MRS. ROONEY
[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers’ Memories, pages 217-220.]
There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted Confederate women. I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company K, Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861, and never deserted the “b’ys” for a day until the surrender.
She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm, Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to risk the dangers of every battlefield where the regiment was engaged, unheeding havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely succor to the wounded or comfort the dying. When in camp she looked after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one escaped being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so well. She managed to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying at times $35 per pound for it. The surrender almost broke her heart. Her defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner. I will give in her own words an account of what followed:
“Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. The next day, when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I asked them what they would do with me. They tould me to ‘go to the devil.’ I tould them, ‘I’ve been long in his company; I’d choose something better.’ I then asked them where any Confederates lived. They tould me about three miles through the woods. On my way I met some Yankees. They asked225me, ‘What have you in that bag?’ I said, ‘Some rags of my own.’ I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new dresses at the bottom; and sure, I got off with them all. Then they asked me if I had any money. I said no; but in my stocking I had two hundred dollars in Confederate money. One of the Yankees, a poor devil of a private soldier, handed me three twenty-five cents of Yankee money. I said to him, ‘Sure, you must be an Irishman.’ ‘Yes,’ said he. I then went on till I got to the house. Mrs. Crump and her sister were in the yard, and about twenty negro women—no men. I had not a bite for two days, nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness. Mrs. Crump said, ‘Don’t cry; you are among friends.’ She then gave me plenty to eat,—hot hoecakes and buttermilk. I stayed there fifteen days, superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men. One half of the house was full of Confederates and the other of Yankees. They then brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees were gathered together. There was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me, and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. I tould him, ‘And what have you to say to what you done to our poor fellows?’ He tould me to shut up, and sure I did. They asked me fifty questions after, and I never opened me mouth. The next day was the day when all the Confederate flags came to Petersburg. I had some papers in my pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so I chewed them all up and ate them; but I wouldn’t take the oath, and I never did take it. The flags were brought in on dirt-carts and as they passed the Federal camps them Yankees would unfurl them and shake them about to show them. My journey from Burkesville to Petersburg was from 11 in the morning till 11 at night, and I sitting on my bundle all the way. The Yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me, and calling me a damn rebel, and more ugly talk. I said, ‘Mabbe some of you has got a mother or wife; if so, you’ll show some respect for me.’ Then they were quiet. I had to walk three miles to Captain Buckner’s headquarters.226The family were in the house near the battle-ground, but the door was shut, and I didn’t know who was inside, and I couldn’t see any light. I sat down on the porch, and thought I would have to stay there all night. After a while I saw a light coming from under the door, and so I knocked; when the door was opened and they saw who it was, they were all delighted to see me because they were afraid I was dead. I wanted to go to Richmond, but would not go on a Yankee transportation. When the brigade came down, I cried me heart out because I was not let go on with them. I stayed three months with Mrs. Cloyd, and then Major Rawle sent me forty dollars and fifty more if I needed it, and that brought me home to New Orleans.”
Mrs. Rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of Louisiana. At the Soldiers’ Home she holds the position of matron, and her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to “Camp Nichols.”
WARNING BY A BRAVE GIRL
[Our Women in the War, pages 63-64.]
I know of a girl who rode through the storm of a winter’s night, many miles, to give information to our soldiers when Sherman was on his way to Atlanta. The country far and wide was filled with soldiers, and skirmishing was of constant occurrence. By her efforts many lives were saved, and as she returned homeward the shot and shell were falling thick and fast around her. Later, a desperate encounter took place in her father’s yard between contending armies, and her courage was wonderful in assisting the wounded and baffling inquiries from the Yankee officers, who made headquarters in her home. She still managed to give important information, and defied detection. This girl is of an ancient family, and soldier blood is in her veins. Her grandfather was a general in the United States army before her mother was grown.
227A PLUCKY GIRL WITH A PISTOL
[Our Women in the War, pages 37-39.]
Charleston was under an iron heel, the heel of despair. Every house had its shutters closed and darkened; all the rooms overlooking the streets were abandoned; the women endeavored to give a deserted and dreary aspect to every mansion, and lived as retiringly as possible in the back portions of their dwellings, hoping that the Northern soldiery in the city would suppose such houses to be deserted and therefore would not search them.
But this did not save Mr. Cunningham’s house. By a strange coincidence it was again a company of black Michigan troops, with a negro in command, that burst open the locked gate, tore up the flower garden, and finally streamed up the back piazza steps, armed with muskets and glittering bayonets that shone in the noonday sun, their faces blacker than ink, their eyes red with drink and malice. The three girls saw them from the dining-room and shivered, but not one moment was lost. Cecil pushed the other two into the room, saying, “Stay here, I will go close this door and meet them,” and advancing quickly she reached the entrance to the piazza just as the captain set his foot on the last step, and would have entered, but that her slight person filled up the narrow space.
“What do you want here?” she asked. “Why do you and your troops rush into my house?”
“We want quarters here, and quarters we will have. Move aside and let us in.”
