magnet for bullets, an officer of the highest soldierly qualities, of
military skill and sagacity equalled by few and surpassed by none, was
carried off the field severely wounded. General Robert E. Lee was
appointed to the command of the Army of Northern Virginia, to become the
idol of his people and one of the greatest military leaders of the
world; greater than will ever be known, because of the restrictions laid
upon his power. Though he was the General in command he was under the
direction of the War Department, which exercised its authority to the
utmost. Perhaps our Confederacy might have been longer lived if Lee had
adopted the policy of Stonewall Jackson who, when ordered to recall
General Loring from Romney, obeyed like a soldier and promptly sent in
his resignation like a mere human.
If I could bring before you the picture of the Richmond I saw after the
battle of Seven Pines you would say that it was the most powerful peace
argument ever penned. But no words could give you the faintest shadow of
the Richmond of those days of anguish. Could Dante have looked upon our
Capital in that opening June he would have needed no Virgil to unlock
for him the gates of Inferno, no Beatrice to lead him through the
midnight corridors of a lost world to the torture chamber of condemned
souls. He would have turned his gaze upon our streets, dipped his pen in
his heart's blood and written, and mankind would have shuddered through
all the ages to come.
Richmond was shaking with the thunders of the battle and the
death-sounds thrilled through our agonized souls. The blood of the field
was running in rivers of red through the hearts of her people. For days
the dead-wagons and ambulances wended their tragic way from the
battlefield to the Capital City and every turn of their crunching wheels
rolled over our crushed and bleeding hearts. The wretched loads of
wounded were emptied before the doors of the improvised hospitals until
they overflowed with maimed humanity and all hearts and hands were full
of grief for the dead and work for the wounded.
There was not a home in the city that held not some ghastly offering
from the battlefield. Every possible space was converted into a
temporary hospital and all was done that unwearied nursing and gentle
care could effect, for the roughest in the ranks as tenderly as for
those who wore the stars. Women, girls, and children stood before the
doors with wine and food for the wounded as they passed. It was not
unusual to see half a dozen funeral processions at the same time on
their way to the City of the Dead.
The Capitol square was filled with officers, privates and citizens,
seeking information of the battle. From all the Southland poured in
letters from friends and relatives, with the sacred charge to care for
their loved ones. From all quarters of the Confederacy wives followed
their husbands, mothers their sons.
"Come, Lassie, here is a telegram from Mrs. B----," said my hostess.
"Come, dear, and go with me to the train to meet her. How I dread it,
poor, dear lady!"
There was a sublime faith in the motherly face that met us in the
station--a faith that lifted up our hearts to the heights of Divinity.
There was no question, no fear, in the serene, loving eyes. "I've come
to see my boy; he was with General Johnston," she said.
We drove back through a mourning Richmond, a strange, foreign Richmond
that the mother did not know. From the doors of the houses hung
streamers of black. Ambulances filled with wounded passed us, their
torturing road marked by the trail of blood that oozed, drop by drop,
from human veins.
Wagons filled with dead rolled by, the stiffened bodies piled one upon
another in ghastly heaps, the rigid feet projecting from the ends of the
vehicles. It was the most appalling sight that ever greeted human eyes,
but it was the only way to save our fallen soldiers from the desecration
of birds of prey. All the vehicles of every description were utilized,
the less severely wounded walking, their wounds bound in bloody rags.
They formed a long procession, nearly five thousand, young boys,
middle-aged and old men, from privates to high officers, passing on to
the homes of Richmond where they would find tender care. From some of
the open windows came shrieks of pain from those whose courage had been
overcome by mortal agony. Down the streets new regiments were marching
to the front to fill, in time, other dead-wagons and ambulances.
Sometimes the Richmond of those days comes back to me now and I shudder
anew with terror.
Reaching the beautiful home of our friend and hostess, we hurried our
beloved charge, this sweet mother of a soldier, through corridors where
closed doors guarded scenes which could be but dimly imagined. Up the
stairway and along the hall to a small room she followed our friend,
who sent me down to order up a waiter of refreshments. On my return she
came out to meet me.
"She does not know, Lassie; ah, who will tell her? Heaven help her!
Heaven help her!"
Later I saw her go with firm step, erect form, and faith-redeemed face,
and stop silently as if in prayer at a closed door. Some one had told
her. The door opened and she passed through. Then it gently shut,
leaving her alone with her dead.
