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Project Gutenberg's The Women of the Confederacy, by J. L. Underwood
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Title: The Women of the Confederacy
Author: J. L. Underwood
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<div class='figcenter'>
<div class='figtag'>
<a name='linki_1' id='linki_1'></a>
</div>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' title='' width='456' height='394' />
<br />
</div>
<div class='center'>
<h1>THE WOMEN OF THE <br />CONFEDERACY</h1>
<p>In which is presented the heroism of the women of the Confederacy
with accounts of their trials during the War and the
period of Reconstruction, with their ultimate triumph over
adversity. Their motives and their achievements as told
by writers and orators now preserved in permanent form.</p>
<p class='larger padtop'>BY<br />
REV. J. L. UNDERWOOD</p>
<p>Master of Arts, Mercer University, Captain and Chaplain
in the Confederate Army</p>
</div>
<p class='padtop smaller center'><span class='smcap'>New York and Washington</span><br />
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY<br />
1906</p>
<p class='padtop center'>Copyright, 1906<br />
By<br />
J. L. UNDERWOOD</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<div class='figtag'>
<a name='linki_2' id='linki_2'></a>
</div>
<img src='images/frontis.jpg' alt='' title='' width='393' height='514' />
<br />
</div>
<h2>DEDICATION</h2>
<p>To the memory of Mrs. <span class='smcap'>Elizabeth Thomas Curry</span>,
whose remains rest under the live oaks at Bainbridge,
Ga., who cheerfully gave every available member of her
family to the Confederate Cause, and with her own
hands made their gray jackets, and who gave to the
author her Christian patriot daughter, who has been the
companion, the joy and the crown of his long and happy
life, this volume is most affectionately dedicated.</p>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='CONTENTS' id='CONTENTS'></a>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<table border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'>
<tr>
<td />
<td> </td>
<td valign='top' align='right'><i>Page</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>I</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Symposium of Tributes to Confederate Women</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_SYMPOSIUM_OF_TRIBUTES_TO_CONFEDERATE_WOM'>19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Varina Jefferson Davis</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_VARINA_JEFFERSON_DAVIS'>19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of President Jefferson Davis</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_PRESIDENT_JEFFERSON_DAVIS'>20</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of a Wounded Soldier</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_A_WOUNDED_SOLDIER'>21</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of a Federal Private Soldier</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_A_FEDERAL_PRIVATE_SOLDIER'>21</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Joseph E. Johnston’s Tribute</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#JOSEPH_E_JOHNSTONS_TRIBUTE'>22</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Stonewall Jackson’s Female Soldiers</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#STONEWALL_JACKSONS_FEMALE_SOLDIERS'>23</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Gen. J. B. Gordon’s Tribute</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GEN_J_B_GORDONS_TRIBUTE'>23</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>General Forrest’s Tribute</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GENERAL_FORRESTS_TRIBUTE'>24</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of Gen. M. C. Butler</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_M_C_BUTLER'>24</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of Gen. Marcus J. Wright</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_MARCUS_J_WRIGHT'>26</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of Dr. J. L. M. Curry</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_DR_J_L_M_CURRY'>26</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Address of Col. W. R. Aylett Before Pickett Camp</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ADDRESS_OF_COL_W_R_AYLETT_BEFORE_PICKETT_CAMP'>28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Gen. Bradley T. Johnson’s Speech at the Dedication of South’s Museum</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GEN_BRADLEY_T_JOHNSONS_SPEECH_AT_THE_DEDICATION_OF'>28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Governor C. T. O’Ferrall’s Tribute</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GOVERNOR_C_T_OFERRALLS_TRIBUTE'>30</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of Judge J. H. Reagan, of Texas, Postmaster-General of Confederate States</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_J_H_REAGAN_OF_TEXAS_POSTMASTERGEN'>32</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>General Freemantle (of the British Army)</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GENERAL_FREEMANTLE_OF_THE_BRITISH_ARMY'>33</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sherman’s “Tough Set”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SHERMANS_TOUGH_SET'>33</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of General Buell</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_GENERAL_BUELL'>34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tribute of Judge Alton B. Parker, of New York</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_ALTON_B_PARKER_OF_NEW_YORK'>34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Heroic Men and Women (President Roosevelt)</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HEROIC_MEN_AND_WOMEN'>35</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Women of the South</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_WOMEN_OF_THE_SOUTH'>36</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Eulogy on Confederate Women</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#EULOGY_ON_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN_BY_J_L_UNDERWOOD_DELIV'>41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>II</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Their Work</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_THEIR_WORK'>70</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Introduction to Woman’s Work</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#INTRODUCTION_TO_WOMANS_WORK'>70</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Southern Woman’s Song</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_SOUTHERN_WOMANS_SONG'>71</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Ladies of Richmond</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_LADIES_OF_RICHMOND'>72</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Hospital After Seven Pines</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_HOSPITAL_AFTER_SEVEN_PINES'>73</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Burial of Latane</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BURIAL_OF_LATANE'>73</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Making Clothes for the Soldiers</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MAKING_CLOTHES_FOR_THE_SOLDIERS'>74</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Ingenuity of Southern Women</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_INGENUITY_OF_SOUTHERN_WOMEN'>75</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Lee and the Socks</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_LEE_AND_THE_SOCKS'>77</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Fitting Out a Soldier</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FITTING_OUT_A_SOLDIER'>77</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Thimble Brigade</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_THIMBLE_BRIGADE'>79</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Noble Women of Richmond</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#NOBLE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND'>80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>From Matoaca Gay’s Articles in the <i>Philadelphia Times</i></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FROM_MATOACA_GAYS_ARTICLES_IN_THE_PHILADELPHIA_TIM'>81</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Women of Richmond</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND'>82</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Two Georgia Heroines</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TWO_GEORGIA_HEROINES'>83</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Seven Days’ Battle</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_SEVEN_DAYS_BATTLE'>83</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Death of Mrs. Sarah K. Rowe, “The Soldiers’ Friend”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DEATH_OF_MRS_SARAH_K_ROWE_THE_SOLDIERS_FRIEND'>92</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“You Wait”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#YOU_WAIT'>93</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Annandale—Two Heroines of Mississippi</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ANNANDALETWO_HEROINES_OF_MISSISSIPPI'>95</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Plantation Heroine</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_PLANTATION_HEROINE'>98</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Lucy Ann Cox</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LUCY_ANN_COX'>100</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“One of Them Lees”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ONE_OF_THEM_LEES'>101</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Southern Women in the War Between the States</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SOUTHERN_WOMEN_IN_THE_WAR_BETWEEN_THE_STATES'>101</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Mother of the Confederacy</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_MOTHER_OF_THE_CONFEDERACY'>104</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“The Great Eastern”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_GREAT_EASTERN'>105</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Cordial for the Brave</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CORDIAL_FOR_THE_BRAVE'>106</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Hospital Work and Women’s Delicacy</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HOSPITAL_WORK_AND_WOMENS_DELICACY'>107</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Wayside Home at Millen</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_WAYSIDE_HOME_AT_MILLEN'>108</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Noble Girl</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_NOBLE_GIRL'>110</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Good Samaritan</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_GOOD_SAMARITAN'>110</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Female Relatives Visit the Hospitals</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FEMALE_RELATIVES_VISIT_THE_HOSPITALS'>111</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mania for Marriage</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MANIA_FOR_MARRIAGE'>116</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Government Clerkships</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GOVERNMENT_CLERKSHIPS'>117</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Schools in War Times</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SCHOOLS_IN_WAR_TIMES'>118</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Humanity in the Hospitals</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HUMANITY_IN_THE_HOSPITALS'>118</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Davis and the Federal Prisoner</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_DAVIS_AND_THE_FEDERAL_PRISONER'>119</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Socks that Never Wore Out</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SOCKS_THAT_NEVER_WORE_OUT'>120</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Burial of Aunt Matilda</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BURIAL_OF_AUNT_MATILDA'>120</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“Illegant Pair of Hands”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ILLEGANT_PAIR_OF_HANDS'>121</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Gun-boat “Richmond”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_GUNBOAT_RICHMOND'>122</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Captain Sally Tompkins</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CAPTAIN_SALLY_TOMPKINS'>124</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Angel of the Hospital</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_ANGEL_OF_THE_HOSPITAL'>125</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>III</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Their Trials</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_THEIR_TRIALS'>127</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Old Maids</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#OLD_MAIDS'>127</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Mother’s Letter</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_MOTHERS_LETTER'>129</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Tom and his Young Master</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TOM_AND_HIS_YOUNG_MASTER'>130</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“I Knew You Would Come”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#I_KNEW_YOU_WOULD_COME'>131</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Letters from the Poor at Home</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LETTERS_FROM_THE_POOR_AT_HOME'>132</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Life in Richmond During the War</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LIFE_IN_RICHMOND_DURING_THE_WAR'>133</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Women of New Orleans</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS'>140</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“Incorrigible Little Devil”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#INCORRIGIBLE_LITTLE_DEVIL'>141</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Battle of the Handkerchiefs</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_HANDKERCHIEFS'>142</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Women of New Orleans and Vicksburg Prisoners</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS_AND_VICKSBURG_PRISONERS'>144</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“It Don’t Trouble Me”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IT_DONT_TROUBLE_ME'>147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Savage War in the Valley</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SAVAGE_WAR_IN_THE_VALLEY'>147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Robert Turner, Woodstock, Va.</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_ROBERT_TURNER_WOODSTOCK_VA'>148</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>High Price of Needles And Thread</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HIGH_PRICE_OF_NEEDLES_AND_THREAD'>149</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Despair at Home—Heroism at the Front</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DESPAIR_AT_HOMEHEROISM_AT_THE_FRONT'>151</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Old Drake’s Territory</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_OLD_DRAKES_TERRITORY'>152</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Refugee in Richmond</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_REFUGEE_IN_RICHMOND'>154</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Desolations of War</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DESOLATIONS_OF_WAR'>155</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Death of a Soldier</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DEATH_OF_A_SOLDIER'>156</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Henrietta E. Lee’s Letter To General Hunter</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_HENRIETTA_E_LEES_LETTER_TO_GENERAL_HUNTER_ON_T'>159</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sherman’s Bummers</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SHERMANS_BUMMERS'>161</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Reminiscences of the War Times—a Letter</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#REMINISCENCES_OF_THE_WAR_TIMESA_LETTER'>163</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Aunt Myra and the Hoe-cake</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#AUNT_MYRA_AND_THE_HOECAKE'>164</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“The Corn Woman”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_CORN_WOMAN'>166</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>General Atkins at Chapel Hill</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GENERAL_ATKINS_AT_CHAPEL_HILL'>167</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Two Specimen Cases of Desertion</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TWO_SPECIMEN_CASES_OF_DESERTION'>167</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sherman in South Carolina</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SHERMAN_IN_SOUTH_CAROLINA'>171</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Old North State’s Trials</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#OLD_NORTH_STATES_TRIALS'>173</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sherman in North Carolina</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SHERMAN_IN_NORTH_CAROLINA'>175</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Vance’s Trunk—General Palmer’s Gallantry</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_VANCES_TRUNKGENERAL_PALMERS_GALLANTRY'>177</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Eventful Third of April</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_EVENTFUL_THIRD_OF_APRIL'>178</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Federals Enter Richmond</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_FEDERALS_ENTER_RICHMOND'>181</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Somebody’s Darling</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SOMEBODYS_DARLING'>183</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>IV</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Their Pluck</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_THEIR_PLUCK'>185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Female Recruiting Officers</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FEMALE_RECRUITING_OFFICERS'>185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Susan Roy Carter</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_SUSAN_ROY_CARTER'>186</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>J. L. M. Curry’s Women Constituents</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#J_L_M_CURRYS_WOMEN_CONSTITUENTS'>191</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Nora McCarthy</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#NORA_MCCARTHY'>192</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Women in the Battle of Gainesville, Florida</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WOMEN_IN_THE_BATTLE_OF_GAINESVILLE_FLA'>194</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“She Would Send Ten More”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SHE_WOULD_SEND_TEN_MORE'>195</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Women at Vicksburg</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WOMEN_AT_VICKSBURG'>196</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“Mother, Tell Him Not To Come”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MOTHER_TELL_HIM_NOT_TO_COME'>198</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Brave Woman in Decatur, Georgia</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BRAVE_WOMAN_IN_DECATUR_GA'>201</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Giving Warning To Mosby</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GIVING_WARNING_TO_MOSBY'>204</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“Ain’t You Ashamed of You’uns?”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#AINT_YOU_ASHAMED_OF_YOUUNS'>211</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>False Teeth</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FALSE_TEETH'>212</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Emma Sansom</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#EMMA_SANSOM'>213</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>President Roosevelt’s Mother and Grandmother</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PRESIDENT_ROOSEVELTS_MOTHER_AND_GRANDMOTHER'>215</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Little Girl at Chancellorsville</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_LITTLE_GIRL_AT_CHANCELLORSVILLE'>217</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Saved Her Hams</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SAVED_HER_HAMS'>217</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Heroism of a Widow</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HEROISM_OF_A_WIDOW'>218</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Winchester Women</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WINCHESTER_WOMEN'>219</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sparta in Mississippi</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SPARTA_IN_MISSISSIPPI'>219</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“Woman’s Devotion”—A Winchester Heroine</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WOMANS_DEVOTIONA_WINCHESTER_HEROINE'>220</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Spoken Like Cornelia</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SPOKEN_LIKE_CORNELIA'>222</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Specimen Mother</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_SPECIMEN_MOTHER'>223</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mrs. Rooney</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MRS_ROONEY'>224</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Warning by a Brave Girl</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WARNING_BY_A_BRAVE_GIRL'>226</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Plucky Girl With a Pistol</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_PLUCKY_GIRL_WITH_A_PISTOL'>227</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Mosby’s Men And Two Noble Girls</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MOSBYS_MEN_AND_TWO_NOBLE_GIRLS'>228</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Spartan Dame and her Young</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_SPARTAN_DAME_AND_HER_YOUNG'>230</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Singing Under Fire</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SINGING_UNDER_FIRE'>231</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Woman’s Last Word</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_WOMANS_LAST_WORD'>232</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Two Mississippi Girls Hold Yankees at Pistol Point</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TWO_MISSISSIPPI_GIRLS_HOLD_YANKEES_AT_PISTOL_POINT'>233</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“War Women” of Petersburg</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WAR_WOMEN_OF_PETERSBURG'>234</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>John Allen’s Cow</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#JOHN_ALLENS_COW'>235</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Family That Had No Luck</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_FAMILY_THAT_HAD_NO_LUCK'>235</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Brave Women at Resaca, Georgia</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BRAVE_WOMEN_AT_RESACA_GA'>237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Woman’s Hair</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_WOMANS_HAIR'>238</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Breach of Etiquette</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_BREACH_OF_ETIQUETTE'>240</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Lola Sanchez’s Ride</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#LOLA_SANCHEZS_RIDE'>241</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Rebel Sock</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_REBEL_SOCK_A_TRUE_EPISODE_IN_SEWARDS_RAIDS_ON_'>244</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>V</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Their Cause</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_THEIR_CAUSE'>246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Introductory Note to Their Cause</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#INTRODUCTORY_NOTE_TO_THEIR_CAUSE'>246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>“When This Cruel War Is Over”</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#WHEN_THIS_CRUEL_WAR_IS_OVER'>246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Northern Men Leaders of Disunion</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#NORTHERN_MEN_LEADERS_OF_DISUNION'>247</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Union vs. A Union</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_UNION_VS_A_UNION'>248</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Northern States Secede From the Union</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_NORTHERN_STATES_SECEDE_FROM_THE_UNION'>253</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Frenzied Finance and the War of 1861</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FRENZIED_FINANCE_AND_THE_WAR_OF_1861'>255</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Right of Secession</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_RIGHT_OF_SECESSION'>260</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Cause Not Lost</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_CAUSE_NOT_LOST'>262</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Slavery as the South Saw It</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SLAVERY_AS_THE_SOUTH_SAW_IT'>262</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Vindication of Southern Cause</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VINDICATION_OF_SOUTHERN_CAUSE'>263</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Northern View of Secession</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#NORTHERN_VIEW_OF_SECESSION'>266</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Major J. Scheibert on Confederate History</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#MAJOR_J_SCHEIBERT_OF_THE_PRUSSIAN_ARMY_ON_CONFEDER'>268</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign='top' class='chalgn'>VI</td>
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Mater Rediviva</span></td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_MATER_REDIVIVA'>271</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Introductory Note</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#INTRODUCTORY_NOTE'>271</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Empty Sleeve</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_EMPTY_SLEEVE'>272</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Old Hoopskirt</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_OLD_HOOPSKIRT'>273</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Political Crimes of the Nineteenth Century</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_POLITICAL_CRIMES_OF_THE_NINETEENTH_CENTURY'>276</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Brave to the Last</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BRAVE_TO_THE_LAST'>280</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Sallie Durham</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SALLIE_DURHAM'>281</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Negro and the Miracle</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_NEGRO_AND_THE_MIRACLE'>283</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Georgia Refugees</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#GEORGIA_REFUGEES'>284</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Negroes And New Freedom</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_NEGROES_AND_NEW_FREEDOM'>286</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Confederate Museum in the Capital of the Confederacy</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_CONFEDERATE_MUSEUM_IN_THE_CAPITAL_OF_THE_CONFE'>287</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Federal Decoration Day—Adoption from Our Memorial</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#FEDERAL_DECORATION_DAYADOPTION_FROM_OUR_MEMORIAL'>290</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>The Daughters and the United Daughters of the Confederacy</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#THE_DAUGHTERS_AND_THE_UNITED_DAUGHTERS_OF_THE_CONF'>291</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>A Daughter’s Plea</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#A_DAUGHTERS_PLEA'>293</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Home for Confederate Women</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#HOME_FOR_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN'>297</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Jefferson Davis Monument</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#JEFFERSON_DAVIS_MONUMENT'>297</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Reciprocal Slavery</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#RECIPROCAL_SLAVERY'>299</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Barbara Frietchie</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#BARBARA_FRIETCHIE'>302</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Social Equality Between the Races</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#SOCIAL_EQUALITY_BETWEEN_THE_RACES'>304</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Dream of Race Superiority</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#DREAM_OF_RACE_SUPERIORITY'>308</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td />
<td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'>Roosevelt at Lee’s Monument</td>
<td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ROOSEVELT_AT_LEES_MONUMENT'>311</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='PREFACE' id='PREFACE'></a>
<h2>PREFACE</h2>
</div>
<p>It is remarkable that after a lapse of forty years the
people of this country, from the President down, are
manifesting a more lively interest than ever in the history
of the women of the Confederacy. Bodily affliction only
has prevented the author from rendering at an earlier
date the service to their memory and the cause of the
South which he feels that he has done in preparing this
volume. His friends, Dr. J. Wm. Jones, and the lamented
Dr. J. L. M. Curry, of Richmond, Va., made the
suggestion of this work several years ago. They both
rendered material assistance in the preparation of the lecture
which appears in this volume as the author’s tribute
in the Symposium, and to Doctor Jones the author is
greatly indebted for the practical brotherly assistance he
has continued to render.</p>
<p>Thanks are due to the Virginia State Librarian, Mr.
C. D. Kennedy, and his assistants, for kind attentions.
The author is under obligations to the lady members of
the Confederate Memorial Literary Society of Richmond,
especially to Mrs. Lizzie Carey Daniels, Corresponding
Secretary, and Mrs. Katherine C. Stiles, Vice-Regent of
the Georgia Department of the Confederate Museum.
In many ways great and valuable service was kindly
rendered by Miss Isabel Maury, the intelligent House
Regent of the Museum. To his old Commander, Gen.
S. D. Lee, now General Commander of Confederate
Veterans, he is under obligation for his practical help;
also to Gen. Marcus J. Wright. In making selections
from the works of others, great pains have been taken
to give proper credit for all matter quoted. The author’s
home has been for more than thirty years his delightful
Pearland Cottage, in the suburbs of Camilla, Ga. On
account of his afflictions he has moved his family to Blakeley,
Ga., while he himself may remain some time for
medical treatment here in Richmond. The book is sent
forth from an invalid’s room with a fervent prayer that
it may do good in all sections of our beloved country.
Much of the work has been done under severe pain and
great weakness, and special indulgence is asked for any
defects.</p>
<p class='sig3'><span class='smcap'>J. L. Underwood.</span></p>
<p class='sig1'>Kellam’s Hospital,<br />
Richmond, Va.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='INTRODUCTION_BY_REV_DR_J_B_HAWTHORNE' id='INTRODUCTION_BY_REV_DR_J_B_HAWTHORNE'></a>
<h2>INTRODUCTION BY REV. DR. J. B. HAWTHORNE</h2>
</div>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Richmond, Va.</span>, <i>January 30th, 1906</i>.</p>
<p>Only within the last two years have I had the opportunity
to cultivate an intimate personal acquaintance with
Rev. J. L. Underwood, but as the greater part of
our lives have been spent in the States of Georgia and
Alabama, I have been quite familiar with his career
through a period which embraces a half century. Wherever
he is known he is highly esteemed for his intellectual
gifts and culture, his fluency and eloquence in speech, his
genial manner, his high moral and Christian ideals, and
his unflinching fealty to what he believes to be his country’s
welfare. No man who followed the Confederate
flag had a clearer understanding or a more profound appreciation
of what he was fighting for. No man watched
and studied more carefully the progress of the contest.
No man interpreted more accurately the spirit, purposes,
and conduct of the contending armies. When the struggle
closed no man foresaw with more distinctness what
was in the womb of the future for the defeated South.
His cultivated intellect, his high moral and Christian
character, his personal observations and experiences, his
residence and travels in Europe, his extensive acquaintance
and correspondence with public men, North and
South, and his present devotion to the interests of our
united country, render him pre-eminently qualified for
the task of delineating some features of the greatest war
of modern times.</p>
<p>I have been permitted to read the manuscript of Mr.
Underwood’s book, entitled, “The Women of the Confederacy.”
I do not hesitate to pronounce it a valuable
and enduring contribution to our country’s history.
There is not a page in it that is dull or commonplace.
No man who starts to read it will lay it aside until he has
reached the conclusion of it. The author’s definitions of
the relations of each sovereign State to the Federal Union
and of her rights under the Federal Constitution are exact.
His argument in support of the Constitutional right
of secession amounts to a demonstration. His interpretation
of the long series of political events which drove
the South into secession is clear, just and convincing.
His tributes to the patriotism and valor of the Southern
women are brilliant and thrilling without the semblance
of extravagance. His description of the vandalism of
Sherman’s army in its march through Georgia and South
Carolina cannot fail to kindle a flame of indignation in
the heart of any civilized man who reads it. His anecdotes,
both humorous and pathetic, are well chosen.</p>
<p>The section of this book which relates most directly to
“The Women of the Confederacy,” including Mr. Underwood’s
tribute in the Symposium to their memory, is
by far the most thrilling and meritorious part of it. Into
this the author has put his best material, his deepest
emotions, his finest sentiments, and his most eloquent
words. To the conduct of Southern women in that unprecedented
ordeal, history furnishes no parallel.
Through many generations to come it will be the favorite
theme of the poets and orators.</p>
<p>I need no prophetic gift to see that this book will be
immensely popular and extensively circulated. Its aged
and afflicted author has done a work in writing it which
deserves the gratitude and applause of his fellow countrymen.</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>J. B. Hawthorne.</span></p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='INTRODUCTION_BY_REV_DR_J_WM_JONES' id='INTRODUCTION_BY_REV_DR_J_WM_JONES'></a>
<h2>INTRODUCTION BY REV. DR. J. WM. JONES</h2>
</div>
<p class='center'>J. WM. JONES,<br />
<i>Secretary and Superintendent</i>,<br />
<i>Confederate Memorial Association</i>,<br />
109 N. 29th Street.</p>
<p class='sig3'><span class='smcap'>Richmond, Va.</span>,<br />
<i>January 23, 1906</i>.</p>
<p>I have carefully examined the manuscript of Mr. J. L.
