The "overt act," for which everybody looked, had been really the
reënforcement by federal troops of the fort in Charleston harbor. When
Fort Sumter was reduced by Beauregard, "the fight was on." My husband,
with other gentlemen, was deputed by General Beauregard to demand the
surrender of the fort, and in case of refusal which he foresaw, to
direct the commandant of the battery, Johnson, to open fire. When the
order was delivered to the commandant, he invited my husband to fire the
first shot; but this honor my husband declined, and instead suggested
the venerable Edmund Ruffin, an intense secessionist, for that service.
It was the prevalent impression at the time that Mr. Ruffin did "fire
the first gun"; at all events he fired, to him, the last; for on hearing
of Lee's surrender, Cato-like, he destroyed himself.
Fort Sumter was reduced on April 12, and Virginia was in a wild state
of excitement and confusion. On May 23 Virginia ratified an ordinance
of secession, and on the early morning of May 24 the federal soldiers,
under the Virginian, General Winfield Scott, crossed the Potomac River
and occupied Arlington Heights and the city of Alexandria. "The invasion
of Virginia, the pollution of her sacred soil," as it was termed, called
forth a vigorous proclamation from her governor and a cry of rage from
her press. General Beauregard issued a fierce proclamation, tending
to fire the hearts of the Virginians with indignation. "A reckless and
unprincipled host," he declared, "has invaded your soil," etc. Virginia
needed no such stimulus. The First, Second, and Third Virginia were
immediately mustered into service, and my husband was colonel of the
Third Virginia Infantry. He was ordered to Norfolk with his regiment to
protect the seaboard. I was proud of his colonelship, and much exercised
because he had no shoulder-straps. I undertook to embroider them myself.
We had not then decided upon the star for our colonels' insignia, and I
supposed he would wear the eagle like all the colonels I had ever known.
No embroidery bullion was to be had, but I bought heavy bullion fringe,
cut it in lengths, and made eagles, probably of some extinct species,
for the like were unknown in Audubon's time, and have not since been
discovered. However, they were accepted, admired, and, what is worse,
worn.
My resolution was taken. I steadily withstood all the entreaties of my
friends, and determined to follow my husband's regiment through the war.
I did not ask his permission. I would give no trouble. I should be only
a help to his sick men and his wounded. I busied myself in preparing a
camp equipage—a field stove with a rotary chimney, ticks for bedding,
to be filled with straw or hay or leaves, as the case might be, and a
camp chest of tin utensils, strong blankets, etc. A tent could always
be had from Major Shepard, our quartermaster. News soon came that the
Third Virginia had been ordered to Smithfield. McClellan was looking
toward the peninsula, and Major-general Joseph E. Johnston was keeping
an eye on McClellan.
When I set forth on what my father termed my "wild-goose chase," I found
the country literally alive with troops. The train on which I travelled
was switched off again and again to allow them to pass. My little boys
had the time of their lives, cheering the soldiers and picnicking at
short intervals all day. But I had hardly reached Smithfield before
the good people of the town forcibly took my camp equipage from me,
stored it, and installed me in great comfort in a private house. My
colonel soon left me to take his seat in the Confederate Congress
along with Hon. William C. Rives and others of our old friends. I was
left alone at Smithfield, not _la fille du régiment_, but _la mère_! I
heard daily from all the sick men in winter quarters, and ministered to
them according to my ability. The camp fascinated me. Picturesque huts
were built of pine with the bark on, and in clearings here and there
brilliant fires of the resinous wood were constantly burning. I knew
many of the officers, and from them soon learned that the deadly foe at
home was more to be dreaded than the foe in front. Smithfield was noted
for its Virginia hams, its fine fish, its mullets that would leap into
the fisherman's boat while he lazily enjoyed his brier-root, its great
sugary "yams," as the red sweet-potato was called. It was noted as well
for the excellence of its brandy.
My colonel issued stern orders that no intoxicating liquors were to
be sold to his soldiers. Every man who went on leave to the town was
inspected on his return. But drunken men gave trouble in the camp,
and it was discovered that brandy was smuggled in the barrels of the
muskets, and in yams, hollowed out and innocently reposing at the bottom
of baskets.
Thereupon one morning Smithfield was in an uproar, negroes screaming and
running about with pails to be filled, tipsy pigs staggering along the
streets. A squad of soldiers had been ordered out from camp, had entered
every store, and emptied the contents of every cask into the gutters. A
drunken brawl had occurred in camp, and one soldier had killed another!
