the news that for

some unknown reason the Federal soldiers had, after halting awhile

just beyond the forks of the road, marched back to the river and were

recrossing. With the usual inconsistency of her sex, Sally now began

to cry, trembling so violently that she was fain to dismount, and

submit to be _coddled_ and petted awhile by the old servants. She

declared that she never could repass those dreadful woods, but later,

a sense of duty overcame her nervousness, and (the family having

returned), escorted by her cousins and followed by a faithful servant,

she returned to her anxious friends, who in one breath scolded her for

having dared so great risks and in the next praised her courage and

devotion.

The visit of the raiders was, alas! not long delayed, but its

attendant horrors may not here be described. The terrible story may,

perhaps, be told at another time,--for the present, _adieu_.

CHAPTER VI.

The following story, originally written by me for the _Southern

Bivouac_, is strictly true. The successful forager was once a patient

of mine, and is well known to me. I also know that he perpetrated the

joke as described. The article is intended to appear as if written by

a soldier's son.

HIGH PRICE FOR NEEDLES AND THREAD.

By Walter.

My father was once a private soldier in the Confederate army, and he

often tells us interesting stories of the war. One morning, just as he

was going down town, mother sent me to ask him to change a dollar. He

could not do it, but he said,--

"Ask your mother how much change she wants."

She only wanted a dime to buy a paper of needles and some silk to mend

my jacket. So I went back and asked for ten cents. Instead of taking

it out of his vest-pocket, father opened his pocket-book and said,--

"Did you say you wanted _ten dollars_ or ten _cents_, my boy?"

"Why, father," said I, "whoever heard of paying ten dollars for

needles and thread?"

"I have," said he. "I once heard of a paper of needles, and a skein of

silk, worth _more_ than ten dollars."

His eyes twinkled and looked so pleasant that I knew there was a story

on hand, so I told mother and sis' Loo, who promised to find out all

about it. After supper that night mother coaxed father to tell us the

story. We liked it ever so much: so I got mother to write it down for

the _Bivouac_.

After the battle of Chickamauga, one of "our mess" found a needle-case

which had belonged to some poor fellow, probably among the killed. He

did not place much value upon the contents, although there was a paper

of No. 8 needles, several buttons, and a skein or two of thread, cut

at each end and neatly braided so that each thread could be smoothly

drawn out. He put the whole thing in his breast-pocket, and thought no

more about it. But one day, while out foraging for himself and his

mess, he found himself near a house where money could have procured a

fine meal of fried chicken, corn-pone, and buttermilk, besides a small

supply to carry back to camp. But Confederate soldiers' purses were

generally as empty as their stomachs, and in this instance the lady of

the house did not offer to give away her nice dinner. While the poor

fellow was inhaling the enticing odor, and feeling desperately hungry,

a girl rode up to the gate on horseback, and bawled out to another

girl inside the house,--

"Oh, Cindy, I rid over to see if you couldn't lend me a needle! I

broke the last one I had to-day, and pap says thar ain't nary 'nother

to be bought in the country hereabouts!"

Cindy declared she was in the same fix, and couldn't finish her new

homespun dress for that reason.

The soldier just then had an idea. He retired to a little distance,

pulled out his case, sticking two needles on the front of his jacket,

then went back and offered one of them, with his best bow, to the girl

on the horse. Right away the lady of the house offered to trade for

the one remaining. The result was a plentiful dinner for himself; and

in consideration of a thread or two of silk, a full haversack and

canteen.

After this our mess was well supplied, and our forager began to look

sleek and fat. The secret of his success did not leak out till long

afterward, when he astonished the boys by declaring that he "had been

'living like a fighting-cock' on a paper of needles and two skeins of

silk."

"And," added father, "if he had paid for all the meals he got in

Confederate money, the amount would have been far more than ten

dollars."

I know other boys and girls will think this a queer story, but I hope

they will like it as well as mother and Loo and I did.

CHAPTER VII.

BUNNY.