XIII
MY WOUNDED SOLDIER
For months "On to Richmond" had been the war-cry of the Federals, and
the battle of Gaines's Mill, June 27, 1862, was the turning point of the
seven days' battles around our Capital. No event of the memorable
campaign which had followed that slogan was more important in its
results than this desperate conflict.
McClellan in his retreat had burned and destroyed everything that could
be carried away until he reached Watts's Farm, known also by the names
of Gaines's Mill and Cold Harbor, and there was fought the greatest
battle of the war, up to that time. The great stage painter, Nature, had
never arranged a more picturesque scene for a battle than that which was
set for Gaines's Mill, one of the most awful contests of the war. It was
an undulating plain gracefully rising into gentle swells, crowned by a
dense growth of trees. It terminated in a tall cliff, a great rounded
mass of rock which had been hurled from its native bed so many centuries
ago as to be now covered with a large forest. Directly in front of the
cliff, separated by a deep gorge, was a low level field partly covered
by a heavy crop of oats which, together with a natural growth of
broom-sedge, afforded concealment to McClellan's sharpshooters and lines
of skirmishers. The cliff was defended by three tiers of field artillery
and a heavy infantry support.
Pickett's Brigade formed in line of battle under the brow of the hill,
and my Soldier, leading and cheering on his men in ascending the cliff,
was shot from his horse. His shoulder was pierced by a minie ball and
his medical director wanted to take him off the field, saying the ball
must be removed at once.
"My men need me," replied my Soldier. "Take the bullet out here and fix
me up quick, doctor, I must go back--see, they need me."
The surgeon extracted the ball and my Soldier continued to give orders
until, weak from pain and loss of blood, he was carried from the field.
For some weeks he was on furlough at his home in Richmond and in July I
was permitted to make my first call. Here I met for the second time
Jefferson Davis, now President of the Confederacy. I had just taken my
seat by my wounded Soldier when the President was announced and, to my
inexpressible vexation, I saw the precious minutes slip away while he
occupied my chair and I sat in a corner with Mrs. Burwell, my Soldier's
only sister.
In spite of my green glasses I could not help forming a mental picture
of the man who had been chosen as our political head. He was tall and
extremely slender, but of indescribable dignity and grace. He was a type
of the Old South, cultivated, refined, a brilliant conversationist. His
eyes were clear and of a blue-gray color. He had a high forehead,
straight nose, thin, compressed lips, pointed chin, prominent cheek
bones, and deep lines around his mouth. His face was thin, features long
and sharp, expression intense. There was no pomp in his movements,
neither was there anything uncertain. His walk was wonderful; just what
a President's walk ought to be but seldom is. When he rode, the
beautiful unaffected harmony and grace of every motion were fascinating.
He pressed my Soldier's left hand, laying it gently down on the arm of
the chair to avoid jarring him.
"How soon will you be able to go back?" he asked. "We need you in the
field."
"I should like to go to-morrow," was the reply.
The President shook his head, and entered upon a brief account of the
fighting after the battle of Gaines's Mill, praising my Soldier's
brother, Major Charles Pickett, who had been wounded at Frazier's Farm,
carrying the flag on foot after his horse had been shot from under him.
I saw the President's eyes flash as he said:
"I am too much of a soldier to keep out of it in this way, I want to be
in the fray. I would much have preferred fighting in the field to
warring in the council chamber. I had gone out to consult with the
Generals when the artillery duel between Jackson and Franklin began. I
barely missed being accidentally shot and was carried off by force."
Then they talked of the time when they fought in Mexico.
On my next visit to my Soldier I met Stonewall Jackson, whom I had seen
once in my childhood when I went with my grandmother to visit my uncle,
Colonel J. J. Phillips, who was under him as a cadet at the Virginia
Military Institute and was afterward associated with him as a professor
in the same institution. Later I had heard my Soldier talk of him as the
man of the war; the greatest military character developed in that fiery
time. Even thus early the world began to know him for what he was. He
came to see my Soldier and asked after his welfare.
