I just wanted to see the place. Down in old Quincy, Illinois, where I
used to hear George Pickett whistle the songs of Virginia in his
bird-like notes, I have heard him describe his home till in spirit I
have been here many a time. I have smelled the multi-flora roses and the
Lady Bankshire roses and the golden cluster roses and those great
cabbage roses. I have seen the borders of hyacinths in the springtime
and the lilies-of-the-valley blooming in the chimney corner, the beds of
violets, the rows of beehives and the lily-beds that the bees knew were
theirs, had been planted just for them. I have stood under the arbor and
gathered those strange green looking grapes that are like the Virginia
aristocracy, growing each one on its own individual stem. I think he
called them scuppernongs. I have sat on that back porch and listened to
the music as his sister Virginia, of whom he was so proud, sang in that
glorious voice he told me about, and I have swung in this old swing here
while the moon and I watched and waited for the old cat to die. So I
wanted to see the place."
I, listening, wondered who he could be, till he finished and then he
said:
"I am Abraham Lincoln."
"The President!" I gasped.
"No--no,--just Abraham Lincoln; George Pickett's old friend."
[Illustration: ABRAHAM LINCOLN]
"I am George Pickett's wife and this is his baby," was all I could say.
The baby reached out his arms and Mr. Lincoln took him, a look of
tenderness almost divine glorifying that sad face. I have never seen
that expression on any other face. My little one opened his mouth and
insisted upon giving his father's friend a dewy baby kiss. As he handed
my baby back to me Mr. Lincoln shook his long hand at him and said:
"Tell your father, the rascal, that I could almost forgive him anything
for the sake of those bright eyes and that baby kiss."
The tones of his deep voice touched all the chords of life to music, and
I marveled no more at my Soldier's love for him even through all the
bitterness of the years. He turned and went down the steps and out of my
life forever, but in my memory that wonderful voice, those intensely
human eyes, that strong, sad, tender face have a perpetual abiding
place. He seemed to have a cast in his eye that reminded me of the glass
eye of Mr. Davis, but as no one has ever mentioned it in describing him
it may be that his likeness to Jefferson Davis made me think so, yet I
always see that look in his pictures.
Among my treasured possessions are some old letters, written by Mr.
Lincoln when practicing law in Springfield, to George Pickett, then a
cadet at West Point, where he was placed at the request of Mr. Lincoln.
The homely and humorous philosophy of these letters, the honesty which
breathes through them, the cheerful outlook upon life, and the ready
sympathy of the experienced professional man with the boy just on the
threshold of life, looking down the vista of the future to the flashing
of swords and the thunder of guns, all bring him before me as a friend.
I look beyond the description he once gave of himself, "Height, six
feet, four inches, nearly; lean in flesh, weighing on an average one
hundred and eighty pounds; dark complexion, with coarse black hair and
gray eyes."
A free-hand sketch like that is easy, but my memory fills the outlines
with the subtle beauty of soul, the sunny view of life, the deep, tender
sympathy that made up a face of infinite charm which puzzled all artists
but revealed itself to the intuitions of a child, causing the babe to
raise its little arms to be taken up and its lips to be kissed.
The ways of Abraham Lincoln and George Pickett were widely separated for
a time, but were never so far apart that the old love had not full sway.
I marveled over it once, but after my own picture of the man was filled
out I wondered no more. I think no one who knew and loved Lincoln could
be estranged from him, whatever tides of political hostility might roll
between.
One afternoon, as we were reading "Les Miserables" upon the veranda, our
attention was distracted by a number of soldiers below who were
discussing the Emancipation Proclamation and saying all manner of
discrediting things about Mr. Lincoln, censuring him as ignorant and
despotic, and bringing other unfounded accusations against him. After
they were gone my Soldier walked up and down the veranda, whistling
"When other friends are 'round thee." Presently, coming back, sitting
beside me and taking hold of my hand, he said:
"Years ago there was a very lonesome, dispirited, disappointed,
heart-broken boy away off in Quincy, Illinois. He had received letters,
not in envelopes as they come now, for that was a long time ago when the
letter made its own envelope; paper was scarcer then than now, and one
had to be careful in opening the letter. It was fastened with sealing
wax and in breaking the wax it often happened that a word was broken
off. He had opened three of those letters and found that four of his
cousins had been appointed to West Point, three from Virginia and one
from Kentucky, and _he_ was compelled to study law, a subject which he
did not like, but which his family did and had chosen for him. His uncle
with whom he was studying had no sympathy with his ambition to be a
soldier and his disappointment in not being of the fortunate number.