One bright morning I sat in the matron's room of the "Buckner

Hospital," then located at Newnan, Georgia. Shall I describe to you

this room--or my suite of rooms? Indeed, I fear you will be

disappointed, dear young readers, for perhaps the word "hospital"

conveys to your mind the idea of a handsome and lofty building

containing every convenience for nursing the sick, and for the comfort

of attendants. Alas! during the war hospital arrangements were of the

roughest. Frequent changes of location were imperative, transportation

was difficult. So it became a "military necessity" to seize upon such

buildings as were suitable in the towns where it was intended to

establish a "post." Courthouses, halls, stores, hotels, even churches

had to be used,--the pews being removed and replaced by the rough

hospital beds.

The "Buckner Hospital" was expected to accommodate nearly one thousand

sick and wounded, and embraced every building for two solid squares.

Near the centre a small store had been appropriated to the matron's

use during the day. Here all business relating to the comfort of the

sick and wounded was transacted. The store as it stood, shelves,

counters, and all, became the "linen-room," and was piled from floor

to ceiling with bedding and clean clothing. The back "shed-room" was

the matron's own. A rough table, planed on the top, stood in the

centre. With the exception of one large rocking-chair, kindly donated

by a lady of Ringgold, Georgia, boxes served for chairs. A couch made

of boxes and piled with comforts and pillows stood in one corner. This

served not only as an occasional resting-place for the matron, but,

with the arm-chair, was frequently occupied by soldiers who, in the

early stages of convalescence, having made a pilgrimage to my room,

were too weak to return at once, and so rested awhile.

Here I sat on the morning in question looking over some "diet lists,"

when I heard a slight noise at the door. Soon a little girl edged her

way into the room.

Her dress was plain and faded, but when she pushed back the calico

sun-bonnet a sweet, bright face appeared. She came forward as shyly as

a little bird and stood at my side. As I put out my hand to draw her

closer, she cried, "Don't, you'll scare him!"

And then I perceived that she held close to her breast, wrapped in her

check apron, something that moved and trembled. Carefully the little

girl removed a corner of the apron, disclosing the gray head and

frightened eyes of a squirrel. Said she, "It's Bunny; he's mine; I

raised him, and I want to give him to the sick soldiers! _Daddy's a

soldier!_" And as she stated this last fact the sweet face took on a

look of pride.

"What is your name, and how did you get here?" I said.

"My name is Ca-line. Uncle Jack, he brung in a load of truck, and

mammy let me come along, an' I didn't have nothing to fetch to the

poor soldiers but Bunny. He's mine," she repeated, as she tenderly

covered again the trembling little creature. I soon found that she

desired to give the squirrel away with her own hands, and did not by

any means consider _me_ a sick soldier. That she should visit the

fever-wards was out of the question, so I decided to go with her to a

ward where were some wounded men, most of whom were convalescent. My

own eyes, alas! were so accustomed to the sight of the pale, suffering

faces, empty sleeves, and dreadful scars, that I did not dream of the

effect it would have upon the child.

As we entered she dropped my hand, clinging convulsively to my dress.

Addressing the soldiers, I said, "Boys, little Ca-line has brought you

her pet squirrel; her father is a soldier, she says." But here the

poor child broke down utterly; from her pale lips came a cry which

brought tears to the eyes of the brave men who surrounded her: "Oh,

daddy, daddy; I don't _want_ you to be a soldier! Oh, lady, _will_

they do my daddy like this?"

Hastily retreating, I led the tortured child to my room, where at last

she recovered herself. I gave her lunch, feeding Bunny with some

corn-bread, which he ate, sitting on the table by his little mistress,

his bright eyes fixed warily upon me. A knock at the door startled us.

The child quickly snatched up her pet and hid him in her apron. The

visitor proved to be "Uncle Jack," a white-headed old negro, who had

come for "little Missy."