“I shall not; we don’t take boarders, and I have not invited you as guests. Go away at once, or I will report you to the general in command.”
“D——n you, move aside, or I will throw you down.”
“Keep your hands off if you are wise,” said Cecil, instantly placing one of her own in her pocket, and never removing her steady eyes from his face.
“By God! I believe you have got a pistol; let’s search her person for arms.”
“I have a pistol and shall shoot the first person that228touches me, even if you all strike and kill me afterwards. Leave this yard, and do it at once. By 3 o’clock I will give you an answer if you come here for quarters then; now go!”
“You little rebel devil! We will be back, and we will stay next time, be sure; and will take that same pistol from you, too.”
With an extra volley of fearful curses they departed and the girls rushed to Cecil, who, after the excitement was over and nerve no longer needed, turned white and faint. Then they all sat down and cried, feeling like desolate orphans.
MOSBY’S MEN AND TWO NOBLE GIRLS
[In Wearing of the Gray, pages 545-547.]
The force at Morgan’s Lane was too great to meet front to front, and the ground so unfavorable for receiving their assault, that Mountjoy gave the order for his men to save themselves, and they abandoned the prisoners and horses, put spurs to their animals, and retreated at full gallop past the mill, across a little stream, and up the long hill upon which was situated the mansion above referred to. Behind them the one hundred Federal cavalrymen came on at full gallop, calling upon them to halt, and firing volleys into them as they retreated.
We beg now to introduce upon the scene the femaledramatis personaeof the incident—two young ladies who had hastened out to the fence as soon as the firing began, and now witnessed the whole. As they reached the fence, the fifteen men of Captain Mountjoy appeared, mounting the steep road like lightning, closely pursued by the Federal cavalry, whose dense masses completely filled the narrow road. The scene at the moment was sufficient to try the nerves of the young ladies. The clash of hoofs, the crack of carbines, the loud cries of “halt! halt!! halt!!!”—this tramping, shouting, banging, to say nothing of the quick hiss of bullets filling the air, rendered the “place and time” more stirring than229agreeable to one consulting the dictates of a prudent regard to his or her safety.
Nevertheless, the young ladies did not stir. They had half mounted the board fence, and in this elevated position were exposed to a close and dangerous fire; more than one bullet burying itself in the wood close to their persons. But they did not move—and this for a reason more creditable than mere curiosity to witness the engagement, which may, however, have counted for something. This attracted them, but they were engaged in “doing good,” too. It was of the last importance that the men should know where they could cross the river.
“Where is the nearest ford?” they shouted.
“In the woods there,” was the reply of one of the young ladies, pointing with her hand, and not moving.
“How can we reach it?”
“Through the gate,” and waving her hand, the speaker directed the rest, amid a storm of bullets burying themselves in the fence close beside her.
The men went at full gallop towards the ford. Last of all came Mountjoy—but Mountjoy, furious, foaming almost at the mouth, on fire with indignation, and uttering oaths so frightful that they terrified the young ladies much more than the balls or the Federal cavalry darting up the hill.
The partisan had scarcely disappeared in the woods, when the enemy rushed up, and demanded which way the Confederates had taken.
“I will not tell you,” was the reply of the youngest girl. The trooper drew a pistol, and cocking it, levelled it at her head.
“Which way?” he thundered.
The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said: “How do I know?”
“Move on!” resounded from the lips of the officer in command, and the column rushed by, nearly trampling upon the ladies, who ran into the house.
Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic. Before the door, sitting on his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue—and at sight of him the ladies230shrunk back. A second glance showed them that he was bleeding to death from a mortal wound. The bullet had entered his side, traversed the body, issued from the opposite side, inflicting a wound which rendered death almost certain.
“Take me from my horse!” murmured the wounded man, stretching out his arms and tottering.
The young girls ran to him.
“Who are you—one of the Yankees?” they exclaimed.
“Oh, no!” was the faint reply. “I am one of Mountjoy’s men. Tell him, when you see him, that I said, ‘Captain, this is the first time I have gone out with you, and the last!’”
As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured: “My name is William Armistead Braxton. I have a wife and three little children living in Hanover—you must let them know—”
The poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were compelled to carry him in their arms into the house, where he was laid upon a couch, writhing in agony.
They had then time to look at him, and saw before them a young man of gallant countenance, elegant figure—in every outline of his person betraying the gentleman born and bred. They afterwards discovered that he had just joined Mosby, and that, as he had stated, this was his first scout. Poor fellow! it was also his last.
A SPARTAN DAME AND HER YOUNG
[From The Gray Jacket, page 488.]
“We were once,” says General D. H. Hill, “witness to a remarkable piece of coolness in Virginia. A six-gun battery was shelling the woods furiously near which stood a humble hut. As we rode by, the shells were fortunately too high to strike the dwelling, but this might occur any moment by lowering the angle or shortening the fire. The husband was away, probably far off in the army, but the good housewife was busy at the wash-tub,231regardless of all the roar and crash of shells and falling timber. Our surprise at her coolness was lost in greater amazement at observing three children, the oldest not more than 10, on top of a fence, watching with great interest the flight of the shells. Our curiosity was so much excited by the extraordinary spectacle that we could not refrain from stopping and asking the children if they were not afraid. ‘Oh, no,’ replied they, ‘the Yankees ain’t shooting at us, they are shooting at the soldiers.’”