"That night when this lonesome boy was leaning on the gate still
brooding over his disappointment but obediently trying to memorize the
Rule in Shelley's Case a tall man, for whom he was waiting, came up the
street and asked, 'What is the matter? Holes in your pocket and your
marbles and knife all dropped out?' 'Yes,' said the boy, 'I have lost my
knife and my marbles and there are big holes in my pockets.' 'Well,'
replied the man, 'you must have strong pockets like mine. I have marbles
and a knife but my pockets are so strong now that they do not make holes
in them, as they used to do. Come, sit down on the grass and let's have
a game of mumble-de-peg.' The man played so badly on purpose that it was
he who had to mumble the peg, but his playmate insisted that he should
mumble it. 'No, you have been mumbling the peg all day, my boy. I want
to keep you from mumbling pegs.'
"The next morning the boy was awakened by a handful of gravel thrown
against the window. He looked out and saw his friend with saddle-bags
in his hand. 'Going up the road a piece,' he called out. It took the man
a long time to go up the road and the boy waited for him week after week
to come down the road. After a long time there came instead a letter
from which the following is an extract:
I never encourage deceit, and falsehood, especially if you have got
a bad memory, is the _worst_ enemy a fellow can have. The fact is,
truth is your truest friend, no matter what the circumstances are.
Notwithstanding this copy-book preamble, my boy, I am inclined to
suggest a _little prudence_ on your part. You see I have a
congenital aversion to failure, and the sudden announcement to your
Uncle Andrew of the success of your "lamp-rubbing" might possibly
prevent your passing the severe _physical_ examination to which you
will be subjected in order to enter the Military Academy. I should
like to have a perfect soldier credited to dear old Illinois--no
broken bones, scalp wounds, etc. So I think perhaps it might be
wise to hand this letter from me in to your good uncle through his
room-window _after_ he has had a _comfortable dinner_, and watch
its effect from the top of the pigeon-house.
"Inclosed in this letter was one from Mr. John G. Stuart, Representative
in Congress of the Third Illinois District, together with an appointment
to West Point."
My Soldier was silent for a moment, then continued:
"That man is the one we have just heard maligned; the man to whom I,
your Soldier, owes his profession, the one to whom he is indebted for
the garlands that were hung around his horse all along the road as he
came from Gettysburg, the one whose honesty and courage enabled your
Soldier to defy the British fleet at San Juan, and to whom he owes the
gratitude of the people of Petersburg who say that he saved their
town--that man was Abraham Lincoln."
Months afterward, when the awful news of Lincoln's death came to us, my
Soldier exclaimed:
"My God! My God! The South has lost her best friend and protector in
this, her direst hour of need!"
XX
SUSPENSE
My Soldier left me in Richmond when he went away to fight the last
battles of the war, telling me to stay until he returned or sent for me.
"Now, remember, I shall surely come back," he said. So, like Casabianca,
I waited, and not even "the flames that lit the battle's wreck" should
frighten me away.
General Breckenridge, our Secretary of War, had, in his thoughtfulness,
offered me an opportunity of leaving the Confederate Capital, but
remembering that my Soldier had left me there I obediently determined to
remain until he came or sent for me. Thanking the Secretary I said:
"I cannot go until the voice that bade me stay calls me."
The days were filled with fear and anguish unspeakable. The clock struck
only midnight hours for me.
Rumors of the death of my Soldier were credited (I saw by the look on
everybody's face, though no word was said), and I would not ask a
question nor let anybody speak to me of him lest an effort be made to
prepare me for the sad tidings. The last letter I had received from him
was dated the 30th of March, at Hatcher's Run, the extreme right of the
Confederate line, most of the letter being written in Chinook, that I
only might understand. It contained the following paragraph:
Heavy rains; roads and streams almost impassable. While General Lee
was holding a conference with his chiefs this morning a message
came from General Fitz Lee, stating that through a prisoner he had
learned that the Federal cavalry, fifteen thousand strong,
supported by heavy infantry, were at or near Dinwiddie Court-House.