Tears came to my eyes as I watched the struggle which at once began in

that brave little heart. Her streaming eyes and heaving breast showed

how hard it was to give up Bunny. Uncle Jack was impatient, however,

and at last "Missy" thrust the squirrel into my hands, saying,

sobbingly, "_Thar_, you keep him to show to 'em, but don't let nothin'

hurt him." I arose and placed Bunny in the deep pocket of an army

overcoat that hung by the window, where he cuddled down contentedly.

Ca-line passed out with a lagging step, but in a few moments ran back,

and, drawing a box under the window, climbed upon it to peep into the

pocket at her pet, who ungratefully growled at being disturbed. She

then ran out without a word to me, and I saw her no more.

Bunny soon attached himself to me. Creeping into my pocket, he would

always accompany me in my rounds through the wards. The sick and

wounded took the greatest delight in his visits. As soon as I entered

the door the squirrel would run up on my shoulder; from thence,

jumping upon the beds, would proceed to search for the treasures which

nearly every patient had saved and hidden for him. His capers were a

source of unceasing amusement to his soldier friends,--I cannot

describe to you how great. The story of little Ca-line's

self-sacrifice went the rounds among them. All admired and truly

appreciated her heroism and her love for "the poor, sick soldiers."

Bunny lived happily for a long time. One day, however, as I was

passing along the street, he began as usual to run from out my pocket

to my shoulder, and back again to nestle in his hiding-place.

Just then a large dog came by. The frightened squirrel made a vain

attempt to reach a tree by the road-side. Failing, he was at once

seized and instantly killed. My regret was shared by all the soldiers,

who long remembered and talked of poor Bunny.

CHAPTER VIII.

BEAUREGARD.

One very cold day in the winter of 1862 there came to the Third

Alabama Hospital, in Richmond, Virginia, a sick soldier, belonging to

the Third Alabama Regiment. He was shivering, and so hoarse that he

could only speak in whispers. Instead of going at once to bed,

however, he sat down upon a bench by the stove, keeping his blanket

drawn closely over his chest. His teeth were chattering, and continued

to do so until I ordered him to go to his bed immediately, meanwhile

hastening down-stairs to prepare for him a hot drink. Upon my return,

my patient was in bed, closely covered up,--head and all. As soon as I

turned down the bedclothes from his face, I was startled by a furious

er-r-r-r bow-wow, wow, wow, which also attracted the attention of

every one in the large ward. Of course it was impossible longer to

conceal the fact that the new patient had brought with him a dog, so

he showed me--nestling under his arm--a young Newfoundland puppy,

looking like nothing so much as a fluffy black ball. His bright eyes

gleamed fiercely and he continued to bark in a shrill tone, which

could not be allowed to continue, as it excited and disturbed the

sick. I am a lover of dogs, and now offered to take charge of this

little waif. His master was unwilling to part with him, but there was

no alternative, so I carried him off down-stairs, where, installed in

comfortable quarters and petted by everybody, the ungrateful little

dog seemed to forget the sick master who had cherished him so fondly,

and, far from grieving or moping at the separation, grew every day

more frolicsome. From the soldier I learned the history of his dog. He

said,--

"Shortly before I was sent to the hospital our regiment captured a

Federal camp. Among the plunder I found that little fellow curled up

in a camp-bed that some Yankee had just got out of, and as warm as

toast. He seemed to take to me right off. I reckon the Yankee had a

name for him, but I call him 'Beauregard.' The poor fellow has had a

hard time since I got him, for rations in the valley are poor and

scant, but _I've_ done with less so _he_ could have a bite, and I tell

you he has kept me warm a many a night."

However, when the soldier was ready to return to camp, Beauregard had

grown quite too large to be carried in his master's bosom. So he was

given to my little son, and remained to claim our care and to become

an object of interest to all inmates of the hospital. It became so

much a matter of course for me to take the dog with me on my morning

rounds through the wards that whenever he was left behind, my patients

never failed to miss him, and to inquire, "Where's the general

to-day?" He was very intelligent, easily learning to trot quietly

along down the rows of beds. If he ever grew too frisky, I had only to

stop short, pointing to the entrance, when down would drop his tail,

and he was off like a shot to the yard. There he awaited my coming,

always looking anxiously in my face to see if I was still angry. When

I would ask, "Are you sorry, Beau?" he would whine and come crawling

to my feet. As soon as he heard me say "All right," he began to bound

and run around in a circle and in other ways to show his joy.