SINGING UNDER FIRE
[A Rebel’s Recollections, pages 72-73.]
They [the women of Petersburg] carried their efforts to cheer and help the troops into every act of their lives. When they could, they visited camp. Along the lines of march they came out with water or coffee or tea—the best they had, whatever it might be; with flowers, or garlands of green when their flowers were gone. A bevy of girls stood under a sharp fire from the enemy’s lines at Petersburg one day, while they sang Bayard Taylor’s “Song of the Camp,” responding to an encore with the stanza:
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,Your truth and valor bearing;The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring!”
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,Your truth and valor bearing;The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring!”
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,
Your truth and valor bearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring!”
Indeed, the coolness of women under fire was always a matter of surprise to me. A young girl, not more than 16 years of age, acted as guide to a scouting party during the early years of the war, and when we urged her to go back after the enemy had opened a vigorous fire upon us, she declined, on the plea that she believed we were “going to charge those fellows,” and she “wanted to see the fun.” At Petersburg women did their shopping and went about their duties under a most uncomfortable bombardment, without evincing the slightest fear or showing any nervousness whatever.
232A WOMAN’S LAST WORD
[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 225-227.]
The city of Richmond was in flames. We were beginning that last terrible retreat which ended the war. Fire had been set to the arsenal as a military possession, which must on no account fall into the enemy’s hands. As the flames spread, because of a turn of the wind, other buildings caught. The whole business part of the city was on fire. To make things worse, some idiot had ordered that all the liquor in the city should be poured into the gutters. The rivers of alcohol had been ignited from the burning buildings. It was a time and scene of unutterable terror.
As we marched up the fire-lined street, with the flames scorching the very hair off our horses, George Goodsmith—the best cannoneer that ever wielded a rammer—came up to the headquarters squad, and said: “Captain, my wife’s in Richmond. We’ve been married less than a year. She is soon to become a mother. I beg permission to bid her good-bye. I’ll join the battery later.”
The permission was granted readily, and George Goodsmith put spurs to his horse. He had just been made a sergeant, and was therefore mounted. It was in the gray of the morning that he hurriedly met his wife. With caresses of the tenderest kind, he bade her farewell. Realizing for a moment the utter hopelessness of our making another stand on the Roanoke, or any other line, he said in the bitterness of his soul: “Why shouldn’t I stay here and take care of you?”
The woman straightened herself and replied: “I would rather be the widow of a brave man than the wife of a coward.”
That was their parting, for the time was very short. Mayo’s bridge across the James River was already in flames when Goodsmith perilously galloped across it.
Three or four days later—for I never could keep tab on time at that period of the war—we went into the battle at Farmville. Goodsmith was in his place in command233of the piece. Just before fire opened he beckoned to me, and I rode up to hear what he had to say.
“I’m going to be killed, I think,” he said. “If I am, I want my wife to know that she is the widow of a—brave man. I want her to know that I did my duty to the last. And—and if you live long enough and this thing don’t kill Mary—I want you to tell the little one about his father.”
Goodsmith’s premonition of his death was one of many that were fulfilled during the war. A moment later a fearful struggle began. At the first fire George Goodsmith’s wife became the “widow of a brave man.” His body was heavy with lead.
His son, then unborn, is now a successful broker in a great city. There is nothing particularly knightly or heroic about him, for this is not a knightly or heroic age. But he takes very tender care of his mother—that “widow of a brave man.”
TWO MISSISSIPPI GIRLS HOLD YANKEES AT PISTOL POINT
[In Richmond Enquirer, July 22, 1862, page 3.]
A Memphis correspondent of theAppeal, in referring to the bad treatment of citizens by the Federal soldiers, related the following:
The most unmanly and brutal act that I know of is their treatment of two Misses Coe. Levin Coe, their brother, was at home, discharged from the army. They surrounded the house before the family knew they were on the place. Fortunately young Coe had gone fishing, and two of his sisters escaped to the garden and ran to warn him not to come home. The Yankees saw the way they went, and followed them, but the sisters outran them and gave their brother the information of their coming. They came up with the ladies at a house in the vicinity of the creek, and attempted to arrest them, but they were both armed and dared the six big, strapping Yankees to lay their hands on them. One would234say to another, “She’s got a pistol; take it away from her.” And she, a weak woman, stood at bay and told them to touch her at their peril. And the craven wretches dared not do it. At last, to get them from the neighborhood of their brother, they agreed to go to headquarters with them. It was then noon, and these girls had run two miles, and then these scoundrels marched them off on foot four miles to town. At every step they tried to get their pistols from them, threatening them with instant death if they did not give them up. Three times they placed their pistols at the girls’ hearts with them cocked and their fingers on the trigger, telling them they would kill them. Each time the girls replied, “Shoot; I can shoot as quick as you can.” And they never did give them up until their brother-in-law came up with them and told them to do so, and he gave himself up in their place. Levin Coe escaped.