The soldier was arrested and imprisoned. Later the prisoner was tried
and acquitted,—his own colonel argued in his defence,—and completely
sobered, he made a good soldier. The prompt act of the commanding
officer was salutary. There was no more trouble—no more muskets loaded
with inflammable stuff, no more yams flavored with brandy.
When the colonel was attending the session of Congress, Theo, not
yet ten years old, was often mounted on a barrel, in his little linen
blouse, to drill the Third Virginia! He had studied military tactics,
Hardee and Jomini, with his father. Lying before me as I write is his
own copy of Jomini's "L'Art de la Guerre," in which he proudly wrote his
name. An event of personal interest was the presentation to the colonel
of a blue silken flag, made by the ladies of Petersburg. The party came
down the river in a steamboat, and I have before my reminiscent eyes
an interesting picture of my colonel, as he stood with his long hair
waving in a stiff breeze, listening to the brave things the dear women's
spokesman said of their devotion to him and to their country. This flag
is somewhere, to-day, in that country, but not in the home of the man
who had earned and owned it. It is of heavy blue silk; on one side the
arms of the state of Virginia, on the other Justice with the scales. In
the upper left-hand corner is the word "Williamsburg," room being left
for the many other battles in store for the young colonel.
Things were going on beautifully with us when I one day received a
peremptory official order to change my base—to leave Smithfield next
morning before daybreak! The orderly who brought it to me looked
intensely surprised when I calmly said: "Tell the colonel it is
impossible! I can't get ready by to-morrow to leave."
"Madam," said the man, gravely, "it is none of my business, but
when Colonel Pryor gives an order, it is wise to be a strict
constructionist."
My colonel had returned suddenly; when I, in an open wagon, was on
my way next morning at sunrise to the nearest depot, he and his men
were _en route_ to the peninsula. They gave McClellan battle May 5
at Williamsburg,—"Pryor and Anderson in front,"—captured four hundred
unwounded prisoners, ten colors, and twelve field-pieces, slept on the
field of battle, and marched off next morning at their convenience.
My colonel personally ministered to the wounded prisoners, and General
McClellan recognizes this service in his "own story." After this he was
promoted, and my bristling eagles retired before the risen stars of the
brigadier-general.
The news of his probable promotion reached me at the Exchange Hotel in
Richmond, whither I had gone that I might be near headquarters and thus
learn the earliest tidings from the peninsula. There he joined me for
one day. We read with keen interest the announcement in the papers that
his name had been sent in by the President for promotion. Mrs. Davis
held a reception at the Spotswood Hotel on the evening following this
announcement, and we availed ourselves of the opportunity to make our
respects to her.
A crowd gathered before the Exchange to congratulate my husband, and
learning that he had gone to the Spotswood, repaired thither, and
with shouts and cheers called him out for a speech. This was very
embarrassing, and he fled to a corner of the drawing-room and hid
behind a screen of plants. I was standing near the President, trying to
hold his attention by remarks on the weather and kindred subjects of
a thrilling nature, when a voice from the street called out: "Pryor!
_General_ Pryor!" I could endure the suspense no longer, and asked
tremblingly, "Is this true, Mr. President?" Mr. Davis looked at me with
a benevolent smile and said, "I have no reason, madam, to doubt it,
except that I saw it this morning in the papers;" and Mrs. Davis at once
summoned the bashful colonel: "What are you doing lying there _perdu_
behind the geraniums? Come out and take your honors."
Following fast upon the battle after which General Johnston ordered
"Williamsburg" to be painted on his banner, my general fought the battle
of "Fair Oaks" or "Seven Pines"—and in June the Seven Days' battle
around Richmond. The story of these desperate battles has been told
many times by the generals who fought them. "Pryor's Brigade" was in the
front often; in the thick of the fight always. I myself saw my husband
draw his sword, and give the word of command "Head of column to the
right" as he entered the first of these battles.
I spent the time nursing the wounded in Kent and Paine's Hospital in
Richmond, and have told elsewhere the pathetic story of my experience as
hospital nurse. For the needs of that stern hour my dear general gave
himself—and his wife gave herself. Every linen garment I possessed,
except one change, every garment of cotton fabric, all my table-linen,
all my bed-linen, even the chintz covers for furniture,—all were torn
into strips and rolled for bandages for the soldiers' wounds.
When the fight was over, a gray, haggard, dust-covered soldier entered
my room, and throwing himself upon the couch, gave way to the anguish
of his heart—"My men! My men! They are almost all dead!"
Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed or wounded. Richmond was
saved! "I am in hopes," wrote General McClellan to his Secretary of War,
"the enemy is as completely worn out as I am."