This decided the General's plans, and he has placed General Fitz
Lee in command of the whole cavalry, Rosser's, W. H. F. Lee's and
his own, with orders to march upon Five Forks. I am to support with
my small force of artillery and infantry this movement and I take
command of the whole force.
He wrote in full faith of a short separation, saying that all would be
well, that he would surely return, imploring me not to listen to or
credit any rumors to the contrary, and urging me in an added line to be
brave and of good cheer--to keep up a "skookum tum-tum." (Chinook for
"brave heart," always his last words to me in parting). This letter was
brought to me by Jaccheri, a daring, fearless Italian in my Soldier's
employ as headquarters postmaster. He was sagacious and loyal, perfectly
devoted to the General and his cause, and was trusted with letters of
the strictest confidence and greatest importance all through the war.
As I said before, our people were on the verge of starvation. For weeks
before we left camp the army had been living on rations of corn and
beans, with "seasonings" of meat. The game had been trapped and killed
throughout the whole country, and my breakfast that morning had
consisted of a few beans cooked in water, no salt, for salt had long
been a luxury in the Confederacy. All the old smokehouses had been
moved, that the earth might be dug up and pulled down to recover the
salt which in the many years it had absorbed.
John Theophelas, my dear little brother, nine years old, was a great
comfort to me in these days of trial. He had just brought my beans and
was lovingly coaxing me to eat them when Jaccheri came, and a plate was
filled for him. After Jaccheri had finished his meager breakfast,
seasoned with his adventures on the road, swimming the river at one
place carrying his clothes in a bundle on his head, he said he must go.
I added a few lines to my diary, which I always kept for my Soldier, and
gave it to our faithful letter-carrier to take back to him.
"Ina da days to come," said Jaccheri in his soft Italian voice "ina all
lands, no matter, mucha people, mucha gloly, nadie money, no matter, you
find Jaccheri here--and here--" first putting his hand over his heart
and then drawing from his boot and gracefully brandishing a shining
blade. "Gooda-bye."
At the door he turned back, untied his cravat, and wiggled out five
pieces of money, three gold dollars and two ninepences. He walked over
on tiptoe to where the baby was sleeping, crossed himself and, kneeling
by the cradle, slipped into baby's little closed hand two of the gold
dollars and around his neck a much worn and soiled scapula.
"Da mon--Confed--noa mucha good, noa now mucha accountable--you mighta
want some; want her vely bad before you nota get her. Gooda-bye, some
moa."
Dear, faithful old Jaccheri, he would take no refusal, so I let baby
keep the money. I was kneeling by the cradle crying and praying for my
Soldier and thanking God that he had so good a friend as this poor camp
postman, when the door opened softly and Jaccheri looked in.
"I know you cly and so I come back to say gooda-bye some moa, and God
bless."
I was reading aloud lovingly and reverently the torn words on the ragged
red-flannel scapula which Jaccheri had given to baby: "Cease, the heart
of Jesus is with you," when the baby opened his sweet eyes and crowed
over the little fortune which had come to him in his dreams, the first
gold he had ever seen. Just then my little brother, who had gone
downstairs with Jaccheri, came rushing back, his eyes wide open, all
excitement, exclaiming:
"Sister! Sister! There's a Yankee down-stairs! Come to see you, but
don't you go; hide, hide, sister! I'll stand by the door and he daresent
pass by me. Quick, sister, hide! He said that he was one of brother
George's friends, but I believe he has killed brother George, and now
wants to kill you!"
In the light of the present day the terror of the child seems almost
exaggerated, but in those days southern nurses kept children docile by
warning them that the Yankees would get them if they did not behave, and
the whole environment of childhood intensified the fear thus instilled.
"Oh, no, no, my child," I said reassuringly, trying to soothe and calm
him. "No, no; don't be such a little coward, dear. If he is one of your
brother George's friends he is mine, too, and he would not hurt me. I am
not in the least afraid, and I will go down at once and see him."
"Please don't go, sister, you might be killed and I promised brother
George to take care of you."
"That's a sweet boy; take care of the baby," I said and, kissing them
both, closed the door behind me.
