AN UNHAPPY ACCIDENT—THE UNFORTUNATE LADIES OF VICKSBURG—APPROACH OF MORTAR SHELLS NEAR THE INTRENCHMENTS.
AN UNHAPPY ACCIDENT—THE UNFORTUNATE LADIES OF VICKSBURG—APPROACH OF MORTAR SHELLS NEAR THE INTRENCHMENTS.
A few days after the assault on the Confederate fortifications, a sad accident cast a gloom over all the little community encamped in the ravine—officers, soldiers, and servants: A soldier, named Henry, had noticed my little girl often, bringing her flowers at one time, an apple at another, and again a young mocking bird, and had attached her to him much by these little kindnesses. Frequently, on seeing him pass, she would call his name, and clap her hands gleefully, as he rode the general’s handsome horse for water, causing him to prance past the cave for her amusement. She called my attention to him one morning, saying: “O mamma, look at Henny’s horse how he plays!” He was riding a small black horse that was exceedingly wild, and striving to accustom it to the rapid evolutions of the Texas troops, turningin his saddle to grasp something from the ground, as he moved speedily on. Soon after, he rode the horse for water; and I saw him return and fasten it to a tree.
Afterward I saw him come down the hill opposite, with an unexploded shrapnel shell in his hand. In a few moments I heard a quick explosion in the ravine, followed by a cry—a sudden, agonized cry. I ran to the entrance, and saw a courier, whom I had noticed frequently passing by, roll slowly over into the rivulet of the ravine and lie motionless, at a little distance: Henry—oh, poor Henry!—holding out his mangled arms—the hands torn and hanging from the bleeding, ghastly wrists—a fearful wound in his head—the blood pouring from his wounds. Shot, gasping, wild, he staggered around, crying piteously, “Where are you, boys? O boys, where are you? Oh, I am hurt! I am hurt! Boys, come to me!—come to me! God have mercy! Almighty God, have mercy!”
My little girl clung to my dress, saying, “O mamma, poor Henny’s killed! Now he’ll die, mamma. Oh, poor Henny!” I carried her away from the painful sight.
My first impulse was to run down to them with the few remedies I possessed. Then I thought of the crowd of soldiers around the men; and if M—— should come and see me there—the only lady—he might think I did wrong; so I sent my servant, with camphor and other slight remedies I possessed, and turned into my cave, with a sickened heart.
In a few moments, the litters pass by, going toward the hospital, the blood streaming from that of Henry, who still moaned and cried “for the boys to come to him,” and “for God to pity him.”
But the other bore the still, motionless body of the young courier, who, in the strength of his life, had been so suddenly stricken. It seems that the two men had been trying to take out the screw from an unexploded shell for the purpose of securing the powder; in turning it, the fuse had become ignited, communicating the fire to the powder, and the fatal explosion ensued.
Henry had been struck in the head by a fragment—his hands torn from his arms; one or two fragments had also lodged in his body. The courier had been struck in two places in his head,and a number of balls had entered his body. Poor soldier! his mother lived in Yazoo City; and he was her only son. So near was she, yet unable to hold his head and set the seal of her love on his lips ere the breath fled from them forever! He lived until the sun went down, speaking no word—making no moan; only the quickly drawn breath told that life still flickered in the mangled body. Henry died, also, that night, still unconscious of the sorrowful comrades around his bed—still calling on God to pity him.
After the bodies of the wounded men had been carried away, we heard loud wailings and cries in the direction of the city. I was told a negro woman, in walking through the yard, had been struck by a fragment of shell, and instantly killed. The screams of the women of Vicksburg were the saddest I have ever heard. The wailings over the dead seemed full of a heart-sick agony. I cannot attempt to describe the thrill of pity, mingled with fear, that pierced my soul, as suddenly vibrating through the air would come these sorrowful shrieks!—these pitiful moans!—sometimes almost simultaneously with the explosion of a shell. This anguish over the dead and woundedwas particularly low and mournful, perhaps from the depression. Many women were utterly sick through constant fear and apprehension. It is strange that the ladies were almost constantly in caves, and yet, did one go out for a short time, she was almost certain to be wounded; while the officers and soldiers rode and walked about, with very little destruction of life ensuing.
An officer was telling me of two soldiers near his camp, who had been severely wounded by Minié balls—one shot through the hand and lung; the other through the side.
A new cause for apprehension came to me about this time: the mortar boats were endeavoring to throw their bombs as far as the intrenchments, and almost succeeded. I could see them at night falling near the opposite hill; and I was in a constant state of trepidation, lest they should be cast still nearer us. After witnessing the brilliant streams of light that they created in the heavens, one night, and feeling repeatedly thankful that they always fell short of the hill we inhabited, I gradually grew sleepy in utter loneliness, for M—— seldom finished receiving reports until eleven. I wearily turned to the little mattress onthe floor, said my prayers, and retired. I had been sleeping some time, for the moon was shining brightly, when I was awakened by loud cries and screams: “Where shall we go? Oh! where shall we go?” My immediate conclusion was that some woman had been killed or wounded, as every now and then I could see the mortar shells dropping on the hill opposite. I therefore thought that I had been spared in Vicksburg, as long as I reasonably could hope, from the variety of changes through which I had passed; and immediately I was seized with a severe panic. If shells had not been falling from the battle field also, I fear I should have started in that direction—so great was my dread of the mortars!—and run, I cared not where, out of their range.
But the counter awe of Parrott shells kept me where I was. I sat up in bed in a fearful state of excitement; called M—— again and again, without the slightest response; at last, a sleepily uttered “What is the matter?” gave me an opportunity of informing him that we would all be killed, and telling him, while the cold moisture of fear broke out over my forehead, that the mortar shells were nearer than ever, and that the nextone would probably fall upon our cave. Awakened at last to my distressed state of mind, and hearing me say that I knew some woman had been killed, he got up, dressed, took up his cap, and went out to see what had happened, telling me he would return shortly—looking back, laughing as he went, and saying to me that I was fearfully demoralized for so good a soldier. He soon returned, telling me that a negro man had been killed at the entrance of a cave a little beyond us, toward the city; that his mistress, wife, and the young ladies of the family were very badly frightened, having taken refuge in the adjutant’s office.
DEATH OF A FAITHFUL SERVANT—BLOWING UP OF A FORT—LOSS OF PROMINENT OFFICERS—SURRENDER OF VICKSBURG.
DEATH OF A FAITHFUL SERVANT—BLOWING UP OF A FORT—LOSS OF PROMINENT OFFICERS—SURRENDER OF VICKSBURG.