“WAR WOMEN” OF PETERSBURG
[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 72-73.]
During all those weary months the good women of Petersburg went about their household affairs with fifteen-inch shells dropping occasionally into their boudoirs or uncomfortably near to their kitchen ranges. Yet they paid no attention to any danger that threatened themselves. Their deeds of mercy will never be adequately recorded until the angels report. But this much I want to say of them—they were “war women” of the most daring and devoted type. When there was need of their ministrations on the line, they were sure to be promptly there; and once, as I have recorded elsewhere in print, a bevy of them came out to the lines only to encourage us, and, under a fearful fire, sang Bayard Taylor’s “Song of the Camp,” giving as an encore the lines:
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,Your truth and valor bearing;The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.”
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,Your truth and valor bearing;The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.”
“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,
Your truth and valor bearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.”
235
With inspiration such as these women gave us, it was no wonder that, as I heard General Sherman say soon after the war: “It took us four years, with all our enormous superiority in resources, to overcome the stubborn resistance of those men.”
JOHN ALLEN’S COW
While General Milroy was in possession of Winchester he was extremely harsh and vindictive towards the people. A great many of them were reduced to the borders of starvation. Miss Allen, a 15-year-old Southern girl, was a member of a family almost absolutely dependent on a good cow’s milk for sustenance. In a short time the cow’s food was exhausted and the prospect looked dark indeed. There was a good pasturage just outside the town, beyond the guard lines of the Federal troops. The brave girl volunteered to lead the cow out and attend her while grazing. A permit to pass the lines from General Milroy was necessary. She went to the general and laid her case before him and asked for a permit. He flatly refused her request and rudely insulted the poor girl.
“I can’t do anything for you rebels and I will not let you pass. The rebellion has got to be crushed,” said he.
“Well,” answered the girl, “if you think you can crush the rebellion by starving John Allen’s old cow, just crush away.”
THE FAMILY THAT HAD NO LUCK
[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 23-24.]
At the battle of Fredericksburg, as we tumbled into the sunken road, an old man came in bearing an Enfield236rifle and wearing an old pot hat of the date of 1857 or thereabouts. With a gentle courtesy that was unusual in war, he apologized to the two men between whom he placed himself, saying: “I hope I don’t crowd you, but I must find a place somewhere from which I can shoot.”
At that moment one of the great assaults occurred. The old man used his gun like an expert. He wasted no bullet. He took aim every time and fired only when he knew his aim to be effective. Yet he fired rapidly.
Tom Booker, who stood next to him, said as the advancing column was swept away: “You must have shot birds on the wing in your time.”
The old man answered: “I did up to twenty years ago; but then I sort o’ lost my sight, you know, and my interest in shootin’.”
“Well, you’ve got ’em both back again,” called out Billy Goodwin, from down the line.
“Yes,” said the old man. “You see I had to. It’s this way: I had six boys and six gells. When the war broke out I thought the six boys could do my family’s share o’ the fightin’. Well, they did their best, but they didn’t have no luck. One of ’em was killed at Manassas, two others in a cavalry raid, and the other three fell in different actions—’long the road, as you might say. We ain’t seemed to a had no luck. But it’s just come to this, that if the family is to be represented, the old man must git up his shootin’ agin, or else one o’ the gells would have to take a hand. So here I am.”
Just then the third advance was made. A tremendous column of heroic fellows was hurled upon us, only to be swept away as its predecessors had been. Two or three minutes did the work, but at the end of that time the old man fell backward, and Tom Booker caught him in his arms.
“You’re shot,” he said.
“Yes. The family don’t seem to have no luck. If one of my gells comes to you, you’ll give her a fair chance to shoot straight, won’t you, boys?”
237BRAVE WOMEN AT RESACA, GA.
[By J. L. Underwood.]