As I entered the parlor a tall, thin gentleman with the sweetest of
smiles and the kindest of voices, dressed in the uniform of a United
States surgeon, arose and said as he bowed, holding his hat against his
breast, thus avoiding offering me his hand:
"My name is George Suckley, madam. I am one of George Pickett's friends,
although, as soldiers, we have been enemies in the field for more than
three years. That, however, does not interfere with us when we are not
on duty. I have heard that you southern women are very bitter, and I did
not know how you, his wife--you are Pickett's wife, are you not,
madam?--would take a visit from me, but I came, nevertheless. Knowing
and loving George Pickett as I do, I knew he would appreciate my motive
in coming."
"Your name is a very familiar one, Dr. Suckley," I said. "I have often
heard the General speak of you, and recall many stories of your
adventures--your love for bugs and beetles, for all natural history, in
fact." I wished him to know that I remembered him and had not mistaken
him for another, and also that I had reason to wonder at seeing him in
his present position. "He spoke of your having been with him at Fort
Bellingham Bay, and knowing how you felt when he left the old army, he
wondered at your remaining and going to the front."
"I am a surgeon in Grant's army," said Dr. Suckley, proudly, ignoring
and, by his manner, almost resenting my reference to his former sympathy
with the South. "I love _Pickett_, and came, as he would have come had
our positions been reversed, to see his wife and offer her my services."
I thanked this kind-hearted gentleman and distinguished officer, but was
too bitter to accept the smallest courtesy at his hands, even in my
husband's name and offered for love's sake--so bitter that suffering was
preferable to such obligation. He bowed and was going, when I said:
"Doctor, is there any news of the army?--ours, I mean."
"The war is over, madam. You have my address, if you should change your
mind and will show me how I can serve you."
He bowed and left. He, too, had heard that my Soldier had been killed,
and believed it, and I hated him worse because of his belief.
On the evening of the 3d of April I was walking the floor. Baby was
asleep and my little brother was trotting behind me, when I heard from
the street:
"Grand victory at Five Forks! Pickett killed and his whole division
captured."
It seemed very strange to me that in the streets of Richmond, his old
home, the Capital of the Confederacy, the death of Pickett and the
capture of his whole division should be heralded as a "grand victory."
How great a change had come in so short a time! Even the newsboys had
apparently gone over to the enemy.
"'Tisn't so, sister, 'tisn't so! Don't you believe him!" said my little
brother, catching my dress and shaking it. Then running to the window in
his excitement, he called out:
"Hush, sir; hush! hush this minute, hallooing your big stories out loud
and scaring everybody to death. I'd like to stick those five forks
through your old black gizzard, for you haven't got any heart, I know.
Ain't you ashamed of yourself, you good-for-nothing old scalawag, you!
There ain't a word of truth in brother George being killed, and you
know it, you old thing! I'll go down and smash his mouth for him and
kick him to death for scaring you so, my poor sister, 'deed I would; but
it isn't so, my sister. You trust in the Lord. I know brother George is
not killed, for he said he wouldn't get killed."
"No, it is not so. You are right, my darling. Your brother George is not
killed," I said. "Yes, he will come back! he will come back! He said he
would, and he will."
Thus I spoke and believed, for my Soldier had never broken a promise.
The days came and the days went and the sun rose each morning with an
auroral glow of hope in its golden heart. When twilight drifted out from
the forest shadows, the sun went down in a sea of crimson fire that
burned out my dream of happiness. Then night fell and the world and my
heart were wrapped in darkness.
XXI
"WHOA, LUCY"
One morning I had mechanically dressed baby George and had taken him to
the window to hear the spring sounds and breathe the spring balm and
catch the sunshine's dripping gold wreathing the top of the quivering
blossoms of the magnolia and tulip-trees.
It was the time when the orchestra of the year is in perfect accord,
when all the world is vocal, when the birds sing of love, the buds and
blossoms of joy, the grains and grasses of hope and faith, and when each
rustle of wind makes a chime of vital resonance.
Through the quiver and curl of leaves and perfume of flowers and soft
undertone of dawn-winds came the words, "Whoa, Lucy; whoa, little girl!"
Oh, those tones, those words, that voice thrilled my heart so that I
wonder it did not burst from very gladness! Such joy, such gratitude as
flooded my soul only the Giver of all good can know! All the privation
and starvation and blood-stains of the past four years, all the woes and
trials, griefs and fears, of those last dreadful days were swept away by
those blessed, precious-words, "Whoa, Lucy!" spoken in my husband's
tender tones to his horse.
