and camp, and all breakfasted with us for the last time next morning in
the old Pickett home. I observed that each wore a blue strip tied like a
sash about the waist. It was the old headquarters flag, they explained,
the flag of Virginia, saved from surrender and torn into strips by my
Soldier to be kept in remembrance. By our door was a rose-bush full of
white bloom called, because of its hardihood and early blossoming, the
Frost-Rose. It had been planted by my Soldier's mother. He broke off
some of the buds, put one in my hair and one in the button-hole of each
of his officers. Then for the first time tears came, and the men who had
been closer than brothers for four long years clasped hands in silence
and parted.
The second social parting was sad, too, for they had taken me, "the
child wife," into their lives twenty months before and they all loved me
and called me "Sister." Their pride in each other and in their command,
the perils that together they had endured, the varied experiences of
good times and bad, had bound them together in links stronger than
steel.
In spite of the partings, the loss of our cause, our disappointment and
poverty, there was a sweet, restful, peaceful feeling of thankfulness in
my heart and gratitude because the war was over, my husband had been
spared and belonged now only to me; we were going home together, free
from intrusion, to live our own lives.
XXII
GEORGE JUNIOR'S FIRST GREENBACK
The next morning Dr. Suckley called in his headquarters ambulance to
take us to the steamer. Just at the close of breakfast we had announced
our intention of going. There was to be a sudden breaking up and
severing of old associations. The staff were all en route to their
respective homes except the adjutant-general, Major Charles Pickett. He
and Mrs. Dr. Burwell, the only brother and sister of my Soldier, were to
remain with their families for a time in the old Pickett home.
We said our sad good-bye in the great fruit and flower garden at the
rear of the house, and passing all alone through the large parlors and
wide halls, crept quietly out and softly closed the door behind us. The
only evidence of life in the dear old house as we looked back was Dr.
Burwell's big dog which, having escaped from the backyard, howled
mournfully within the gates. The blinds and window-shades had not been
opened or raised since the Federal forces had occupied the city.
As we boarded the steamer that morning I realized for the first time
that our cause was lost. In all the days of our beautiful married life
cheer after cheer had always greeted us wherever we had gone--salute
from soldier or sailor, whether on or off duty. This morning these
honors were replaced by stares of surprise, of mingled curiosity and
hate. Dr. Suckley recognized this feeling at once, and, with a quizzical
smile at my caged-tigress expression of rage, put his arm in that of my
Soldier, and with a haughty glance at the men, walked boldly on board. I
was shown into the surgeon-general's stateroom, in which there were many
evidences of thoughtful care for my comfort. We were soon under way.
My Soldier and Dr. Suckley called each other by their given names and
laughed and talked as cordially as if they had loved the same dear cause
and fought for it side by side. At the table they drank to each other's
health and to the friends and memories of olden times. A stranger could
not have told which of the two soldiers had furled his banner.
They chatted of Texas, and the great annexation strife which had changed
the political complexion of the nation away back in what seemed to my
youthful view a remote antiquity. They talked of Mexico, and my General
recalled reminiscences of the battles in which he had fought in that
wonderful tropical country. They discussed the wild, free, fresh, novel
life of the far-off Pacific Coast, the wealth of the gold-mines of
California, its luscious and abundant fruits, and the friends they had
known there. They told stories of the great Northwest, that was like a
mythologic region to me, of the Chinook Indians, and of the San Juan
Island and the English officers who had occupied the island conjointly
with my Soldier. I found myself wondering if it had been a dream, and
there had been no internecine strife.
Just before reaching City Point, which is a few hours' distance from
Richmond, Dr. Suckley came up and told me that we were to stop for
General Ingalls, Grant's Quartermaster-General, who wished to come on
board to pay his respects, beseeching me, in his sweet gracious way, to
be more cordial with him than I had been with another of my Soldier's
old friends.
He turned for sympathy to my husband, who looked imploringly at him and
at me. Presently my Soldier drew me to one side and whispered:
"Suckley voiced my wishes, my little wife, and I want you to meet my old
friend just as cordially as you can. Put your little hand in his and
forget everything except that he is one of your husband's oldest and
dearest friends."