Among the patients he had many warm friends who used to take great

pleasure in saving scraps to feed him with. They also loved to tease

him by wrapping some nice morsel in many papers. The parcel was then

hidden. Beauregard knew just which beds to stop at, and, greatly to

the delight of his friends, would put his paws upon the bunks and

"nose about" under the mattress or pillows for the bundles there

hidden. After many attempts to get through the many papers in which

lay a coveted morsel, he would grow impatient and disgusted, and would

at last sit down, looking earnestly first at the inmate of the bed,

then at the parcel on the floor. Then, if he was not helped, he would

push the bed with his paw, until at last he succeeded in gaining his

wish.

Early in the spring Beau fell into some disgrace, for while romping

with my little boy he threw him down and broke his arm. Everybody

scolded the poor dog, crying shame on him wherever he appeared, until

he got a habit of slinking out of sight. Before the broken arm was

quite well, little Wally grow very ill of typhoid fever, so ill that

his papa was sent for, for it seemed that he must die. Beauregard

attached himself very closely to my husband, rarely leaving his side.

When his new master returned to camp, I went down to the boat to see

him off. The dog followed us. The boat was crowded with soldiers going

to reinforce McGruder, so I did not go on board, but when ready to

return discovered that Beau was missing. The first letter from my

husband announced that the dog had followed his master on the boat,

where he must have hidden, for his presence was not discovered until

some time after the boat had left the wharf. In camp he became a

terrible nuisance. No matter how securely he was tied, the dog always

managed to escape and _attend the drill_. Here he would sometimes sit

down and gravely watch the proceedings, cocking his head first on one

side, then on the other, but usually he would rush into the ranks to

find his master, getting under the feet of the men, who in consequence

lost step and got out of line, of course becoming very angry. The

shells frequently exploding in the vicinity became a constant terror

to this unfortunate, who knew not how to avoid them. He soon learned

to distinguish the shriek of a coming shell, and would race off in one

direction, looking fearfully back over his shoulder, until a similar

sound in another quarter would so puzzle and terrify him that he would

stand still awhile until the noise of an explosion _utterly_

demoralized him, when he would frantically dig up the ground, as if

trying to bury himself.

I am afraid I must acknowledge that my dog was not strictly honest. In

fact, his depredations upon their larders won for him the undying

hatred of the colored cooks of various messes, who were always seeking

revenge. Their dislike culminated one day in a dreadful scalding,

inflicted upon the poor dog by the cook of an officers' mess, who

poured a whole kettle of boiling water upon his back, causing him

weeks of suffering and the loss of part of his beautiful glossy coat.

This seemed to have implanted in his mind a profound distrust of

negroes, which he never ceased to entertain until the day of his

death. After this Beauregard was sent up to Richmond that I might cure

his wound; this I was more easily enabled to do, as my friends among

the surgeons kindly advised and assisted me. He was soon quite well,

the growing hair nearly concealing his scars. When I left Richmond

with my little boy, Beau accompanied us, and found a permanent home

upon the plantation of a relative in Alabama. It was here that he

first showed his extreme dislike for negroes, which attracted

attention and became unmistakable. At first it gave much trouble, but

gradually he grew tolerant of the servants upon the "home-place,"

although he never took kindly even to these. He never forgot that he

had been scalded. At any time steam arising from a boiling tea-kettle

or pot would send him yelping away. I remember hearing the youngsters

say that once when Beauregard had followed them miles into the woods,

seeming to enjoy the tramp and the hunt, they having decided to have a

lunch of broiled birds, heated some water in a camp-kettle to scald

them preparatory to picking off the feathers. As soon as the birds

were dipped into the water and taken out steaming, the dog set out for

home, where they found him, upon their return, hiding under a

corn-crib.