He was! General Lee realized that his men must have rest. My husband
was allowed a few days' respite from duty. Almost without a pause he
had fought the battles of Williamsburg, Seven Pines, Mechanicsville,
Gaines's Mill, Frazier's Farm, and Malvern Hill. He had won his
promotion early, but he had lost the soldiers he had led, the loved
commander who appreciated him, had seen old schoolmates and friends fall
by his side,—the dear fellow, George Loyal Gordon, who had been his best
man at our wedding,—old college comrades, valued old neighbors.
Opposed to him in battle, then and after, were men who in after years
avowed themselves his warm friends,—General Hancock, General Slocum,
General Butterfield, General Sickles, General Fitz-John Porter, General
McClellan, and General Grant. They had fought loyally under opposing
banners, and from time to time, as the war went on, one and another
had been defeated; but over all, and through all, their allegiance had
been given to a banner that has never surrendered,—the standard of the
universal brotherhood of all true men.
I cannot omit a passing tribute to the heroic fortitude and devotion of
the Richmond women in the time of their greatest trial. These were the
delicate, beautiful women I had so admired when I lived among them. Not
once did they spare themselves, or complain, or evince weakness, or give
way to despair. The city had "no language but a cry." Two processions
unceasingly passed along the streets; one the wounded borne from the
battlefield; the other the cheering men going to take their places at
the front. Within the hospitals all that devotion could suggest, of
unselfish service, gentle ministration, encouragement, was done by the
dear women. Every house was open for the sick and wounded. Oh, but I
cannot again tell it all! Sacredly, tenderly I remember, but to-day it
seems so cruel, so unnecessary, so wicked! I cannot dwell upon it!
One beautiful memory is of the unfailing kindness and loyalty of
the negroes. In the hospitals, in the camps, in our own houses, they
faithfully sympathized with us and helped us. Not only at this time,
but all during the war, they behaved admirably. The most intense
secessionist I ever knew was my general's man, John. Early in the
day the black man elected for himself an attitude of quiescence
as to politics, and addressed himself to the present need for
self-preservation.
It was "Domingo," one of the cooks of our brigade at Williamsburg, that
originated the humorous description of a negro's self-appraisement and
sensations in battle, so unblushingly quoted afterward by a certain
"Cæsar" in northern Virginia. A shell had entered the domain of pots and
kettles, and created what Domingo termed a "clatteration." He at once
started for the rear.
"What's de matter, Mingo?" asked a fellow-servant, "whar you gwine wid
such a hurrification?"
"I gwine to git out o' trouble—_dar_ whar I gwine! Dar's too much
powder in dem big things. Dis chile ain't gwine bu'n hisself! An'
dar's dem Minnie bullets, too, comin' frew de a'r, singin': '_Whar_ is
you? _Whar_ is you?' I ain't gwine stop an' tell 'em whar I is! I'se
a twenty-two-hundurd-dollar nigger, an' I'se gwine tek keer o' what
b'longs to marster, I is!"
A story was related by a Northern writer of an interview with a negro
who had run the blockade and entered the service of a Federal officer.
He was met on board a steamer, after the battle of Fort Donelson, on
his way to the rear, and questioned in regard to his experience of war.
"Were you in the fight?"
"Had a little taste of it, sah."
"Stood your ground, of course."
"No, sah! I run."
"Not at the first fire?"
"Yes, sah! an' would a' run sooner ef I knowed it was a-comin'!"
"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage, was it?"
"Dat ain't in my line, sah,—cookin's my perfeshun."
"But have you no regard for your reputation?"
"Refutation's nothin' by de side o' life."
"But you don't consider your life worth more than other people's, do
you?"
"Hit's wuth mo' to me, sah!"
"Then you must value it very highly."
"Yas, sah, I does,—mo'n all dis wuld! Mo' dan a million o' dollars,
sah. What would dat be wuth to a man wid de bref out o' 'im?
Self-perserbashun is de fust law wid me, sah!"
"But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?"
"'Cause diffunt man set diffunt value 'pon his life. Mine ain't in de
market."
"Well, if all soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the
government without resistance."
"Dat's so! Dar wouldn't 'a' been no hep fer it. But I don't put my life
in de scale against no gubberment on dis yearth. No gubberment gwine
pay me ef I loss mehsef."
"Well, do you think you would have been much missed if you had been
killed?"
"Maybe not, sah! A daid white man ain' much use to dese yere sogers,
let alone a daid niggah; but I'd a missed mehsef pow'ful, an' dat's de
pint wid me."