I promised with all my heart what he asked, and really intended to keep
my word. I loved to do everything he bade me. I liked him to make things
hard for me sometimes, that I might show him how sincere and loving my
obedience was. But when General Ingalls came on board, was given a
salute and received, as became his rank, with the honors the absence of
which I had marked when my own General came, I slipped my hand out of my
Soldier's and ran back to my stateroom as fast as I could.
There I burst out crying and shook our baby, waking him, and told him
how his dear father had been treated--that he had not had any honors
paid him at all, and that a dreadful old bad Yankee General had come on
board and taken them all, and that when he grew up and was a big man he
must fight and fight and fight, and never surrender, and never forgive
the Yankees; no, not even if his poor, dethroned father asked him to do
so. I told him how his father had asked me to shake hands with this
Yankee General, because he was his friend, and that I was going to do it
because his father wanted me to; that I tried and could not and that he
never must, either--never, never!
I did not know there was a witness to all my bitterness till I heard a
smothered chuckle and, looking up, saw my Soldier and his friend,
General Rufus Ingalls, standing over me. With a twinkle in his eye, and
in a voice full of suppressed laughter, General Ingalls said, as he
patted me on the head:
"I don't blame you one bit, little woman--not a damn bit. I should feel
just as terrible about it as you do if I were in your place. It's all
different with Pickett and me, you see. We don't mind. Why, do you know,
child, we have slept under the same blanket, fought under the same flag,
eaten out of the same mess-pan, dodged the same bullets, scalped the
same Indians, made love to the same girls--aye, Pickett, it won't do, by
Jove, to tell her all we have done together--no, no--come, shake hands.
I am dreadful sorry we have had this terrible kick-up in the family, and
all this row and bloodshed, but we are all Americans, damn it, anyhow,
and your fellows have been mighty plucky to hold out as they have. Come,
that's a good child; shake hands. May I kiss her, Pickett? No--damn it,
I shan't ask you. There, there! Here is a basket of trash I had the
orderly rake together. I don't know what it all is, but I told the man
to do the best he could. Here, Mr. George junior--with your bright eyes
and your won't-cry mouth--here is a green chip for a pair of red
shoes."
General Ingalls put into our baby's hands his first greenback, and it
was the only money we had, too--every cent. Baby and I said good-bye,
and he and my Soldier went out on deck. While I was peeping into the
basket "Mr. George junior" tore the note in two. I caught the pieces and
stuck my bonnet-pin through them till I could paste them together. One
of the officers brought me some glue, and I cut a hundred-dollar
Confederate note in two to mend it with. Poor Confederate money!
[A]Representing nothing in God's earth now,
And naught in the waters below it;
As the pledge of a nation that passed away,
Keep it, dear friend, and show it.
Show it to those who will lend an ear
To a tale this trifle will tell--
Of Liberty born of a patriot's dream,
Of a storm-cradled nation that fell.
Too poor to possess the precious ores,
And too much of a stranger to borrow,
We issued to-day our promise to pay,
And hoped to redeem on the morrow.
The days rolled on, and weeks became years,
But our coffers were empty still;
Coin was so scarce that the treasury quaked
When a dollar would drop in the till.
But the faith that was in us was strong, indeed,
Though our poverty well we discerned;
And this little check represents the pay
That our suffering veterans earned.
They knew it had hardly a value in gold,
Yet as gold our soldiers received it;
It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay,
And every true soldier believed it.
But our boys thought little of price or pay,
Or of bills that were overdue--
We knew if it brought us our bread to-day
'Twas the best our poor country could do.
Keep it! It tells all our history over,
From the birth of our dream till its last;
Modest, and born of the angel Hope,
Like our visions of glory, it passed.
[Footnote A: These verses were written on the back of a Confederate
note, and for a time were ascribed to John Esten Cooke and to Colonel
Wythe Mumford; afterward attributed to Colonel Jonas.]