In a letter to Mrs. E. J. Simmons, of Calhoun, Ga., dated June 7, 1896, Rev. Jno. C. Portis, of Union, Miss., formerly of the Eighteenth Mississippi Regiment, and now a Congregational Methodist minister, writes:
“My good right arm lies about a mile south of Resaca, Ga., just north of a church at the root of a large oak or chestnut tree. It was put in a board box and buried by a comrade. Hence you see I feel an interest in the wild hills of Resaca. I was a private in Company B, Eighth Mississippi Volunteer Inf., and was wounded in right shoulder and throat about dark in a charge on the enemy’s works, May 14, 1864, on the side of a hill just west of the village on the north side of the river. I was carried back to the bluff below the bridge, where about three or four hundred poor fellows were lying torn, bleeding, and some dying. After a time I crossed the bridge, and, faint and sick, I was trying to make my way to Cheatham’s Division Hospital, which was in the church. A man came into the road with an ox wagon loaded in part with beds which appeared to be very white. Some one called him Motes and asked him about his family (Motes’s family), and he said they had gone on to Calhoun. Mr. Motes insisted that I should ride, and said his wife would not care if all her beds were dyed with rebel blood. He carried me to the old church. I would like to know what became of Mr. Motes; I could not see his face. The night was dark. Sunday morning, May 15, about eight o’clock, my right arm was amputated at the shoulder joint. Thirty-two years have passed since then, and strange it may seem that a boy soldier, that few thought could live, is writing this reminiscence of those two days of carnage. Never shall I forget the morning of that fateful 14th of May, when at early dawn the signal guns told us in tones of thunder that both armies were ready for the work of death. Bright rose the sun, tipping mountain peak with blooming rays of silver and bathing valley and woodland in a flood of golden light, a scene238never to be witnessed again by hundreds of the boys who wore the blue and the gray. In the streets of Resaca that day I saw enacted a deed of heroism which challenged the admiration of all who witnessed it. A wagon occupied by several ladies was passing along north of the river and just west of the railroad, when a Yankee battery opened fire on it and, until it had passed over the bridge, poured a storm of shells around it. A young woman stood erect in the wagon waving her hat, which was dressed with red or had a red ribbon or plume on it, seemingly to defy the cowards who would make war on defenceless women. I felt then, as I do to-day, for that woman a man could freely die. Many a rebel boy felt as I did that day. I was taken from the church to a bush-arbor on the west side of the railroad, where I expected to die. A middle-aged woman dressed in black came with nourishment and (God forever bless her) fed me, and during that awful day ministered to the wants of the wounded and dying. If I remember correctly she came often to me with food and drink. Who she was I may never know, but she was a noble woman.”
The fearlessness of the Southern women under cannon and rifle fire mentioned in the above incident was exhibited time and again during the war. The women seemed to have their souls and bodies keyed up for any and all emergencies. There may be something of an explanation in the fact that they belonged to a race of marksmen and expected bullets and cannon balls to hit what they were aimed to hit, and as they didn’t think anybody was trying to kill them, they apprehended no danger.
A WOMAN’S HAIR
[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 82-84.]
About 10 o’clock in the morning the sharpshooters began. Our captain instantly divided us into two squads, and without military formalities said: “Now, boys, ride to the right and left and corner ’em.”
239
That was the only command we received, but we obeyed it with a will. The two sharpshooting citizens who were there that morning escaped on good horses, but we captured the pickets.
Among them was a woman—a Juno in appearance, with a wealth of raven black hair twisted carelessly into a loose knot under the jockey cap she wore. She was mounted on a superb chestnut mare, and she knew how to ride. She might easily have escaped, and at one time seemed to do so, but at the critical moment she seemed to lose her head and so fell into our hands.
When we brought her to Charlie Irving she was all smiles and graciousness, and Charlie was all blushes.
“You’d hang me to a tree, if I were a man, I suppose,” she said. “And serve me right, too. As I’m only a woman, you’d better send me to General Stuart, instead.”
This seemed so obviously the right way out of it Charlie ordered Ham Seay and me to escort her to Stuart’s headquarters, which were under a tree some miles in the rear.
When we got there Stuart seemed to recognize the young woman. Or perhaps it was only his habitual and constitutional gallantry that made him come forward with every manifestation of welcome, and himself help her off her horse, taking her by the waist for that purpose.
Ham Seay and I, being mere privates, were ordered to another tree. But we could not help seeing that cordial relations were quickly established between our commander and this young woman. We saw her presently take down her magnificent black hair and remove from it some papers. They were not “curl papers,” or that sort of stuffing which women call “rats.” Stuart was a very gallant man, and he received the papers with much fervor. He spread them out carefully on the ground, and seemed to be reading what was written or drawn upon them. Then he talked long and earnestly with the young woman and seemed to be coming to some definite sort of understanding with her. Then she dined with him on some fried salt pork and some hopelessly indigestible240fried paste. Then he mounted her on her mare again and summoned Ham Seay and me.
“Escort this young lady back to Captain Irving,” he said. “Tell him to send her to the Federal lines under flag of truce, with the message that she was inadvertently captured in a picket charge, and that as General Stuart does not make war on women and children, he begs to return her to her home and friends.”
We did all this.
The next day, Stuart with a strong force advanced to Mason’s and Munson’s mills. From there we could clearly see a certain house in Washington. It had many windows, and each had a dark Holland shade. When we stood guard we were ordered to observe minutely and report accurately the slidings up and down of those Holland shades. We never knew what three shades up, two half up, and five down might signify. But we had to report it, nevertheless, and Stuart seemed from that time to have an almost preternatural advance perception of the enemy’s movements. That young woman certainly had a superb shock of hair.
A BREACH OF ETIQUETTE
[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 121-123.]