I could not wait to go down stairs in the regular way; it was too slow.
So I slid down the bannisters with my baby in my arms and ran out upon
the porch just as my Soldier came around the rosebushes that Mr. Lincoln
had described, and which had just budded out. Baby and I were both in my
Soldier's arms almost before Lucy had been given into the hands of the
hostler. I do not know how to describe the peace, the bliss of that
moment--it is too deep and too sacred to be translated into words. I
think that it is akin to the feeling that will come to me in the
hereafter, when I have gone through all these dark days of privation and
of starvation of heart and soul here, victorious, and at last am safe
within the golden gates and, waiting, and listening, shall hear again
the voice that said, "Whoa, Lucy!" here, bidding me welcome there as I
welcomed him after the perilous waiting.
All through the war Lucy had brought my Soldier to me. Spirited and
beautiful, she had many times carried him twenty miles in an evening to
see me, sometimes through dangers greater than battle. Lucy was not his
war-horse. She was the little thoroughbred chestnut mare my Soldier
always rode when he came to see me. His "peace-saddle," his "love-pony,"
he called her. Bob, the General's valet, would say, "Dat hoss Lucy she
Marse George's co'tin' filly; and you dares'nt projick wid dat hoss,
needer, kase Marse George is mos' as 'especkful to her as ef she was
sho' 'miff real lady folks." The horse my Soldier used in battle he
called "Old Black," a steady, sure-footed, strong, fearless animal that,
though obedient to his slightest touch or command, allowed no one else,
on peril of death, to mount her.
We had no plans for the future. Our home on the James had been burned at
the command of Butler, so we decided to go to my father's plantation on
the Chuckatuck, in Nansemond County, Virginia, a difficult thing to do,
for the railroads had been torn up and no boats were running. The little
town of Chuckatuck was about thirty miles from Norfolk, diagonally
opposite Newport News, and after the evacuation of Norfolk by the
Southern Army all that part of the country was neutral ground, being
occupied one day by Federal troops and another by Confederate. Lying
thus between the two lines, a constant warfare was carried on by the
scouts of both armies, making it a dangerous region for travel. I had
not been home since my marriage and we knew that the loving welcome
which awaited us there had but increased in warmth for the long absence.
Nature's great larder, the Chuckatuck Creek, ran but a stone's throw
from the back door, supplying with but little labor terrapin, fish,
oysters and crabs in abundance.
On the afternoon of the second day after my Soldier's return, while we
were trying to plan a way to go, my little brother Johnny came running
in, saying:
"Sister, I saw riding by the door just now that same Yankee who came
here to see you the other day, and who said he was brother George's
friend. He knew me and asked how you were, and how's the baby."
"Oh, I forgot; I must let you know all about it," I said, and told my
Soldier of the visitor who had called before he came back. When I had
finished his gray eyes filled with tears and looking at the card he said
tenderly:
"Dear old Suckley--dear old fellow--so true!"
I stooped and took my Soldier's head in both my hands, and raising it up
gazed searchingly into his earnest, loving eyes to see how he could
possibly speak so affectionately of a Yankee.
"You, too, have that same kind of 'off-duty' feeling that this Yankee
doctor spoke of having," I said with surprise, and rather
disrespectfully for me, I am afraid.
"I must find the dear old fellow," my Soldier said, graciously
overlooking my smallness of spirit. Excusing himself and taking leave of
baby and me, he went out at once. In a little while he returned, saying:
"It is very fortunate for us, little one, that I went out when I did.
Suckley goes down the river to-morrow to Norfolk in the
surgeon-general's steamer, and he has kindly invited us to go with him,
dear old big-hearted bug-catcher! Come, let us lose no time. Let us
hurry and get our little traps together and be ready. We will not say
anything about our plans to anyone till to-morrow morning, when we can
announce our intentions and say our good-byes simultaneously."
Not only had this Yankee officer, in his "off-duty" feeling for my
Soldier, kindly volunteered to transport us to our home, but to carry
our trunks and horses, in fact, all we had, which, alas! was very, very
little. Most of our worldly possessions--all of our bridal presents,
linen, library, pictures, silver, furniture, harp, piano, china,
everything except a few clothes--had been stored at Kent, Payne &
Company's, and had been burned in the awful fire the night of the
evacuation of Richmond.