Baby's first greenback was put to dry, and then I turned my attention to
the big covered basket the sailor had brought in. What an Aladdin treat
it was! Raisins--the first I had seen in years and years--coffee, real
"sho'-'nuff" coffee--sugar, crushed sugar--how nice! (we had had nothing
but sorghum-juice sugar and sweet-potato coffee for so long)--rice and
prunes, Jamaica rum, candy and a box of dried figs--nothing ever had
tasted so delicious as all these good things--and, well--the Yankee
General who gave them all to me--the tones of his voice made more peace
than his words. Eating the figs, I repeated the words to baby, saying:
"Never mind, baby, about hating this Yankee. He said your father and he
had trailed after the same Indians and smoked their venison at the same
camp-fire and had drunk from the same flask. He said you looked like
your father, and he said you were a beautiful boy. So you need not mind
about hating just this one. He said geography and politics had forced
your father and him to opposite courses and it took four years to settle
for their hot-headedness and ambitions. You must never be a politician,
and--you may love this one Yankee a tiny bit, and may suck a piece of
his beautiful candy."
Dr. Suckley not only took us to Norfolk, which was the end of his route,
but he took us up the Nansemond River, thirty miles, and up Chuckatuck
Creek, to my father's wharf. No one was expecting us. They thought, of
course, it was the "Yankees come again," and had all run off and hidden,
except my father who came down to catch the boat-line and welcome the
travelers, whoever they might be. Oh, the joyful welcome of my great
big-hearted father!
Soldiers and sailors, one and all, came and shook hands with us. Baby
and my little brother, Johnny, had made friends of them all for us. Baby
knew no difference between those who wore the blue and those who wore
the gray, and some of them had little ones at home. We said good-bye,
with many a regret, to our kind friend and benefactor, Dr. Suckley, and
to the sailors and officers, and this time cheer after cheer went up for
my noble hero Soldier, as the little steamer hauled in the lines and
puffed away, and more names were added to the list of Yankees for baby
not to hate.
XXIII
"SKOOKUM TUM-TUM"
My Soldier did not like to fight his battles over. He said that the
memories they revived were too sacred and sorrowful for utterance. The
faces of the dead and dying soldiers on the field of battle were never
forgotten. The sorrow of widows and orphans shadowed all the glory for
him. In the presence of memory he was silent. The deepest sorrow, like
the greatest joy, is dumb.
"We are both too worn and weary now for aught else but to rest and
comfort each other," he said. "We will lock out of our lives everything
but its joys. From adversity, defeat and mourning shall spring calmness
for the past, strength for the present, courage for the future. Now
that, in obedience to the command of General Lee, I have finished and
sent off the report of the last fight of the old division, the closing
days of our dear lost cause, we will put up the pen for awhile and lay
aside our war thoughts. We will rest and plan for peace and after a
time we will take up the pen again and write down our memories for our
children and perhaps for the children of the old division. We will build
us a nest over the ashes of our grand old home on the James and plant a
new grove in the place of the sturdy old oaks cut down."
My Soldier possessed the greatest capacity for happiness and such
dauntless courage and self-control that, to all appearance, he could as
cheerfully and buoyantly steer his way over the angry, menacing,
tumultuous surges of life as over the waves that glide in tranquil
smoothness and sparkle in the sunlight of a calm, clear sky.
This sweet rest which we had planned for ourselves, however, was of but
short duration. We had been at my father's home only a few days when a
private messenger brought letters of warning from some of my Soldier's
old army friends. Two officers high in authority, solicitous for his
welfare, advised that in the existing uncertain, incendiary, seditious
condition of things he should absent himself for awhile until calm
reflection should take the place of wild impulse and time bring healing
on its wings and make peace secure. Knowing his fearlessness and
stubbornness, General Ingalls and General Tom Pitcher came in person to
voice their apprehensions, lest my Soldier might not heed the warning.
Butler, who had not yet recovered from the "bottling-up" experience, had
instigated a movement to have my Soldier indicted for treason, based on
the assertion that he had joined the Confederacy before his resignation
from the United States Army had been accepted by the War Department. He
was at that time on the Pacific coast where information of the secession
of Virginia had been received many weeks after the ordinance was passed
and many more weeks must elapse before a message could be delivered to
the Department in Washington and a reply returned.