Underwood on “The Women of the Confederacy” and I
take great pleasure in saying that in my judgment it is a
book of very great interest and value, and if properly
published and pushed I have no doubt that it would have
a very wide sale.</p>
<p>Mr. Underwood has given a great deal of time to the
collecting of material for his book, and has had great
advantages in doing so in having had free access to the
libraries of Richmond, and his book abounds in touching
and thrilling incidents, which present as no other book
that has been published does the true story of our Confederate
women, their sufferings and privations; their
heroism and efficiency in promoting the Confederate
cause. I do not hesitate to say that it is worthy of publication,
and of wide circulation.</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>J. Wm. Jones.</span></p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='AUTHORS_INTRODUCTION' id='AUTHORS_INTRODUCTION'></a>
<h2>AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION</h2>
</div>
<p>One of the last things the great Henry W. Grady said,
was: “If I die, I die serving the South, the land I love
so well. My father died fighting for it. I am proud
to die speaking for it.” The author of this volume
fought for the South and is now so afflicted that he can
no longer hope to speak for the South, but he will be
happy to die writing for it. Not half has yet been told of
the best part of the South, her women.</p>
<p>The Apostle John, on finishing his gospel story of
Christ, said: “And there are many other things which
Jesus did, the which if they could be written every one, I
suppose that even the world itself could not contain the
books that should be written.” While at work preparing
this volume, Mr. C. D. Kennedy, the courteous State
librarian of Virginia, said to the writer it would “take a
whole library to tell all about the Confederate women.”
As in the life of Christ, only a small part can be told;
and only a small part is necessary.</p>
<p>It is remarkable that the life of Christ was the most
tragic, thrilling, and beneficent life the world ever saw.
And yet it is all told in four booklets of simple incidents.
Those four little books have been worth more to the
world than all other books combined. Neither is there
any system in the gospel record. There was no system
in Christ’s life. It could not be told in a consecutive
biography nor in a scientific treatise. Science and system
all fail when it comes to telling of a life of such love and
labor and sorrow.</p>
<p>It is not sacrilegious to say the same thing when we
come to tell of the heroic lives, the courage, the trials,
the work of the Confederate women. We can only give
incidents, and these incidents tell all the rest.</p>
<p>Fortunately the author, while a patient in a Richmond
hospital, has been strong enough to search the libraries
of the city and gather material scattered among the Confederate
records already made. With them and his own
original sketches, it is hoped that a contribution of some
value has been made to a good cause. The story of the
Southern women is worth studying; and the author tells
in his eulogy his estimate of their great virtues. Then
he shows that his estimate is not from partiality or ignorance
by giving a symposium of tributes from others,
some from the North and some from Europe.</p>
<p>It may surprise some that so much attention is given
to holding up the righteousness of the cause in which
these women labored and suffered. Why not? The
great cause ennobled them, and they adorned the Confederate
cause. The truth must be told from both directions.
This is the ground idea of this humble volume.</p>
<p>It is hoped that it will fill a good place in our Southern
literature, suggesting further investigation on the same
line. It has been a work of love, a comfort to him in
the days of very fearful bodily affliction. He is conscious
of the feebleness of his work and much indulgence is
asked for.</p>
<p>The author deems his subject a consecrated theme.
And he rejoices that he could labor at his task amid the
consecrated memories of dear old Richmond, where he
has had the assistance and the smiles of encouragement
from the noble women who continue to keep guard over
Hollywood and Oakwood Cemeteries, the Soldiers’
Home, and the Home for Confederate Women, and keep
vestal watch in the Confederate Museum.</p>
<p>Not a line is written in sectional prejudice or tainted
by a touch of hate. The author was a Confederate
soldier. He hates sham, injustice, falsehood, and hypocrisy
everywhere, but he loves his fellow men, and still
bears the old soldier’s respect and warm hand for the
true soldiers who fought on the other side. The barbarities
of bummers and brutal commanders must be repudiated
by us all that the honor of true soldiers like
McClellan, Rosecrans, Thomas, and Buell, on the one
side, and Lee, Jackson and Johnston on the other, may
stand forth in its true light.</p>
<p>When our broad-brained and big-hearted President
Roosevelt has just stepped down from the White House
to tell on Capitol Hill at Richmond and at the feet of
the monuments of Lee and Jackson, his great admiration
for the Confederate soldiers and the Confederate women,
it is time for us all to take a fresh look at their heroic
lives.</p>
<p class='sig3'><span class='smcap'>J. L. Underwood.</span></p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Kellam’s Hospital</span>,<br />
<i>Richmond, Va., April 1st, 1906</i>.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='CHAPTER_I_SYMPOSIUM_OF_TRIBUTES_TO_CONFEDERATE_WOM' id='CHAPTER_I_SYMPOSIUM_OF_TRIBUTES_TO_CONFEDERATE_WOM'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER I
<span class='chsub'> <br />SYMPOSIUM OF TRIBUTES TO CONFEDERATE WOMEN</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='MRS_VARINA_JEFFERSON_DAVIS' id='MRS_VARINA_JEFFERSON_DAVIS'></a>
<h3>MRS. VARINA JEFFERSON DAVIS</h3>
</div>
<p>From her invalid chair in New York the revered and
beloved wife of the great chieftain of the Confederacy
writes a personal letter to the author of this volume, from
which he takes the liberty of publishing the following
extract. There is something peculiarly touching in this
testimonial which will be prized and kept as a precious
heirloom throughout our Southern land:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>Hotel Gerard</span>,<br />
<i>123 West Forty-fourth Street, New York.</i><br />
<i>October 25, 1905.</i></p>
<p><span class='smcap'>My Dear Mr. Underwood</span>:</p>
<p>* * * I do not know in all history a finer subject
than the heroism of our Southern women, God bless
them. I have never forgotten our dear Mrs. Robt. E.
Lee, sitting in her arm chair, where she was chained by
the most agonizing form of rheumatism, cutting with her
dear aching hands soldiers’ gloves from waste pieces of
their Confederate uniforms furnished to her from the
government shops. These she persuaded her girl visitors
to sew into gloves for the soldiers. Certainly these
scraps were of immense use to all those who could get
them, for I do not know how many children’s jackets
which kept the soldiers’ children warm, I had pieced out
of these scraps by a poor woman who sat in the basement
of the mansion and made them for them.</p>
<p>The ladies picked their old silk pieces into fragments,
and spun them into gloves, stockings, and scarfs for the
soldiers’ necks, etc.; cut up their house linen and scraped
it into lint; tore up their sheets and rolled them into
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span>
bandages; and toasted sweet potato slices brown, and
made substitutes for coffee. They put two tablespoonfuls
of sorghum molasses into the water boiled for coffee instead
of sugar, and used none other for their little children
and families. They covered their old shoes with
old kid gloves or with pieces of silk and their little feet
looked charming and natty in them. In the country they
made their own candles, and one lady sent me three cakes
of sweet soap and a small jar of soft soap made from the
skin, bones and refuse bits of hams boiled for her family.
Another sent the most exquisite unbleached flax
thread, of the smoothest and finest quality, spun by herself.
I have never been able to get such thread again. I
am still quite feeble, so I must close with the hope that
your health will steadily improve and the assurance that
I am,</p>
<p class='sig1'>Yours sincerely,<br /></p>
<p class='sig2'><span class='smcap'>V. Jefferson Davis</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_PRESIDENT_JEFFERSON_DAVIS' id='TRIBUTE_OF_PRESIDENT_JEFFERSON_DAVIS'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF PRESIDENT JEFFERSON DAVIS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Dr. Craven’s Prison Life of Jefferson Davis.]</p>
<p>If asked for his sublimest ideal of what women should
be in time of war, he said he would point to the dear
women of his people as he had seen them during the recent
struggle. “The Spartan mother sent her boy, bidding
him return with honor, either carrying his shield or
on it. The women of the South sent forth their sons,
directing them to return with victory; to return with
wounds disabling them from further service, or never to
return at all. All they had was flung into the contest—beauty,
grace, passion, ornaments. The exquisite frivolities
so dear to the sex were cast aside; their songs, if
they had any heart to sing, were patriotic; their trinkets
were flung into the crucible; the carpets from their floors
were portioned out as blankets to the suffering soldiers
of their cause; women bred to every refinement of
luxury wore homespuns made by their own hands.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span>
When materials for army balloons were wanted the richest
silk dresses were sent in and there was only competition
to secure their acceptance. As nurses for the sick,
as encouragers and providers for the combatants, as
angels of charity and mercy, adopting as their own all
children made orphans in defence of their homes, as
patient and beautiful household deities, accepting every
sacrifice with unconcern, and lightening the burdens of
war by every art, blandishment, and labor proper to their
sphere, the dear women of his people deserved to take
rank with the highest heroines of the grandest days of
the greatest centuries.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_A_WOUNDED_SOLDIER' id='TRIBUTE_OF_A_WOUNDED_SOLDIER'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF A WOUNDED SOLDIER</h3>
</div>
<p>A beautiful Southern girl, on her daily mission of love
and mercy in one of our hospitals, asked a badly wounded
soldier boy what she could do for him. He replied: “I
am greatly obliged to you, but it is too late for you to do
anything for me. I am so badly wounded that I can’t
live long.”</p>
<p>“Will you not let me pray for you?” said the sweet
girl. “I hope that I am one of the Lord’s daughters,
and I would like to ask Him to help you.”</p>
<p>Looking intently into her beautiful face he replied:
“Yes, do pray at once, and ask the Lord to let me be his
son-in-law.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_A_FEDERAL_PRIVATE_SOLDIER' id='TRIBUTE_OF_A_FEDERAL_PRIVATE_SOLDIER'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF A FEDERAL PRIVATE SOLDIER</h3>
</div>
<p>There is no more popular living hero of the Federal
army of the war between the States than Corporal Tanner,
who is Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic.
He left both legs on a Southern battlefield and
is a universal favorite of the Confederate Veterans. The
following is an extract from his speech at the Wheeler
Memorial in Atlanta, Ga., in March, 1906:</p>
<p>“The Union forces would have achieved success, in
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span>
my opinion, eighteen months sooner than they did if it
had not been for the women of the South. Why do I say
this? Because it is of world-wide knowledge that men
never carried cause forward to the dread arbitrament
of the battlefield, who were so intensely supported by the
prayers and by the efforts of the gentler sex, as were you
men of the South. Every mother’s son of you knew that
if you didn’t keep exact step to the music of Dixie and
the Bonny Blue Flag, if you did not tread the very front
line of battle when the contest was on, knew in short
that if you returned home in aught but soldierly honor,
that the very fires of hell would not scorch and consume
your unshriven souls as you would be scorched and consumed
by the scorn and contempt of your womanhood.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='JOSEPH_E_JOHNSTONS_TRIBUTE' id='JOSEPH_E_JOHNSTONS_TRIBUTE'></a>
<h3>JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON’S TRIBUTE</h3>
</div>
<p>As to the charge of want of loyalty or zeal in the war,
I assert, from as much opportunity for observation as
any individual had, that no people ever displayed so
much, under such circumstances, and with so little flagging,
for so long a time continuously. This was proved
by the long service of the troops without pay and under
exposure to such hardships, from the cause above mentioned,
as modern troops have rarely endured; by the
voluntary contributions of food and clothing sent to the
army from every district that furnished a regiment; by
the general and continued submission of the people to
the tyranny of the impressment system as practiced—such
a tyranny as, I believe, no other high-spirited people
ever endured—and by the sympathy and aid given in
every house to all professing to belong to the army, or
to be on the way to join it. And this spirit continued not
only after all hope of success had died but after the final
confession of defeat by their military commanders.</p>
<p>But, even if the men of the South had not been zealous
in the cause, the patriotism of their mothers and wives
and sisters would have inspired them with zeal or shamed
them into its imitation. The women of the South exhibited
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span>
that feeling wherever it could be exercised: in
the army, by distributing clothing with their own hands;
at the railroad stations and their own homes, by feeding
the marching soldiers; and, above all, in the hospitals,
where they rivaled the Sisters of Charity. I am happy
in the belief that their devoted patriotism and gentle
charity are to be richly rewarded.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='STONEWALL_JACKSONS_FEMALE_SOLDIERS' id='STONEWALL_JACKSONS_FEMALE_SOLDIERS'></a>
<h3>STONEWALL JACKSON’S FEMALE SOLDIERS</h3>
</div>
<p>In the southern part of Virginia the women had become
almost shoeless and sent a petition to General Jackson
to grant the detail of a shoemaker to make shoes for
them. Here is his reply, in a letter of November 14,
1862: “Be assured that I feel a deep and abiding interest
in our female soldiers. They are patriots in the truest
sense of the word, and I more and more admire them.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GEN_J_B_GORDONS_TRIBUTE' id='GEN_J_B_GORDONS_TRIBUTE'></a>
<h3>GEN. J. B. GORDON’S TRIBUTE</h3>
</div>
<p>Back of the armies, on the farms, in the towns and
cities, the fingers of Southern women were busy knitting
socks and sewing seams of coarse trousers and gray
jackets for the soldiers at the front.</p>
<p>From Mrs. Lee and her daughters to the humblest
country matrons and maidens, their busy needles were
stitching, stitching, stitching, day and night. The anxious
commander, General Lee, thanked them for their
efforts to bring greater comfort to the cold feet and
shivering limbs of his half-clad men. He wrote letters
expressing appreciation of the bags of socks and shirts
as they came in. He said he could almost hear, in the
stillness of the night, the needles click as they flew
through the meshes. Every click was a prayer, every
stitch a tear. His tributes were tender and constant to
these glorious women for their labor and sacrifice for
Southern independence.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span>
<a name='GENERAL_FORRESTS_TRIBUTE' id='GENERAL_FORRESTS_TRIBUTE'></a>
<h3>GENERAL FORREST’S TRIBUTE</h3>
</div>
<p>There is a story told of General Forrest which shows
his opinion of the pluck and devotion of the Southern
women. He was drawing up his men in line of battle
one day, and it was evident that a sharp encounter was
about to take place. Some ladies ran from a house which
happened to stand just in front of his line, and asked him
anxiously, “What shall we do, General, what shall we
do?” Strong in his faith that they only wished to help
in some way, he replied, “I really don’t see that you can
do much, except to stand on stumps, wave your bonnets
and shout, ‘Hurrah, boys.’”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_M_C_BUTLER' id='TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_M_C_BUTLER'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF GEN. M. C. BUTLER</h3>
</div>
<p>Who of those trying days does not recall the shifts
which the Southern people had to adopt to provide for
the sick and wounded: the utilization of barks and herbs
for the concoction of drugs, the preparation of appliances
for hospitals and field infirmaries? What surgeons in
any age or in any war excelled the Confederate surgeons
in skill, ingenuity or courage?</p>
<p>Who does not recall the sleepless and patient vigilance,
the heroic fortitude and untiring tenderness of the fair
Southern women in providing articles of comfort and
usefulness for their kindred in the field, preparing with
their dainty hands from their scanty supplies, food and
clothing for the Confederate soldiers; establishing homes
and hospitals for the sick and disabled, and ministering
to their wants with a gentle kindness that alleviated so
much suffering and pain? Do the annals of any country
or of any period furnish higher proofs of self-sacrificing
courage, self-abnegation, and more steadfast devotion
than was exercised by the Southern women during the
whole progress of our desperate struggle? If so, I have
failed to discover it.</p>
<p>The suffering of the men from privations and hunger,
from the wounds of battle and the sickness of camp, were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span>
mild inconveniences when compared with the anguish of
soul suffered by the women at home, and yet they bore
it all with surpassing heroism. No pen can ever do justice
to their imperishable renown. The shot and shell of
invading armies could not intimidate, nor could the rude
presence of a sometimes ruthless enemy deter their dauntless
souls. To my mind there has been nothing in history
or past experiences comparable to their fortitude,
courage, and devotion. Instances may be cited where the
women of a country battling for its rights and liberties
have sustained themselves under the hardest fate and
made great sacrifices for the cause they loved and the
men they honored and respected, but I challenge comparison
in any period of the world’s history with the sufferings,
anxieties, fidelities, and firmness of the fair, delicate
women of the South during the struggle for Southern
independence and since its disastrous determination.
Disappointed in the failure of a cause for which they had
suffered so much, baffled in the fondest hopes of an
earnest patriotism, impoverished by the iron hand of relentless
war, desolated in their hearts by the cruel fate of
unsuccessful battle, and bereft of the tenderest ties that
bound them to earth, mourning over the most dismal
prospect that ever converted the happiest, fairest land to
waste and desolation, consumed by anxiety and the darkest
forebodings for the future, they have never lowered
the exalted crest of true Southern womanhood, nor pandered
to a sentiment that would compromise with dishonor.
They have found time, amid the want and anxiety
of desolated homes, to keep fresh and green the graves of
their dead soldiers, when thrift and comfort might have
followed cringing and convenient oblivion of the past.
They had the courage to build monuments to their dead,
and work with that beautiful faith and silent energy
which makes kinship to angels, and lights up with the
fire from heaven the restless power of woman’s boundless
capabilities. When men have flagged and faltered,
dallied with dishonor and fallen, the women of the South
have rebuilt the altars of patriotism and relumed the
fires of devotion to country in the hearts of halting manhood.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span>
They have borne the burden of their own griefs
and vitalized the spirit and firmness of the men.</p>
<p>All honor, all hail, to woman’s matchless achievements,
and thanks, a thousand thanks, for the grand triumph
and priceless example of her devoted heroism. Appropriately
may she have exclaimed:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Here I and Sorrow sit.</p>
<p>This is my throne; let kings come bow to it.”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_MARCUS_J_WRIGHT' id='TRIBUTE_OF_GEN_MARCUS_J_WRIGHT'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF GEN. MARCUS J. WRIGHT</h3>
</div>
<p>I know that it were needless to say that the character
and conduct of the women of the South during our late
war stand out equally with those of any age or country,
and deserve to go down in history as affording an example
of fortitude, bravery, affection and patriotism that
it is impossible to surpass: and I am further proud to
say that the women of the Northern States exhibited in
that war a devotion and patriotism to their country and
its cause deserving of all praise.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_DR_J_L_M_CURRY' id='TRIBUTE_OF_DR_J_L_M_CURRY'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF DR. J. L. M. CURRY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Civil History of the Confederate States, pages 171-174.]</p>
<p>We hear and read much of delicately pampered
“females” in ancient Rome and modern Paris and Newport,
but in the time of which I speak in this Southland
of ours, womanhood was richly and heavily endowed
with duties and occupations and highest social functions,
as wife and mother and neighbor, and these responsibilities
and duties underlay our society in its structure and
permanence as solid foundations. Instead of superficial
adornments and supine inaction, the intellectual sympathies
and interests of these women were large, and they
undertook, with wise and just guidance, the management
of household and farms and servants, leaving the men
free for war and civil government. These noble and
resolute women were the mothers of the Gracchi, of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span>
men who built up the greatness of the Union and accomplished
the unexampled achievements of the Confederacy.
Knowing no position more exalted and paramount than
that of wife and mother, with the responsibilities which
attach to miniature empire, the training of children and
guidance of slaves, each one was as Caesar would have
had his companion, above reproach and above suspicion;
and whose purity was so prized that a violation of personal
dignity was resented and punished, by all worthy
to be sons and husbands and fathers of such women, with
the death of the violator. “Strength and dignity were
her clothing; she opened her mouth with wisdom, and
the law of kindness was on her tongue. She looked well
to the ways of her household, and she ate not the bread
of idleness. Her children rose up and called her blessed;
her husband also.”</p>
<p>When inequality was threatened and States were to
be degraded to counties, and the South became one great
battlefield, and every citizen was aiding in the terrible
conflict, the mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, with
extraordinary unanimity and fervor, rallied to the support
of their imperilled land. While the older women
from intelligent conviction were ready to sustain the
South, political events and the necessity of confronting
privations, trials, and sorrows developed girlhood into
the maturity and self-reliance of womanhood. Anxious
women with willing hands and loving hearts rushed
eagerly to every place which sickness or destitution or
the ravages of war invade, enduring sacrifices, displaying
unsurpassed fortitude and heroism. Churches were converted
into hospitals or places for making, collecting, and
shipping clothing and needed supplies. Innumerable private
homes adjacent to battlefields were filled with the
sick and wounded. It was not uncommon to see grandmother
and youthful maiden engaged in making socks,
hats, and other needed articles. Untrained, these women
entered the fields of labor with the spirit of Christ, rose
into queenly dignity, and enrolled themselves among the
immortals.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span>
<a name='ADDRESS_OF_COL_W_R_AYLETT_BEFORE_PICKETT_CAMP' id='ADDRESS_OF_COL_W_R_AYLETT_BEFORE_PICKETT_CAMP'></a>
<h3>ADDRESS OF COL. W. R. AYLETT BEFORE PICKETT CAMP</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, page 60.]</p>
<p>I claim for Camp Pickett the paternity of the first of
the public expressions, in the form of a Confederate
woman’s monument. On the 16th day of January, 1890,
in an address made by me, upon the presentation of General
Pickett’s portrait to this camp by Mrs. Jennings, as
my remarks, published in the Richmond <i>Dispatch</i> of the
17th of January, 1890, will show, I urged that steps be
taken to erect a monument to the women of the Southern
Confederacy, and you applauded the suggestion. But
this idea, and the execution of it, is something in which
none of us should claim exclusive glory and ownership.
The monument should be carried not alone upon the
shoulders of the infantry, artillery, cavalry, engineers
and sailors of the Confederacy, but should be urged forward
by the hearts and hands of the whole South. And
wherever a Northern man has a Southern wife (and a
good many Northern men of taste have them) let them
help, too, for God never gave him a nobler or richer
blessing. The place for such a monument, it seems to
me, should be by the side of the Confederate soldier on
Libby Hill. It is not well for a man to be alone, nor
woman either. To place her elsewhere would make a
perpetual stag of him, and a perpetual wall-flower of her.
Companions in glory and suffering, let them go down
the corridors of time side by side, the representatives of
a race of heroes.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GEN_BRADLEY_T_JOHNSONS_SPEECH_AT_THE_DEDICATION_OF' id='GEN_BRADLEY_T_JOHNSONS_SPEECH_AT_THE_DEDICATION_OF'></a>
<h3>GEN. BRADLEY T. JOHNSON’S SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF SOUTH’S MUSEUM</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'><i>What Our Women Stood</i></p>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 23, pages 368-370.]</p>
<p>Evil dies, good lives; and the time will come when all
the world will realize that the failure of the Confederacy
was a great misfortune to humanity, and will be the
source of unnumbered woes to liberty. Washington
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span>
might have failed; Kosciusko and Robert E. Lee did
fail; but I believe history will award a higher place to
them, unsuccessful, than to Suwarrow and to Grant, victorious.
This great and noble cause, the principles of
which I have attempted to formulate for you, was defended
with a genius and a chivalry of men and women
never equalled by any race. My heart melts now at the
memory of those days.</p>
<p>Just realize it: There is not a hearth and home in Virginia
that has not heard the sound of hostile cannon;
there is not a family which has not buried kin slain in
battle. Of all the examples of that heroic time; of all
figures that will live in the music of the poet or the
pictures of the painter, the one that stands in the foreground,
the one that will be glorified with the halo of the
heroine, is the woman—mother, sister, lover—who gave
her life and heart to the cause. And the woman and girl,
remote from cities and towns, back in the woods, away
from railways or telegraph.</p>
<p>Thomas Nelson Page has given us a picture of her in
his story of “Darby.” I thank him for “Darby Stanly.”
I knew the boy and loved him well, for I have seen him
and his cousins on the march, in camp, and on the battlefield,
lying in ranks, stark, with his face to the foe and
his musket grasped in his cold hands. I can recall what
talk there was at a “meetin’” about the “Black Republicans”
coming down here to interfere with us, and how
we “warn’t goin’ to ’low it,” and how the boys would
square their shoulders to see if the girls were looking at
’em, and how the girls would preen their new muslins
and calicoes, and see if the boys were “noticen’,” and how
by Tuesday news came that Captain Thornton was forming
his company at the court-house, and how the mother
packed up his little “duds” in her boy’s school satchel and
tied it on his back, and kissed him and bade him good-bye,
and watched him, as well as she could see, as he
went down the walk to the front gate, and as he turned
into the “big road,” and as he got to the corner, turned
round and took off his hat and swung it around his head,
and then disappeared out of her life forever. For, after
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span>
Cold Harbor, his body could never be found nor his
grave identified, though a dozen saw him die. And then,
for days and for weeks and for months, alone, the mother
lived this lonely life, waiting for news. The war had
taken her only son, and she was a widow; but from that
day to this, no human being has ever heard a word of
repining from her lips. Those who suffer most complain
least.</p>
<p>Or, I recall that story of Bishop-General Polk, about
the woman in the mountains of Tennessee, with six sons.