Finally we went near to Martinsburg, and came upon a farm-house. The farm gave no appearance of being a large one, or one more than ordinarily prosperous, yet we saw through the open door a dozen or fifteen “farm hands” eating dinner, all of them in their shirt-sleeves. Stuart rode up, with a few of us at his back, to make inquiries, and we dismounted. Just then a slip of a girl,—not over 14, I should say—accompanied by a thickset young bull-dog, with an abnormal development of teeth, ran up to meet us.
She distinctly and unmistakably “sicked” that dog upon us. But as the beast assailed us, the young girl ran after him and restrained his ardor by throwing her241arms around his neck. As she did so, she kept repeating in a low but very insistent tone to us: “Make ’em put their coats on! Make ’em put their coats on! Make ’em put their coats on!”
Stuart was a peculiarly ready person. He said not one word to the young girl as she led her dog away, but with a word or two he directed a dozen or so of us to follow him with cocked carbines into the dining-room. There he said to the “farm hands:” “Don’t you know that a gentleman never dines without his coat? Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? And ladies present, too! Get up and put on your coats, every man jack of you, or I’ll riddle you with bullets in five seconds.”
They sprang first of all into the hallway, where they had left their arms; but either the bull-dog or the 14-year-old girl had taken care of that. The arms were gone. Then seeing the carbines levelled, they made a hasty search of the hiding-places in which they had bestowed their coats. A minute later they appeared as fully uniformed but helplessly unarmed Pennsylvania volunteers.
They were prisoners of war at once, without even an opportunity to finish that good dinner. As we left the house the young girl came up to Stuart and said: “Don’t say anything about it, but the dog wouldn’t have bit you. He knows which side we’re on in this war.”
As we rode away this young girl—she of the bull-dog—cried out: “To think the wretches made us give ’em dinner; and in their shirt-sleeves, too.”
LOLA SANCHEZ’S RIDE
[Women in The War.]
During the war for Southern independence there lived just opposite Palatka, on the east bank of the St. Johns River, Florida, a Cuban gentleman, Mauritia Sanchez by name, who early in life had left the West Indies to seek242a home in the State of Florida. Many years had passed since then and Mr. Sanchez was at the time of the following incident an old man, infirm and in wretched health. The family consisted of an invalid wife, one son, who was in the service of the Confederacy, and three daughters, Panchita, Lola, and Eugenia.
Suspicion had long fastened upon Mr. Sanchez as a spy for the Confederates, and at the time of this incident, the old man had been torn from his home and family and was a prisoner in the old Spanish Fort San Marcos (now Fort Marion), at St. Augustine. The girls occupied the old home with their mother and were entirely unprotected. Many times at night their house was surrounded by white and negro soldiers expecting to surprise them and find Confederates about the place, for the Yankees knew some one was giving information, but thought it was Mr. Sanchez. The Southern soldiers were higher up the St. Johns, on the west side. It was usual for the Yankee officers to visit frequently at the Sanchez home, and the girls, for policy, (and information) were cordial in their reception of them, and thereby gained some protection from the thieving soldiery.
One warm summer’s night three Yankee officers came to the Sanchez home to spend the evening. After a short time the three sisters left the officers and went to the dining room to prepare supper. The soldiers, thinking themselves safe, entered into the discussion of a plan to surprise the Confederates on Sunday morning by sending the gunboats up the river, and also by planning that a foraging party should go out from St. Augustine.
On hearing this Lola Sanchez stopped her work and listened. After hearing of the road the foraging party would take and gaining all necessary information, she told Panchita to entertain them until she returned. Stealing softly from the house, she sped to the horse lot, and throwing a saddle on her horse rode for life to the ferry, a mile distant; there the ferryman took her horse, and gave her a boat. She rowed herself across the St. Johns, met one Confederate picket, who knew her and gave her his horse. Out into the night through the243woods she rode like the wind to Camp Davis, a mile and a half away. Reaching the camp, she asked for Captain Dickinson, (afterwards General Dickinson) and told him the Yankees were coming up the river Sunday morning and that the troop from St. Augustine would go out foraging in a southerly direction. Then leaving the camp, Lola Sanchez rode for her life indeed. She knew she must not be missed from home. Giving the picket his horse, she recrossed the ferry, then mounting her waiting animal she struck out for home. Dismounting some distance from the house, she turned her horse loose, and reached home in time for supper and pleasantly entertained her guests until a late hour.
That night Captain Dickinson marched his men to intercept the Yankees. He crossed from the west to the east side and surprised them on Sunday. A severe fight ensued. The Yankee General Chatfield was killed and Colonel Nobles wounded and captured. On that same Sunday morning the Yankee gunboats went up the St. Johns to surprise the Confederates. They were very much surprised in turn. The Confederates were ready for them, disabled a gunboat and captured a transport; also many prisoners were taken by the Confederates.
The foraging party lost all their wagons, and everything they had stolen, and again many prisoners were taken, and Captain Dickinson sent for the three sisters to be at the ferry (the one Lola Sanchez crossed) to see the prisoners and wagons that had been taken.
