human being's."
Little George asked:
"How about a cat's?"
"Cats have secret eyes. They are eyes of mystery; eyes that defy you to
read them. They are wonderfully beautiful, and there is a jewel that
looks like them and is called cat's-eye.
"They told Dear Father that he must not write and he is a good soldier,
but he is going to risk a court-martial and write. Now, run along and
spend your money and have a good time and remember when even you are
having a good time that it is at nobody's expense."
"What is expense?" asked George.
"You can have it at your own expense."
"What are you going to do to be court-martialed about!" asked the boy,
returning to the risk that his father was to take.
"Well, I am going to have pencil and paper if I can get them. I would
rather have pen and ink if I could."
"I will get paper and ink and pen for you," replied George.
He went out and returned with paper, a bottle of ink, a pen and a
sponge. He said he tried to get some shot because he had seen it
down-stairs to wipe pens on, but he did not see how it could wipe pens,
for he took one and tried to wipe a pen and couldn't do it.
"Now, this is a love-letter and I don't want you to read it because you
would be jealous. It is to an old sweetheart," said my Soldier, and the
old twinkle came into his eyes.
On that last day he wrote a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Haxtun, dear friends
at whose home I had visited in happy days. Mr. Haxtun was both
Vice-President and Secretary of the Life Insurance Company which my
Soldier represented.
"Sister," he said to the nurse, "I want this letter mailed at once."
"All right," she answered. "Would I not better ask the Doctor?"
"I want this letter mailed right at once," he repeated.
In the letter he had written:
"The marching days are over and when the train comes in and the call is
'All aboard' and I shall have started on the last journey, I want you to
come and take my precious wife to your home and keep her just as long as
you can have her and as she can stay. She loves music, she loves the
beautiful sky, she loves the flowers, the ocean, and she loves you both.
Lying here thinking about it, I feel that if she went to her own people
they would remind her all the time of her grief, because it will be a
grief to her, and it would be the same way if she went to mine. With you
there is nothing that will make the sorrow keener."
When the letter was finished he said to little George:
"My darling boy, your Dear Mother gave you my name, George Edwards
Pickett. I know you will take care of it, and now I give you my place,
too, and my darling wife, your Dear Mother. You understand, my son?"
The little head of his namesake son nestled closer to his own, the
little arms crept about his neck and the child sobbed out, "Yes, sir,
Dear Father."
"Bless your heart, my baby, bless your heart. Come now and kiss 'Dear
Father,' good night."
After our boy had gone my Soldier said:
"Poor little man! Poor little loving heart! He does not know what death
is, even though he saw his little brother go out of this earth-life; and
you, my darling wife, must not let him know its meaning now. You
must--you have got to take my place and be 'Dear Mother' and 'Dear
Father,' too, to our boy."
The moon was rising, filling the night with radiance and casting mystic
shadows on the earth.
"Turn down the lights, please, little one," he said, "and come to my
arms."
Again there was silence. The Doctor came and gave him something and I
have always thought there was an anodyne in it.
"How beautiful the moonlight looks and how peaceful! You will remember
sometimes, my darling wife, how often in the years that are no more, I
have sung to you under its silvery sheen, but my guitar is unstrung and
the strings in my voice are all broken and I can't sing to you
to-night, and I want to--oh, how I want to sing just one song for, as I
hold you close and feel your touch, I seem to hear again the chimes
ringing out on our wedding day--our blessed marriage song, 'Believe me,
if all these endearing young charms,' and I hear the choir chanting it
soft and low in the distance as the minister is saying, 'Those whom God
hath joined together let no man put asunder,' and the bands playing the
same song as they passed our carriage on the way to the station. I feel
the hand of my wife creep into mine, and as the last faint sound of the
last band dies away I feel our hand-clasp tighten and hear my own voice
singing for my darling, 'Believe me, if all these endearing young
charms,' and feel the thrill of our great love."
My Soldier felt my tears. I could not speak. I could only remember.
"Oh, my Lily--my little one--my precious wife! Pass over the dark days
as bravely as you can till our boy is safe and then come to husband."
His thought went out to the home in which we had spent so many happy
years.
"If I had been at home in our little room within the sight and the sound
of the waters below us and the old packet-boat coming by, the birds
singing and my own redbird that always came and the mocking-birds, I
think husband would have been a long time with you and the little boy.