The nation had gone mad with grief and rage. The waves of passion rose
mountain-high and from the awful storm the angels of justice, mercy and
peace took flight. All that was bad in the hearts of men arose to the
surface; all that was good sank to the depths. The first person that
could be seized was regarded as the proper victim to the national fury.
The weakest and most defenseless was made the target of popular wrath
because rage could thereby most quickly spend itself in vengeance. Mrs.
Surratt was imprisoned, and the whole country was in a state of frenzy
and on the verge of revolution.
Strictest secrecy was enjoined upon us. Only my father and mother were
taken into our confidence. Lucy was bridled, saddled and brought to the
door. I walked with my Soldier, he holding the bridle, to the upper
gate. It was ten o'clock; the moon was shining brightly and all was
quiet and still.
My Soldier's plan for me was that I should go next day to Norfolk, take
the steamer to Baltimore and visit his aunt, whose husband, Colonel
Symington, had been in the old army, and who had not left it to join the
Southern Confederacy, though his sons had fought on that side, one of
them having been detailed on duty at my Soldier's headquarters.
"My aunt will welcome you," he said, "and you will remain with her until
a telegram shall come to you saying, 'Edwards is better.'" (Edwards was
my Soldier's middle name.)
That telegram would mean that he was safe and that I was to join him,
starting on the next train. I was to telegraph to "Edwards" from Albany,
on my way to him, sending my message to the place at which his telegram
had been dated. If his telegram should say, "There is still danger of
contagion," I was not to start, but remain with his aunt until another
message should come.
"Cheer up, the shadows will scatter soon. Already bright visions and
happy day-dreams flit through my brain and thrill my heart; so keep up a
'skookum tum-tum,' little one, and take care of yourself. Watch for the
telegram, 'Edwards is better,' for it will surely come."
I smiled up at him as he repeated the familiar old saying, learned from
an old Chinook warrior on the Pacific. In the darkest days he would lift
my face upward, look down with his kind eyes and gentle smile and say,
"Keep up a skookum tum-tum, dear one." All through my life have the
sweet old words come back to me when the sun has been hidden by the
darkest clouds.
I heard the footsteps of the horse keeping time to my Soldier's whistle,
"Believe me if all those endearing young charms," away in the distance
long after he was out of sight. I remembered a trick of my childhood
which had been taught me by a half-Indian, half-negress and, putting my
ear to the ground, I listened to the steps until the last echo was lost.
Later I learned that the faithful Lucy bore her master safely to the
station and when the train carried him away lay down and died, as if she
felt that, having done all she could, life held for her no more duties
or pleasures.
The night-wind sighed with me as I walked back, repeating, "Keep up a
skookum tum-tum." My pathway lay parallel with the Chuckatuck Creek, a
stone's throw to the left. The tide was high and still coming in. The
surging of the waves seemed to call out to me, "Skookum tum-tum! Skookum
tum-tum!" I could not be all desolate when the most beautiful forces of
nature, echoing his words, called to me, "Keep up a brave heart--brave
heart!"
My precious old father had waited to have us say good-bye alone and was
now coming forward to meet me. Our baby awakened just as we reached home
and I confided to him the secret of the telegram and told him his dear
father said that it would surely come and he always said what was true.
The stars were burning brightly in the midnight sky to light the
traveler on his way as he went afar off. Could there be light on the
pathway that led him from me? Had his face been turned southward, with
his eyes fixed joyfully upon the loved home where he would be welcomed
when the journey was over, what radiant glory would have flooded the
way.
Far up in the zenith I could see "our star" gleaming brilliantly,
seeming to reach out fingers of light to touch me in loving caress. It
was a pure white star that sent down a veil of silvery radiance. Near it
was a red star, gleaming and beautiful, but I did not love it. It
seemed to glow with the baleful fires of war. My great, loving, tender,
white star was like a symbol of peace looking down with serenest
benediction.
"Our star," he had said as we stood together only one little evening
before--how long it seemed!--and gazed upward to find what comfort we
might in its soft glow. "Wherever we may be we will look aloft into the
night sky where it shines with steady light, and feel that our thoughts
and hearts are together."
I fell asleep, saying softly, "God's lights to guide him."