Time and again this daughter of the Confederacy aided and abetted the Southern cause. Some time after a pontoon was captured, and renamed “The Three Sisters” in compliment to these brave young women. The pontoon was coming from Picolata to Orange Mills. Mr. Sanchez still languished in Fort San Marco, however, and Panchita grieved continuously over her father’s unjust incarceration. The old man was truly innocent, his daughters were the informers, but he did not know this. Panchita determined to obtain his release if possible. After some time spent in applying, she got a pass to go through the Yankee lines, and boarding one of their244transports, this young woman went alone to St. Augustine, and gained her father’s freedom, taking him with her back to the old homestead.
There is the “Emily Geiger Ride,” and “Lill Servosse’s Ride,” but none more daring than that of Lola Sanchez, the young Floridian of the Southern Confederacy. The U. D. C. should look to it that one chapter at least should be Lola Sanchez Chapter.
Lola Sanchez married Emanuel Lopez, a Confederate soldier of the St. Augustine Blues; Eugenia married Albert Rogers, another soldier of the St. Augustine Blues; Panchita is the widow of the late John R. Miot, of Columbia, S. C. Lola Sanchez died about seven years ago. May the memory of this Southern woman never fade.
These facts were recently related to me by Mrs. Eugenia Rogers, of St. Augustine.
Elizabeth W. Mullings.
THE REBEL SOCKA TRUE EPISODE IN SEWARD’S RAIDS ON THE OLD LADIES OF MARYLAND
By Tenella.
[The Gray Jacket, pages 510-513.]
In all the pride and pomp of warThe Lincolnite was dressed;High beat his patriotic heartBeneath his armoured vest.His maiden sword hung by his side,His pistols both were right,His coat was buttoned tight.His shining spurs were on his heels;A firm resolve sat on his brow,For he to danger went.By Seward’s self that day he wasOn secret service sent.“Mount and away!” he sternly criedUnto the gallant band.Who all equipped from head to heelAwaited his command.“But halt, my boys—before we goThese solemn words I’ll say,Lincoln expects that every manHis duty’ll do to-day!”“We will! we will!” the soldiers cried,“The President shall seeThat we will only run awayFrom Jackson or from Lee!”And now they’re off, just four score men,A picked and chosen troop.And like a hawk upon a doveOn Maryland they swoop.245From right to left, from house to house,The little army rides.In every lady’s wardrobe lookTo see that there she hides;They peep in closets, trunks, and drawers,Examine every box;Not rebel soldiers now they seek,But rebel soldiers’ socks!But all in vain—too keen for themWere those dear ladies there,And not a sock or flannel shirtWas taken anywhere.The day wore on to afternoon,That warm and drowsy hour,When Nature’s self doth seem to feelA touch of Morpheus’ power.A farm-house door stood open wide,The men were all away,The ladies sleeping in their rooms,The children at their play;The house dog lay upon the steps,But never raised his head,Though cracking on the gravel walkHe heard a stranger’s tread.Old grandma, in her rocking chair,Sat knitting in the hall,When suddenly upon her workA shadow seemed to fall.She raised her eyes and there she sawOur Fed’ral hero stand.His little cap was on his head;His sword was in his hand;While circling round and round the houseHis gallant soldiers rideTo guard the open kitchen doorAnd chicken coop beside.Slowly the dear old lady roseAnd tottering forward came,And peering dimly through her “specks,”Said, “Honey, what’s your name?”Then as she raised her withered handTo pat his sturdy arm—“There’s no one here but grandmamma,And she won’t do you harm;Come, take a seat and don’t be scared;Put up your sword, my child,I would not hurt you for the world,”She gently said and smiled.“Madam, my duty must be done,And I am firm as rock!”Then pointing to her work he said,“Is that a rebel sock!”“Yes, honey, I am getting old,And for hard work ain’t fit,But for Confederate soldiers stillI, thank the Lord, can knit.”“Madam, your work is contraband,And Congress confiscatesThis rebel sock, which I now seize,To the United States.”“Yes, honey, don’t be scared, for IWill give it up to you.”Then slowly from the half knit sockThe dame her needles drew,Broke off her thread, wound up her ballAnd stuck her needles in.“Here, take it, child, and I to-nightAnother will begin!”The soldier next his loyal heartThe dear-bought trophy laid,And that was all that Seward gotBy this “old woman’s raid.”