Five of them were in the army, and when it was announced
to her that her eldest born had been killed in
battle, the mother simply said: “The Lord’s will be
done. Eddie (her baby) will be fourteen next spring,
and he can take Billy’s place.”</p>
<p>The hero of this great epoch is the son I have described,
as his mother and sister will be the heroines.
For years, day and night, winter and summer, without
pay, with no hope of promotion nor of winning a name
or making a mark, the Confederate boy-soldier trod the
straight and thorny path of duty. Half-clothed, whole-starved,
he tramps, night after night, his solitary post on
picket. No one can see him. Five minutes’ walk down
the road will put him beyond recall, and twenty minutes
further and he will be in the Yankee lines, where pay,
food, clothes, quiet, and safety all await him. Think of
the tens of thousands of boys subjected to this temptation,
and how few yielded! Think of how many dreamed
of such relief from danger and hardship! But, while I
glorify the chivalry, the fortitude, and the fidelity of the
private soldier, I do not intend to minimize the valor, the
endurance, or the gallantry of those who led him.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GOVERNOR_C_T_OFERRALLS_TRIBUTE' id='GOVERNOR_C_T_OFERRALLS_TRIBUTE'></a>
<h3>GOVERNOR C. T. O’FERRALL’S TRIBUTE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 23, pages 361-362.]</p>
<p>I think I can say boldly that the bloody strife of 1861
to 1865 developed in the men of the South traits of
character as ennobling and as exalting as ever adorned
men since the day-dawn of creation. I think I can proclaim
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span>
confidently that, for courage and daring chivalry
and bravery, the world has never seen the superiors of
the Southern soldiers. I think I can assert defiantly that
the annals of time present no leaves more brilliant than
those upon which are recorded the deeds and achievements
of the followers of the Southern Cross. I think I
can proclaim triumphantly that, from the South’s beloved
President, and the peerless commander of her armies in
the field, down to the private in her ranks, there was a
display of patriotism perhaps unequalled (certainly never
surpassed) since this passion was implanted in the human
breast.</p>
<p>But as grand as the South was in her sons, she was
grander in her daughters; as sublime as she was in her
men, she was sublimer in her women.</p>
<p>History is replete with bright and beautiful examples
of woman’s devotion to home and birthland; of her fortitude,
trials, and sufferings in her country’s cause, and the
women of the Confederacy added many luminous pages
to what had already been most graphically written.</p>
<p>Yes, these Spartan wives and mothers, with husbands
or sons, or both, at the front, directed the farming operations,
supporting their families and supplying the armies;
they sewed, knitted, weaved, and spun; then in the hospitals
they were ministering angels, turning the heated
pillow, smoothing the wrinkled cot, cooling the parched
lips, stroking the burning brow, staunching the flowing
blood, binding up the gaping wounds, trimming the midnight
taper, and sitting in the stillness, only broken by
the groans of the sick and wounded, pointing the departing
spirit the way to God; closing the sightless eyes
and then following the bier to Hollywood or some
humble spot, and then dropping the purest tear.</p>
<p>They saw the flames licking the clouds, as their homes,
with their clinging memories, were reduced to ashes;
they heard of the carnage of battle, followed by the
mother’s deep moan, the wife’s low sob—for, alas! she
could not weep—the orphan’s wail, and the sister’s
lament. But amid flame, carnage, death, and lamentations,
though their land was reddening with blood, and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span>
their beloved ones were falling like leaves in autumn, they
stood, like heroines, firm, steadfast, and constant.</p>
<p>Oh! women of the Confederacy, your fame is deathless;
you need not monument nor sculptured stone to
perpetuate it. Young maidens, gather at the feet of
some Confederate matron in some reminiscent hour, and
listen to her story of those days, now more than thirty
years past, and hear how God gave her courage, fortitude,
and strength to bear her privations, and bereavements,
and live.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_J_H_REAGAN_OF_TEXAS_POSTMASTERGEN' id='TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_J_H_REAGAN_OF_TEXAS_POSTMASTERGEN'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF JUDGE J. H. REAGAN, OF TEXAS, POSTMASTER-GENERAL OF CONFEDERATE STATES</h3>
</div>
<p>I never felt my inability to do justice to any subject so
keenly as I do when attempting to do justice to the character,
services, and devotion of the women of the Confederacy.
They gave to the armies their husbands, fathers,
sons, and brothers, with aching hearts, and bade
them good-bye with sobs and tears. But they believed
their sacrifice was due to their country and her cause.
They assumed the care of their homes and of the children
and aged. Many of them who had been reared in ease
and luxury had to engage in all the drudgery of the farm
and shop. Many of them worked in the fields to raise
means of feeding their families. Spinning-wheels and
looms were multiplied where none had been seen before,
to enable them to clothe their families and furnish clothing
for the loved ones in the army, to whom, with messages
of love and encouragement, they were, whenever
they could, sending something to wear or eat. And like
angels of mercy they visited and attended the hospitals,
with lint and bandages for the wounded, and medicine
for the sick, and such nourishment as they could for both,
and their holy prayers at all times went to the throne of
God for the safety of those dear to them and for the success
of the Confederate cause. There was a courage and
a moral heroism in their lives superior to that which
animated our brave men, for the men were stimulated by
the presence of their associates, the hope of applause, and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span>
by the excitements of battle. While the noble women, in
the seclusion and quietude of their homes, were inspired
by a moral courage which could only come from God and
the love of country.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GENERAL_FREEMANTLE_OF_THE_BRITISH_ARMY' id='GENERAL_FREEMANTLE_OF_THE_BRITISH_ARMY'></a>
<h3>GENERAL FREEMANTLE (OF THE BRITISH ARMY)</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In “Three Months in Southern Lines.”]</p>
<p>It has often been remarked to me that when this war
is over the independence of the country will be due in a
great measure to the women: for they declare that had
the women been desponding they never could have gone
through with it. But, on the contrary, the women have
invariably set an example to the men of patience, devotion,
and determination. Naturally proud and with an
innate contempt for the Yankees, Southern women have
been rendered furious and desperate by the proceedings
of Butler, Milroy, and other such Federal officers. They
are all prepared to undergo any hardship and misfortunes
rather than submit to the rule of such people; and they
use every argument which women can employ to infuse
the same spirit into their male relatives.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SHERMANS_TOUGH_SET' id='SHERMANS_TOUGH_SET'></a>
<h3>SHERMAN’S “TOUGH SET”</h3>
</div>
<p>After Sherman took possession of Savannah he soon
issued orders, driving out of the city the wives of Confederate
officers and soldiers. While these women were
packing their trunks, he sent soldiers to watch them.</p>
<p>The ladies sent a remonstrance to the general, and here
is his reply:</p>
<p>“You women are the toughest set I ever knew. The
men would have given up long ago but for you. I believe
you would keep this war up for thirty years.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_GENERAL_BUELL' id='TRIBUTE_OF_GENERAL_BUELL'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF GENERAL BUELL</h3>
</div>
<p>The following are some of the words quoted from
General Buell, one of the most high-toned and gallant of
the Federal generals, and who saved the Federal army
from complete defeat at the battle of Shiloh. This appeared
in the <i>Century Magazine</i>, and afterward in the
third volume of “Battles and Leaders in the Civil War.”
After speaking of the confidence of the Southern soldier
in his commander, General Buell then speaks of another
influence which nerved the heart of the Confederate
soldier to valorous deeds:</p>
<p>“Nor must we give slight importance to the influence
of Southern women who, in agony of heart, girded the
sword upon their loved ones and bade them go. It was
expected that these various influences would give a confidence
to leadership that would tend to bold adventure
and leave its mark upon the contest.</p>
<p>“Yes; the Confederate soldier has gone down in all
histories as the most peerless, most gallant and matchless
hero the world ever produced.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_ALTON_B_PARKER_OF_NEW_YORK' id='TRIBUTE_OF_JUDGE_ALTON_B_PARKER_OF_NEW_YORK'></a>
<h3>TRIBUTE OF JUDGE ALTON B. PARKER, OF NEW YORK</h3>
</div>
<p>Nothing in all recorded history of mankind has been
more pathetic, more heroic, more deserving of admiration
and sympathy than the attitude of the Southern people
since 1865. As fate would have it, their defeat in war
was the smallest of their woes, because it would neither
threaten nor bring dishonor. But the new <i>post-bellum</i>
contest with military power, with theft and robbery, with
poverty and enforced domination of a race lately in
slavery, forced as it was without time for recovery, and
that, too, in their own homes, required a courage a little
less than superhuman.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span>
<a name='HEROIC_MEN_AND_WOMEN' id='HEROIC_MEN_AND_WOMEN'></a>
<h3>HEROIC MEN AND WOMEN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[President Roosevelt, in his speech at Richmond, October 18, 1905.]</p>
<p>Great though the meed of praise is which is due the
South for the soldierly valor of her sons displayed during
the four years of war, I think that even greater praise
is due her for what her people have accomplished during
the forty years of peace which followed. For forty years
the South has made not merely a courageous, but at
times a desperate struggle, as she has striven for moral
and material well-being. Her success has been extraordinary,
and all citizens of our common country should
feel joy and pride in it; for any great deed done, or any
fine qualities shown, by one group of Americans, of
necessity reflects credit upon all Americans. Only a
heroic people could have battled successfully against the
conditions with which the people of the South found
themselves face to face at the end of the civil war. There
had been utter destruction and disaster, and wholly new
business and social problems had to be faced with the
scantiest means. The economic and political fabric had
to be readjusted in the midst of dire want, of grinding
poverty. The future of the broken, war-swept South
seemed beyond hope, and if her sons and daughters had
been of weaker fiber there would have been in very truth
no hope. But the men and the sons of the men who had
faced with unfaltering front every alternation of good
and evil fortune from Manassas to Appomattox, and the
women, their wives and mothers, whose courage and endurance
had reached an even higher heroic level—these
men and these women set themselves undauntedly to the
great task before them. For twenty years the struggle
was hard and at times doubtful. Then the splendid
qualities of your manhood and womanhood told, as they
were bound to tell, and the wealth of your extraordinary
natural resources began to be shown. Now the teeming
riches of mine and field and factory attest the prosperity
of those who are all the stronger because of the trials and
struggles through which this prosperity has come. You
stand loyally to your traditions and memories; you also
stand loyal for our great common country of to-day and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span>
for our common flag, which symbolizes all that is brightest
and most hopeful for the future of mankind; you
face the new age in the spirit of the age. Alike in your
material and in your spiritual and intellectual development
you stand abreast of the foremost in the world’s
progress.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_WOMEN_OF_THE_SOUTH' id='THE_WOMEN_OF_THE_SOUTH'></a>
<h3>THE WOMEN OF THE SOUTH</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Joel Chandler Harris, in Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<p>Southern women have been heretofore referred to only
as the standards of fiction. There are three pieces of
fiction that have had a long and popular run in what may
be described in a large way as the North American mind.
One is that the stage representations of negro characters
are true to life; another is that the poor white trash of
the South are utterly worthless and thriftless; and the
other is that the white woman of the South lived in a
state of idleness during the days of slavery, swinging
and languishing in hammocks while bevies of pickaninnies
cooled the tropical air with long-handled fans made
of peacock tails.</p>
<p>Preposterous as they are, age has made these fictions
respectable, especially in the North. They strut about in
good company, and sometimes a sober historian goes so
far as to employ them for the purpose of bolstering up his
sectional theories, or, what is still worse, his prejudices.</p>
<p>I do not know that these fictions are important, or that
they are even interesting. If there was an explosion
every time truth was outrun by his notorious competitor,
the man who sleeps late of a morning would wake up
with a snort and imagine that the universe was the victim
of a fierce and prolonged bombardment.</p>
<h4><i>Wives of Planters</i></h4>
<p>The busiest women the world has ever seen were the
wives and daughters of the Southern planters during the
days of slavery. They were busy from morning until
night, and sometimes far into the night. They were
practically at the head of the commissary and sanitary
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span>
departments of the plantation. It was a part of their
duty to see that the negroes were properly fed, clothed,
and shod. They did not, it is true, go into the market
and purchase the supplies; that was a matter that could
be attended to by even a dull-witted man; but after the
supplies were bought it was the woman’s intelligent management
that caused them to be properly distributed.</p>
<p>I have never yet heard of a Southern woman who surrendered
the keys of her smoke-house and store-room to
an overseer. The distribution of the supplies, however,
was a comparatively small item. Take, for example, the
clothing provided for, say, one hundred negroes, male
and female, large and small. The cloth was bought in
bolts, though occasionally a considerable portion was
woven on the plantation on the old-fashioned hand-looms.
Whether bought or woven, the cloth had to be
cut out and made into garments. Who was to superintend
and see to all this if not a woman? Who was at the
head of the domestic establishment? There were seamstresses
to make up the clothes, but all the details and
preparations had to be looked after by the mistress, and
it oftentimes fell to her lot to go down on her knees on
the floor and cut out the garments for hours at a time.</p>
<h4><i>Sanitary Experts</i></h4>
<p>And then there was the health of the negroes—a very
important item where a twenty-year-old field hand was
worth $1,500 in gold. Who was to look after the sick
when, as frequently happened, the physician was miles
away? Who, indeed, if not the mistress? It was
natural, therefore—and not only natural, but absolutely
necessary—that a part of the store-room should be an
apothecary’s shop on a small scale, and that the Southern
woman should know what to prescribe in all the simpler
forms of disease. It is to be borne in mind that when
the negroes came in from their work the plantation became
a domestic establishment, and its demands were
such that it was necessary for a woman to be at the
head of it. On the energy, the industry and the apt management
of the mistress the success of the plantation
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span>
depended to a great extent. It was not often these qualities
were lacking, either, for they were absolutely essential
to the success, the comfort, and the moral discipline
of the establishment.</p>
<h4><i>Queen of the Kitchen</i></h4>
<p>Then there was the kitchen. No Southern woman
could afford to turn that important department over to a
negro cook. Such a thing was not to be thought of. The
mistress of the plantation was also the mistress of the
kitchen. In order to teach their negroes the art of cooking,
the Southern women had to know how to cook
themselves, and they were compelled to gain their knowledge
by practical experience, for the kitchen is one of the
places where theories cannot be entertained. There are
negro women still living who got their training in the
plantation kitchen, under the eyes of their mistresses,
and their cooking is a spur to the appetite and a remedy
for indigestion. It is no wonder that a Georgia woman,
when she heard the negroes were really free, gave a sigh
of relief and exclaimed: “Thank heaven! I shall have
to work for them no more!”</p>
<p>These Southern women were the outgrowth of the
plantation system, the result of six or seven generations
of development. On that system they placed the impress
of their humanity and refinement; and the outcome of it
is to be seen in the condition of the negro race to-day.
In the sphere of their homes and in their social relations
they exercised a power and influence that has no parallel
in history. As they were themselves, so they trained
their daughters to be.</p>
<h4><i>In This Generation</i></h4>
<p>As the vine was, so must the fruit be. I have tried to
describe the mistress of the plantation for the reason that
her characteristics and tendencies have been transmitted
to the Southern women of this generation and to the
young girls who are growing into womanhood. It is
inevitable, however, that certain of these characteristics
should be modified or amplified according as the circumstances
of an environment altogether new may demand.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span></div>
<p>I know of no more beautiful or romantic civilization
than that which blossomed under the plantation system,
and yet, in the natural order of things, it would have
inevitably run to caste distinctions. It had social ideals
that were impracticable, and it had literary ideals that
were foolish; nevertheless, after everything had been
said, caste distinctions under the plantation system would
have been less distasteful than those which are now in
process of organization in some parts of this country.</p>
<p>Whatever the development of Southern civilization
might have been under the old system it has come under
the domination of the new. That the new has been
strengthened and sweetened thereby I think will not be
denied by impartial observers who have no pet theories
to nurse. Women of to-day still possess the characteristics
that made their mothers and their grandmothers
beautiful and gracious; still possess the refinement that
built up a rare civilization amid unpromising surroundings;
still possess the energy and patience and gentleness
that wrought order and discipline on the plantations.</p>
<h4><i>An Inheritance of Graciousness</i></h4>
<p>Take, for example, the home life of the plantation. It
was larger, ampler, and more perfect than that which
exists in the republic to-day, not because it was more
leisurely and freer from care, but because the aims and
purposes of the various members of the family were more
concentrated. The hospitality that was a feature of it
was more unrestrained and simpler, because it bore no
relation whatever to the demands and suggestions of
what is now known in Sunday newspapers as “Society.”</p>
<p>The home life of the old plantation has had a marked
influence on the Southern women of to-day in their
struggles with adverse circumstances. They lack, for
one thing, the assurance of those who have inherited the
knack of making their way among strangers. The poetic
young Bostonian who has been writing recently of “The
Mannerless Sex” and “The Ruthless Sex” could never
have made the Southern woman a text for his articles,
and I trust that for generations yet to come they will retain
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span>
the gentleness and the graciousness that belong to
them by right of inheritance.</p>
<h4><i>A Beneficent Influence</i></h4>
<p>Comparatively speaking, it has been but a few years
since the Southern woman has been compelled by circumstances
to seek a wider and more profitable field for her
talent, her energy, and her industry than the home and
fireside afford, and the experience of these few years has
demonstrated the fact that she is amply able to take care
of herself. In shaping and developing what is called the
new literary movement in the South, she has shown herself
to be a far more versatile worker than the men, more
artistic and more conscientious. She has made herself
in art, in science, and in schools; she has taken a place
in the ranks of the journalists; she has a place on the
stage and the platform; she is to be found in many of
the trades that are next door to the arts, in the professions
and in business; she is stenographing, typewriting,
clerking, dairying, gardening. She is to be found, in
short, wherever there is room for her, and her field is
always widening.</p>
<p>I think she will exercise a mellowing and restraining
influence on the ripping and snorting age just ahead of
us—the rattling and groaning age of electricity. What
part she may play in the woman’s rights movement of the
future it is difficult to say. Just now she has no aptitude
in that direction. She has been taught to believe that the
influences that are the result of a happy home-life are
more powerful and more important elements of politics
than the casting of a ballot; and in this belief she seems
to be with an overwhelming majority of American
women—the mothers and daughters who are the hope
and pride of the Republic.</p>
<p>Yet she is an earnest and untiring temperance worker.
Conservative in all other directions, she is inclined to be
somewhat radical in her crusade against rum. She is
inclined to fret and grieve a little over the fact that public
opinion failed to keep pace with her desires. The wheels
of legislation do not move fast enough for her, and she is
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span>
inclined to wonder at it. In the innocence of her heart
she has never suspected that there is a demijohn in the
legislative committee-room.</p>
<p>There is no question and no movement of real importance
in which she is not interested. Her devotion and
self-sacrifice in the past have consecrated her to the
future, and her sufferings and privations have taught her
the blessings of charity in its largest and best interpretation.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='EULOGY_ON_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN_BY_J_L_UNDERWOOD_DELIV' id='EULOGY_ON_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN_BY_J_L_UNDERWOOD_DELIV'></a>
<h3>EULOGY ON CONFEDERATE WOMEN, BY J. L. UNDERWOOD, DELIVERED IN 1896</h3>
</div>
<blockquote>
<p>[The author offers as his tribute to the memory of the
Confederate Women the following lecture just as it
came from his brain and heart in 1896. It was delivered
mainly for the benefit of the Confederate Monument in
Cuthbert, Ga. A very serious lip cancer soon interrupted
all lecture work and finally landed him in Kellam’s Hospital
in Richmond, Va.]</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Ever since 1861 the women of the South have been
laying flowers on the graves of Confederate soldiers and
building monuments to their memory. The humblest of
surviving veterans begs the privilege of offering a wreath
of evergreen and immortelles to the memory of the Confederate
women. To the genuine woman, no bouquet is
acceptable, not even the kiss of affection is welcome, unless
hallowed by respect. Horatio Seymour, the great
governor of New York, said that the South, prior to
1861, produced “the best men and the best women the
world ever saw.” In the early part of the spring of 1861,
your speaker heard M. Laboulaye, one of the foremost
men of France in literature and public life, in a public
lecture at the Sorbourne in Paris, utter the following
memorable words: “I am told that in America a lady
can travel alone from Baltimore to New Orleans and will
all the way be protected and assisted. A country where
woman is respected as she is in the Southern States of
the American Republic,—a country where women so
richly deserve that respect,—others may say what they
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span>
please about slavery in that sunny land, but that’s the
country for me.” This profound admiration, expressed
by the good and great of the world, while it fills the heart,
must surely temper the words of a Southern writer.</p>
<p>That man is not qualified to admire one woman who
sees no good in other women. Blind partiality is stupid
idolatry. The just historian of Southern women will
say nothing in disparagement of the warm-hearted fraus
of Germany, the tasteful, tidy, sparkling women of
France, our rosy cousins of old England, and especially
those bustling, bright little creatures up North, who make
things so lively everywhere. When Titian and Correggio
put woman on canvas she is their Italian woman;
Murillo paints her as the lustrous, dark-eyed beauty of
his own Spain. Meissonier’s women are French women,
and when Rubens paints an angel or unfallen Eve, she is
the fat chubby girl of Holland. But Raphael, in his
celebrated Madonna, the greatest of all paintings, forgets
all nationality, and his picture is just that of a woman.
Oh for something of this cosmopolitan spirit in our sacred
task. Nor must history degenerate into panegyric.
Weeds are near the flower-garden, and there are thorns
among the roses. Even among the brave Confederate
soldiers there were some shirkers and cowards. We had
our “hospital rats” and “butter-milk-rangers.” In the
battle there were some who suddenly got very thirsty
and ran away to get water. As one of these was rushing
from a hot fire to the rear one day, his colonel shouted
to him, “What are you running for? I wouldn’t be a
baby.” “I wish I was a baby, and a gal baby at that”—was
the reply. Another one in Gordon’s command, in
another battle, was making tracks to the rear as fast as
he could. General J. B. Gordon shouted, “Stop there,
Jim; what makes you run?” “Because I can’t fly,” was
his reply, as he leaped the fence. So our Confederate
women were not all paragons nor angels; not if you let
their poor husbands tell it. An old soldier in Atlanta has
sued for a divorce from his wife on the plea that during a
long life she has allowed him only four years of peace,
and that was when he was away in the war.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span></div>
<p>About the time of the surrender in 1865, a Federal brigade,
on its march to take possession of a Georgia city,
halted near a farm. As usual the soldiers went in to get
supplies of milk, chickens, etc., offering to pay for everything.
The old gentleman of the farm when he heard of
their approach had taken to the woods. His wife stood
her ground, and, seizing her first opportunity to let the
Yankees “know what she thought of them,” let out upon
their devoted heads a torrent of woman’s fury. Her
tongue fought the war over again. They became enraged
and literally “cleaned up” the farm, taking mules,
wagons, corn, chickens,—everything in sight. When
they had gone the old farmer came in and when he saw
“wide o’er the plain the wreck of ruin laid” he became
desperate. Finally, on the advice of his neighbors, he
went to the headquarters of the general in the city and
laid before him his pitiful complaint. That officer told
him he could not help him. “If you people give my soldiers
a civil treatment, I shall see that they respect your
property and pay for everything they get; but when they
are abused and insulted as they were at your house, I
can’t restrain them, nor shall I try.” “But, see here,
General, it is my mules and other property that they have
taken, and I have not abused your soldiers; it was my
wife.” “But, sir, you ought to make your wife hold her
tongue.” “Well, now, General, I have been trying that
forty years, and if you and your whole army can’t make
her hold her tongue, how in the world can you expect me
to do it?” The general saw the situation and kindly
ordered everything which had been taken to be given
back to the old farmer.</p>
<p>It has been said that the South has been busy making
history and others busy writing it. Our own people
must write it, and our children must study it. For more
than twenty-five years the life of the South was the
drama of the nineteenth century; and no drama is complete
without woman’s part in it. The war between the
Southern and Northern States was one of the bloodiest in
history. The Southern States claimed the right of secession
from the Union—a right which during the first
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span>
seventy years of the Nation’s life was never questioned.