There were no steamers and no railroads from my home to Norfolk, but my
father secured a pungy--a little oyster-boat--and the following day
we--baby and I--started off.
A storm came up just as we left Chuckatuck Creek and we were delayed in
arriving at Norfolk. We had hoped to be there some hours before the
departure of the Baltimore steamer, but reached the wharf as the plank
was about to be taken in, so that my father barely had time to say
good-bye to me and put me on board.
XXIV
CARPET-BAG, BASKET AND BABY
Alone, except for baby George, for the first time in all my seventeen
years! Perhaps no timid little waif thrown out upon the deep sea of life
ever felt more utterly desolate.
I stepped on board the Baltimore steamer and was piloted into the saloon
by a porter whose manner showed that he was perfectly cognizant of my
ignorance and inexperience. In the midst of my loneliness and the
consciousness of my awkwardness and my real sorrows, sympathy for myself
revived my old-time compassion for poor David Copperfield, whom
Steerforth's servant had caused to feel so "young and green."
So little did I know of traveling and the modes and manners of
travelers, that I sent for the captain of the steamer to buy my ticket
and arrange for my stateroom and supper.
I had been warned on leaving my home that the slightest imprudence or
careless word from me might cause my arrest, and that if it were known
who I was it was more than possible that I might be held as hostage for
my husband. After consideration it had been decided that I should travel
under my maiden name. My train of thought was interrupted by the ringing
of a bell and a loud voice shouting:
"Passengers will please walk into the custom-house office and show their
passports!"
The laws were so strict that no one could leave any city in the South
without a passport from the military authorities. My grandmother had
given me her "oath of allegiance," which everybody in those dread days
immediately after the surrender of the army was compelled to take in
order to purchase medicine, food or clothing of any kind, or for the
transaction of any business whatever. It was a rare occurrence that a
man was found who would take this iron-clad oath for, no matter how
great the exigency might be, he was branded as a traitor if he yielded.
So the women, who were most bitter, too, in their feelings, were obliged
to make a sacrifice of their convictions and principles, and take this
oath in order to alleviate the suffering of their loved ones. Illness in
the family and the urgent necessity for quinine and salt left my
unselfish little grandmother no alternative, and she found a kind of
safety in the oath. It had brought her relief and she wanted that I
should have it with me as a "mascot" or safeguard.
With carpet-bag, basket and baby I started into the custom-house office
and explained to the officer in charge:
"I am very sorry, sir, that I have no passport. The steamer was about to
sail as I reached Norfolk. I came from a little village thirty miles
beyond where passports are not given. I have an oath of allegiance, if
that will answer in its place."
The officer, laughing, said:
"No; never mind. It is all right; only register your name. I remember
you did come on board just as the whistle blew; but was there not
another passenger who came on with you--a gentleman?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "It was my precious father, and he went back home
in the little sailboat."
There must have been something to excite suspicion in the way I wrote my
name or in my manner. I boldly wrote out my given name and then, as I
began to write my last name, I looked all around me, confused, and
changed the letter "P" to "C," writing "Corbell." Then I began to erase
"Corbell" and write "Phillips," the name in my oath of allegiance. While
there was nothing very false in what I did, I felt guilty and was
frightened, for I had been brought up to be strictly truthful.
I had not been long in the saloon when baby became restless and fretful.
I was impatiently awaiting the coming of the captain, for whom I had
sent, when a man appeared. He had short curly hair, deep, heavy
eyebrows, eyes sunken and close together as if they had to be focused by
his big, hooked nose to enable them to see. He was chewing alternately
one end of his crinkly moustache and one side of his thick red lip and
was making a sucking noise with his tongue as he said:
"Madam, you sent for the captain of the boat, I believe."
"Yes, sir."
"What do you wish?"
"I want you to be kind enough to get my ticket and stateroom, please," I
replied. "My father had only time to put me on board and could not make
any arrangements."
"Certainly; with pleasure. You stop in Baltimore long?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"You have been there before, I suppose?"
"Oh, no; never. I have been nowhere outside of Virginia and North
Carolina. Most of my traveling before my marriage was in going to and
from Lynchburg, where I was at school.