General Jackson talked of Gaines's Mill and said that General Whiting,
of his command, had lost his way and, not knowing where to find his
commander, had reported to General Longstreet, who put his brigade a
little in the rear of Pickett's men, so that the two brigades together
made the assault which broke the enemy's lines. My Soldier, who always
deplored the loss of life, expressed his sorrow over the death of
certain gallant officers and so many soldiers. Stonewall replied,
"General Pickett, we are fighting to save the country, not the army. I
fight to win, no matter how many are killed."
While they were talking mint juleps were brought in, which Jackson
declined, saying, "I never touch strong drink. I like it too well to
fool with it, and no man's strength is strong enough to enable him to
touch the stuff with impunity."
Julie, politely curtseying, came to the defense of her juleps:
"'Scuse me, Marse Gen'ul Jackson, but dese yer drams ain't got no
impunities in 'em, suh. Nor, suh. Braxton done en mek 'em out'n we-all's
ve'y best old London Dock brandy out'n one o' we-all's cobweb bottles."
Though my Soldier's wound was serious and he was suffering intensely,
General Jackson did not express sympathy. He only deplored his absence
from his command in time of need. My Soldier said afterward, "I believe
that General Jackson classes all who are weak or starving as lacking in
patriotism, and maybe he thinks I am unpatriotic to have been wounded."
Perhaps no one but Stonewall Jackson could have lived up to the stern
Puritanism which made him so indifferent to external things--always more
rigidly uncompromising for himself than for others. The same sturdy
determination which had led the untrained boy years before to seek and
obtain an appointment to West Point in the face of a multitude of
discouragements was shown in Stonewall's famous requisition, "Send me
twenty thousand men and no orders." The spirit which held Lieutenant
Jackson to his guns in Mexico after all his men had been killed or
driven away, and had won for him two promotions in one day, was the same
spirit in which, having received an order that upset his well-matured
plans, he promptly obeyed and as promptly sent in his resignation. The
South had then learned his worth and her protest led him to withdraw his
resignation, but he was never again hampered by instructions from the
War Department.
It was said in the army that General Jackson was afraid of nothing but
his own soldiers. Their expressions of devotion alarmed him. Riding his
chestnut sorrel, his tall, powerful form bent forward, his long, solemn
face, with high cheek bones half lost in heavy reddish-brown beard, his
gray eyes cast downward, when he unexpectedly came upon his men the
first cheer would cause him to straighten back, hold his shoulders
erect, doff the old fatigue cap that concealed his receding forehead,
spur up his horse and dash off at full speed, followed by ringing shouts
until he was lost to view.
Soon after this meeting with our "Stonewall" I returned to school, and
in October my Soldier reported for duty, his empty sleeve dangling, for
it was two months before he was able to draw it over his wounded arm.
Sheltered by academic walls, absorbed in our budding ambitions, we were
yet shaken by the thunders of Antietam and thrilled with triumphant,
though awesome, joy by the lightnings of Fredericksburg that seemed to
flash a fiery road to the goal of our dreams.
Then came Chancellorsville with its thrill of triumph, followed by the
knowledge of the immeasurable cost of the victory.
In the Executive Mansion I helped Lizzie Letcher, the daughter of the
Governor, and Miss Missouri Godwin, now the widow of General Ordway,
pin tuberoses tied with crêpe on the lapels of those who with sad hearts
followed their honored leader for the last time. At the grave each
soldier took off his flower and laid it on the sacred mound.
The question asked in '61, "Who is this T. J. Jackson?" had been
answered from many a battlefield. When the shot that struck him down
sent its mournful message around the world the fullest response to that
query came from the mourning hearts of friend and foe alike. Beyond the
sea he was recorded as "one who took to a soldier's grave the love of
the whole world and the name of Stonewall Jackson."
General Garnett was one of those who had been hurt by the severity of
the hero's military discipline. My Soldier had charge of General
Jackson's funeral and Garnett came to him and asked permission to take
part. Of all who followed the great soldier to his grave there was no
mourner more sincere. All antagonisms were drowned in the flood of
veneration which surged around his name and fame.