The Northern States claimed the right to coerce our
States back into what they called the Union—a right
never before thought of.</p>
<p>The die of war was cast, the Rubicon of coercion was
crossed, the gauntlet of blood was thrown down, when
the Northern States sent ships and soldiers to hold Fort
Sumter on South Carolina’s soil. Again and again
had the Southern States asked the Northern States for
the fish of peace; they were given the serpent of Seward’s
“irrepressible conflict.” They asked for the bread
of simple right; they were given the stone of invasion.
The reinforcement of Fort Sumter was a declaration of
war on the South.</p>
<p>Then, and not till then, did Beauregard’s cannon thunder
forth the protest for the rights of States, and the
tocsin rang out from the Potomac to the Rio Grande.
The ultimatum was cowardly submission to sectional dictation.
There is something better than peace; that is
liberty. There is something dearer than a people’s life;
that is a people’s manhood. The South wanted no war;
had prepared for no war; and had but few arms, no
navy, few factories and railroads. With a small population,
she was cut off by an effective blockade from the
rest of the world. The Northern States had the national
army, navy, treasury and flag, and all Europe from which
to draw soldiers and supplies.</p>
<p>The South, after mustering every able-bodied man,
could enroll, in all, but 600,000 soldiers, while she fought
2,600,000. Never was there a war continued for four
years at such fearful odds. And yet Richmond, the Confederate
capital, almost in sight of Washington, was only
captured when Sherman and Sheridan, the modern Atillas,
had flanked it with walls of fire, and pillaged the
country in its rear. Never has there been a war in which
the weaker so long and so effectually held the stronger at
bay or so often defeated them on the field of battle; never
a war in which the valor of the finally vanquished was so
respected by foes and so universally applauded by the
world. The mention of no battle, from Manassas to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span>
Appomattox, from Shiloh to Franklin, brings a blush to
the Confederate soldier. The world congratulates the
Federal soldier on his pension and the Confederate soldier
on his valor. The surrender of Lee’s 7,800 to
Grant’s 130,000 and the roll of 357,679 Federal soldiers
living to-day in the Grand Army of the Republic measure
the odds against us. The reduction of the Federal forces
to 1,500,000 during the war and the present pension roll
of 800,000 tell our work. Our poor South was never
vanquished. Her sad fate was simply to be worn out,
starved out, burned out, to die out.</p>
<p>Generously, but truthfully, did Professor Worseley, of
England, in his poem on Robert E. Lee, say of the ill-fated
Confederacy,</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Thy Troy is fallen, thy dear land</p>
<p class='indent2'>Is marred beneath the spoiler’s heel;</p>
<p>I cannot trust my trembling hand</p>
<p class='indent2'>To write the things I feel.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Ah, realm of tombs! but let her bear</p>
<p class='indent2'>This blazon to the end of times;</p>
<p>No nation rose so white and fair</p>
<p class='indent2'>Or fell so pure of crimes.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>After the surrender a poor Southern soldier was wending
his way down the lane over the “red old hills of
Georgia.” His old gray jacket that his wife had woven
and his mother made, was all tattered and torn; the old
greasy haversack and cedar canteen hung by his side.
From under his bullet-pierced hat there beamed eyes that
had seen many a battlefield. Said one of his neighbors:
“Hello, John; the Yankees whipped you, did they?”
“No, we just wore ourselves out whipping them.”
“Well, what are you going to do now, John?” “Why,
I’m going home, kiss Mary, and make a crop and get
ready to whip ’em again.”</p>
<p>That “Mary” is our theme to-day. Others have told
of Confederate soldiers on the battlefield. God help me
to tell of the soldier’s “other-self” behind the battlefield.
The brave Southern army was defending home. The arm
of the hero is nerved by his heart, and the heart of John
was Mary, and Mary was the soul of the South. In
peace woman was the queen of that Arcadia which God’s
blessings made our sunny land, and never has there been
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span>
a war in which her enthusiasm was so intense and her
heroic cooperation so conspicuous. Her effectual and
practical work in the departments of the commissary, the
quartermaster and the surgeon, and her magic influence
at home and on the spirit of the army, were something
wonderful. The Federal General Atkins, of Sherman’s
army, said to a Carolina lady: “You women keep up
this war. We are fighting you. What right have you
to expect anything from us?”</p>
<p>And yet in all she was woman,—nothing but woman.
“And the Lord said it is not good for man to be alone; I
will make a help-meet for him.” In Paradise she was
the rib of man’s side; in Paradise lost she bears woman’s
heavy share of his labors and his fate. The history of
the South of 1861 will go down to the centuries with its
immortal lesson that woman’s power is greatest, her
work most beneficent and her career most splendid when
she moves in the orbit assigned her by Heaven as the
help-meet of man. It is the glory of Southern life and
society that with us woman is no “flaring Jezebel” but
our own modest Vashti.</p>
<p>Thank God the Confederate woman was no Lady
Macbeth, plotting treason for the advancement of her
husband; but the loyal daughter Cordelia, clinging to her
old father Lear in his wrongs; no fanatical Catherine de
Medici, thirsting for Huguenot blood, but the sweet Florence
Nightingale, hovering over the battlefield with,</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“The balm that drops on wounds of woe,</p>
<p>From woman’s pitying eye,”</p>
</div></div>
<p>and making the dying bed of the patriot feel “soft as
downy pillows are.” She was no Herodias, calling for
the head of an enemy, but the humble Mary, breaking
the alabaster box to anoint the martyr of her cause;
weeping at His cross and watching at His grave. She
was no fierce Clytimnestra, but the loving Antigone leading
the blind old Oedipus, or digging the grave of her
brother Polynices; no Amazon Camilla, “<i>Agmen agens
equitum et florentes aere catervas</i>,” but the Roman Cornelia,
proud of her jewel Gracchi sons, and laying them
upon the altar of her country; no Helen, heartless in her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span>
beauty, but the gentle Creusa, following her husband to
be crushed in the ruins of her ill-fated Troy; no cruel
Juno, seeking revenge for wounded pride, but a pure
Vesta, keeping alive the fires of American patriotism;
no Charlotte Corday, plunging a dagger into the heart of
the tyrant Marat, but the calm Madame Roland,
under the guillotine of the Jacobins, raised to sever her
proud but all womanly head, and crying to her countrymen,
“Oh, Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy
name!” Who begrudges a moment for the record of her
patriotic services and unremitting toil? Who does not
see in her a glorious lesson?</p>
<p>Thank God! the clash of arms has long ago ceased.
The temple of Janus is closed. But the war of pens, the
contest of history, is upon us. For years Southern
women had been written down as soulless ciphers or
weakling wives, dragged by reckless husbands into an
unholy cause. Text books of so-called history, teeming
with such falsehoods, have been thrust even into Southern
schools. It is high time to protest. Before God we
tell them our mothers were not dupes, but women; they
and our men were not rebels, but patriots, obedient to
every law, loyal to every compact, State and National, of
their country; true, gloriously true, to every lesson
taught by Washington and Jefferson, and moved by
every impulse that has made this country great.</p>
<p>But there must be no gall in the inkstand of history.
No man can justly record the truth of the Confederate
war who has not risen above the passions and prejudices
incident to such terrible convulsions. No man with
malice to the North can write justly of the South. No
man can appreciate our great Jefferson Davis, who can
see nothing good in President Lincoln. No man can
describe the glory of Lee and Jackson, who shuts his eyes
to the soldiership of McClellan, the patriotism of Hancock,
the generosity of Grant, and the knighthood of
McPherson and Custer.</p>
<p>But don’t let us go too far in this direction. We might
fall into the other extreme of hypocritical “gush.” Let
us be careful; yea, honest. About the best we could do
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span>
in war times is well shown in the preaching of a good old
Alabama country Baptist preacher in the darker days of
the war. He was a thorough Southerner and “brim full
of secesh,” as we used to say, and at the same time a devout
Christian. He was of the old-fashioned type and
talked a little through his nose. His text was the great
day when the good people will be gathered to Heaven
from the four corners of the world. Warming up to his
theme he said: “And oh, my brethren,—ah; in the day
of redemption the redeemed of the Lord will come flocking
from the four corners of the earth,—ah! They will
come from the East on the wings of the morning,—ah!
I hear them shouting Hallelujah, as they strike their
harps of gold—ah! And they’ll come from the West
shouting Hosanna in the highest,—ah! and you’ll see
them coming in crowds from the South,—ah; with
palms of victory in their hands, ah! And they’ll come
from the,—well, I reckon may be a few of them will
come from the North.” Oh that’s about the way men,
women and children down South felt for twenty years.
But, we’ve moved up on that. Christians grow in grace,
you know. The war is over. There are no enemies now.
We now believe a great many will come from the North.
Our old preacher would not now have a misgiving about
all four of the corners.</p>
<p>A few weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, a large
number of sick paroled Confederate soldiers were sent
home on a Federal steamer by way of New Orleans and
Mobile. The speaker was among them. He had been
promoted to the chaplaincy of the Thirtieth Alabama
Regiment and soon found himself strong enough at least
to bury the dead as our poor fellows dropped away every
day. The Federal guard on the boat was under command
of Lieutenant Winslow, of Massachusetts, and a
nobler and bigger hearted soldier never wore a sword.
Between New Orleans and Mobile it was necessary to
bury our dead in the Gulf. Having no coffins the Federal
lieutenant and the Confederate chaplain would
lay the body, wrapped in the old blanket or quilt, on a
plank and then bind it with ropes and, fastening heavy
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span>
irons to the feet, we would gently lower it and let it sink
down, down in the briny deep, the cleanest grave man
ever saw. The Northern lieutenant not only took off
his cap and bowed in reverence when the Confederate
chaplain prayed, but with his own hands assisted in
all the details of every burial. So let the North and the
South together bury the dead animosities of the past, take
the corpse of bitter falsehood, the prolific mother of
prejudice and hatred, bind it with the cords of patriotism
and sink it into the ocean of oblivion. But publish the
truth. The truth lives and ought to live. Truth never
does harm; but, with God and man, it is the peace angel
of reconciliation. Let the testimony be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth and our people
will abide by it and every patriot will welcome the verdict.</p>
<p>Who were the women of 1861? My old Tennessee
father used to teach me that there is a great deal more in
the stock of people than there is in horses. Blood will
tell. These women were the direct descendants of those
bold, hardy Englishmen, who, under John Smith, Lord
Delaware, Lord Baltimore and General Oglethorpe made
settlements on the Southern shores and those who, from
time to time, were added to their colonies. They were
broad men, bringing broad ideas. They came, not
because they were driven out of England, but because
they wanted to come to America; who thought it no sin
to bring the best things of old England, and give them a
new and better growth in the new world; who first gave
the new world trial by jury and the election of governors
by popular vote. English cavaliers who knew how to be
gentlemen, even in the forest. This was the leading
blood. From time to time it was made stronger by a
considerable addition of Scotch and Scotch-Irish and an
occasional healthful cross with the very best people of
the North, more soulful and impulsive by some of the
blood of Ireland, and more vivacious by the French
Huguenot in the Carolinas and the Creole in Louisiana.
There thus grew up a new English race—English, but
not too English; English but American-English blood,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span>
of which old England is proud to-day. With little or no
immigration for many years from other people, this blood
under our balmy sun produced a race of its own—a
Southern people, as Klopstock says of the sweet strong
language of Germany, “Gesondert, ungemischt und nur
sich selber gleich.” Distinct, unmixed and only like
itself.</p>
<p>This was the blood that made America great, the blood
from which the South gave her Washington and so many
men like Henry, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe; that
out of seventy-two first years of this Republic furnished
the President for fifty-two years; the Chief Justice all
the time, and the leaders of Senates and of Cabinets;
the blood of Calhoun and Clay and Lowndes and Pinkney
and Benton and Crawford; Cobb and Berrien, Hall
and Jenkins, Toombs and Stevens; the blood that produced
our Washington, Sumter and Marion to achieve
our independence of Great Britain; Scott and Jackson to
fight the war of 1812, Clark and Jackson to conquer
from the Indians all the splendid country between the
mountains and the Mississippi, and Taylor and Scott to
win vast territories from Mexico.</p>
<p>This was the blood that so often showed how naturally
and gracefully a Southern woman could step from a
country home to adorn the White House at Washington;
the blood that made the South famous for its women,
stars at the capital and at Saratoga; favorites in London
and Paris; and queenly ladies in their homes, whether
that home was a log cabin in the forest or a mansion by
the sea. It was common for Northern and European
people to praise the taste of Southern women, especially
in matters of dress. They did have remarkable taste in
dressing, for they had a form to dress and a face to adorn
that dress. Neither war nor poverty could mar their
grace of form nor beauty of face.</p>
<p>It is said of the great Bishop Bascomb, of the Southern
Methodist Church, that, in the early years of his ministry,
he was so handsome and graceful in person, and so neat
in his dress, that a great many of his brethren were
prejudiced against him as being what they called “too
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span>
much of a dandy.” For a long time the young orator
was sent on mountain circuits to bring him down to the
level of plain old-fashioned Methodism. It was proposed
to one of his mountain members who was very bitter
about the preacher’s fine clothes that he give Bascomb a
suit of homespun. The offer was gladly accepted, and on
the day for Bascomb’s appearance in the plain clothes the
old brother was early on the church grounds to glory in
having made the city preacher look like other folks.
Imagine his chagrin when Bascomb walked up, looking
in homespun as he looked in broadcloth, an Apollo in
form and a Brummel in style. “Well I do declare!” said
the old man. “Go it, brother Bascomb; I give it up;
It ain’t your clothes that’s so pretty, it’s jist you.” So
our Southern women were just as charming in the shuck
hats and home-made cotton dresses of 1864, as in the
silks and satins of 1860.</p>
<p>But by their fruits ye shall know them. Walk with me
on the streets of Richmond and Charleston. Go with me
to any of our country churches throughout these Southern
States and I will show you, among the many poor
daughters of these women, that same classic face that
tells of the blood in their veins. Go with me back to the
Confederate army and you will see in such generals as the
Lees, Albert Sidney Johnston, Breckinridge, Toombs,
the Colquitts, Gordon, Evans, Gracie, Jeb. Stuart, Price,
Hampton, Tracy, Ramseur, Ashby and thousands of
private soldiers that face and form that tell of the
knightly blood in the veins of the mothers that bore them.</p>
<p>South Georgia is to be congratulated that in the Confederate
monument recently unveiled at Cuthbert, the
artist has at least given what is sadly lacking in other
Confederate monuments to private soldiers, the genuine
face of the Southern soldier, that face which is a just
compliment to the Confederate mother. The artists who
cast some other monuments in the South had seen too
little of Southern people, and had put on some of our
monuments the pug nose and bullet head of other people.</p>
<p>Our mothers and grandmothers lived mostly in the
country, and drank in a splendid vigor from the ozone of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span>
field, and forest, and mountain. They were trained
mostly at home by private teachers or in common schools
run on common sense principles, and in “the old-time religion,”
without “isms,” fanaticism, or cant. They were
taught the philosophy of life by fathers who thought and
manners by mothers who were the soul of inborn refinement.
They thought for themselves, and indulged no
craze for things new, and they aped no foreigners.
In conversation they didn’t end every sentence with the
interrogation point, but followed nature and let their
voices fall at periods. They never said “thanks,” but in
the good old English of Addison and Goldsmith, said “I
thank you.” They never spoke of a sweetheart as “my
fellow,” and would have scorned such a word as “mash.”
They never walked “arm clutch,” nor allowed Sunday
newspapers to make five-cent museums of their pictures.
Their entertainments were famous for elegance and
pleasure, but they had no euchre-clubs. Indeed, we
doubt if many of them ever heard of a woman’s club of
any kind. They were fond of “society,” but would have
had a profound contempt for that so-called “society” of
our day, in which the man is a prince who can lead the
german, spend money for bouquets and part his hair in
the middle. They didn’t wear bloomers, nor did many
of them ever dress decolette. They were clothed and in
their right mind. They never mounted platforms to
speak nor pulpits to preach, and yet their influence and
inspiration gave Southern pulpits and platforms a world-wide
fame. Their highest ambition was to be president
of home. They were Southern women everywhere, at
home and abroad, in church and on the streets, in parlor
and kitchen, when they rode, when they walked. Gentle,
but brave; modest, but independent. Seeking no recognition,
the true Southern woman found it already won by
her worth; courting no attention, at every turn it met
her, to do willing homage to her native grace and genuine
womanhood.</p>
<p>Now, to appreciate the enthusiasm of such women in
the Confederate war, you must remember that great
principles were at stake in that struggle, and that woman
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span>
grasps great principles as clearly as man, and with a zeal
known only to herself. See with what prompt intuition
and sober enthusiasm woman received the Christian religion.
Martha, of Bethany, uttered the great keynote of
the Christian creed long before an apostle penned a line.
The primitive evangelist Timothy, the favorite of the
great Apostle Paul, was trained by his grandmother
Lois and his mother Eunice; and the pulpit orator Apollos
studied at the feet of Priscilla. The great lamented
Dr. Thornwell, of South Carolina, who was justly called
the “John C. Calhoun of the Presbyterian Church” of the
United States, loved to tell it that he learned his theology
from his poor old country Baptist mother. In politics, as
in religion, our mothers may not have read much, and
they talked less, but they heard much and thought the
more. Before the war the reproach was often hurled at
Southern men that they talked politics. God’s true people
talked religion from Abel to the invention of the art
of printing. They had a religion to talk. Our fathers
did talk politics, for, thank God, they had politics worth
talking—not the picayune politics of the demagogue
office-seeker of our day; not the almighty dollar politics
of the bloated bond-holder and the trusts, the one-idea
craze of the silver mine-owner, nor the tariff greed of the
manufacturer; not the imported European communism
that would crush one class to build up another, not the
wild anarchy that would pull down everything above it
and blast everything around it.</p>
<p>The South was intensely American, and her people
loved American politics and talked American politics.
She entered into the Revolutionary war with all her soul.
Southern statesmanship lifted that struggle from a mere
rebellion to a war of nations by manly secession from
Great Britain in North Carolina’s declaration of independence
at Mecklenburg. The Philadelphia declaration
was drawn up by the South’s Jefferson and proposed by
Virginia. This was the great secession of 1776. To
the Revolutionary war the South sent one hundred out of
every two hundred and nine men of military age, while
the North sent one hundred out of every two hundred
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span>
and twenty-seven. (We quote from the official report of
General Knox, Secretary of War.) Virginia sent
56,721 men. South Carolina sent 31,000 men, while
New York, with more than double her military population,
sent 29,830. New Hampshire, with double the
population of South Carolina, sent only 18,000. The little
Southern States sent more men in proportion to population
than even Massachusetts and Connecticut, who
did their part so well in that war.</p>
<p>It was Southern politics that proposed the great union
of the sovereign States in 1787. To that union the three
States of Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia have
added out of their own bosoms ten more great States.
These Southern States were the mothers of States, and
most naturally did they talk of States and State’s rights.</p>
<p>Southern politics, prevailing in the national councils
against the bitter protests of New England, carried
through the war of 1812; added Florida to the Union,
and, by the purchase of Louisiana, all the Trans-Mississippi
valley from the Gulf to Canada. It was Southern
politics against the furious opposition of New England
that annexed Texas, and, by the war with Mexico,
brought in the vast territory far away to the Pacific.
The South sent 45,000 volunteers to the Mexican war;
the whole North, with three times the population, sent
23,000. Thus the South was the mother of territories,
and was it not natural that she should talk of territories
and of her rights in the territories?</p>
<p>In political platforms, in legislative enactments, and
notably in the election of Mr. Lincoln in 1860, the more
populous North declared that the Southern States should
be shut out from all share in the territories bought with
common treasure and blood. Our women, a child, a
negro, could see the iniquity of the claim.</p>
<p>The action of the North in regard to national territory
was an edict, too, that the negroes, through no fault of
their own, should be shut up in one little corner of the
country.</p>
<p>Then when the South sought the only alternative left
her, that of peaceable secession, her right to go was justified
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span>
by the terms of the Constitution; by the distinct
understanding among the sovereign States when they entered
the Union, more directly insisted and put on record
by the three States of Virginia, New York, and Rhode
Island than any other State; by the secession convention
of New England in the war of 1812; by the Northern
secession convention in Ohio in 1859 and the reiterated
declarations of Henry Ward Beecher, and by Wendell
Phillips, and Horace Greeley, William Lloyd Garrison
and the other great leaders of Northern thought in
1860.</p>
<p>As to coercing the States back into the Union, President
Buchanan well said at the time there was “not a
shadow of authority” for it, and Governor Seymour, of
New York, truthfully said “coercion is revolution.”</p>
<p>Again, remember that wrongs pierce deeper into the
heart of woman than into the more callous soul of man.
For years vast multitudes of the people of the North had
kept up a furious war against the South in books and
newspapers; in pulpits and religious conventions; in political
platforms and State assemblies. Oh, it makes the
blood run cold to think of the relentless malignity of the
fanaticism of those days. No parlors nor churches too
sacred for bitter onslaught on Southern people; no epithets
too vile; no slanders too black; no curses too
deadly to be hurled at Southern men and women. But
war,—yes, blood-red war was really, and almost formally
declared by the Northern endorsement of Henry Ward
Beecher’s “Sharpe’s rifles” crusade against Southern
settlers in Kansas; and the war of 1861 was actually
begun by John Brown’s murderous raid at Harper’s
Ferry in Virginia in 1859. The North made him a hero
martyr. John Brown’s rifle shot in Virginia only
alarmed the angel of peace. The Northern applause of
John Brown drove her away from our unhappy land. By
his apotheosis the Northern people made his rifle shot at
Harper’s Ferry the skirmish firing of the impending war,
to be answered by our manly cannon at Charleston in
1861. Puritan intolerance scourged Roger Williams out
of Massachusetts for nonconformity in religion; and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span>
Puritanism scourged the South out of the Union in 1861
for nonconformity in politics. The Southern woman’s
heart felt to the very core and resented as only woman
can resent, the sting of that merciless lash.</p>
<p>This is an age of monuments, and your speaker has
undertaken to erect one in book form to the memory of
Confederate women. When this thought comes to be
put in marble or brass, as it will some day soon, let that
monument rest on the broad granite foundation of truth.
Then as the artist begins to put in bas relief the symbols
of the virtues of the Southern women of 1861, and the
souvenirs of her heroic life, let the first scene be that of
a scroll, the Constitution of the United States, held in
the unsullied hands of the great Jefferson Davis, as he
marches out from the United States court, under whose
warrants he had been held for treason, again a free man.
Let that picture tell of the undying loyalty of our mother
and her people to the organic law of the land: that
Southern men wrote it and their sons have ever honored
and loved it: Tell it in Gath, publish it in the streets of
Aekelon, that those who crushed us were the men who
despised, hawked at and cursed the Constitution.</p>
<p>The South at Montgomery swore fresh allegiance to
the Constitution handed down by our American fathers,
and carried with her through all the wilderness march
the sacred old Ark of the Covenant. And when our Confederate
head, the peerless Jefferson Davis, our chosen
standard bearer of State sovereignty and home rule, was
brought to trial, bearing in himself the alleged sins of us
all, charged with being a rebel, that document showed
him to be a stainless patriot; and though the mob of
millions was shouting, “Crucify him, crucify him!” the
highest courts of the Federal Government declared by his
quiet and silent, but significant release, as Pilate did of
Jesus, “We find no fault in this man.” The Constitution
of the United States is a standing declaration of the sinlessness
of the Confederate cause.</p>
<p>Let the artist next put on the monument a picture of
an old negro woman, the old Southern “mammy,” with
the child of her mistress in her arms. Near by let old
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span>
Uncle Jacob be leading the little white boy, while down in
the cornfield near by are seen Jacob’s sons and daughters
at work singing the cheerful songs which the poor negro
now has heart to sing no more. In the distance picture
the faithful Bob or Mingo coming from the battlefield,
bearing the dead body of his young master.</p>
<p>Let that picture tell to all generations the story of slavery.