The next day, the family were invited up to our cave; and the lady told me, with tears, of the death of the faithful old man, who had served her mother before her. The morning of the day he died, he called her to him, and said: “Mistess, I feel like I ain’t gwin’ to live much longer. Tell young master, when you see him, that I’ve been praying for him dis day; tell him it smites my heart mightily to think I won’t see his young face dis day with the childern. Please tell the young folks, mistess, to come; and let me pray with them.” “Oh! uncle!” the mistress answered, “don’t talk that way; you will live many years yet, I hope.” The young ladies were called,and knelt, while he prayed for them and all he loved, shaking hands with them, and speaking to each one separately, as they left. His cave was next his mistress’s. That night he sat smoking his pipe near the entrance, when a mortar shell, exploding near, sent a fragment into the old man’s side, rending it open, and tearing away his hip. He lived a few moments, and was carried into the cave. Turning to his mistress, while he shook his head, he said: “Don’t stay here, mistess. I said the Lord wanted me.” And so the good old Christian died. When he had breathed his last, a sudden panic seized them, for shell after shell fell near them; and they all ran. Some of the gentlemen, hearing them cry, brought them to headquarters.
The next day, the news came that one of the forts to the left of us had been undermined and blown up, killing sixty men; then of the death of the gallant Colonel Irwin, of Missouri; and again, the next day, of the death of the brave old General Green, of Missouri.
We were now swiftly nearing the end of our siege life: the rations had nearly all been given out. For the last few days I had been sick; stillI tried to overcome the languid feeling of utter prostration. My little one had swung in her hammock, reduced in strength, with a low fever flushing in her face. M—— was all anxiety, I could plainly see. A soldier brought up, one morning, a little jaybird, as a plaything for the child. After playing with it for a short time, she turned wearily away. “Miss Mary,” said the servant, “she’s hungry; let me make her some soup from the bird.” At first I refused: the poor little plaything should not die; then, as I thought of the child, I half consented. With the utmost haste, Cinth disappeared; and the next time she appeared, it was with a cup of soup, and a little plate, on which lay the white meat of the poor little bird.
On Saturday a painful calm prevailed: there had been a truce proclaimed; and so long had the constant firing been kept up, that the stillness now was absolutely oppressive.
At ten o’clock General Bowen passed by, dressed in full uniform, accompanied by Colonel Montgomery, and preceded by a courier bearing a white flag. M—— came by, and asked me if I would like to walk out; so I put on my bonnetand sullied forth beyond the terrace, for the first time since I entered. On the hill above us, the earth was literally covered with fragments of shell—Parrott, shrapnell, canister; besides lead in all shapes and forms, and a long kind of solid shot, shaped like a small Parrott shell. Minié balls lay in every direction, flattened, dented, and bent from the contact with trees and pieces of wood in their flight. The grass seemed deadened—the ground ploughed into furrows in many places; while scattered over all, like giants’ pepper, in numberless quantity, were the shrapnell balls.
I could now see how very near to the rifle pits my cave lay: only a small ravine between the two hills separated us. In about two hours, General Bowen returned. No one knew, or seemed to know, why a truce had been made; but all believed that a treaty of surrender was pending. Nothing was talked about among the officers but the all-engrossing theme. Many wished to cut their way out and make the risk their own; but I secretly hoped that no such bloody hazard would be attempted.
The next morning, M—— came up, with a paleface, saying: “It’s all over! The white flag floats from our forts! Vicksburg has surrendered!”
He put on his uniform coat, silently buckled on his sword, and prepared to take out the men, to deliver up their arms in front of the fortification.
I felt a strange unrest, the quiet of the day was so unnatural. I walked up and down the cave until M—— returned. The day was extremely warm; and he came with a violent headache. He told me that the Federal troops had acted splendidly; they were stationed opposite the place where the Confederate troops marched up and stacked their arms; and they seemed to feel sorry for the poor fellows who had defended the place for so long a time. Far different from what he had expected, not a jeer or taunt came from any one of the Federal soldiers. Occasionally, a cheer would be heard; but the majority seemed to regard the poor unsuccessful soldiers with a generous sympathy.
After the surrender, the old gray-headed soldier, in passing on the hill near the cave, stopped, and, touching his hat, said:
“It’s a sad day this, madam; I little thought we’d come to it, when we first stopped in theintrenchments. I hope you’ll yet be happy, madam, after all the trouble you’ve seen.”
To which I mentally responded, “Amen.”
The poor, hunchback soldier, who had been sick, and who, at home in Southern Missouri, is worth a million of dollars, I have been told, yet within Vicksburg has been nearly starved, walked out to-day in the pleasant air, for the first time for many days.
I stood in the doorway and caught my first sight of the Federal uniform since the surrender. That afternoon the road was filled with them, walking about, looking at the forts and the headquarter horses: wagons also filled the road, drawn by the handsome United States horses. Poor M——, after keeping his horse upon mulberry leaves during the forty-eight days, saw him no more! After the surrender in the evening, George rode into the city on his mule: thinking to “shine,” as the negroes say, he rode M——’s handsome, silver-mounted dragoon-saddle. I could not help laughing when he returned, with a sorry face, reporting himself safe, but the saddle gone. M—— questioned and requestioned him, aghast at his loss; for a saddle was a valuable article inour little community; and George, who felt as badly as any one, said: “I met a Yankee, who told me: ‘Git down off dat mule; I’m gwin’ to hab dat saddle.’ I said: ‘No; I ain’t gwin’ to do no such thing.’ He took out his pistol, and I jumped down.”
So Mister George brought back to M—— a saddle that better befitted his mule than the one he rode off on—a much worn, common affair, made of wood. I felt sorry for M——. That evening George brought evil news again: another horse had been taken. His remaining horse and his only saddle finished the news of the day.
The next morning, Monday, as I was passing through the cave, I saw something stirring at the base of one of the supports of the roof: taking a second look, I beheld a large snake curled between the earth and the upright post. I went out quickly and sent one of the servants for M——, who, coming up immediately, took up his sword and fastened one of the folds of the reptile to the post. It gave one quick dart toward him, with open jaws. Fortunately, the length of the sword was greater than the upper length of body; andthe snake fell to the earth a few inches from M——, who set his heel firmly on it, and severed the head from the body with the sword. I have never seen so large a snake; it was fully as large round the body as the bowl of a good-sized glass tumbler, and over two yards long.
A FRIGHT—GEORGE MY PROTECTOR—A POLITE SOLDIER GETS THE TENT FLY.
A FRIGHT—GEORGE MY PROTECTOR—A POLITE SOLDIER GETS THE TENT FLY.
In the afternoon, M—— went into the city, with some of the officers, to make arrangements for me. I was much amused, though I did not let them see it, as they set off on their poor mulberry-fed horses. M—— had been presented by some one, after the loss of his horse, with a little, lame, subdued-looking animal, to whom food of any kind seemed a rarity; and the poor horse ambled along as if he considered his weight a great affliction. Our whole little household had been drawn out to witness the departure of the brilliant (?) cavalcade.