XIV
THE RED FOX
In my next vacation, as my father could not come to Lynchburg for
several days to take me home, he wrote that my mother suggested that I
accept an invitation from a classmate in Lovingston, Virginia. Four
others of our class were invited and we were having an old-time Virginia
house-party, where friends and neighbors vied with our hosts in giving
us pleasure, when a telegram came from my father saying that his old
friend, Dr. Seon, a celebrated minister who had just romantically made
his escape from prison in his daughter's clothes, would pass through
Lynchburg the following day and would escort me home. Though sorry to
make a break in our house-party I was glad to go, as it furthered the
plan of my Soldier, which I had feared would go astray, to meet me in
Petersburg where I was to stop over for a few days on my way home. On
the train the doctor said:
"Lassie, I found, to my delight, the son of an old friend in the
forward coach, whom I would like to present to you if I may. I have just
told him I was traveling with a little lady-girl, or a little girl-lady,
who was making me forget age and wars and troubles--just a ripple of
sunshine, but a wee bit of a rascal withal. Shan't tell you what else I
said, nor half the things he told me in reply about matching you against
a certain young lady of his acquaintance, which young lady, I am
inclined to think, is more than an 'acquaintance,' so I give you fair
warning _not_ to fall in love with him."
I replied that I should be delighted to meet his friend but needed no
warning, as _I_ had an acquaintance, too, who was more than an
'acquaintance,' and whom I would match against the entire universe.
I was handing the remainder of our luncheon out of the window to a
half-clad, hungry looking soldier when the doctor returned with his
friend and said:
"Miss Corbell, allow me to present to you the son of my old friend, of
Henrico County, Virginia, General Pickett."
My heart jumped into my throat with delight and surprise and in
breathless jerks I cried out--"Oh, my Soldier, my Soldier."
"I had no idea whom I was to have the honor of meeting," said my
Soldier. "This, doctor, is the acquaintance of whom I spoke."
"Ah-ha!" said the doctor, "ah-ha!" He offered my Soldier his seat beside
me, and the rest of the journey was a beautiful, beautiful, soulful
dream. My Soldier stopped off at Richmond, and I went on to Petersburg,
where I was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan.
My friends in Petersburg had announced my coming, and a number of
engagements had been made for me. The first was a large party at the
Johnsons' and the next at the Raglands'. I did not know whether my
Soldier would approve of my going without him and I neither wished to go
nor approved of it myself, so I begged to be allowed to await his
arrival the next day and make my first appearance with him. On seeing
his look of loving appreciation I was very thankful to have made the
decision. The party at the Raglands' was one of the largest and most
brilliant ever given in Petersburg, and that evening our engagement was
announced.
Two days later I was to start for my father's home but was amazed,
especially as my Soldier was in command, to find that I could not get a
permit. He was positive in his refusal and would make no exception in my
favor. However, he consented to date for me a permit a week in advance.
At the end of the week I said good-bye to him at the station and for
the first time was wounded by him, almost heart-broken, because he did
not seem as sorry at parting from me as I thought he ought to be.
Besides, there was a peculiar quizzical twinkle in his eye that puzzled
me and occupied my thoughts all the way down to Ivor Station, where my
uncle, Doctor Phillips, met me. Though fretting because the parting had
seemed of so little moment to my Soldier and wishing that I had not been
sorry either, that is, not so sorry as I was, the drive from the station
proved most pleasant and brought us to my uncle's near noon. That
evening as I was about to retire, a little after eight (they go to bed
early in the country), we heard horses galloping down the lane.
"Listen to the clanking of the swords," said my uncle. "Those are
certainly soldiers and I did not know there were any within miles of
us."
I listened, heard the horses turned over to the orderly, heard footsteps
on the gravel, then on the porch, and in answer to my uncle's greeting I
recognized with unutterable joy the voice of my own Soldier and that of
one of his staff. They were asking for me, had been welcomed, and the
candle was lighting them into the parlor. The dread mystery of my
Soldier's cheerfulness at parting from me was explained. He had come
through on the same day with a part of his division and they were then
in camp on the Blackwater a few miles distant.
When the division crossed the Blackwater and marched on to Suffolk I
went to the home of my aunt, Mrs. Eley, at Barber's Cross Roads, a
distance of about ten miles from Suffolk. Here when all was quiet along
the lines my Soldier would ride in from his headquarters almost every
night between the hours of sunset and sunrise to see me--a ride of about
thirty miles. While these short visits were glimpses of heaven to me,
they resulted sadly for my aunt, whose house, in consequence, was burned
by the Federals.
At the earnest solicitation of my Soldier, who feared my remaining
within the enemy's lines, I went to an old friend in Richmond, Mrs.