Maybe it is best. I think they must have given me an anæsthetic, though
I asked them not to, for I feel as if floating dizzily. Now, little one,
let's go to sleep."
[Illustration: THE ANGEL OF PEACE]
My Soldier went to sleep with my hand in his. One and then another of
the watchers would look in and as I waved my hand would quietly steal
away. He just breathed hard and then seemed to be gently sleeping.
Six hours later one of the Sisters of Charity came in and unclasped the
precious hand which I knew was holding mine for the last time. Two hours
earlier I had felt the sigh that freed his great spirit and made of me
(Oh, the woe of that word!) a widow.
Darkness came. Through it some of the scenes that passed made pictures
on my mind which come back to me now in the dim watches of memory. I
recall the memorials and resolutions of sorrow that came from military
associations, from Boards of Trade, from the many organizations that had
known my Soldier through the years. From all over the country they came
to tell of the deep appreciation and honor in which he was held.
I remember the long procession of mourners that followed him through
the streets of Richmond to the beautiful resting place of Hollywood, the
longest funeral procession, they told me, that had ever been known in
Richmond. His staff officers, couriers and headquarters guard met again
to follow him as loyally as when he led them into the whirlwind of
battle.
His old soldiers who had leaped at the flashing of his sword and dashed
with him against the gates of death, and who were now scattered through
far distant States, had rallied to the call of the unblown bugle and the
unvoiced command of their beloved leader to march behind him for the
last time. Those who had followed other leaders came to do honor to the
memory of the great soldier who had fought for the cause dear to them
all.
A few years later another procession marched down the streets of
Richmond to the sacred ground of Hollywood to attend the dedication of
Gettysburg Monument, erected to the memory of my Soldier and his brave
men--the first Confederate Monument. Again Southern veterans assembled
in honor of their leader and of their gallant comrades. Loyal to them
and the past, they came from many States, faithful as in the days of
fire and storm, bringing their treasure of memories to lay on that
sacred shrine.
William Florence and Joe Jefferson placed their laurel wreaths on the
grave of their friend.
From Pennsylvania came ex-Governor Curtin, the war Governor, and two
Union Generals. The Philadelphia Brigade, that stood on Cemetery Hill
and received the shock of that great charge which will live in history
while our country stands, marched in a body to pay tribute to the great
Southern soldier whose heart was filled with kindness, leaving no room
for enmity. Officers of the old Army of the Forties and Fifties, who had
loved my Soldier in those far-gone days, three of them members of that
memorable class of 1846, were there, with the golden flames of old
camp-fires yet burning upon the altar of the heart.
General Longstreet thus recalls his old comrade:
In memory I can see him, of medium height, of graceful build, dark,
glossy hair, worn almost to his shoulders in curly waves, of
wondrous pulchritude and magnetic presence, as he gallantly rode
from me on that memorable third day of July, 1863, saying in
obedience to the imperative order to which I could only bow assent,
"I will lead my Division forward, General Longstreet."
He was the first to scale the parapets of Chapultepec on the 13th
of September, 1847, and was the brave American who unfurled our
flag over the castle, as the enemy's troops retreated, firing at
the splendid Pickett as he floated our victorious colors.
With George E. Pickett, whether fighting under the Stars and
Stripes at Chapultepec or under the Stars and Bars at Gettysburg,
duty was his polar star, and with him duty was above consequences
and, at a crisis, he would throw them overboard.
In a memorial paper General George B. McClellan wrote of my Soldier:
He will live in history as nearer to Light Horse Harry, of the
Revolution, than any other of the many heroes produced by old
Virginia,--his whole history when told, as it will be by some one
of the survivors of Pickett's men, will reveal a modern type of the
Chevalier Bayard, "Sans peur et sans reproche."
Could he have had his wish, he had died amid the roar of battle. No
man of our age has better illustrated the aptitude for war of his
class of our country, and with these talents for war was united the
truest and sweetest nature.
Virginia will rank him in her roll of fame with Lee, with Johnston,
with the Jackson she loves as "Stonewall"; and mourners for the
noble and gallant gentleman, the able and accomplished soldier, are
legion.
True and noble soul, rest in peace.
End of Project Gutenberg's What Happened to Me, by LaSalle Corbell Pickett