Afterward, as I sat with a book at the entrance, I heard steps, and, looking up, I saw a large, burly negro, with a most disagreeable face,dressed in Federal uniform, and armed, coming up the little path that led to the cave. As he advanced toward me, I sprang to my feet; but George, who was luckily near, crossed over from the “sassafras bed,” carving knife in hand, with which he was digging some of the root. Standing between us, he said: “Where are you gwin’, old man?” “None your business,” he returned, pausing a moment. I was just on the point of calling for some of the gentlemen at headquarters, when he turned and went round the cave on the hill. “I’ll make dis knife show you what’s your business,” growled George. Poor George! he had been my faithful defender throughout all my vicissitudes in Vicksburg.
Soon after, George came to me in a great state of excitement, and said: “Oh! Miss Mary, a Yankee soldier was just going with our tent fly from the top of the cave, and I made him stop and leave it.” A Federal soldier came down the side of the hill, stopped, and took my little daughter’s hand and said some pleasant words to her; turned to me, touching his hat, with a smile, and said, “Good morning.” I bowed in return, while a lucky thought came to me: Here was akind-hearted, polite soldier; why not let him take the tent fly, in the place of some undeserving man? So I said: “Soldier, would you like a tent fly?” He answered: “Oh! yes, madam; I would like one very much.” So I sent George to get it for him. He expressed himself very grateful—disliked to take it, fearful of robbing us; but I assured him he was welcome; so he again bade me good morning, and carried off his acquisition.
The Confederate troops were being marched into Vicksburg to take the parole that the terms of the treaty of surrender demanded. In a few days they would leave the city they had held so long.
On Friday they began their march toward the South; and on Saturday poor George came to me, and said he had put on a pair of blue pants, and, thinking they would take him for a Federal soldier, had tried to slip through after M——, but he was turned back; so he came, begging me to try and get him a pass: the effort was made; and to this day I do not know whether he ever reached M—— or not.
Saturday evening, Vicksburg, with her terraced hills—with her pleasant homes and sadmemories, passed from my view in the gathering twilight—passed, but the river flowed on the same, and the stars shone out with the same calm light! But the many eyes—O Vicksburg!—that have gazed on thy terraced hills—on thy green and sunny gardens—on the flow of the river—the calm of the stars—those eyes! how many thou hast closed on the world forever!
LETTERS.
Gayoso House, Memphis,April, 1862.
My dear J——:
I am just in from dinner; and you would be amused to see the different faces—I might as well say the different appetites; for the Army of Missouri and Arkansas have been undergoing rigorous fasts of late; and the little episode of the battle of Elkhorn and the consequent privations have helped not a little the gaunt appearance of these military characters. All eat, eat rapidly; from General V—— D—— down to the smallest lieutenant, whose manner of playing the epicure over the different dishes ordered, is a study. The confidential consultations with the waiter over them, together with the knowing unconsciousness ofbestowing his small change, almost convinces me that he is a brigadier-general, or a colonel, at least. You see streaming in constantly this tide of human beings, to eat, stare at the ladies, talk, and order much wine in the excitement of military anecdotes; for you must understand that a civilian is a “rara avis” amid the brilliant uniforms of the dining room. Yet, amid all this mass and huge crowd, the majority are polished gentlemen, who have evidently seen much of the world, and who are men of purpose and character.
General V—— D—— and staff sit not far from me—looked at rather jealously by the Missourians, as ranking and commanding them over their favorite general. Yet, he always treats the old general with the utmost consideration and courtesy. On the other side sits General P——, with his kind, benevolent face. The poor old gentleman finds at the table his lightest reserves become his heaviest forces: nearly all his staff are about him.
And, as I sit half amused at the expression of some faces, and thinking deeply of the mute, yet determined impress of character on others, two gentlemen come in—one in plain citizen’s clothing,with heavy black beard and high forehead—with stooping gait and hands behind him. I am told he is Governor J——, of Missouri. His face puzzles me—it is thoughtful and singular. By his side, with tall, lithe, slender figure, fully erect, walks General J—— T——. You will scarcely think it possible that this is the so-frequently talked of J—— T——. I thought him an ordinary man, did not you? Yet, this is anything but an ordinary man. The keen dark eye sweeps the room as he enters, taking us all in at a glance—a quick, daring, decisive, resolute face. I can make nothing more out of him. Yet, there is more of thought and intellect than you see at first. He is dressed in full uniform, with sword and sash, and has quite a military air.
There are many Saint Louisians here; you see them scattered around the tables quite plentifully. General C—— is among the number. He sits at some distance, and looks quite worn and sad. You know—do you not?—that he is the father of young Churchill Clark, who was killed at Elkhorn. Have I ever told you his history? It is this: He graduated at West Point in the commencement of the war; and knowing andhaving a great admiration for General P——, he joined him at once: he was put in command of some artillery; and showing himself a youth of courage and ability—for he was only twenty years old—his command was increased. Throughout the constant trials and sufferings of the campaign, he showed himself equal in courage, daring, and judgment, to many older heads. He was particularly beloved by General P——. At Elkhorn, as ever, his battery sustained itself with coolness and bravery. As the general rode by, he said some cheering words to young Clark, who took off his cap and waved it, saying, “General, we will hold our own,” or words to that effect, when a ball sped from the enemy, and crashed in the young, ardent brain as he spoke.
I have been told that the general was affected to tears. He knelt by his side, vainly seeking for some trace of the strong, young life, but the pulses were stilled forever; and Churchill Clark lay a stiffened corpse in the long, wet grass at Elkhorn. And so his father sits silent and alone, and all respect the grief that none can assuage.
In a few days we leave. The gentlemen all go to Corinth, where a battle, in all probability, willtake place before long. Fort Pillow can hardly hold out, under the daily bombardment that we hear from the gunboats; and if it falls, Memphis, on taking leave of the Confederate officers, will usher in the Federal to quarters in the Gayoso.
Adieu.
Memphis,April.
Dear J——:
Again I write you from the Gayoso House, which still teems with Missourians, and many ladies—some few from St. Louis. General P——’s parlor is filled with ladies from morning until night. I have been told that on one occasion some ladies, who were the reverse of beautiful, were coming in to see him, when he turned to one of his staff officers, and told him that it was his duty to assist him—that here was an opportunity: he must kiss these ladies for him; but the officer was politely deaf until too late.
It is astonishing to see how ladies do flock to see the old general; and all kiss him, as a matter of course. I rode out to the camp of the Missourians with M——, a few mornings since. It is pleasantly situated near the bank of the river. The men seem to be in good spirits; although moving them across the Mississippi has been an unpopular act. The poor fellows are being taken out to Corinth as fast as transportation can be furnished them. The compliment is paid them of being placed in the most dangerous position;for we daily expect an attack from the Federal forces on Corinth.
Would you like to see those you love complimented in this way? You can form no idea of the love and devotion shown by the Missouri troops for their general. I happened to be standing near a window at the end of the hall, last evening, as some regiments passed by the Gayoso on their way out to the depot, bound for Corinth. General P—— stood out on the veranda as they passed by, and shouts and cheers for the old general and Missouri rent the air.