In all the pride and pomp of warThe Lincolnite was dressed;High beat his patriotic heartBeneath his armoured vest.His maiden sword hung by his side,His pistols both were right,His coat was buttoned tight.His shining spurs were on his heels;A firm resolve sat on his brow,For he to danger went.By Seward’s self that day he wasOn secret service sent.“Mount and away!” he sternly criedUnto the gallant band.Who all equipped from head to heelAwaited his command.“But halt, my boys—before we goThese solemn words I’ll say,Lincoln expects that every manHis duty’ll do to-day!”“We will! we will!” the soldiers cried,“The President shall seeThat we will only run awayFrom Jackson or from Lee!”And now they’re off, just four score men,A picked and chosen troop.And like a hawk upon a doveOn Maryland they swoop.245From right to left, from house to house,The little army rides.In every lady’s wardrobe lookTo see that there she hides;They peep in closets, trunks, and drawers,Examine every box;Not rebel soldiers now they seek,But rebel soldiers’ socks!But all in vain—too keen for themWere those dear ladies there,And not a sock or flannel shirtWas taken anywhere.The day wore on to afternoon,That warm and drowsy hour,When Nature’s self doth seem to feelA touch of Morpheus’ power.A farm-house door stood open wide,The men were all away,The ladies sleeping in their rooms,The children at their play;The house dog lay upon the steps,But never raised his head,Though cracking on the gravel walkHe heard a stranger’s tread.Old grandma, in her rocking chair,Sat knitting in the hall,When suddenly upon her workA shadow seemed to fall.She raised her eyes and there she sawOur Fed’ral hero stand.His little cap was on his head;His sword was in his hand;While circling round and round the houseHis gallant soldiers rideTo guard the open kitchen doorAnd chicken coop beside.Slowly the dear old lady roseAnd tottering forward came,And peering dimly through her “specks,”Said, “Honey, what’s your name?”Then as she raised her withered handTo pat his sturdy arm—“There’s no one here but grandmamma,And she won’t do you harm;Come, take a seat and don’t be scared;Put up your sword, my child,I would not hurt you for the world,”She gently said and smiled.“Madam, my duty must be done,And I am firm as rock!”Then pointing to her work he said,“Is that a rebel sock!”“Yes, honey, I am getting old,And for hard work ain’t fit,But for Confederate soldiers stillI, thank the Lord, can knit.”“Madam, your work is contraband,And Congress confiscatesThis rebel sock, which I now seize,To the United States.”“Yes, honey, don’t be scared, for IWill give it up to you.”Then slowly from the half knit sockThe dame her needles drew,Broke off her thread, wound up her ballAnd stuck her needles in.“Here, take it, child, and I to-nightAnother will begin!”The soldier next his loyal heartThe dear-bought trophy laid,And that was all that Seward gotBy this “old woman’s raid.”
In all the pride and pomp of war
The Lincolnite was dressed;
High beat his patriotic heart
Beneath his armoured vest.
His maiden sword hung by his side,
His pistols both were right,
His coat was buttoned tight.
His shining spurs were on his heels;
A firm resolve sat on his brow,
For he to danger went.
By Seward’s self that day he was
On secret service sent.
“Mount and away!” he sternly cried
Unto the gallant band.
Who all equipped from head to heel
Awaited his command.
“But halt, my boys—before we go
These solemn words I’ll say,
Lincoln expects that every man
His duty’ll do to-day!”
“We will! we will!” the soldiers cried,
“The President shall see
That we will only run away
From Jackson or from Lee!”
And now they’re off, just four score men,
A picked and chosen troop.
And like a hawk upon a dove
On Maryland they swoop.
245
From right to left, from house to house,
The little army rides.
In every lady’s wardrobe look
To see that there she hides;
They peep in closets, trunks, and drawers,
Examine every box;
Not rebel soldiers now they seek,
But rebel soldiers’ socks!
But all in vain—too keen for them
Were those dear ladies there,
And not a sock or flannel shirt
Was taken anywhere.
The day wore on to afternoon,
That warm and drowsy hour,
When Nature’s self doth seem to feel
A touch of Morpheus’ power.
A farm-house door stood open wide,
The men were all away,
The ladies sleeping in their rooms,
The children at their play;
The house dog lay upon the steps,
But never raised his head,
Though cracking on the gravel walk
He heard a stranger’s tread.
Old grandma, in her rocking chair,
Sat knitting in the hall,
When suddenly upon her work
A shadow seemed to fall.
She raised her eyes and there she saw
Our Fed’ral hero stand.
His little cap was on his head;
His sword was in his hand;
While circling round and round the house
His gallant soldiers ride
To guard the open kitchen door
And chicken coop beside.
Slowly the dear old lady rose
And tottering forward came,
And peering dimly through her “specks,”
Said, “Honey, what’s your name?”
Then as she raised her withered hand
To pat his sturdy arm—
“There’s no one here but grandmamma,
And she won’t do you harm;
Come, take a seat and don’t be scared;
Put up your sword, my child,
I would not hurt you for the world,”
She gently said and smiled.
“Madam, my duty must be done,
And I am firm as rock!”
Then pointing to her work he said,
“Is that a rebel sock!”
“Yes, honey, I am getting old,
And for hard work ain’t fit,
But for Confederate soldiers still
I, thank the Lord, can knit.”
“Madam, your work is contraband,
And Congress confiscates
This rebel sock, which I now seize,
To the United States.”
“Yes, honey, don’t be scared, for I
Will give it up to you.”
Then slowly from the half knit sock
The dame her needles drew,
Broke off her thread, wound up her ball
And stuck her needles in.
“Here, take it, child, and I to-night
Another will begin!”
The soldier next his loyal heart
The dear-bought trophy laid,
And that was all that Seward got
By this “old woman’s raid.”