We had slavery, but, thank God, it was Southern
slavery,—Christian slavery. Truth will explain the paradox,
if there was any paradox. It had its evils, and nobody
blushes because we had it, nor whines because it is
gone. But as for any sin of the South in it, let the first
stone of condemnation be thrown by that people who had
no fathers cruel to their children, no husbands harsh to
their wives, and no rich man unjust to the poor laborer.</p>
<p>The South never enslaved a single negro, never
brought one to America. Georgia was the first of the settlements
to forbid slavery, and Georgia and Virginia were
the foremost States in cutting off the slave trade. The
colony of Virginia petitioned twenty times against the
continuance of the slave trade. The negroes were enslaved
by their own savage chiefs in Africa. England
and the Northern people brought them to America and
sold them for gold. The Dutch brought twenty
to Virginia, but were forbidden to bring any more. When
found less profitable in the colder climate of the North,
the negroes were sold South to become valuable tillers of
the soil, and, after the invention of the cotton gin, to make
the country rich. The Northern people at a good profit
sold their slaves down South, put the money at interest,
suddenly got pious, and waged a fierce war on the people
who bought them. That’s history.</p>
<p>In 1861, on the first Sunday after the news of the fall
of Fort Sumter reached England, the author, in company
with a friend from Pennsylvania, who was an anti-slavery
man, attended services in Mr. Spurgeon’s chapel in London.
The great city was wrapped in the deepest gloom.
The war storm in America was expected to ruin manufactures
and trade throughout Great Britain. Mr.
Spurgeon and his people seemed bowed down with sorrow.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span>
On returning to our hotel my Northern friend remarked
that he knew I didn’t approve of Spurgeon’s
prayer about slavery. I said to him, “R——, just
there you are mistaken. Some of my people in Alabama
some time ago burned Spurgeon’s books because of some
of his abolition views, but when I go home and tell them
how this great Christian prayed to-day they will respect
his honesty and sincerity. We blame nobody for being
anti-slavery, but we do abominate fanatical abolitionism.
Spurgeon is no fanatic. Listen to this Englishman: ‘O
God, our people are in the ashes of woe. A dreadful war
beyond the ocean has cut off our commerce and closed our
factories, and thousands of our poor must sadly suffer.
The people of the American States are bone of our bone
and flesh of our flesh. O Lord, pity them, and pity us.
O God, they and we have sinned in enslaving our fellow
men. England put slavery on her colonies against the
protest of those Southern people, and England must suffer
Thy judgments for her part. Forgive the North, forgive
the South, and forgive England. O pity especially
the people of that section where the war will bear so
heavily and pity the poor everywhere.’</p>
<p>“Now, R——, that’s a Christian prayer that we respect;
and while Spurgeon goes back one hundred
and fifty and even two hundred years and tells the
truth about slavery, and for his English people, even
to-day, shoulders their responsibility in this matter,
how are thousands (thank God, but not all) of your
Northern preachers in your churches at the North
praying to-day? ‘We thank Thee, Lord, that this war
has come. Somebody will get hurt, but we people up
this way will come out all right because we are so innocent
and so righteous. O Lord, we thank Thee that
we are holy and not as other men are, especially these
wicked Southern people. We thank Thee for short memories;
that we have forgotten that we brought the negroes
from Africa, kept them as long as it paid us, and then
sold them to these Southerners; that we have forgotten
that when Virginia and Maryland wanted to put an end
to the slave trade, we out-voted them and kept the slave
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span>
trade open until 1808. Lord, we could have seceded
from these savage Southern States long ago and got rid
of any connection with slavery, for we believed in secession
until just now. But, Lord, if we let the South go,
as Mr. Lincoln says, where will we get our revenues?
We thank Thee too that we have forgotten that those
Southerners can’t get rid of the negroes without kicking
them into the Gulf of Mexico. Lord, we thank Thee
that we can see nothing but our own righteousness. We
have tried to reform those wicked Southerners and make
them good like ourselves, but we couldn’t. Now, Lord,
we have brought on a war and we turn it over to Thee.
We’ll hire Dutchmen and Irishmen to help Thee do our
fighting, and we’ll stand off and enjoy the fun. Now, as
Thou art about to pour out the vials of Thy mighty
wrath upon the abominable Southern people, do, Lord,
just give ’em—fits.’ Now, R——, there’s the difference
between honest anti-slavery in England and the hypocrisy
of the crusade in America.”</p>
<p>The truth is that in Southern homes, the negro prospered
and multiplied as no other laboring class has ever
done. The South shared with him its bread, its medicines,
its homes and its churches. M. de La Tours, the
eminent French hygienist, truthfully said that “The
slaves of the South were the best fed and the best cared
for laborers that the world ever saw.” No chain-gang, no
penitentiary, for the negro, no lynchings, and no crimes
to be lynched for, when the negro was under the influence
of our mothers and grandmothers. God forgive the
fanatic who in later days put folly in his head and the
devil in his heart. Our mothers trusted him and he
trusted them. All through the war, while nearly all the
white men were away in the army, the negro slave was
the protector and the support of Southern families. Our
mothers would have died for the negroes, and negroes
would have died for them. In Wilson’s raid near Columbus,
Ga., his soldiers were about to destroy a patch of
cane belonging to a widow. The brave woman took her
gun and declared she would shoot the first man that
touched her property. In their rage they raised their
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span>
rifles to shoot her down. Just then her old cook rushed
in between them, saying, “If you are going to kill ‘old
miss,’ you’ll have to kill me, too.”</p>
<p>When Sherman was plundering South Carolina, some
of his soldiers heard that a young lady had a very fine
gold watch concealed in her bosom. They demanded it,
and on her refusal they were about to seize her, when
Delia, her faithful servant, defied them. “Fore God,
buckra, if one of younner put your nasty hand on dis
chile of my ole missus you got to knock Delia down fust.”</p>
<p>The monument to the Southern woman will be a monument
to our faithful old Dinahs and Delias too. The old
ex-slaves will gather at its base and as the tears stream
down their dusky cheeks they will say, as they say now,
“Dat’s de best friend the poor nigger ever had,” and enlightened
negroes, like Booker Washington, will tell the
true story that out of slavery the North got money, the
South got ruin, and the negro got civilization, Christianity,
and contentment.</p>
<p>Let the next picture be an ear of corn, a spinning-wheel,
and a hand-loom. Ceres was the goddess of the Sunny
South, and the staff of our armies was the corn of our
own fields. The South, however prosperous, was not
made up of rich people. Not one man in ten owned a
slave; not one slave holder in ten was wealthy. The
small farms, many of them under the care of the soldier’s
wife and the faithful old negro foreman, and many more
tilled by the soldier’s boys under the eye of their mother,
yielded a very large share of the Confederate supplies.
While Minerva taught our men war she taught our
women household work, and quickly did she make Southern
beauties Arachnes at the loom and Penelopes with the
knitting needles. They knew how to adorn the parlor
and play the piano, but, when necessity came, like
Lemuel’s mother, they “sought wool and flax and
wrought diligently with their hands,” or even, like Rebecca,
they could go out into the field and draw water for
the cattle; or, like Ruth, hold the plow steady in the furrows,
or glean grain at harvest time. False histories
have pictured our mothers as doll babies. Let that monument
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span>
tell of the wonderful pluck, energy, and strength,
while it tells of the patriotism of the smartest and sweetest
and bravest and strongest doll babies the world ever
saw.</p>
<p>The artist must do his best when he puts on that monument
a little white hand—the well-shaped, classic hand
of the Southern woman. In that hand must be held the
little white handkerchief. What a part that handkerchief
played in the war! Old soldiers, as you rode off down
the lane, again and again you turned to take the farewell
look at home, sweet home, and there was that little white
handkerchief waving at the gate; or when your company
left the railroad station there, all around, were the good
women of the neighborhood, and as you looked far back
down the track these little white flags bade you woman’s
“good bye and God bless you.” You never forgot it.
Whether we marched past country homes or through the
streets of cities, woman’s heart-cheer greeted us in the
handkerchief from the window. Perhaps it was held in
the rheumatic hand of Mrs. General Lee as she looked out
from her knitting in her Richmond home, or, later
on we could see behind it the sad, mourning sleeve of
Stonewall Jackson’s widow. I tell you, my countrymen,
the bonny blue flag or the Southern Cross was the banner
of the soldier on the battlefield, but the little white handkerchief
was our sacred banner behind the battlefield.
The one, in the hands of the color sergeants, guided our
movements in the army; but the other, in woman’s hand,
inspired our movements everywhere.</p>
<p>Put here a knapsack, the rough, old, oil-cloth knapsack
of the Confederate soldier. Poor fellow! he had
but few clothes in it, but it contained something dearer
to him than clothes—letters from home. He kept them
all, the most of them written on the blank side of old wall
paper and inclosed in brown envelopes, which perhaps had
been turned so as to be twice used. When our poor boys
were killed, their letters were gathered by the chaplains,
litter bearers and burial details, to be sent to their homes.
I am not going to tell what sort of letters were found in
many knapsacks on our battlefields, but it is a fact, borne
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span>
out by the testimony of these men, that never was
there found a letter from a Confederate soldier’s wife
to her husband whose words would make the most modest
blush, or in which she exerted any of her woman’s power
or used any of woman’s arts to decoy him from the army.
Here is a specimen of a letter from home in a Confederate
knapsack:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Mitchell County, Ga.</span>, <i>July 20, 1863</i>.</p>
<p>Mr. Jno. Iverson,<br />
Company B, Fourth Regiment, Army of Virginia.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>Dear John</span>:</p>
<p>This leaves us all getting along very well. Nobody
sick, and we finished laying by the corn. The cattle are
fat and the hogs doing finely. We sell some butter and
eggs every week. We have plenty to eat, and know that
it’s only you that’s having a hard time. But we are all
so proud that you are fighting for your country. Will
be so glad when you can get a furlough, but we know
that you must, and will stick to your post of duty. Willie
and Jennie send kisses to their brave papa. We never
forget to pray for you. If you get killed, darling, God
will take care of us and we’ll all meet in heaven.</p>
<p class='sig1'>Your,<br />
<span class='smcap'>Mary</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>That’s the way they wrote. Let that knapsack tell forever
of the fortitude, the purity, the loyalty and refinement
of the Southern woman.</p>
<p>Let the next picture be the humble hospital couch.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Up and down through the wards where the fever</p>
<p class='indent2'>Stalks, noisome, and gaunt, and impure;</p>
<p>You must go with your steadfast endeavor</p>
<p class='indent2'>To comfort, to counsel, to cure.</p>
<p>I grant you the task is superhuman,</p>
<p class='indent2'>But strength will be given to you</p>
<p>To do for those loved ones what woman</p>
<p class='indent2'>Alone in her pity can do.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>Our women gave their carpets to make blankets, their
dresses to be made into shirts for the soldiers, and their
linen to furnish lint for their wounds, and then, clad in
homespun, they gave themselves. Nearly every town
and village in the South had its Soldiers’ Aid Society
and its hospital. Thousands and thousands of the poor
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span>
fellows were taken to private houses, even away out in
the country, and tenderly cared for. There was scarcely
a woman near a battlefield or a railroad who did not
nurse a soldier. Nearly every woman in Richmond
served regularly on hospital committees. One of these,
a Mrs. Roland, was blind, and her sweet guitar and
sweeter song cheered many a poor hero. One of the
songs of these days was “Let me kiss him for his
Mother.” Here’s a story to show how woman’s petting,
which always spoils a boy and sometimes a husband, occasionally
found a hard case in a Confederate soldier.
Among the sick in Richmond was a brave young fellow,
who was a great favorite and the only son of a widowed
mother, who was far away beyond the Mississippi. One
morning the report got out that he was dying in the
hospital, and one of the prettiest and sweetest young
ladies in the city was so touched by the sad story that she
determined to go and kiss him for his mother. She hastened
to the ward where the poor youth was lying high
up on one of the upper tiers of bunks and quickly told her
mission to the nurses. “I don’t know him, but oh, its
so sad, and I have come to ‘kiss him for his mother’
away out in Texas.” Now he wasn’t dying at all, but
was much better, and as he peeped at the sweet face, the
rascal, raising his head over the edge of the bunk, said,
“Never mind the old lady, miss, just go it on your own
hook.” Now that’s just the thanks these ununiformed
sisters of mercy sometimes got for their pains.</p>
<p>Put on this monument a pair of crutches. You never
see the bright star of womanhood until it shines in the
darkness of man’s misfortune. It is the furnace of man’s
suffering that brings out the pure gold of her love.
Here’s a specimen. On a cold winter day, when Lee’s
army was marching through one of the lower sections of
Virginia, some of the veterans were completely barefooted,
and the Sixth Georgia Regiment was passing. A
plain country woman was standing in the group by the
road side. “Lord, a mercy,” said she, “there’s a poor soldier
ain’t go no shoes,” and off came hers in a jiffy and
she ordered her negro woman standing by to give hers
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span>
up, too. The good woman wore number threes, and
the soldier who got them was Jake Quarles, of Company
B, Dade County, Georgia, who wore number twelves.</p>
<p>Soon after the war I once expressed my sympathy to a
young lady friend who was about to marry a young one-armed
soldier. “I want no sympathy. I think it a great
privilege and honor to be the wife of a man who lost his
arm fighting for my country,” was her prompt reply.
That’s your Southern girl.</p>
<p>When John Redding, of Randolph County, Ga., was
brought home wounded from Chickamauga, it was found
necessary to amputate his leg. On the day fixed for the
dangerous operation, his many friends were gathered at
his father’s country home. Among them was Miss
Carrie McNeil, to whom he was engaged. After he had
passed safely through the ordeal she, of course, was allowed
to be the first to go in to see him. They were left
alone for a while. The next to go in was an aunt of
Miss Carrie’s, and as she shook hands with poor John
and was about to pass on, he said, “Ain’t you going to
kiss me, too?” Ah, what a tale that question told. The
gallant soldier had offered to release his betrothed from
her engagement, but she said, “No, no, John, I can’t give
you up, and I love you better than ever,” and a kiss had
sealed their holy love.</p>
<p>When Tom Phipps, of Randolph County, Ga., came
home on crutches he offered to release Miss Maggie
Pharham from her engagement. “No, Tom,” she said.
“We can make a living.” There are hundreds of these
noble, God-given Carrie McNeils and Maggie Pharhams
all over our war-wrecked South.</p>
<p>Let the next emblem be the oak riven by the
lightning, and the tender ivy entwining itself around
it. Let it tell of the sufferings of the refugee father
and the wreck of the old man in the track of such
vandals as Sherman, Hunter, Sheridan, Milroy and
Kilpatrick. Let it tell of the horrors of the years
of so-called peace that followed the war. Northern
soldiers killed our young men in war; politicians
killed our old men in peace. Sherman burned houses
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span>
from Atlanta to Bentonville. Thad Stevens in Congress
blighted every acre of ground from Baltimore to San
Antonio. The war of shot and shell lasted four years;
the war of blind, revengeful reconstruction legislation
lasted twenty years. War marshalled our enemies on
the battlefield; reconstruction made enemies of the men
who had held our plow handles and stood around our
tables. War put the South under the rule of soldiers;
reconstruction put us under the heel of the rapacious
carpet-bagger and negro plunderers. War crushed some
of our people. Vindictive legislation crushed all our
people. War made the South an Aceldama; reconstruction
made it a Gehenna. Grant held back the red right
hands of Stanton and Holt from the throats of Lee and
his paroled soldiers: alas, Lincoln was dead, and his
patriotic arm was not there to hold back Thad Stevens
and his revolutionary congress from our prostrate citizens.</p>
<p>Amid these horrors our young men could hope, but to
our old men was nothing left but despair. Robbed of
their property after peace was declared, without a dollar
of compensation, their lands made valueless or confiscated;
they themselves disfranchised and their slaves
made their political masters, too old to change and recuperate,
too old to hope even, but too manly to whine,
they stood as desolate and uncomplaining as that old
oak.</p>
<p>Do you see that tender vine binding up the shattered
tree and hiding its wounds? That is Southern woman
clinging closer and more tenderly to father and husband
when the storms beat upon him, comforting as only such
Christian women can comfort; smiling only as such
heroines can smile; with “toil-beat nerves, and care-worn
eye,” helping only as such women can help. In the
schoolroom and behind the counter, over the sewing machine
and the cooking stove, in garden and field, everywhere
showing the gems of Southern character washed
up from its depths by the ocean of Southern woe.</p>
<p>Let the last symbol on the monument be the clasped
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span>
right hands of the Union. These Southern women of
1861 were the daughters of the great American Union.
Their fathers under the leadership of Jefferson, Madison
and Washington, had proposed the Union, devised the
Union, loved the Union, and, under Clay and Calhoun
and Benton, had preserved the Union. As an inducement
for union between the original States, without
which the Northern States would not come into it, Virginia,
the great mother of the Union, gave up all her
splendid territory north of the Ohio, embracing what is
now Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan,
and agreed that they should be made States without
slavery. She afterwards gave Kentucky. North Carolina
gave Tennessee, and Georgia gave Alabama and Mississippi.
Southern influence and Southern statesmanship
made the Union strong at home and respected abroad by
the war of 1812, which was gallantly fought by the
South and bitterly opposed by New England—opposed
to the very verge of secession from the Union in the
Hartford convention. The Southern States had shown
their devotion to the Union by yielding to the compromises
on the tariff, the bounty, and the territorial questions.
The South demanded no tariff tribute, no bounties
and no internal improvements as the price of her devotion
to the Union. She loved the Union for the Union’s
sake. All that she demanded was that in the territory,
while it was territory, belonging to the government, her
sons, with their families, white and black, should have
an equal share.</p>
<p>John C. Calhoun was not a disunionist. The nullification
ordinance of South Carolina, “the Hotspur of the
Union,” was not secession. It was the protest of a
sovereign State against unconstitutional Federal taxation
levied through the tariff on the consumer, not for
government revenue, but for the benefit of the manufacturer.
The nation heard the manly voice of the little
State, and Calhoun and Clay stood side by side in the
great compromise that followed. Calhoun and his
people loved the Union, but they wanted a union that was
a union. True religion is that which is laid down in the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span>
Bible, not theory nor sentiment. True political union is
the union formed by the Sovereign States and expressed
in the Constitution. Constitutional union was the only
true union. Everything else was a mere sentiment or a
sham. History will yet hold that the secession of the
Southern States in 1861 was itself a union movement.
The Northern States had destroyed the old union. By
their numerous nullification acts in State assemblies they
had repudiated the legislative branch of the government;
by their defiance of the Supreme Court they had virtually
abolished the judiciary, the second branch; and in 1860,
by the sectional platform of the dominant party and the
election of a sectional president, they had denationalized
the executive branch of the government. Where was the
union? Gone, utterly gone. South Carolina only cut
herself off from the union-breakers and attached herself
to such States as clung to the Constitution and Union of
the fathers. Secession in 1861 meant the preservation
of the union of 1787. Coercion in 1861 was rebellion
against the Federal compact and death of the old Union.
The Star-Spangled Banner became the labarum of invasion,
and the Southern Cross the standard of all the
Union that was left.</p>
<p>The Union that our fathers and mothers loved lay
buried for twenty-five years. From March, 1861, to
March, 1885, any true Southern man in the national capital
found himself a stranger in a strange land, and was
looked upon as a political Pariah by those in power,—an
intruder even in the house of his fathers. Every government
office all over the land in the hands of the Northern
States. What a travesty of union! The North a dictator,
the South a satrapy. The Northern man, lord;
the Southern man, a vassal.</p>
<p>But, thank God, the resurrection came; the door-stone
of the tomb was rolled away by the national election of
Cleveland in 1884. “The Southern States are in the
Union, and they shall have their equal rights,” was the
slogan of the triumphant party. Then go to the capital
and you find the first national administration since
Buchanan—Bayard, the champion of the South, in the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span>
first place in the Cabinet, and by his side the Confederate
leaders, Lamar and Garland. About the first act of the
administration was to appoint General Lawton, the quartermaster-general
of the Confederate army, to one of the
most conspicuous embassies in Europe, Curry to Spain
and other Confederates wherever there was a place for
them. The sons of our Southern mothers were no longer
under the ban. Peace, real peace, had come. The Union,
real union, was herself again.</p>
<p>Again in 1892 the electoral votes of the Northern
States alone were sufficient to make Grover Cleveland, the
great pacificator, twice the choice of the solid South,
again President of the United States. Once more there
is a national Cabinet, the South having half of it, with a
Confederate colonel in command of the navy, another
minister to France, another to Mexico, another to Guatemala—Southern
men at Madrid and Constantinople;
and when this country needs a man to represent her in
the crisis in Cuba to a Virginia Lee is given the conspicuous
honor.</p>
<p>The last unjust election law is repealed; the last taint
taken from the fair name of Confederate officers. The
North has extended the right hand of union. The South
has grasped it; and withered be the arm that would tear
those hands asunder.</p>
<h4><i>Image of the Southern Woman Surmounting the
Monument</i></h4>
<p>High above these hands, artist, place the crowning
statue of the Southern woman. Let it be the queenly
form of the proudest of the proud mothers of Southern
chivalry. Let her sweet, calm image face the north,—no
frown on her brow,—no scorn on her lip. Let her
happy, hopeful smile tell the world that Southern womanhood
felt most sadly the Union broken, and hails most
joyfully the Union restored.</p>
<p>My countrymen, we have a country! In the name of
God, our mothers, as they look down from heaven, beseech
you to preserve it.</p>
<p>The art of sculpture was finished in ancient Greece, and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span>
the statue of Venus de Medici will never be surpassed. In
it the artist has put in marble the perfect form, face,
majesty and grace of woman. The ancients in their
sensual materialism adored beauty in form and feature
and many moderns worship at the same shrine. The German
poet Heine, when an invalid in Paris, had himself
carried every day in a roller chair to the Tuilleries, to
gaze upon the marble beauty of Venus de Milo. If in
our age, the artist ever attempts to sculpture the true
woman, the woman with soul, the Christian Psyche, with
heart as perfect as her face, with character more charming
than her form, the modern Praxitiles will take for his
model the Southern woman, from among your mothers
and grandmothers. They are your models in character
now. To you much is given; of you will much be required.
Study your mothers and may Heaven help you
to learn the God-given lesson.</p>
<p>Young men, the model man, Jesus Christ, the divine
Saviour of our world, asked for no carved stone, no
statue to his memory. He wanted no marble cathedral.
He demanded living monuments,—men and women to set
forth in holy lives the lessons of his example. From
childhood He honored his mother, nor did He forget her
on the cross.</p>
<p>With something of his exalted spirit your mothers, who
have gone before you, demand of you not a chiseled
monument, but they do beseech you to honor them in
manly life. Hold sacred the very blood they gave you.
Lay hold of their lofty principles; drink in their noble
spirit. Set forth their glorious patriotism, and you will
be a crown to them, a blessing to your country, and an
honor to your God.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_II_THEIR_WORK' id='CHAPTER_II_THEIR_WORK'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER II
<span class='chsub'> <br />THEIR WORK</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='INTRODUCTION_TO_WOMANS_WORK' id='INTRODUCTION_TO_WOMANS_WORK'></a>
<h3>INTRODUCTION TO WOMAN’S WORK</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Throughout the South the women went to work from
the first drum-beat. A great deal of it was done privately,
the left hand itself hardly knowing what the modest,
humble right hand was doing. In nearly every neighborhood
soldiers’ aid societies, or relief associations, were
organized and did systematic and efficient work throughout
the four years. Supplies of every kind were constantly
gathered and forwarded where most needed. The
old men and women did an immense amount of work.</p>
<p>In all the railroad towns, hospitals and wayside houses
were established for the benefit of the travelling soldier.