General J—— T—— called on me this morning, and amused me much with some of his adventures in Missouri last winter; among others, he told us of his dash into the little town of Commerce for food. His men were ordered to take a certain amount, lay down the money, and leave. As he sat on a small horse, waiting for them, out came the “heroine of Commerce,” as he called the lady. I have forgotten her name; yet, I think it was O’Sullivan. She walked up to the general, shook her clenched hand in his face, and told him he was a robber and a scoundrel. Her husband pulled her by the arm and tried to makeher desist; but she was deaf to his entreaties, standing part of the time on one side of the little horse, and part of the time on the other; first, shaking her clenched hand at him, and then standing, with arms folded, calling him all manner of names. Some of the officers wished General T—— to have her confined to her own house until his departure; but he laughed, and said: “No; let her alone.” She still continued hovering around him, threatening and talking.
He said: “Oh! Mrs. O’Sullivan, you are a modest woman—a very modest woman. Madam, don’t you think your house stands in need of you?” Powerless fell the irony: wherever he went, he was followed by the persistent Mrs. O’Sullivan; stop where he would, Mrs. O’Sullivan was by his side, much to the amusement of his followers; go where he would, up rose Mrs. O’Sullivan unexpectedly at corners—red-faced and bitter—always in the same belligerent, defiant state.
A steamboat was seen coming down the river. General T—— ordered his men to hide behind a woodpile until it came up, expecting to get supplies from it. When they thought themselvesdisposed out of sight, General T—— raised his eyes, and behold! some little distance up the river, stood the inevitable Mrs. O’Sullivan, violently gesticulating to the boat, and crying, “Turn, turn! J—— T—— is here;” at the same time waving her apron and sun bonnet, in quite a frantic manner. The boat turned indeed; and although the scheme failed, behind the woodpile sat General T——, chagrined at the failure, yet laughing most heartily at the attitude andmal-à-proposappearance of Mrs. O’Sullivan.
The hotel is crowded with military men: many wounded at the late battle of Shiloh, going around with arms in slings; others supported by crutches. The ladies are seemingly having a very gay time: the halls are filled with promenaders, and the parlors with gay young couples, music, and laughter.
Yet, a sudden surprise has come to all: New Orleans has fallen—an unexpected blow to most of the Southern officers. I cannot but think, as I see all the life and bustle around me, of the different scenes a week or two hence, when the fearful battle of Corinth will have taken place. How many that are now happy and full of life,looking forward with confidence to the laurels that may be won, before the struggle is over will be silent forever in death! or, worse, perhaps lamed and maimed for life! General Beauregard’s works are said to be fine; yet, the Federal approaches are said to be greatly superior.
My husband goes to-morrow to Corinth; and I will go to O——, Miss., to await the result of what all seem to think will be a most bloody struggle. I will write on reaching O——; until then, farewell.
O——,May 1st.
The expected battle has not yet come off, and I am still awaiting the result; busying myself about many things, visiting and returning visits from my old friends; dividing my time between the world and the hospital, the lights and shades of life. Ah, the shades! My dear J——, you can little imagine how much suffering I have witnessed in the last few weeks—how much, that acts or kind words have no power to mitigate. There have been many wounded brought in from Corinth, many who have died since their arrival, many who will die; but, saddest of all, a young boy, too young to be a soldier, yet possessing all a soldier’s spirit. I walked into a ward, one morning, that I had visited the evening before—a ward of very sick patients—and saw an old man sitting by a new cot, fanning a young boy, who lay with flushed face, and burning eyes fixed on the ceiling. As I advanced toward them, the weather-bronzed man stood stiffly erect, making me a quaint, half-awkward, military salute, saying, as he did so, “My boy, ma’am!” “Is he wounded?” I asked. He threw back the sheet that covered him, pointedto the stump of a limb amputated near the thigh: “He has gained the cross,” he said, while his head grew more erect, as he held back the sheet with the fan, and his eye shot out the grim ghost of a smile.
A proud, iron soldier the man was, I could see. The boy was delirious; so I shall tell you of the man. Refusing to be seated as long as a lady remained standing in the room, he stood stiffly upright at the head of the cot, keeping each fly from the face of the boy with the tenderness of a mother. A limp brown hat was on the side of his head, shading his eyes, that followed me in all parts of the room. A red cord and tassel hung from one side of his hat, and gave him a jaunty air that was quite out of keeping with the quaint stiffness of his manner. After speaking to the sick and wounded soldiers around, asking after their wounds and wants, I returned to the young boy’s cot, and heard the old man’s story. Don’t be weary if I give it to you; he had so much pride in his boy, let that be my extenuation.
“We belong to the Texas Rangers, ma’am, the boy and me; he could ride as well as the rest of them, ma’am, a year ago. When the war brokeout, and we practised regularly like, he was the best rider in the company—could pick anything he wanted off the ground as he was going. He’s only fourteen, ma’am—a fine-grown lad, indeed. His mother was the likeliest woman I ever seed,” with a deprecating bow to me; “he’s got her eyes—the finest eyes God ever made, she had, ma’am. She died when quite young like, leaving him to me, a little shaver, and he’s been by me ever since. The boys and me tried to overpersuade him out of the army; ’peared like he was too young for such business; but he wouldn’t hear to it, not he, ma’am, and here he is,” passing his sleeve across his eyes.
“Well, ma’am, so he staid with us; and when we got to Corinth, General Beauregard offered a cross of honor to the ones that showed themselves the best soldiers. So our boys talked a heap about who’d get it; but this boy says nothing. Well, one day we were ordered out to scout, and we came up with the Yankees, and we fit ’em a half hour or so, when I seed this youngster by my side kind adrooping by a tree, but standing his ground. Well, we routed them at last, when I found the boy’s leg was all shattered, and he’d kept up likenothing wan’t the matter. So when we went back to Corinth, it got noised about like from the soldiers to the officers—how he’d held out. And, more’n all, the time when his leg was being cut off, we couldn’t get any chloroform, morphine, or the like: he just sit up like a brave lad, and off it went, without a word out of him. So the doctors they talked of that; and he’s been notified that he’ll get the first cross, and the boys’ll be monstrous fond of him, and feel most like they’d got it themselves. If he’d get rid of his fever and pick up like, I’d be a happy man,” he said anxiously.
Pardon me do I tire you; but let me take you to visit the sick prisoners. The old man that we pass in the hall, with his arm and leg in a frame, will never recover; yet he does not know it, and frequently asks me if I think he will get a pension when he is well, if he loses his leg and arm. He persists in keeping his face covered with a handkerchief, raising it up and peeping out, if he hears my voice, each day, with his usual salutation: “You’ve come, have ye?” If I bring any little article of food that I think the patients will relish, this old man must be fed by me, and I amfrequently amused at the directions he gives me, for he is extremely practical and particular: “Now, if you will turn the spoon a little to one side, I will turn my mouth in this direction, and the custard will pass safely in.” Poor man, without a friend, both arms badly wounded, and leg shattered, dying by degrees, yet to the last the handkerchief would be raised, and the cheery welcome greet me, “Ye’re come, have ye?”