Shields, the wife of Colonel Shields. When on this visit I first met
General "Jeb" Stuart, the "Red Fox" of the Confederacy, thus named
because of the blonde glory of his coloring and the swiftness of his
movements, as well as his wiliness in evading pursuit. He was said to be
one of the handsomest men in the South, and perhaps it was true, but I
was at that time too much absorbed in the contemplation of the, to me,
handsomest man in the _world_ to have discriminating eyes for the beauty
of anyone else.
Among those of our officers most noted for personal attractions was
General Longstreet, who was thought to resemble "Jeb" in appearance. A
story is told of an ardent admirer of the "Red Fox" who, meeting the
"old War Horse," General Longstreet, said, "General Stuart, I just met a
man who told me of mistaking you for General Longstreet, but I don't see
how he could. Longstreet is not half as handsome as you are." General
Longstreet gravely replied, "Yes, I am sometimes taken for Longstreet."
As we danced at a ball at "Yellow Tavern" General Stuart teasingly
commiserated my Soldier on his bad luck in belonging to the infantry.
"I am sorry for Pickett, poor fellow! He has to walk. Upon my word, he
ought to be in the cavalry. He deserves it. What a pity! And you, Miss
Lassie--why should you throw yourself away on the infantry? _You_ ought
to marry a cavalryman."
I tried to defend myself and set forth the greater advantages of the
infantry service.
"Pickett is lucky," he replied, "in having such a champion. I am in love
with him myself and agree with you perfectly, for Pickett can do
anything. When I see him dance I think he ought to be a dancing-master.
When I see him ride I think he ought to be a cavalry leader. When he
whistles I think he ought to be a bird. When he sings it seems that he
ought to be an opera star. When I see him lead a charge I feel that he
ought to spend his life on the battlefield. Yes, Pickett can do anything
and do it well. As for poor me--all I can do is to make love."
Inexperienced as I was, I knew that the "Red Fox" could do everything
that was brave and fine and great. As for making love--there was only
one who knew his power in that art--the lovely woman who possessed all
his gallant heart and has worthily borne his great name through years of
wearing toil and lonely sorrow.
In the battle or on the road a song or a laugh was always on his lips
and the hearts of his men leaped up to meet his gayety as well as his
fearlessness.
To few men is it given to go through a great war untouched by any ball
except the fatal one. Such was the gift that Mars bestowed upon his
brilliant follower and in less than a year from that festive night at
this same Yellow Tavern the blood-red seal was set upon a youth that was
immortal.
XV
THE SMUGGLED BRIDE
Notwithstanding war and war's alarms, when I should be launched into the
world with a diploma in my hand and the blessings of my Alma Mater on my
head my Soldier was to marry me. Cupid does not readily give way to
Mars, and in our Southern country a lull between bugle calls was likely
to be filled with the music of wedding bells. But Mars was in the
ascendant for the time, and when I was graduated the Army of Northern
Virginia was marching to an undetermined battlefield in Pennsylvania.
Then came Gettysburg, and the wave of triumph set rolling at
Fredericksburg and mounting higher at Chancellorsville surged anew, for
the first news that came to us was of a great victory. So we rode on the
flood-tide of fancied success and fell with the ebb.
Soon after the battle my Soldier returned to recruit his division. On
Sunday we walked down Broad Street to the Monumental Episcopal Church.
It was the first time we had gone to church together and he was telling
me that this church was called the Monumental because it was built upon
the site of the old Richmond theater, burned in 1811. My Soldier's
grandmother was a victim of the fire, as were the Governor of Virginia
and more than sixty of Richmond's best known citizens. The fire and the
long funeral procession had been described to him by those who held in
memory the mournful cortège darkening the streets of the beautiful city
as Death had clouded the lives of the thousands who followed their loved
ones for the last time on earth.
As we went down Broad Street Hill we saw a little Hebrew child standing
first on one foot and then on the other, crying. He had rubbed his dirty
hands on his tear-stained face until it was covered with muddy streaks.
"Come, come, my little man, what is the matter?" asked my Soldier.
"My shoes is a hurtin' an' pinchin' me so. They feels like I was a
walkin' on red-hot corncobs. Oh-oh-oh! Mister, I can't walk; I can't get
anywhere at all."