These were maintained and managed almost exclusively
by the women. They prepared as best they could such
articles as pickles and preserves and other delicacies for
the use of the hospitals. They sent testaments and other
good books and good preachers to the army, and being
nearly all women of practical piety, they helped greatly to
infuse that spirit of patriotism which gave such strength
to the Confederate army. The world has never known
an army in which there were so many earnest, practical
Christians like Jackson, Cobb, Lee, Polk, Price, and
Gordon among the commanding officers, where there
were so many ministers of the gospel of good standing
who were fighting soldiers, and so many men in ranks
who were God-fearing men. The world has never known
an army where so many officers and soldiers came from
homes where there were pious wives, mothers, and sisters.
The inspiration of the knightly hearts of the Confederacy
was home and the inspiration of a pious home was godly
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span>
woman. The world will never know how effective were
the prayers and letters of the women at home in those
great religious revivals with which the Confederate army
was so often and so richly blessed. Thousands of men
who entered the army wicked men went home or to their
graves genuine Christians. The war ended; but the
good woman’s work never ends. Our Confederate
women began immediately to look after the soldiers’
orphans and the soldiers’ graves. In all directions the
Confederate monuments have been erected mainly by
their efforts. Soldiers’ homes have been established and
in some few of the States homes provided for the Confederate
widows. It is safe to say that women collected
two-thirds of the money raised for all these objects. It
is their dead they are honoring. And they will continue
to break the alabaster box. Let them alone.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_SOUTHERN_WOMANS_SONG' id='THE_SOUTHERN_WOMANS_SONG'></a>
<h3>THE SOUTHERN WOMAN’S SONG</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Confederate Scrap Book.]</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Stitch, stitch, stitch.</p>
<p>Little needle, swiftly fly,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Brightly glitter as you go;</p>
<p>Every time that you pass by</p>
<p class='indent2'>Warms my heart with pity’s glow.</p>
<p>Dreams of comfort that will cheer,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Dreams of courage you will bring,</p>
<p>Through winter’s cold, the volunteer.</p>
<p class='indent2'>Smile on me like flowers in spring.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Stitch, stitch, stitch.</p>
<p>Swiftly, little needle, fly,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Through this flannel, soft and warm;</p>
<p>Though with cold the soldiers sigh,</p>
<p class='indent2'>This will sure keep out the storm.</p>
<p>Set the buttons close and tight,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Out to shut the winter’s damp;</p>
<p>There’ll be none to fix them right</p>
<p class='indent2'>In the soldier’s tented camp.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Stitch, stitch, stitch.</p>
<p>Ah! needle, do not linger;</p>
<p class='indent2'>Close the thread, make fine the knot;</p>
<p>There’ll be no dainty finger</p>
<p class='indent2'>To arrange a seam forgot.</p>
<p>Though small and tiny you may be,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Do all that you are able.</p>
<p>A mouse a lion once set free,</p>
<p class='indent2'>As says the pretty fable.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Stitch, stitch, stitch.</p>
<p>Swiftly, little needle, glide.</p>
<p class='indent2'>Thine’s a pleasant labor;</p>
<p>To clothe the soldier be thy pride,</p>
<p class='indent2'>While he wields the sabre.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span></p>
<p>Ours are tireless hearts and hands;</p>
<p class='indent2'>To Southern wives and mothers,</p>
<p>All who join our warlike bands</p>
<p class='indent2'>Are our friends and brothers.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Stitch, stitch, stitch.</p>
<p>Little needle, swiftly fly;</p>
<p class='indent2'>From morning until eve,</p>
<p>As the moments pass thee by,</p>
<p class='indent2'>These substantial comforts weave.</p>
<p>Busy thoughts are at our hearts—</p>
<p class='indent2'>Thoughts of hopeful cheer,</p>
<p>As we toil, till day departs,</p>
<p class='indent2'>For the noble volunteer.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p class='indent8'>Quick, quick, quick.</p>
<p>Swiftly, little needle, go;</p>
<p class='indent2'>For our homes’ most pleasant fires</p>
<p>Let a loving greeting flow</p>
<p class='indent2'>To our brothers and our sires;</p>
<p>We have tears for those who fall,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Smiles for those who laugh at fears;</p>
<p>Hope and sympathy for all—</p>
<p class='indent2'>Every noble volunteer.</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_LADIES_OF_RICHMOND' id='THE_LADIES_OF_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>THE LADIES OF RICHMOND</h3>
</div>
<p>The editor of the Lynchburg <i>Republican</i>, writing to his
paper in June, 1862, says:</p>
<p>The ladies of Richmond, as of Lynchburg, and indeed
of the whole country, are making for themselves a fame
which will live in all future history, and brilliantly illuminate
the brightest pages of the Republic’s history.</p>
<p>Discarding all false ceremony and giving full vent to
those feelings and sentiments of devotion which make her
the noblest part of God’s creation and the fondest object
of man’s existence, the ladies of this city from all ranks
have gone into the hospitals and are hourly engaged in
ministering to the wants and relieving the sufferings of
their countrymen.</p>
<p>Mothers and sisters could not be more unremitting in
their attention to their own blood than these women are
to those whom they have never seen before, and may
never see again. They feed them, nurse them, and by
their presence and sympathy cheer and encourage them.
“Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless millions
mourn,” but woman’s sympathy would heal every wound
and make glad every heart.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span>
<a name='THE_HOSPITAL_AFTER_SEVEN_PINES' id='THE_HOSPITAL_AFTER_SEVEN_PINES'></a>
<h3>THE HOSPITAL AFTER SEVEN PINES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Richmond During the War, pages 135-136.]</p>
<p>On this evening, as a kind woman bent over the stalwart
figure of a noble Georgian, and washed from his
hair and beard the stiffened mud of the Chickahominy,
where he fell from a wound through the upper portion of
the right lung, and then gently bathed the bleeding gash
left by the Minie ball, as he groaned and feebly opened
his eyes, he grasped her hand, and in broken whispers,
faint from suffering, gasping for breath, “I could-bear-all-this-for-myself-alone-but
my-wife and my-six little-ones,”
(and then the large tears rolled down his weather-beaten
cheeks,) and overcome he could only add, “Oh,
God! oh, God!-how will-they endure it?” She bent her
head and wept in sympathy. The tall man’s frame was
shaking with agony. She placed to his fevered lips a
cooling draught, and whispered: “Think of yourself just
now; God may raise you up to them, and if not, He will
provide for and comfort them.” He feebly grasped her
hand once more, and a look of gratitude stole over his
manly face, and he whispered, “God bless you! God bless
you! God bless you! kind stranger!”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='BURIAL_OF_LATANE' id='BURIAL_OF_LATANE'></a>
<h3>BURIAL OF LATANE</h3>
</div>
<blockquote>
<p>[“The next squadron moved to the front under the lamented Captain
Latane, making a most brilliant and successful charge with drawn sabres upon
the enemy’s picked ground, and after a hotly-contested, hand-to-hand conflict
put him to flight, but not until the gallant captain had sealed his devotion to
his native soil with his blood.”—Official Report of the Pamunkey Expedition,
Gen. J. E. B. Stuart, C. S. A., 1862.]</p>
</blockquote>
<p class='center'>[From a private letter.]</p>
<p>Lieutenant Latane carried his brother’s dead body to
Mrs. Brockenbrough’s plantation an hour or two after his
death. On this sad and lonely errand he met a party of
Yankees, who followed him to Mrs. B.’s gate, and stopping
there, told him that as soon as he had placed his
brother’s body in friendly hands he must surrender himself
prisoner. * * * Mrs. B. sent for an Episcopal
clergyman to perform the funeral ceremonies, but the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span>
enemy would not permit him to pass. Then, with a few
other ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron filled with
white flowers, and a few faithful slaves, who stood
reverently near, a pious Virginia matron read the solemn
and beautiful burial service over the cold, still form of
one of the noblest gentlemen and most intrepid officers in
the Confederate army. She watched the sods heaped
upon the coffin-lid, then sinking on her knees, in sight and
hearing of the foe, she committed his soul’s welfare and
the stricken hearts he had left behind him to the mercy of
the “All-Father.”</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,</p>
<p class='indent2'><i>Victrix et vidua</i>, the conflict done,</p>
<p>Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear</p>
<p class='indent2'>That starts as she recalls each martyred son,</p>
<p>No prouder memory her breast shall sway,</p>
<p>Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane!”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MAKING_CLOTHES_FOR_THE_SOLDIERS' id='MAKING_CLOTHES_FOR_THE_SOLDIERS'></a>
<h3>MAKING CLOTHES FOR THE SOLDIERS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Our Women in the War, pages 453-454.]</p>
<p>Money was almost as unavailable as material with us
for a time. “Uncle Sam’s” treasury was not accessible to
“rebels.” Our government was young, and Confederate
bonds and money yet in their infancy. We could do
nothing more than wait developments, and try to meet
emergencies as they trooped up before us. In the meantime,
children grew apace. Our village stores were
emptied and deserted. Our armies in the field became
grand realities. All resources were cut off. Our government
could poorly provide food and clothing and ammunition
for its armies. Then it was our mothers’ wit was
tested and did in no sort disappoint our expectations.
Spinning-wheels, looms and dye-pots were soon brought
into requisition. Wool of home production was especially
converted, by loving hands, into warm flannels and
heavy garments, with soft scarfs and snugly-fitted leggings,
to shield our dear boys from Virginia’s wintry
blasts and fast-falling snows. Later on, when the wants
and privations of the army grew more pressing, societies
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span>
were formed to provide supplies for the general demand.
Southern homes withheld nothing that could add to the
soldiers’ comfort. Every available fragment of material
was converted into some kind of garment. After the
stores of blankets in each home had been given, carpets
were utilized in their stead and portioned out to the suffering
soldiers. Wool mattresses were ripped open, recarded,
and woven into coverings and clothing. Bits of
new woolen fabrics, left from former garments, were
ravelled, carded, mixed with cotton and spun and knitted
into socks. Old and worn garments were carried through
the same process. Even rabbits’ fur was mixed with
cotton and silk, and appeared again in the form of neat
and comfortable gloves. Begging committees went forth
(and be it truthfully said, the writer never knew of a
single one being turned away empty) to gather up the
offerings from mansion and hamlet, which were soon cut
up, packed, and forwarded with all possible speed to the
soldiers.</p>
<p>And who can tell what pleasure we took in filling boxes
with substantials and such dainties as we could secure for
the hospitals. Old men and little boys were occupied in
winding thread and holding brooches, and even knitting
on the socks when the mystery of “turning the heel” had
been passed. The little spinning-wheel, turned by a
treadle, became a fascination to the girls, and with its
busy hum was mingled oft times the merry strain of
patriotic songs.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Our wagon’s plenty big enough, the running gear is good,</p>
<p>’Tis stiffened with cotton round the sides and made of Southern wood;</p>
<p>Carolina is the driver, with Georgia by her side;</p>
<p>Virginia’ll hold the flag up and we’ll take a ride.”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_INGENUITY_OF_SOUTHERN_WOMEN' id='THE_INGENUITY_OF_SOUTHERN_WOMEN'></a>
<h3>THE INGENUITY OF SOUTHERN WOMEN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Our Women in the War, pages 454-455.]</p>
<p>During all that time, when every woman vied with the
other in working for the soldiers, there were needs at
home too urgent to be disregarded. These, too, had to be
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span>
met, and how was not long the question. For those very
women who had been reared in ease and affluence soon
learned practically that “necessity is the mother of invention,”
and the story of their ingenuity, if all told,
might surprise their Northern sisters, who always regarded
them as inefficient, pleasure-loving members of
society. Whatever may have been the fault of their institutions
and rearing, the war certainly brought out the
true woman, and no woman of any age or nation ever
entered, heart and soul, more enthusiastically into their
country’s contest than those who now mourn the “Lost
Cause.” While our armies were victorious in the field
hope lured us on. We bore our share of privations cheerfully
and gladly.</p>
<p>We replaced our worn dresses with homespuns, planning
and devising checks and plaids, and intermingling
colors with the skill of professional “designers.” The
samples we interchanged were homespuns of our last
weaving, not A. T. Stuart’s or John Wanamaker’s
sample envelopes, with their elaborate display of rich and
costly fabrics. Our mothers’ silk stockings, of ante-bellum
date, were ravelled with patience and transformed into
the prettiest of neat-fitting gloves. The writer remembers
never to have been more pleased than she was by the possession
of a trim pair of boots made of the tanned skins
of some half-dozen squirrels. They were so much softer
and finer than the ordinary heavy calf-skin affairs to be
bought at the village “shoe shop,” that no Northern
maiden was ever more pleased with her ten-dollar boots.
Our hats, made of palmetto and rye straw, were becoming
and pretty without lace, tips, or flowers. Our jackets
were made of the fathers’ old-fashioned cloaks, in vogue
some forty years agone—those of that style represented
in the pictures of Mr. Calhoun—doing splendid service by
supplying all the girls in the family at once. We even
made palmetto jewelry of exquisite designs, intermingled
with our hair, that we might keep even with the boys who
wore “palmetto cockades.” The flowers we wore were
nature’s own beautiful, fragrant blossoms, sometimes,
when in a patriotic mood, nestled, with symbolic cotton
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span>
balls. For our calico dresses, if ever so fortunate as to
find one, we sometimes paid a hundred dollars, and for
the spool of cotton that made it from ten to twenty
dollars. The buttons we used were oftentimes cut from
a gourd into sizes required and covered with cloth, they
having the advantage of pasteboard because they were
rounded. On children’s clothes persimmon seed in their
natural state, with two holes drilled through them, were
found both neat and durable. In short, we fastened all
our garments after true Confederate style, without the aid
of Madame Demorest’s guide book or Worth’s Parisian
models, and suffered from none of Miss Flora McFlimsey’s
harassing dilemmas.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_LEE_AND_THE_SOCKS' id='MRS_LEE_AND_THE_SOCKS'></a>
<h3>MRS. LEE AND THE SOCKS</h3>
</div>
<p>R. E. Lee, in his recollections of his father, General
Lee, says:</p>
<p>“His letters to my mother tell how much his men were
in need. My mother was an invalid from rheumatism,
and confined to a roller chair. To help the cause with
her own hands, as far as she could, she was constantly
occupied in knitting socks for the soldiers, and induced
all around her to do the same. She sent them directly to
my father and he always acknowledged them.”</p>
<p>It was well known in the army what great pleasure it
gave the General to distribute these socks.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='FITTING_OUT_A_SOLDIER' id='FITTING_OUT_A_SOLDIER'></a>
<h3>FITTING OUT A SOLDIER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. Roger A. Pryor’s Reminiscences of Peace and War, pages 131-133.]</p>
<p>When I returned to my father’s home in Petersburg I
found my friends possessed with an intense spirit of
patriotism. The First, Second and Third Virginia were
already mustered into service; my husband was colonel
of the Third Virginia Infantry. The men were to be
equipped for service immediately. All of “the boys” were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span>
going—the three Manys, Will Johnson, Berry Stainback,
Ned Graham; all the young, dancing set, the young lawyers
and doctors—everybody, in short, except bank presidents,
druggists, a doctor or two (over age), and young
boys under sixteen. To be idle was torture. We women
resolved ourselves into a sewing society, resting not on
Sundays. Sewing-machines were put into the churches,
which became depots for flannel, muslin, strong linen, and
even uniform cloth. When the hour for meeting arrived,
the sewing class would be summoned by the ringing of
the church bell. My dear Agnes was visiting in Petersburg,
and was my faithful ally in all my work. We instituted
a monster sewing class, which we hugely enjoyed,
to meet daily at my home on Market street. My colonel
was to be fitted out as never was colonel before. He was
ordered to Norfolk with his regiment to protect the seaboard.
I was proud of his colonelship, and much exercised
because he had no shoulder-straps. I undertook to
embroider them myself. We had not then decided upon
the star for our colonels’ insignia, and I supposed he
would wear the eagle like all the colonels I had ever
known. We embroidered bullion fringe, cut it in lengths,
and made eagles, probably of some extinct species, for
the like were unknown in Audubon’s time, and have not
since been discovered. However, they were accepted, admired,
and, what is worse, worn.</p>
<p>The Confederate soldier was furnished at the beginning
of the war with a gun, pistol, canteen, tin cup, haversack,
and knapsack—no inconsiderable weight to be borne in a
march. The knapsack contained a fatigue jacket, one or
two blankets, an oil-cloth, several suits of underclothing,
several pairs of white gloves, collars, neckties, and handkerchiefs.
Each mess purchased a mess-chest containing
dishes, bowls, plates, knives, forks, spoons, cruets, spice-boxes,
glasses, etc. Each mess also owned a frying-pan,
oven, coffee-pot, and camp-kettle. The uniforms were of
the finest cadet cloth and gold lace. This outfit—although
not comparable to that of the Federal soldier, many of
whom had “Saratoga” trunks in the baggage train—was
considered sumptuous by the Confederate volunteer. As
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span>
if these were not enough, we taxed our ingenuity to add
sundry comforts, weighing little, by which we might give
a touch of refinement to the soldier’s knapsack.</p>
<p>There was absolutely nothing which a man might possibly
use that we did not make for them. We embroidered
cases for razors, for soap and sponge, and cute
morocco affairs for needles, thread, and courtplaster, with
a little pocket lined with a bank note. “How perfectly
ridiculous,” do you say? Nothing is ridiculous that helps
anxious women to bear their lot—cheats them with the
hope that they are doing good.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_THIMBLE_BRIGADE' id='THE_THIMBLE_BRIGADE'></a>
<h3>THE THIMBLE BRIGADE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Dickison and His Men, pages 161-162.]</p>
<p>With prayerful hearts, the devoted women of Marion
formed themselves into societies for united efforts in behalf
of our gallant defenders.</p>
<p>At Orange Lake, we formed a Soldiers’ Relief Association,
playfully called the “Thimble Brigade;” and, with
earnest faith in the blessing of God upon our work, we
began our mission of love. With grateful hearts we
labored to provide comforts for the brave soldiers, who
around their campfires were keeping watch for us. The
following notice will be read by our sisterhood with mingled
emotions of pleasure and sadness:</p>
<p>“In this number of the Ocala <i>Home Journal</i> will be
found the proceedings of a meeting of the ladies of the
neighborhood of Orange Lake, held for the purpose of
organizing a ‘Soldiers’ Friend’ Association. They have
not only succeeded in perfecting their organization, but
have already accomplished a great deal for the benefit of
the soldiers. They have made thirty pairs of pants for
the soldiers at Fernandina, the ladies furnishing the
material from their own private stores, besides knitting
socks and making other garments. The manner in which
they have commenced this patriotic work is, indeed, encouraging
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span>
to all who have the soldier’s welfare at heart,
and we know that they will labor as long as the necessities
of the soldier require it.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='NOBLE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND' id='NOBLE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>NOBLE WOMEN OF RICHMOND</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In A Rebel’s Recollections, pages 66-69.]</p>
<p>In Richmond, when the hospitals were filled with
wounded men brought in from the seven days’ fighting
with McClellan, and the surgeons found it impossible to
dress half the wounds, a band was formed, consisting of
nearly all the married women of the city, who took upon
themselves the duty of going to the hospitals and dressing
wounds from morning till night; and they persisted in
their painful duty until every man was cared for, saving
hundreds of lives, as the surgeons unanimously testified.
When nitre was found to be growing scarce, and the
supply of gunpowder was consequently about to give out,
women all over the land dug up the earth in their smokehouses
and tobacco barns, and with their own hands faithfully
extracted the desired salt, for use in the government
laboratories.</p>
<p>Many of them denied themselves not only delicacies,
but substantial food also, when, by enduring semi-starvation,
they could add to the stock of food at the command
of the subsistence officers. I myself knew more than one
houseful of women, who, from the moment that food
began to grow scarce, refused to eat meat or drink coffee,
living thenceforth only upon vegetables of a speedily perishable
sort, in order that they might leave the more for
the soldiers in the field. When a friend remonstrated
with one of them, on the ground that her health, already
frail, was breaking down utterly for want of proper diet,
she replied, in a quiet, determined way, “I know that very
well; but it is little that I can do, and I must do that little
at any cost. My health and life are worth less than those
of my brothers, and if they give theirs to the cause, why
should not I do the same? I would starve to death
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span>
cheerfully if I could feed one soldier more by doing so,
but the things I eat can’t be sent to camp. I think it a sin
to eat anything that can be used for rations.” And she
meant what she said, too, as a little mound in the church-yard
testifies.</p>
<p>Every Confederate remembers gratefully the reception
given him when he went into any house where these
women were. Whoever he might be, and whatever his
plight, if he wore the gray, he was received, not as a
beggar or tramp, not even as a stranger, but as a son of
the house, for whom it held nothing too good, and whose
comfort was the one care of all its inmates, even though
their own must be sacrificed in securing it. When the
hospitals were crowded, the people earnestly besought permission
to take the men to their houses and to care for
them there, and for many months almost every house
within a radius of a hundred miles of Richmond held one
or more wounded men as especially honored guests.</p>
<p>“God bless these Virginia women!” said a general officer
from one of the cotton States, one day; “they’re
worth a regiment apiece.” And he spoke the thought of
the army, except that their blessing covered the whole
country as well as Virginia.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='FROM_MATOACA_GAYS_ARTICLES_IN_THE_PHILADELPHIA_TIM' id='FROM_MATOACA_GAYS_ARTICLES_IN_THE_PHILADELPHIA_TIM'></a>
<h3>FROM MATOACA GAY’S ARTICLES IN THE <i>PHILADELPHIA TIMES</i></h3>
</div>
<p>In a diary kept at the time by an official in the War
Department I find this entry:</p>
<p><i>May 10, 1861.</i>—The ladies are sewing everywhere, and
are full of ardor. Love affairs are plentiful, but the ladies
are postponing all engagements till their lovers have
fought the Yankees. Their influence is very great. Day
after day they go in crowds to the fair grounds, where the
First South Carolina Volunteers are encamped, showering
upon them smiles and every delicacy which the city
can afford. They wine them and dine them, and they
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span>
deserve it, for they are just from the taking of Sumter,
and have won historic distinction. I was presented to
several very distinguished looking young men, all of them
privates, and was told by their captain that many of them
were worth from a hundred thousand to half a million.
These are the men the <i>Tribune</i> thought would all of them
want to be captains; but that is only one of the hallucinations
under which the North is now laboring.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND' id='THE_WOMEN_OF_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>THE WOMEN OF RICHMOND</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]</p>
<p>But of what importance was the fact that I was homeless,
houseless and moneyless, in Richmond, the heart of
Virginia? Who ever wanted for aught that kind hearts,
generous hands or noble hospitality could supply, that it
was not here offered without even the shadow of a patronage
that could have made it distasteful? What women
were ever so refined in feeling and so unaffected in manner;
so willing to share all that wealth gives, and so little
infected with the pride of purse which bestows that
power? It was difficult to hide one’s needs from them;
they found them out and ministered to them with their
quiet simplicity and the innate nobility which gave to
their generosity the coloring of a favor received, not
conferred.</p>
<p>Would that I could do more than thank the dear friends
who made my life for four years so happy and contented;
who never made me feel by word or act that my
self-imposed occupation was otherwise than one which
would ennoble any woman. If ever any aid was given
through my own exertions, or any labor rendered effective
by me for the good of the South—if any sick soldier ever
benefited by my happy face or pleasant smiles at his bedside,
or death was ever soothed by gentle words of hope
and tender care—such results were only owing to the
cheering encouragement I received from them.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span>
<a name='TWO_GEORGIA_HEROINES' id='TWO_GEORGIA_HEROINES'></a>
<h3>TWO GEORGIA HEROINES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mary L. Jewett, Corresponding Secretary Clement Evans Chapter, U. D. C.]</p>
<p>“To such women as these should a shaft of precious
stone be erected.”</p>
<p>’Twas thus an old soldier spoke of the wife of Judge
Alexander Herrington, of Dougherty County, Georgia,
many years ago, when the heroism of the Southern
women was mentioned. She was president of the ladies’
relief association during the war, and as such had thirty
machines brought to her home and the neighbors gathered
together and made leggings and clothing for “our boys,”
as they were called. Many and many days did she work
with bleeding hands, caused by the constant use of the
shears, for with her own hands she did the cutting for the
others to stitch. This was a work that is far beyond the
understanding of the present day, for she had never
known a day’s toil, being the wife of a wealthy planter
and slave owner. Not only did she and Judge Herrington
give money, cattle, cotton, and slaves to be used in the
erecting of breastworks, but he being too old, and their
only son being a mere child, they bravely sent two of their
daughters to the field as army nurses, one of which served
through the entire war. After the war, with slaves and
money gone, her husband died, and it was then that she
and her children suffered through the days of reconstruction,
with never a murmur from her lips for the things
she had given up and lost.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_SEVEN_DAYS_BATTLE' id='THE_SEVEN_DAYS_BATTLE'></a>
<h3>THE SEVEN DAYS’ BATTLE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. R. A. Pryor’s Reminiscences.]</p>
<p>All the afternoon the dreadful guns shook the earth and
thrilled our souls with horror. I shut myself in my
darkened room. At twilight I had a note from Governor
Letcher, telling me a fierce battle was raging, and inviting
me to come to the governor’s mansion. From the roof
one might see the flash of musket and artillery.</p>
<p>No; I did not wish to see the infernal fires. I preferred
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span>
to watch and wait alone in my room. And so the
night wore on and I waited and watched. Before the
dawn a hurried footstep brought a message from the
battlefield to my door:</p>
<p>“The general, madame, is safe and well. Colonel Scott
has been killed. The general has placed a guard around
his body, and he will be sent here early to-morrow. The
general bids me say he will not return. The fight will be
renewed, and will continue until the enemy is driven
away.”</p>
<p>My resolution was taken. My children were safe with
their grandmother. I would write. I would ask that
every particle of my household linen, except a change,
should be rolled into bandages, all my fine linen be sent
to me for compresses, and all forwarded as soon as possible.