I think I can see you looking around in this ward to learn which are the prisoners, for all seem cheerful and talkative. In this cot by the door, with a wounded limb in a frame—like a huge lion—lies a man, large whiskered, large bodied, and long limbed, yet with a pleasant smile of greeting as we enter and make our inquiries after his wound. He is “better this morning, thank you,” or, “I am obliged to you, not quite so well.” A little picture on the table by his side, of a child three years of age, is never closed. A little child, blue eyed, with bare white neck, and plump round arms, showing the mother’s wish that the picture should be fair and lovely to the father’s eye. The Federal flag is on the cover. The man, a captain, is of an Illinois company. The child and mother,with tearful eyes and wistful hearts, look over the wide expanse of land and water that separates, over the cruel bounds that man has set—still faithful in their love. Still watching, and hoping, for the time when liberty will be his, and he, constant and true, will return to them. He tells me the name of the little one, with a sorrowful look at me with his dark eye. If he is free, if he ever sees these words, he will remember how the little one was gazed on by a lady in deep mourning, to whose heart a child of three years brought a sad and tearful memory.
Come to the next cot with me; do not shrink from this blackened brow. Yesterday this was a noble-faced, gray-haired, old Confederate soldier, with the plaintive, lovely smile of perfect resignation. He suffers much from a wound in his body; seldom talks, yet always smiles gratefully for the slightest attention. This morning I find the erysipelas has broken out, spreading over his forehead and a part of his face. He cautions me, with the same pleasant, resigned smile, about coming near him, lest I take the disease. The blackened skin is from the effect of iodine to stay its progress. He will not live: dear, patient old man, my heartaches for him, yet I can give him nothing but kind words.
This morning I brought the men in this ward toast. The old man slept, and I gave to each his portion. Engaged in talking to a prisoner in another part of the room, I heard the Illinoisian say: “Let me divide this toast with you; I do not need it all.” I turned, and heard the old man reply: “Oh, no; you keep it.” I procured his toast and brought it to him, laughingly telling the prisoner I believed I saw the dawn of the millennium.
Do you not wish, dear J——, that the dawning was indeed with us; that brave and noble men should no more suffer, bleed, and die, but live; and in their lives grow more thankful and worthy of the Divine blood that has been shed for the removal of the fearful suffering and warfare that is all around us?
Pardon me for the length of time I have detained you, and remember me as ever, dear J——,
Yours.
O——,June, 1862.
Can you credit it, dear J——, General Beauregard has evacuated Corinth? You have learned it by this time through the papers, and share with me the surprise. Our feelings have fluctuated with the news from Corinth for weeks. First, an engagement would probably ensue the following day. Then, some one had heard heavy guns, and was sure that the battle had taken place. And the next day, all quiet at Corinth. But the most astonishing of all, for we were prepared for everything besides, Corinth has been left quietly; absolutely left, and the Federal troops probably occupy the place. Every one has something to say on the subject, and all are more brilliant in their ideas for the reason that all have full scope to exercise them. No one possesses reliable information, and we are a conjecturing community—gentlemen as well as ladies. Something out of the common order of affairs, you will say.
But a truce to politics, of which I am very fond, and, like most women, know very little about. Why should a woman of sense care to talk about anything but dress and her servants? So I attendeda pleasant littlesoiréea few evenings since, graced by the fair and elegant daughters of General P——, of Tennessee, and the young bride of Jacob J——’s only son, a sweet young girl. All were in full evening dress, though the guests were few.
But a novelty, listen: A young Spanish bride—a brilliant woman—dazzled my eyes for the evening. Conversing only in her beautiful national language, she with animated gestures fascinates and enlightens one readily in relation to her themes. Then she warbles most beautifully, and one can scarcely complain that her higher notes lack in power, as she rises from the instrument, placing her hand on her heart, saying brokenly the only English words she is mistress of: “Oh! pity me, pity!” with an arch reverence to her audience.
I am troubled about our poor hospital patients, the one third of whom you have not met with me, each has a separate individuality that interests me exceedingly. It is feared that the Federal troops will advance on O——, and the patients will be removed to a safer place below. I will be sorry to see them leave, poor fellows. The boy that gained a double cross at Corinth has closedhis eyes softly and calmly. Suffering will never disturb him more. He is dead. The old man has gone back to his company with spasms of pain in his heart, of which the world will never know.
Let me tell you of the man’s devotion. The boy’s fever still raged, with slighter and slighter intervals. The medicine failed to procure the desired effect. The physicians looked anxious as they approached his cot. I wanted to take the old man’s hand and tell him of the Friend in heaven, from whom death itself can never separate us; but a foolish fear withheld me. One night the physicians met around the little cot, the old man, as usual when others were near, standing stiffly at the head, yet, with alarmed and burning eyes, intently reading each face. A sad reading, hopeless—the eyes told that, while the hand sought the faintly beating pulse. “Doctor, may I try to save my boy my own way?” said the old man, following the physician into the hall. “Yes, do as you choose with him, only do not give him unnecessary pain.”
In the morning a large tub of cold water was taken to the ward and placed by the sick boy’s cot; and, to the dismay of the soldiers in the bedsaround, the boy was lifted out, wounded as he was, by the strong and gentle arms of one in whose eyes he was more precious than the rarest of diamonds and gold. A quick douse, and he was rubbed well, covered closely, and soon slept soundly, the perspiration breaking out profusely for the first time in two days. He was decidedly better, and the proud smile on the father’s face was a happy thing to see. Gradually he grew more feeble, the fever returned, and one morning, with an aching heart, I saw the calmness of death in the closed eyes and motionless nostril. Standing at the head of the bed, his hat drawn over his eyes, his arms folded in a stern and patient agony, the father stood watching yet, most faithfully. I cannot express to you the grief that my sympathy brought—the grief, and constantly the words: “Alone! all alone! My boy! oh, my boy!”
The ladies wished to have a large funeral over the brave, young soldier but the physicians would not consent to having him buried in town, saying that the soldiers were all worthy of attention, and that no distinction could be allowed. So, before he was buried, I went out to the hospital and looked my last on the young, dead face, fromwhich all trace of suffering had fled: only peace and rest now forever!
Pain and anguish were making a deep impress on the face of the man by the head: the drawn lines of watching and suffering were more evident, as with a strained smile, and almost a gasp of pain, he thanked me for the interest I had taken. “Everybody is so kind!” he said. He had gone into town that morning and purchased a little black coat, placing it on the small form. A black velvet vest, white bosom, and the cravat tied over the white, boyish throat, told of the tenderness that shrank not from the coldness of death.
“He’s like his mother, ma’am, more than ever, now,” he whispered, softly drawing the sheet over the inanimate form; and turning squarely around, with his back to me, I saw him draw again and again his sleeve across his eyes. We are born to this human sorrow; and yet it is an appalling thing to me. You have expressed an interest in these visits to the wounded and dying; therefore I speak.
One more life that hovers over the grave!—one more who has suffered, oh, I cannot express to you how much! A prisoner from Iowa,belonging to the second Iowa cavalry, was captured at Farmington, near Corinth, shot through the body so badly, that very little hope was entertained of his recovery: he lingered some weeks, and dwindled from a robust, hearty man, down to a poor emaciated being—seldom talking—never complaining, yet suffering much, I could see.
When I came, one morning, the ward master whispered aside to me that he had been dying through the night. I entered the ward; his eye sought mine, with a wistful look, and brightened as I came near his bed. I smoothed the hair from his forehead, moistened his lips, and then, taking the fly brush, resolved to stay by him to the last. Oh, dear J——! those wistful eyes that followed every motion of mine!—those anxious, dying eyes!
What was the poor mother doing now, of whom he whispered to me? How little she knew that the eyes that were so dear, now were looking their last on the light! Far away from home and friends, among strangers, the soul was swiftly passing out into the great sea of eternity, the bright hopes of which so softly regulate this life-tide of ours!—passing out—passing out, with alingering look of unfathomable speech, into my face; for my face told him what my lips faltered in doing!
“If I can write to your mother before you are free, what shall I say?”
“You know,” he whispered.
“You are very sick, and God may not spare your life; will you say one little prayer after me?” And so a few words were said, that, with long pauses, he whispered after me, almost gasping at the last word. And thus beside him I sat, the gaze from his eyes into mine growing more and more intense. It seemed as if his whole soul was drawn out in unutterable language. At length, the quivering eyelid, the softly fleeting breath, ebbing out—yes, ebbing out so swiftly!
O Father! give this tried soul thy rest, through thy dear Son.
Free at last, prisoner! Peace to thy soul! God grant his peace!
My friend, do you dread death? I have seen it come so often as a relief from pain and distress, that I could not but bless it. Do not forget that you asked for these details; and believe, as I wish you always to, in my affection,
Yours.
It is long since I have heard from you, dear J——; long since I have written. You will notice that I am again at O——. Soon after writing my last, the Federal troops took possession of Holly Springs and threatened O——. The hospital patients were removed; and I crossed the country to meet my husband, who was at Tupelo. After spending some time in Pontotoc, I continued on to Tupelo, and for some time remained on a plantation six miles distant. Meantime the battle of Iuka occurred; and the loss of the brave General Little was deeply felt by the Missourians. The troops returned in dejection. Shortly, they were marched across to Ripley, where a junction was formed with the troops under General V—— D——; and an attack was made on Corinth, in which the troops behaved gallantly, but all to no purpose: a complete repulse it proved; and the army under the two generals narrowly escaped capture.
The wives and families of the officers were, of course, distressed and anxious. Couriers daily came galloping into the town, with the most conflicting reports.
At one time we heard that the Missourians were completely cut to pieces; again, that they were all captured. One of the couriers said he had seen my husband lying in an ambulance as he passed. How much distressed I was, you can imagine. Yet, two days passed wearily along; and still no tidings. The evening of the second day, as I sat in the moonlight on the portico, I heard a vehicle coming down the road with great speed; as it neared the house, I saw that it was an ambulance. My worst fears now took shape and form: M—— wounded, perhaps mortally wounded, I thought; and I ran swiftly down the walk. The driver met me at the gate, telling me that he had been sent with all speed after me—that Tupelo would be evacuated during the night, and my husband had written to the post quartermaster, placing me in his charge. I also had a letter. The quartermaster would take me over the country with the wagon train at daylight in the morning. My husband was well, he answered to my first, earnest inquiry.
It was now nine o’clock; my little daughter was in bed sleeping soundly. The man, a sergeant, who was well known to my husband, had, as yet, notsupped; so, while he ate, I gathered my baggage together, wrapped a shawl around my sleeping child, and then, with a hurried good by, we drove off, six miles through the woods, through what had been an impassable swamp. Now the gloom of the huge trees brought to my mind all the thrilling tales I had heard of travellers being waylaid in swamps and dense woods. I looked at the shadows on the trunks of trees, and imagined a man skulked in the darkness behind them. The owls were crying mournfully, and the plaintive song of the whippoorwill came to us from the dense recesses of the forest.
My servant crept closely to my side, for negroes, in their vivid imaginations, fill the woods at night with phantoms and ghosts of the departed. Frequently, after detailing the events of the recent battle to us, our driver, in the full moonlight, would break the silence with one of the stirring camp airs, whistling loud and shrilly; then my martial and political hopes would rise; but as we would again plunge into the darkness of the rugged cypress trees, where the owl and whippoorwill vied with each other, a silence would again come over us, and I again become a timid, fearful woman.
Soon we saw lights through the trees, then the rows of camp fires, and noise and bustle became the prominent features of the town: cattle were driven through, with many a shout and halloo; wagons were passing rapidly; soldiers were cooking rations at the camp fires—a scene of busy preparation.
We drove to the quartermaster’s office, and the gentlemen conducted us in, regretting that they had been obliged to send for me in such a summary manner. The order to move had come at dark; and since then they had been employed constantly, as the town must be evacuated by daylight; for the Federal forces were advancing rapidly.
The house was an unfinished building: one large, long room comprised the second story, with a small portion partitioned off, and dignified by the name of office. To this I, with my servant, was conducted through piles of mule collars, harness, bridles, &c.
Here I was glad to find a little camp cot, on which I laid my child for the first time out of my arms. With many apologies for the poor accommodations they had to offer me, the gentlementook their leave; and I could hear the quick orders to clerks, drivers, and soldiers, as they recommenced their hurried preparations. I took my knitting and sat by the window. The moon was low in the heavens; yet the tumult continued throughout the town. My child slept peacefully—her father many miles away, yet, I knew, filled with anxiety for our welfare.
At dawn we were on our way. The first night, I slept in Pontotoc at a friend’s house. The gentlemen camped out of town about a mile. In the morning, before I had left my room, my friends called and left a message for me with the lady of the house. I was to start as soon as I could, and strive to gain the head of the wagon train, thereby escaping the dust. Our driver was a soldier from Arkansas—a quiet, mild, little man, with very little force. We drove on briskly in the pleasant morning air for two or three hours, and saw nothing of the train: perhaps we were before them. Presently, we stopped and held a consultation. In every opinion that I expressed in regard to the matter, I found a ready echo from the little man, pro and con. We had driven perhaps too rapidly: no signs of the wagons couldwe find. Waiting patiently for a time, a disagreeable foreboding crossed my mind. I had not been told which road to take; there were two: perhaps we were on the wrong one. O—— was forty miles from Pontotoc; we had already gone nine, and could not now return expecting to find our friends.