I would enter the new hospital which had been improvised
in Kent & Paine’s warehouse, and would remain
there as a nurse as long as the armies were fighting
around Richmond.</p>
<p>But the courier was passing on his rounds with news to
others. Presently Fanny Poindexter, in tears, knocked
at my door.</p>
<p>“She is bearing it like a brave, Christian woman.”</p>
<p>“She? Who? Tell me quick.”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Scott. I had to tell her. She simply said, ‘I
shall see him once more.’ The general wrote to her from
the battlefield and told her how nobly her husband died,
leading his men in the thick of the fight, and how he had
helped to save the city.”</p>
<p>Alas! that the city should have needed saving. What
had Mrs. Scott and her children done? Why should they
suffer? Who was to blame for it all?</p>
<p>Kent & Paine’s warehouse was a large, airy building,
which had, I understood, been offered by the proprietors
for a hospital immediately after the battle of Seven Pines.
McClellan’s advance upon Richmond had heavily taxed
the capacity of the hospitals already established.</p>
<p>When I reached the warehouse, early on the morning
after the fight at Mechanicsville, I found cots on the
lower floor already occupied, and other cots in process of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span>
preparation. An aisle between the rows of narrow beds
stretched to the rear of the building. Broad stairs led to
a story above, where other cots were being laid.</p>
<p>The volunteer matron was a beautiful woman, Mrs.
Wilson. When I was presented to her as a candidate for
admission, her serene eyes rested doubtfully upon me for
a moment. She hesitated. Finally she said:</p>
<p>“The work is very exacting. There are so few of us
that our nurses must do anything and everything—make
beds, wait upon anybody, and often a half a dozen at a
time.”</p>
<p>“I will engage to do all that,” I declared, and she permitted
me to go to a desk at the farther end of the room
and enter my name.</p>
<p>As I passed by the rows of occupied cots, I saw a nurse
kneeling beside one of them, holding a pan for a surgeon.
The red stump of an amputated arm was held over it.
The next thing I knew I was myself lying on a cot, and a
spray of cold water was falling over my face. I had
fainted. Opening my eyes, I found the matron standing
beside me.</p>
<p>“You see it is as I thought. You are unfit for this
work. One of the nurses will conduct you home.”</p>
<p>The nurse’s assistance was declined, however. I had
given trouble enough for one day, and had only interrupted
those who were really worth something. A night’s
vigil had been poor preparation for hospital work. I resolved
I would conquer my culpable weakness. It was all
very well,—these heroics in which I indulged, these
paroxysms of patriotism, this adoration of the defenders
of my fireside. The defender in the field had naught to
hope from me in case he should be wounded in my defence.</p>
<p>I took myself well in hand. Why had I fainted? I
thought it was because of the sickening, dead odor in the
hospital, mingled with that of acids and disinfectants. Of
course, this would always be there—and worse, as
wounded men filled the rooms. I provided myself with
sal volatile and spirits of camphor,—we wore pockets in
our gowns in those days,—and thus armed I presented
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span>
myself again to Mrs. Wilson. She was as kind as she
was refined and intelligent. “I will give you a place near
the door,” she said, “and you must run out into the air
at the first hint of faintness. You will get over it, see if
you don’t.”</p>
<p>Ambulances began to come in and unload at the door.
I soon had occupation enough, and a few drops of camphor
on my handkerchief tided me over the worst. The
wounded men crowded in and sat patiently waiting their
turn. One fine little fellow of fifteen unrolled a handkerchief
from his wrist to show me his wound. “There’s a
bullet in there,” he said proudly. “I am going to have it
cut out, and then go right back to the fight. Isn’t it lucky
it’s my left hand?”</p>
<p>As the day wore on I became more and more absorbed
in my work. I had, too, the stimulus of a reproof from
Miss Deborah Couch, a brisk, efficient, middle-aged lady,
who asked no quarter and gave none. She was standing
beside me a moment, with a bright tin pan filled with
pure water, into which I foolishly dipped a finger to see
if it were warm, to learn if I would be expected to provide
warm water when I should be called upon to assist the
surgeon.</p>
<p>“This water, madame, was prepared for a raw wound,”
said Miss Deborah, sternly. “I must now make the surgeon
wait until I get more.”</p>
<p>Miss Deborah, in advance of her time, was a germ
theorist. My touch evidently was contaminating.</p>
<p>As she charged down the aisle, with a pan of water in
her hand, everybody made way. She had known of my
“fine-lady faintness,” as she termed it, and I could see
she despised me for it. She had volunteered, as all the
nurses had, and she meant business. She had no patience
with nonsense, and truly she was worth more than all the
rest of us.</p>
<p>“Where can I get a little ice?” I one day ventured of
Miss Deborah.</p>
<p>“Find it,” she rejoined, as she rapidly passed on; but
find it I never did. Ice was an unknown luxury until
brought to us later from private houses.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span></div>
<p>But I found myself thoroughly reinstated—with surgeons,
matrons and Miss Deborah—when I appeared a
few days later, accompanied by a man bearing a basket of
clean, well-rolled bandages, with promise of more to
come. The Petersburg women had gone to work with a
will upon my table-cloths, sheets, and dimity counterpanes—and
even the chintz furniture covers. My springlike
green and white chintz bandages appeared on many
a manly arm and leg. My fine linen underwear and napkins
were cut, by the sewing circle at the Spotswood, according
to the surgeons’ directions, into two lengths two
inches wide, then folded two inches, doubling back and
forth in a smaller fold each time, until they formed
pointed wedges or compresses.</p>
<p>Such was the sudden and overwhelming demand for
such things that but for my own and similar donations
of household linen the wounded men would have suffered.
The war had come upon us suddenly. Many of
our ports were already closed and we had no stores laid
up for such an emergency.</p>
<p>The bloody battle of Gaines’ Mill soon followed. Then
Frazier’s farm, within the week, and at once the hospital
was filled to overflowing. Every night a courier brought
me tidings of my husband. When I saw him at the door
my heart would die within me. One morning John came
in for certain supplies. After being reassured as to his
master’s safety, I asked, “Did he have a comfortable
night, John?”</p>
<p>“He sholy did. Marse Roger sart’nly was comfortable
las’ night. He slep’ on de field ’twixt two daid horses.”</p>
<p>The women who worked in Kent & Paine’s hospital
never seemed to weary. After a while the wise matron
assigned us hours, and we went on duty with the regularity
of trained nurses. My hours were from 7 to 7
during the day, with the promise of night service should
I be needed. Efficient, kindly colored women assisted us.
Their motherly manner soothed the prostrate soldier,
whom they always addressed as “son.”</p>
<p>Many fine young fellows lost their lives for want of
prompt attention. They never murmured. They would
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span>
give way to those who seemed to be more seriously
wounded than themselves, and the latter would recover,
while from the slighter wounds gangrene would supervene
from delay. Very few men ever walked away from
that hospital. They died, or friends found quarters for
them in Richmond. None complained. Unless a poor
man grew delirious, he never groaned. There was an
atmosphere of gentle kindness; a suppression of emotion
for the sake of others.</p>
<p>Every morning the Richmond ladies brought for our
patients such luxuries as could be procured in that scarce
time. The city was in peril, and distant farmers feared
to bring in their fruits and vegetables. One day a patient-looking,
middle-aged man said to me, “What would I not
give for a bowl of chicken broth like my mother used to
give me when I was a sick boy?” I perceived one of the
angelic matrons of Richmond at a distance, stooping over
the cots, and found my way to her and said, “Dear Mrs.
Maben, have you a chicken? And could you send some
broth to No. 39?” She promised, and I returned with
her promise to the poor, wounded fellow. He shook his
head. “To-morrow will be too late,” he said.</p>
<p>I had forgotten the circumstance next day, but at noon
I happened to look toward cot No. 39, and there was
Mrs. Maben herself. She had brought the chicken broth
in a pretty china bowl, with napkin and silver spoon, and
was feeding my doubting Thomas, to his great satisfaction.</p>
<p>It was at this hospital, I have reason to believe, that the
little story originated, which was deemed good enough to
be claimed by other hospitals, of the young girl who approached
a sick man with a pan of water in her hand and
a towel over her arm.</p>
<p>“Mayn’t I wash your face?” said the girl, timidly.</p>
<p>“Well, lady, you may if you want to,” said the man,
wearily. “It has been washed fourteen times this morning.
It can stand another time, I reckon.”</p>
<p>I discovered that I had not succeeded, despite many efforts,
in winning Miss Deborah. I learned that she was
affronted because I had not shared my offerings of jelly
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span>
and fruit with her, for her special patients. Whenever I
ventured to ask a loan from her, of a pan or a glass of
water, or the little things of which we never had enough,
she would reply, “I must keep them for the nurses who
understand reciprocity. Reciprocity is the rule some persons
never seem to comprehend.” When this was hammered
into my slow perception, I rose to the occasion. I
turned over the entire contents of a basket the landlord
of the Spotswood had given me to Miss Deborah, and she
made my path straight before me ever afterward.</p>
<p>At the end of a week the matron had promoted me.
Instead of carving the fat bacon, to be served with corn
bread, for the hospital dinner, or standing between two
rough men to keep away the flies, or fetching water, or
spreading sheets on cots, I was assigned to regular duty
with one patient.</p>
<p>The first of these proved to be a young Colonel Coppens,
of my husband’s brigade. I could comfort him very
little, for he was wounded past recovery. I spoke little
French, and could only try to keep him, as far as possible,
from annoyance. To my great relief, place was found for
him in a private family. There he soon died—the gallant
fellow I had admired on his horse a few months before.</p>
<p>Then I was placed beside the cot of Mr. (or Captain)
Boyd, of Mecklenburg, and was admonished by the
matron not to leave him alone. He was the most patient
sufferer in the world—gentle, courteous, always considerate,
never complaining.</p>
<p>“Are you in pain, Captain?”</p>
<p>“No, no,” he would say gently.</p>
<p>One day when I returned from my “rest,” I found the
matron sitting beside him.</p>
<p>She motioned me to take her place, and then added,
“No, no; I will not leave him.”</p>
<p>The captain’s eyes were closed, and he sighed wearily
at intervals. Presently he whispered slowly: “There
everlasting spring abides;” then sighed, and seemed to
sleep for a moment.</p>
<p>The matron felt his pulse and raised a warning hand.
The sick man’s whisper went on: “Bright fields beyond
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span>
the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living green;” and
in a moment more the Christian soldier had crossed the
river and lain down to rest under the trees.</p>
<p>Each of the battles of those seven days brought a harvest
of wounded to our hospital. I used to veil myself
closely as I walked to and from my hotel, that I might
shut out the dreadful sights in the streets—the squads of
prisoners, and worst of all, the open wagons in which the
dead were piled. Once I did see one of these dreadful
wagons. In it a stiff arm was raised, and shook as it was
driven down the street, as though the dead owner appealed
to Heaven for vengeance—a horrible sight, never
to be forgotten.</p>
<p>After one of the bloody battles—I know not if it was
Gaines’ Mill or Frazier’s Farm or Malvern Hill—A splendid
young officer, Colonel Brokenborough, was taken to
our hospital, shot almost to pieces. He was borne up the
stairs and placed in a cot—his broken limbs in supports
swinging from the ceiling. The wife of General Mahone
and I were permitted to assist in nursing him. A young
soldier from the camp was detailed to help us, and a
clergyman was in constant attendance, coming at night
that we might have rest. Our patient held a court in his
corner of the hospital. Such a dear, gallant, cheery fellow,
handsome, and with a grand air even as he lay prostrate.
Nobody ever heard him complain. He would welcome
us in the morning with the brightest smile. His
aid said, “He watches the head of the stairs and calls up
that look for your benefit.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he said one day, “you can’t guess what’s going
to happen. Some ladies have been here and left all these
roses, and cologne, and such; and somebody has sent
champagne. We are going to have a party.”</p>
<p>Ah! but we knew he was very ill. We were bidden to
watch him every minute and not be deceived by his own
spirits. Mrs. Mahone spent her life hunting for ice. My
constant care was to keep his canteen—to which he clung
with affection—filled with fresh water from a spring not
far away, and I learned to give it to him so well that I
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span>
allowed no one to lift his head for his drink during my
hours.</p>
<p>One day, when we were alone, I was fanning him, and
thought he was asleep. He said gravely, “Mrs. Pryor,
beyond that curtain they hung up yesterday, poor young
Mitchell is lying. They don’t know. But I heard when
they brought him in. As I lie here I listen to his breathing.
I haven’t heard it now for some time. Would you
mind seeing if he is all right?”</p>
<p>I passed behind the curtain. The young soldier was
dead. His wide-open eyes seemed to meet mine in mute
appeal. I had never seen or touched a dead man, but I
laid my hands upon his eyelids and closed them. I was
standing thus when his nurse, a young volunteer like
myself, came to me.</p>
<p>“I couldn’t do that,” she said. “I went for the doctor.
I’m so glad you could do it.”</p>
<p>When I returned Colonel Brokenborough asked no
questions and I knew that his keen senses had already instructed
him.</p>
<p>To be cheerful and uncomplaining was the unwritten
law of our hospital. No bad news was ever mentioned;
no foreboding or anxiety. Mrs. Mahone was one day
standing beside Colonel Brokenborough when a messenger
from the front suddenly announced that General
Mahone had received a flesh wound. Commanding herself
instantly, she exclaimed merrily: “Flesh wound.
Now you all know that is just impossible.”</p>
<p>The general had no flesh. He was thin and attenuated
as he was brave.</p>
<p>As Colonel Brokenborough grew weaker, I felt self-reproach
that no one had offered to write letters for him.
His friend the clergyman had said to me: “That poor
boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. I wonder what is
best? Would it grieve him to speak of her. You ladies
have so much tact; you might bear it in mind. An opportunity
might offer for you to discover how he feels
about it.”</p>
<p>The next time I was alone with him I ventured: “Now,
Colonel, one mustn’t forget absent friends, you know,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span>
even if fair ladies do bring perfumes and roses and what
not. I have some ink and paper here. Shall I write a
letter for you? Tell me what to say.”</p>
<p>He turned his head and with a half-amused smile of
perfect intelligence looked at me for a long time. Then
an upward look of infinite tenderness; but the message
was never sent—never needed from a true heart like this.</p>
<p>One night I was awakened from my sleep by a knock
at my door, and a summons to “come to Colonel Brokenborough.”
When I reached his bedside I found the surgeon,
the clergyman, and the colonel’s aid. The patient
was unconscious; the end was near. We sat in silence.
Once, when he stirred, I slipped my hand under his head,
and put his canteen once more to his lips. After a long
time his breathing simply ceased, with no evidence of
pain. We waited awhile, and then the young soldier who
had been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the room,
and stooping over, kissed me on my forehead, and went
out to his duty in the ranks.</p>
<p>Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard
day, when a haggard officer, covered with mud and dust,
entered. It was my husband. “My men are all dead,” he
said, with anguish, and, falling across the bed, he gave
vent to the passionate grief of his heart.</p>
<p>Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands
wounded. Richmond was saved!</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='DEATH_OF_MRS_SARAH_K_ROWE_THE_SOLDIERS_FRIEND' id='DEATH_OF_MRS_SARAH_K_ROWE_THE_SOLDIERS_FRIEND'></a>
<h3>DEATH OF MRS. SARAH K. ROWE, “THE SOLDIERS’ FRIEND”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Orangeburg, S. C.</span>, <i>June 2, 1884</i>.</p>
<p>I feel warranted in informing you of the death of Mrs.
Sarah K. Rowe, which occurred yesterday, the 1st of
June, at her country home in this county. Mrs. Rowe was
known for four and a half years, ’61 to ’65, as “the
soldiers’ friend.” I detract nothing from great women
all over the South, Cornelias of heroic type, when I state
that Mrs. Rowe was pre-eminently the soldiers’ friend.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span>
If this should meet the eye of Hood’s Texans, of Polk’s
Tennesseeans, of Morgan’s Kentuckians, or of Pickett’s
Virginians, any of whom passed on the South Carolina
Railroad during the war, her face beaming with benevolence,
her arms loaded with food, will be remembered as
one of the sunny events of a dark time. From the first
note of war Mrs. Rowe gave all she had and could collect
by wonderful energy to the soldiers. She had her organized
squads. The gay, strong soldier to Virginia was fed
and cheered on; the mangled and sick were nursed and
cared for. She had a mother’s blessing for the brave; a
mother’s tears and sympathy for the dying and the dead.
Mrs. Rowe emphatically lived and spent herself for the
cause, and when it failed, like a noble woman she submitted,
with the remark, “It is all right.” The sight of a
bandaged head or limb under her soft touch was an everyday
picture. The echo of a thousand cheers as the troop
trains passed her was recurring every day. She bandaged
and waved God-speed as well. A few days ago Mrs.
Rowe showed by request a part of her great legacy—the
letters from the soldiers she had nursed to life again.
Truly her reward was rich. She passed away, of paralysis,
at a ripe old age. The soldiers and survivors buried
her. The Young and “Old Guard” lowered her remains
to mother earth. When Fame makes up its roll her
precious name should stand out—the soldiers’ friend.</p>
<p class='sig1'>Yours truly,<br />
<span class='smcap'>John A. Hamilton</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='YOU_WAIT' id='YOU_WAIT'></a>
<h3>“YOU WAIT”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]</p>
<p>Pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments
and lighten duties of hospital life.</p>
<p>“Kin you writ a letter?” drawled a whining voice from
a bed in one of the wards, a cold day in ’62.</p>
<p>The speaker was an up-country Georgian, one of the
kind called “Goobers” by the soldiers generally—lean,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94' name='page_94'></a>94</span>
yellow, attenuated, with wispy strands of hair hanging
over his high, thin cheek-bones. He put out a hand to
detain me and the nails were like claws.</p>
<p>“Why do you not let the nurse cut your nails?”</p>
<p>“Because I aren’t got any spoon, and I use them instead.”</p>
<p>“Will you let me have your hair cut then? You can’t
get well with all that dirty hair hanging about your eyes
and ears.”</p>
<p>“No, I can’t git my hair cut, kase as how I promised my
mammy that I would let it grow till the war be over. Oh,
it’s unlucky to cut it.”</p>
<p>“Then I can’t write any letter for you. Do what I
wish you to do, and then I will oblige you.”</p>
<p>This was plain talking. The hair was cut (I left the
nails for another day), my portfolio brought, and sitting
by the side of his bed I waited for further orders. They
came with a formal introduction,—“for Mrs. Marthy
Brown.”</p>
<p>“My dear mammy:</p>
<p>“I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me well, and I
hope that I shall git a furlough Christmas, and come and
see you, and I hope you will keep well, and all the folks
be well by that time, as I hopes to be well myself. This
leaves me in good health, as I hope it will find you and—”</p>
<p>But here I paused as his mind seemed to be going round
in a circle, and asked him a few questions about his home,
his position during the last summer’s campaign, how he
got sick, and where his brigade was at that time. Thus
furnished with some material to work upon, the letter
proceeded rapidly. Four sides were conscientiously
filled, for no soldier would think a letter worth sending
home that showed any blank paper. Transcribing his
name, the number of his ward and proper address, so that
an answer might reach him—the composition was read to
him. Gradually his pale face brightened, a sitting posture
was assumed with difficulty (for, in spite of his determined
effort to write a letter “to be well,” he was far
from convalescence). As I folded and directed it, contributed
the expected five-cent stamp, and handed it to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95' name='page_95'></a>95</span>
him, he gazed cautiously around to be sure there were no
listeners.</p>
<p>“Did you writ all that?” he asked, whispering, but with
great emphasis.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Did I say all that?”</p>
<p>“I think you did.”</p>
<p>A long pause of undoubted admiration—astonishment—ensued.
What was working in that poor mind?
Could it be that Psyche had stirred one of the delicate
plumes of her wing and touched that dormant soul?</p>
<p>“Are you married?” The harsh voice dropped very
low.</p>
<p>“I am not. At least, I am a widow.”</p>
<p>He rose still higher in bed. He pushed away desperately
the tangled hay on his brow. A faint color fluttered
over the hollow cheek, and stretching out a long
piece of bone with a talon attached, he gently touched my
arm and with constrained voice whispered mysteriously:</p>
<p>“You wait!”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='ANNANDALETWO_HEROINES_OF_MISSISSIPPI' id='ANNANDALETWO_HEROINES_OF_MISSISSIPPI'></a>
<h3>ANNANDALE—TWO HEROINES OF MISSISSIPPI</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By Anna B. A. Brown, in Memphis Commercial World.]</p>
<p>In these hurried days, when we spend the major portion
of our lives trying to keep up with the electric currents
that control the universe, it is good to be able to turn
aside for a while in the byways of the South and feel the
restfulness of old plantation life, whether it be a reality or
an echo from the past. A day spent in touch with old
Southern home life is a day full of restful peace and
happy memories.</p>
<p>In Madison County, Mississippi, one finds many bits of
ante-bellum life that the turbulent tide of commerce has
not yet swept away—big plantations, historic old mansions,
tumble-down slave quarters—that are the abiding
proofs of the prosperity and hospitality of a people who
lived and loved when knighthood was yet in flower, and
whose children live yet to preserve the old traditions.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96' name='page_96'></a>96</span>
Many of the old plantations are still tilled by the descendants
of the original owners. Many have passed into
stranger’s hands. Some stand tenantless and lonely, with
ghostly visitants slipping at midnight down the great
stairways to tread a stately measure on the ball floor, a
silent assemblage of long-ago belles and beaux returned
from the cities of the dead or from the still trenches of
Seven Pines, Chickamauga, or Shiloh.</p>
<p>One of these silent homes is Annandale, a bit of historic
Mississippi architecture that stands near Canton, once
the home of Southern chivalry and romance, now empty,
save for the memories that cluster thickly within its walls.