The only alternative was to drive through to O——, where M—— designed meeting us. So, in answer to the little man’s query, “Don’t you think we’d better whip up and try to make O—— by night?” I said, “Yes.” Clouds began to overspread the sky; and I heard mutterings of thunder in the distance; still the sun shone out fitfully; and I hoped the rain would not fall near us. Driving on with speed, we had proceeded but a few miles, when the unmistakable evidences of a storm, that would soon burst upon us, convinced me that a shelter must be sought; where, it was hard tell, for the road we travelled was almost destitute of houses. I was in despair, as the wind whistled around us, driving in eddies the leaves and dried grass about the ground, and swaying high and low, with a moaning sound, the limbs of the huge forest trees. In my anxiety, Igrasped at a straw. I remembered, in travelling this road before, that M—— had pointed out a by road through the woods, that led to Lafayette Springs. The proprietor knew my husband; and I resolved to take a country road that I saw leading in the direction I imagined the Springs to be. Picture me, J——, if you can, sitting up in the centre of the ambulance, my servant by my side, little J—— between us—the little driver, meek and resigned, turning when I said turn, stopping when I said stop. Taking a strange road, I knew not where, we drew near, at last, a most unpromising-looking cabin, the inhabitants of which filled the door at the sound of wheels—in every variety of size—robed in yellow dresses, surmounted by tangled white heads. The old lady “knew thar was some springs somewhar abouts, and reckoned this road might run thar;” then, resuming her pipe, looked for confirmation of the statement to her eldest daughter, who said: “Yes, she reckoned, the road would take us thar, if we kept ‘straight ahead.’”
“Whip the mules,” I cried, “and drive rapidly;” for the storm was darkening around us; and the ambulance jingled a chorus through thesilent “piny woods.” Large drops were now falling; the wind moaned and surged mournfully through the “barren,” moaned and swept over the narrow road, whirling the “pine points” as we passed; faster and faster fell the rain. Our heavier clothing, shawls, cloaks, &c., were with the trunks: one light shawl, in which I enveloped my child, was all we possessed in this emergency. The ambulance cover was dotted with bullet holes, through which the rain dropped in cold relentlessness. The little driver was suffering martyrdom: drawn up as closely as possible, with his blanket around him, the wind driving the rain in sheets between him and the mules, he looked to me in the mist like an inanimate, round, brown ball. Soon, the floor of the ambulance filled so rapidly with water, that he threw his blanket over the top of the conveyance to keep the rain from falling through; then subsiding again, the only sign of life about the little being was the mechanical process of whipping the mules.
A little side road presented itself, leading into the forest, freshly marked with wagon tracks. Hearing the barking of a dog not far distant, I ordered the driver to turn in search of a house.Proceeding a quarter of a mile, we came to another little cabin. Through the rain, the weak voice of the little driver brought to the door a woman, who informed us that Lafayette Springs were three miles on “ahead.” Highly elate, the little man turned to me, and, with a glad face, saying, “Very good news,” whipped up his mules; and I firmly believe the man was nearsighted; for in two minutes more we would have gone off a precipice that was almost hidden by the tops of trees that grew far below at the base. “Stop!” I cried, as the heads of the mules were almost over the verge of the cliff. The little man meekly asked what he should do. “Back the mules!” I cried; and, after a troublesome detention, we at last turned and found ourselves on the road again. “We like to had a right smart time thar,” said the little man to me. “We did, indeed,” I returned, blandly; for I feared I had hurt the poor man’s feelings in speaking so quickly at that critical time. Gladly we reached the Springs through the driving rain, and were pleasantly welcomed. The landlord did all that he could for my comfort.
I had the pleasure of meeting a friend whohad met my husband, and who told me much about the recent battle. The next morning, we started early. I determined, although it was a raw, disagreeable morning, to be done with my lonely wanderings. We had gone about four miles, shivering in the dismal mist, when I heard a quick galloping along the road. The curtain of the ambulance was lifted—a blithe good morning in a voice I could not mistake: M—— was riding by our side, asking how on earth we had contrived to wander so far off from our friends. I could answer nothing to this bantering. Corinth, with all its bloody horrors that have been so vividly before my mind, the constant anxiety I had felt, and now my tribulations were ended—M—— in person here to take charge of us! I covered my face and cried like a silly child. Do not blame me; you have never been lost in the woods in a storm, and felt that the responsibility of every action rested with you. M—— had been sent on business to Pontotoc—had heard of us there and followed, fearing that we might have met with some accident. I will accompany M—— in a few days to Holly Springs, where Generals P——, V—— D——, and L—— are intrenching with their forces. As I write, the sunlight fades away; and only the fading crimson light lies across my paper. In closing, let me entreat you to remember always, as you read, my affection for you,
As ever.
Holly Springs.
You wished me to keep a journal for you, dear J——; but I answered that a journal would be a dull compound of dates, with three lines setting forth the vapidity of most days; and I would rather write events as they passed. You replied that my letters must be voluminous if they were satisfactory. Do you not already repent the remark? I rejoice, if length is pleasing, my letters are satisfactory.
The battle of Corinth was a bloody failure. Oh the blood that has flowed in this wonderful and most appalling warfare!—the tears and the suffering! Can there be nothing done to assuage the fierce passions of men? Oh! J——, could you see, as I have, the torn and mangled human beings brought from the field of battle, with loud cries to God for death!—for mercy and for death!—you, like me, would ask anxiously, “Can nothing do away with this death?—this anguish? Can no appeal be made by which peace may come to us?” But woman weeps, while man strikes!
Holly Springs, with its white verandahed houses, its pleasant gardens, wide streets, andhospitable homes, is the most pleasant of Southern towns; though crowded and teeming with soldiers and officers.
The inhabitants seem uniting in the efforts to entertain. Generals V—— D——, P——, L——, and T—— have each their respective headquarters in the town. A week ago I attended a review of the troops under Generals L—— and T——. They presented a fine appearance: most of them were newly uniformed and renovated from their prison clothing. General V—— D——, who is called the finest horseman in the army, galloped up and down the line on a fleet, beautiful black horse, followed by General P—— on a large bay that galloped heavily and with less speed.
There were many ladies present on horseback, scattered around the field, with generally a gay group of officers surrounding them. Day before yesterday we rode out to a large review of the Missouri troops under General P——. There were spectators from the whole country around: many came up on the cars from a distance. Such imperishable renown have the Missouri troops gained in the late battle of Corinth, that all are anxious to witness their review, and cheer the bravefellows who have suffered so much. Although driven back and obliged to retreat, their gallant struggle over two rows of superior fortifications in the face of a galling fire, the Southern people will never forget.
General P—— is greatly beloved by the people also; though the heads of the Government are strongly opposed to him. It is natural, of course, that President Davis should suppose a regularly educated military man would be more likely to understand the science of war than a man who had not made it his study. But why does he cripple so efficient an officer as General P—— certainly is, so as almost to render him inefficient?
The Missourians on review looked fresh and lively. General P——, attended by his staff, stood near us in the pause, while we waited the arrival of General V—— D——. One of General P——’s staff officers started across the field to carry a despatch, when his horse, stumbling, fell on the grass, rolling the brilliantly uniformed gentleman over and over on the sod, much to the amusement of the spectators, who cheered him lustily. I felt sorry for him; and although some of his friends were talking to me at the time, Icould scarcely conceal a smile. But the men, who, half a mile distant, have been drawn in line, now wheel, form, and march around the little hillock in the distance. See, the sun glances on the bayonets of the guns, as they ascend, and in coming down over the brow of the hill, the regular swing of the line and glance of the steel show the discipline they have been under.
Now they pass by the general, who sits a little behind General V—— D——, and near General Q——. Among the artillery, I saw the Lady Richardson, captured and brought away from Corinth. As they come on, and pass by General V—— D——, they salute; which is answered by his raising his cap to the colors, disclosing a proud, youthful head, surrounded by curls. He is immediately before me, and I do not see his face, which is marked with deep lines I have noticed before. In the evening, after the review, I attended a party given to the generals here collected. The house was crowded; the generals, with their staff and other officers, were there, and some of the lovely ladies of Holly Springs. The supper was handsome. Toasts were drunk to Generals P—— and V—— D——, and all went merry, &c. But in themidst of a conversation, an officer told me that the Federal forces were advancing on Holly Springs, and that probably the Confederate forces would evacuate the town in a day or two. So, dear J——, there is no telling where I will be when I write next.
Jackson.
I know you are smiling, as you see Jackson written at the head of my letter—smiling to think how systematically I have bowed myself out of one town after the other, as the Federal troops have bowed themselves in; yet you know the old saw, “He that fights, and runs away,” &c.; though I can take no comfort in this, as fighting has been my abomination since the war began. I have always, in peaceful times, had an admiration for heroes in brilliant uniforms, and would now, if the hero could possibly assure me that the brilliant uniform would always be filled with life. But how can one feel a pleasure in the gilt trappings of a friend, when they know that they may possibly serve as an anxiously sought target for some sharpshooter. You do not wonder at my quotation in favor of a retrograde movement in this frame of mind, do you? For the last week or two I have passed from one state of excitement to another, so that I am glad indeed to find a quiet resting place.
From Holly Springs the army under Generals V—— D—— and P—— retreated to Abbeville,where they remained stationary for a time. One day the inhabitants of O—— were alarmed by the distant booming of cannon. A great excitement prevailed, and various rumors went the rounds. One that the Federal troops had reached the Tallahatchee; another that they had crossed, and a battle was progressing between the Federal and Confederate forces.
The town grew wide awake. Wagons passed and repassed. Numerous families were seen walking rapidly toward the depot, carriages filled with ladies and children driving swiftly in the same direction. My friends were preparing to leave also. I had received a telegram from M——, telling me to be in readiness to take my departure during the afternoon. My preparations were made. A gentleman came on the down train to accompany me, when, to our great disappointment, passengers were not allowed to go on the train, for the hospital patients were all to be taken off before passengers could be accommodated. My friend was, however, by particular favor, allowed to ride in a baggage car with my trunks. The next day, Sunday, how little it seemed like the Sabbath! passenger trains were to run if thestores could all be transported. So a number of friends, with myself, took our seats quite early in the cars at the depot, and waited patiently hour after hour, hearing most distracting rumors, until my patience had become nearly exhausted.
In the afternoon, great was my joy on seeing M—— enter the car. The army was retreating from Abbeville. Our friends resolved to take their carriage and cross the country to Columbus. M—— said he could get an ambulance for me, but I would be obliged to keep up with the army, as the Federal forces were following closely. The cars were vacated quickly, and I saw the last of my friends. An ambulance came up, and I was soon riding rapidly southward. That night we stopped at a roadside house. During the next day the greater portion of the army passed by, and encamped below the house we were in for the night.
The next morning was gloomy, dark, and disagreeable. While I waited for M—— to come with an ambulance, Gen. P—— invited me to ride with him. The roads were in the most miserable condition, and for a time we drove on a corduroy road.
Just imagine me, dear J——, on a corduroy road, jolting through a swamp, with my child in my arms; the general talking in the calmest and most urbane manner. Yet the gloom of the day was over me, and I felt dismally miserable. Soon the rain began to pour down. We were at this time on the high road, which became every moment worse, from the travel of the artillery, the greater portion of which was before us. Immediately behind the general’s ambulance drove the carriage of a lady, who had been compelled, like myself, to abandon the cars.
How incessantly the rain poured down! Now and then the ambulance would drive on the side of the road, stopping to let the infantry pass. Poor fellows! wet and begrimed with mud, plodding with blankets and knapsacks strapped on their backs, and guns on their shoulders; troublesome accompaniments at any time—far more so now in the driving rain. At the foot of the hills we would frequently be obliged to halt, sometimes for an hour, awaiting the passage of the artillery over the brow of the ascent. The Federal troops were close in the rear. The horses strained and pulled,but the mud was so deep and heavy that the wheels became clogged, and I looked anxiously up, expecting to see some huge cannon, impelled by its weight, return to the base of the hill. Frequently the soldiers would be obliged to wade through the deep ruts of mud on the hillside, and give a new impulse to some wavering piece, assisting the horses, and pushing the weighty gun-carriage with united strength.
In the rain sat the staff officers on their dripping horses; and, giving orders from the ambulance window, the old general urged on the men. I wondered at the patience, the kindness with which he spoke to all; rapidly and cheerily to the staff officers: “Ride on, and see what obstructs the road;” and in a tone of sympathy, through the rain, to the straggling soldier: “Keep up, men, keep up.” “We camp near, do we?” he called out in clear tones to the inspector. And the men raised their drooping heads and pressed forward at the encouragement in the well-known voice. I see the power of kindness with these men, dear J——. There are few general officers in the Confederacy so well-beloved by their men asGeneral P——, yet he is only kind and perfectly just.
That night we stopped beyond Water Valley, at a house where the poor hostess tried to make us comfortable, and gave us much of her company, telling us that she was “cousin to Stonewall Jackson’s wife and Hill’s wife;” but she “reckoned they did not know it, and wouldn’t think much of it, if they did.” She brought in a large baby, and sat down by the general’s side, telling him that she was going to name that baby after him. The general was as affable as usual; but I frequently turned to the window to conceal my amusement.
Suddenly I was startled by her turning quickly to me, and asking if I “would ever think her any kin to Stonewall Jackson’s wife and Hill’s wife.” Never having seen either of the above-named ladies, I conscientiously answered I did not know as I should.