Annandale is the property, and was until recently the
home of the Mississippi branch of the Johnstone family,
and preserves to memory the name of the county in Scotland
that cradled the ancestors who bore this illustrious
name. It is still known as their home, though Vicksburg
now claims the daughter of the house, and only in the
summers are the doors opened again for that lavish hospitality
for which the old place was noted. Two brothers
of the Johnstone family came over from Scotland in 1734,
having been sent by George III, on business of great import
to the colonies. One had the appointment of governor
to his majesty’s colony of North Carolina, the other
that of surveyor-general. The Johnstone family remained
loyal to their king as long as native pride would
permit, and then, true to the spirit that demanded the
Magna Charta at Runnymede centuries before, they went
to the American settlements in the fight for liberty. They
were prominent in the Revolution, and after the war took
part in the political work of building up the nation.</p>
<p>John T. Johnstone, a prominent member of this family,
moved from North Carolina to Mississippi in 1836 and
bought large tracts of land in Madison County. On the
plantation near Annandale he built a comfortable home—a
fine house for those days of pioneer effort. His neighbors
were the families of Hardeman, Hinton, Ricks, Winters
and Christmas, and there are still marvelous tales
told in that locality of the lavish manner of living, the
wonderful hospitality dispensed and the gay companies
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97' name='page_97'></a>97</span>
that assembled in the old home. A few years of this
charmed life Mr. Johnstone called his, and then he was
gathered to his illustrious fathers, and the burden of this
great estate fell on the shoulders of his young widow.
She stood the test of generalship, as other Southern
women of her day have done, and the affairs of the plantation,
the slave quarters and the household moved as
smoothly as clock work and success smiled on her. The
material side of her plantation’s progress did not overshadow
the religious side, and services for bond and free
were held daily in a gothic church on the estate, the
chapel of the cross which Mrs. Johnstone had erected in
memory of her husband. The daughter of the house was
carefully educated, and as she neared womanhood Mrs.
Johnstone had a new home built, the present Annandale,
and the same lavish hospitality was continued.</p>
<p>Then came the war. There was no husband, brother
or son to send to the front, but the women, true to the
patriotic sentiments of their house, gave of their best.
The big mansion was turned into a factory for supplying
Confederate needs. Mrs. Johnstone and her fair daughter,
Helen, became the head of a busy body of working
women, who gave of their time and talent for the South.
All day was heard the whir of spinning-wheels, the slipping
of the shuttles in the looms; all day busy fingers
carded, wove, spun and sewed, that the soldiers might be
made more comfortable. One company of soldiers was
equipped throughout the war solely at Miss Johnstone’s
expense, while she and her mother furnished clothing to
two hundred others. The setting of dainty stitches, the
manufacture of rolled and whipped ruffles, were laid aside
for the time. The rich carpets were torn from the floors
and made into blankets; the rare bronzes and brasses
were torn from their pedestals or their fastenings and
sent to the foundries to be made into cannon; silk dresses
were transformed into banners to lead the gray-clad men
to victory, and dainty linen and cambric garments and
rare household napery and linen were ruthlessly torn in
strips to bandage the wounds of the men in the hospitals.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98' name='page_98'></a>98</span>
The granaries, smokehouses, and wine cellars gave up
their stores for the Confederacy, the wealth of these two
loyal women being laid gladly on their country’s altar.
Yet, through all this troublous season, hospitality and
merriment still reigned. The rebel lads adored the loyal
women; the Union soldiers tried more than once to burn
the house that sheltered such secessionists.</p>
<p>During the war the fair daughter of the house was married
to Rev. George Carroll Harris, of Nashville, and for
many years rector of Christ Church, and widely known
throughout the South.</p>
<p>In 1880 Mrs. Johnstone died, and historic Annandale
passed into her daughter’s hands, and is still owned by
her. A few years ago the son of Dr. and Mrs. Harris,
George Harris, married Miss Cecile Nugent, of Jackson,
Mississippi, and they live on his place in the Delta, and
with the marriage of the daughter Helen to the son of
the late Bishop Thompson the younger generation of
Annandale closed another chapter of romances for the
old home. But even though the windows are darkened
and no material form passes daily over the threshold, the
inner air is still palpitant with memories, and who knows
what gay revels the ghostly companies of the past may
not hold in the grand salon when midnight has come and
the human world is wrapped in slumber?</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_PLANTATION_HEROINE' id='A_PLANTATION_HEROINE'></a>
<h3>A PLANTATION HEROINE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Soldier Stories, pages 203-205.]</p>
<p>It was nearing the end. Every resource of the Southern
States had been taxed to the point of exhaustion.
The people had given up everything they had for “the
cause.” Under the law of a “tax in kind,” they had surrendered
all they could spare of food products of every
character. Under an untamable impulse of patriotism
they had surrendered much more than they could spare in
order to feed the army.</p>
<p>It was at such a time that I went to my home county on
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span>
a little military business. I stopped for dinner at a house,
the lavish hospitality of which had been a byword in the
old days. I found before me at dinner the remnants of
a cold boiled ham, some mustard greens, which we Virginians
called “salad,” a pitcher of buttermilk, some corn
pones and—nothing else. I carved the ham, and offered
to serve it to the three women of the household. But they
all declined. They made their dinner on salad, buttermilk,
and corn bread, the latter eaten very sparingly, as I
observed. The ham went only to myself and to the three
convalescent wounded soldiers who were guests in the
house. Wounded men were at that time guests in every
house in Virginia.</p>
<p>I lay awake that night and thought over the circumstance.
The next morning I took occasion to have a talk
on the old familiar terms with the young woman of the
family, with whom I had been on a basis of friendship in
the old days that even permitted me to kiss her upon due
and proper occasion.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you take some ham last night?” I asked
urgently.</p>
<p>“Oh, I didn’t want it,” she replied.</p>
<p>“Now, you know you are fibbing,” I said. “Tell me
the truth, won’t you?”</p>
<p>She blushed, and hesitated. Presently she broke down
and answered frankly: “Honestly, I did want the ham.
I have hungered for meat for months. But I mustn’t eat
it, and I won’t. You see the army needs all the food
there is, and more. We women can’t fight, though I
don’t see at all why they shouldn’t let us, and so we are
trying to feed the fighting men—and there aren’t any
others. We’ve made up our minds not to eat anything
that can be sent to the front as rations.”</p>
<p>“You are starving yourselves,” I exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” she said. “And if we were, what would it
matter? Haven’t Lee’s soldiers starved many a day?
But we aren’t starving. You see we had plenty of salad
and buttermilk last night. And we even ate some of the
corn bread. I must stop that, by the way, for corn meal
is a good ration for the soldiers.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span>
A month or so later this frail but heroic young girl was
laid away in the Grub Hill church-yard.</p>
<p>Don’t talk to me about the “heroism” that braves a fire
of hell under enthusiastic impulse. That young girl did a
higher self-sacrifice than any soldier who fought on either
side during the war ever dreamed of doing.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='LUCY_ANN_COX' id='LUCY_ANN_COX'></a>
<h3>LUCY ANN COX</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 54-55. From the Richmond
<i>Star</i>, July 21, 1894.]</p>
<p>On the evening of October 15th an entertainment was
given in Fredericksburg, Virginia, to raise funds to erect
a monument to the memory of Mrs. Lucy Ann Cox, who,
at the commencement of the war, surrendered all the comfort
of her father’s home, and followed the fortunes of
her husband, who was a member of Company A, Thirteenth
Virginia Regiment, until the flag of the Southern
Confederacy was furled at Appomattox. No march was
too long or weather too inclement to deter this patriotic
woman from doing what she considered her duty. She
was with her company and regiment on their two forays
into Maryland, and her ministering hand carried comfort
to many a wounded and worn soldier. While Company
A was the object of her untiring solicitude, no Confederate
ever asked assistance from Mrs. Cox but it was cheerfully
rendered.</p>
<p>She marched as the infantry did, seldom taking advantage
of offered rides in ambulances and wagon trains.
When Mrs. Cox died, a few years ago, it was her latest
expressed wish that she be buried with military honors,
and, so far as it was possible, her wish was carried out.
Her funeral took place on a bright autumn Sunday, and
the entire town turned out to do honor to this noble
woman.</p>
<p>The camps that have undertaken the erection of this
monument do honor to themselves in thus commemorating
the virtues of the heroine, Lucy Ann Cox.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span>
<a name='ONE_OF_THEM_LEES' id='ONE_OF_THEM_LEES'></a>
<h3>“ONE OF THEM LEES”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]</p>
<p>There was little conversation carried on, no necessity
for introductions, and no names ever asked or given.
This indifference to personality was a peculiarity strongly
exhibited in hospitals; for after nursing a sick or
wounded patient for months, he has often left without
any curiosity as regarded my name, my whereabouts, or
indeed anything connected with me. A case in point was
related by a friend. When the daughter of our general
had devoted much time and care to a sick man in one of
the hospitals, he seemed to feel so little gratitude for the
attention paid him that her companion to rouse him told
him that Miss Lee was his nurse. “Lee, Lee?” he said.
“There are some Lees down in Mississippi who keeps a
tavern there. Is she one of them Lees?”</p>
<p>Almost of the same style, although a little worse, was
the remark of one sick, poor fellow who had been
wounded in the head and who, though sensible enough
ordinarily, would feel the effect of the sun on his brain
when exposed to its influence. After advising him to
wear a wet paper doubled into the crown of his hat, more
from a desire to show some interest in him than from any
belief in its efficacy, I paused at the door long enough to
hear him ask the ward-master, “who that was?”</p>
<p>“Why, that is the matron of the hospital; she gives you
all the food you eat, and attends to things.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said he, “I always did think this government
was a confounded sell, and now I am sure of it, when
they put such a little fool to manage such a big hospital as
this.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SOUTHERN_WOMEN_IN_THE_WAR_BETWEEN_THE_STATES' id='SOUTHERN_WOMEN_IN_THE_WAR_BETWEEN_THE_STATES'></a>
<h3>SOUTHERN WOMEN IN THE WAR BETWEEN THE STATES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 32, pages 146-150. T. C. DeLeon, in
New Orleans <i>Picayune</i>.]</p>
<p>The great German who wrote:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Honor to woman! to her it is given</p>
<p>To garden the earth with roses of heaven!”</p>
</div></div>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span></div>
<p>precisely described the Confederate conditions—a century
in advance. True, constant, brave and enduring, the men
were; but the women set even the bravest and most steadfast
example. Nor was this confined to any one section
of the country. The “girl with the calico dress” of the
lowland farms; the “merry mountain maid” of the hill
country, and the belles of society in the cities, all vied with
each other in efforts to serve the men who had gone to the
front to fight for home and for them. And there was no
section of the South where this desire to do all they might
and more was oftener in evidence than another. In every
camp of the early days of the great struggle the incoming
troops bore trophies of home love, and as the war progressed
to need, then to dire want, the sacrifices of those
women at home became almost a poem, and one most
pathetic. Dress—misconceived as the feminine fetich—was
forgotten in the effort to clothe the boys at the front;
the family larder—ill-stocked at the best—was depleted to
nothingness, to send to distant camps those delicacies—so
equally freighted with tenderness and dyspepsia—which
too often never reached their destination. And
later, the carpets were taken from the floors, the curtains
from the windows—alike in humble homes and in dwellings
of the rich—to be cut in blankets for the uncomplaining
fellows, sleeping on freezing mud.</p>
<p>So wide, so universal, was the rule of self-sacrifice, that
no one reference to it can do justice to the zeal and devotion
of “Our Girls.” And the best proof of both was in
the hospitals, where soon began to congregate the maimed
and torn forms of those just sent forth to glory and victory.
This was the trial that tested the grain and purity
of our womanhood, and left it without alloy of fear or
selfishness. And some of the women who wrought in
home and hospital—even in trench and on the firing line—for
the “boys,” had never before handled aught rougher
than embroidery, or seen aught more fearsome than its
needle-prick. Yes, these untried women, young and old,
stood fire like veteran regulars, indeed, even more bravely
in moral view, for they missed the stimulus of the
charge—the tonic in the thought of striking back.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span></div>
<p>During the entire war—and through the entire South—it
was the hospital that illustrated the highest and best
traits of the tried and stricken people. Doubtless, there
was good work done by the women of the North, and
much of it. Happily, for the sanity of the nation, American
womanhood springs from one common stock. It is
ever true to its own, as a whole—and, for aught I shall
deny—individually. But behind that Chinese wall of
wood and steel blockade, then nursing was not an episode.
It was grave duty, grim labor; heartbreaking endurance—all
self-imposed, and lasting for years, yet shirked
and relinquished only for cause.</p>
<p>But the dainty little hands that tied the red bandages,
or “held the artery” unflinching; the nimble feet that
wearied not by fever cot, or operating table, the active
months of war, grew nimbler still on bridle, or in the
dances when “the boys” came home. This was sometimes
on “flying furlough,” or when an aid, or courier,
with dispatches, was told to wait. Then “the one girl”
was mounted on anything that could carry her; and the
party would ride far to the front, in full view of the
enemy, and often in point-blank range. Or, it was when
frozen ruts made roads impassable for invader and defender;
and the furlough was perhaps easier, and longer.
Then came those now historic dances, the starvation parties,
where rank told nothing, and where the only refreshment
came in that intoxicant—a woman’s voice and eyes.</p>
<p>Then came the “Dies Irae,” when the Southern Rachel
sat in the ashes of her desolation and her homespun was
sackcloth. And even she rose supreme. By her desolate
hearth, with her larder empty, and only her aching heart
full, she still forced a smile for the home-coming “boy”
through the repressed tears for the one left, somewhere in
the fight.</p>
<p>In Richmond, Atlanta, Charleston and elsewhere was
she bitter and unforgiving? If she drew her faded
skirt—ever a black one, in that case—from the passing
blue, was it “treason,” or human nature? Thinkers who
wore the blue have time and oft declared the latter. Was
she “unreconstructed?” Her wounds were great and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span>
wondrous sore. She was true, then, to her faith. That
she is to-day to the reunited land let the fathers of Spanish
war heroes tell. She needs no monument; it is
reared in the hearts of true men, North and South.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_MOTHER_OF_THE_CONFEDERACY' id='A_MOTHER_OF_THE_CONFEDERACY'></a>
<h3>A MOTHER OF THE CONFEDERACY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 63-64. From the Memphis,
Tenn., <i>Appeal-Avalanche</i>, June 30, 1894.]</p>
<p>Just upon the eve of preparations by ex-Confederates to
celebrate the Fourth of July in a becoming manner and
spirit, the sad news is announced of the death of the venerable
Mrs. Law, known all over the South as one of the
mothers of the Confederacy. She was also truly a
mother in Israel, in the highest Christian sense. Her
life had been closely connected with that of many leading
actors in the late war, in which she herself bore an essential
part. She passed away, June 28th, at Idlewild,
one of the suburbs of Memphis, nearly 89 years of age.</p>
<p>She was born on the River Yadkin, in Wilson County,
North Carolina, August 27, 1805, and at the time of her
death was doubtless the oldest person in Shelby County.
Her mother’s maiden name was Charity King. Her
father, Chapman Gordon, served in the Revolutionary
War, under Generals Marion and Sumter. She came of a
long-lived race of people. Her mother lived to be 93
years of age, and her brother, Rev. Hezekiah Herndon
Gordon, who was the father of General John B. Gordon
(now Senator from Georgia), lived to the age of 92
years.</p>
<p>Sallie Chapman Gordon was married to Dr. John S.
Law, near Eatonton, Georgia, on the 28th day of June,
1825. A few years later she became a member of the
Presbyterian Church, in Forsyth, Georgia, and her name
was afterward transferred to the rolls of the Second Presbyterian
Church in Memphis, of which church she remained
a member as long as she lived.</p>
<p>She became an active worker in hospitals, and when
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span>
nothing more could be done in Memphis she went through
the lines and rendered substantial aid and comfort to the
soldiers in the field. Her services, if fully recorded,
would make a book. She was so recognized that upon
one occasion General Joseph E. Johnston had 30,000 of
his bronzed and tattered soldiers to pass in review in her
honor at Dalton. Such a distinction was, perhaps, never
accorded to any other woman in the South—not even Mrs.
Jefferson Davis or the wives of great generals. Yet, so
earnest and sincere in her work was she that she commanded
the respect and reverence of men wherever she
was known. After the war she strove to comfort the vanquished
and encourage the down-hearted, and continued
in her way to do much good work.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_GREAT_EASTERN' id='THE_GREAT_EASTERN'></a>
<h3>“THE GREAT EASTERN”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Christ in Camp, pages 94-98; J. William Jones, D. D.]</p>
<p>Here is another sketch of a soldier’s friend who labored
in some of our largest hospitals.</p>
<p>“She is a character,” writes a soldier. “A Napoleon of
her department, with the firmness and courage of Andrew,
she possesses all the energy and independence of
Stonewall Jackson. The officials hate her; the soldiers
adore her. The former name her ‘The Great Eastern,’
and steer wide of her track, the latter go to her in all their
wants and troubles, and know her by the name of ‘Miss
Sally.’ She joined the army in one of the regiments
from Alabama, about the time of the battle of Manassas,
and never shrunk from the stern privations of the soldier’s
life from the moment of leaving camp to follow her
wounded and sick Alabamians to the hospitals of Richmond.
Her services are not confined, however, to the
sick and wounded from Alabama. Every sick soldier has
now a claim on her sympathy. Why, but yesterday, my
system having succumbed to the prevailing malaria of the
hospital, she came to my room, though a stranger, with
my ward nurse, and in the kindest manner offered me her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span>
pillow of feathers, with case as tidy as the driven snow.
The very sight of it was soothing to an aching brow, and
I blessed her from heart and lips as well. I must not
omit to tell why ‘Miss Sally’ is so disliked by many of
the officials. Like all women of energy, she has eyes
whose penetration few things escape, and a sagacity fearful
or admirable, as the case may be, to all interested. If
any abuse is pending, or in progress in the hospital, she is
quickly on the track, and if not abated, off ‘The Great
Eastern’ sails to headquarters. A few days ago one of
the officials of the division sent a soldier to inform her
that she must vacate her room instantly. ‘Who sent you
with that message to me?’ she asked him, turning suddenly
around. ‘Dr. ——,’ the soldier answered.
‘Pish!’ she replied, and swept on in ineffable contempt to
the bedside, perhaps, of some sick soldier.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='CORDIAL_FOR_THE_BRAVE' id='CORDIAL_FOR_THE_BRAVE'></a>
<h3>CORDIAL FOR THE BRAVE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston’s Recollections, pages 70-71.]</p>
<p>The ingenuity with which these good ladies discovered
or manufactured onerous duties for themselves was surprising,
and having discovered or imagined some new
duty they straightway proceeded to do it at any cost.</p>
<p>An excellent Richmond dame was talking with a soldier
friend, when he carelessly remarked that there was
nothing which so greatly helped to keep up a contented
and cheerful spirit among the men as the receipt of letters
from their woman friends. Catching at the suggestion
as a revelation of duty, she asked, “And cheerfulness
makes better soldiers of the men, does it not?” Receiving
yes for an answer, the frail little woman, already
over-burdened with cares of an unusual sort, sat down
and made out a list of all the men with whom she was
acquainted even in the smallest possible way, and from
that day until the end of the war she wrote one letter a
week to each, a task which, as her acquaintance was
large, taxed her time and strength very severely. Not
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span>
content with this, she wrote on the subject in the newspapers,
earnestly urging a like course upon her sisters,
many of whom adopted the suggestion at once, much to
the delight of the soldiers, who little dreamed that the
kindly, cheerful, friendly letters which every mail
brought into camp were a part of woman’s self-appointed
work for the success of the common cause. From the
beginning to the end of the war it was the same.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='HOSPITAL_WORK_AND_WOMENS_DELICACY' id='HOSPITAL_WORK_AND_WOMENS_DELICACY'></a>
<h3>HOSPITAL WORK AND WOMEN’S DELICACY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]</p>
<p>There is one subject connected with hospitals on which
a few words should be said—the distasteful one that a
woman must lose a certain amount of delicacy and reticence
in filling any office in them. How can this be?
There is no unpleasant exposure under proper arrangements,
and if even there be, the circumstances which surround
a wounded man, far from friends and home, suffering
in a holy cause and dependent upon a woman for
help, care and sympathy, hallow and clear the atmosphere
in which she labors. That woman must indeed be hard
and gross who lets one material thought lessen her efficiency.
In the midst of suffering and death, hoping with
those almost beyond hope in this world; praying by the
bedside of the lonely and heart-stricken; closing the
eyes of boys hardly old enough to realize man’s sorrow,
much less suffer by man’s fierce hate, a woman must soar
beyond the conventional modesty considered correct
under different circumstances.</p>
<p>If the ordeal does not chasten and purify her nature, if
the contemplation of suffering and endurance does not
make her wiser and better, and if the daily fire through
which she passes does not draw from her nature the sweet
fragrance of benevolence, charity, and love,—then, indeed,
a hospital has been no fit place for her.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span>
<a name='A_WAYSIDE_HOME_AT_MILLEN' id='A_WAYSIDE_HOME_AT_MILLEN'></a>
<h3>A WAYSIDE HOME AT MILLEN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Electra Tyler Deloache, in Augusta <i>Chronicle</i>, October 29, 1905.]</p>
<p>Only a few of the present inhabitants of Millen know
that it was once famous as the location of a Confederate
Wayside Home, where, during the civil war, the soldiers
were fed and cared for. The home was built by public
subscription and proved a veritable boon to the soldiers,
as many veterans now living can testify.</p>
<p>The location of the town has been changed slightly
since the 60’s, for in those days the car sheds were several
hundred yards farther up the Macon track, and were
situated where the railroad crossing is now. The hotel
owned and run by Mr. Gray was first opposite the depot,
and the location is still marked by mock-orange trees and
shrubbery.</p>
<p>The Wayside Home was on the west side of the railroad
crossing and was opposite the house built in the railroad
Y by Major Wilkins and familiarly known here as
the Berrien House. The old well still marks the spot.
The home was weather-boarded with rough planks running
straight up and down. It had four large rooms to
the front, conveniently furnished with cots, etc., for the
accommodation of any soldiers who were sick or
wounded and unable to continue their journey. A nurse
was always on hand to attend to the wants of the sick.
Back of these rooms was a large dining hall and kitchen,
where the weary and hungry boys in gray could minister
to the wants of the inner man. And right royally they
performed this pleasant duty, for the table was always
bountifully supplied with good things, donated by the
patriotic women of Burke county, who gladly emptied
hearts and home upon the altar of country. This work
was entirely under the auspices of the women of Burke.
Mrs. Judge Jones, of Waynesboro, was the first president
of the home. She was succeeded by Mrs. Ransom
Lewis, who was second and last. She was quite an active
factor in the work, and it was largely due to her
efforts that the home attained the prominence that it did
among similar institutions.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span></div>
<p>Miss Annie Bailey, daughter of Captain Bailey, of Savannah,
was matron of the home. She was assisted in
the work by committees of three ladies, who, each in turn,
spent several days at the home. The regular servants
were kept and extra help called in when needed.</p>
<p>This home was to the weary and hungry Confederate
soldier as an oasis in the desert, for here he found rest
and plenty beneath its shelter. And the social feature
was not its least attraction, when a bevy of blooming
girls from our bonny Southland would visit the home,
and midst feast and jest spur the boys on to renewed
vigor in the cause of the South. They felt amidst such
inspirations it would be glorious to die but more glorious
to live for such a land of charming women. One of our
matrons with her sweet old face softened into a dreamy
smile by happy reminiscences of those days of toil, care,
and sorrow, where happy thoughts and pleasantries of
the past crowded in and made little rifts of sunshine
through the war clouds, remarked: “But with all the
gloom and suffering, we girls used to have such fun with
the soldiers at the home, and at such times we could even
forget that our loved South was in the throes of the most
terrible war in the history of any country!”</p>
<p>The home was operated for two years or more and
often whole regiments of soldiers came to it, and all that
could be accommodated were taken in and cared for.</p>
<p>It was destroyed by Sherman’s army on their march to
the sea. The car shed, depot, hotel and home all disappeared
before the torch of the destroyer and only the
memory, the well, and the trees remain to mark the historic
spot where the heroic efforts of our Burke county
women sustained the Wayside Home through long years
of the struggle.</p>
<p>Mrs. Amos Whitehead and others who have “crossed
the river” were prominently connected with this work;
in fact, every one lent a helping hand, for it was truly a
labor of love, and was our Southern women’s tribute to
patriotism and heroism.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span>
<a name='A_NOBLE_GIRL' id='A_NOBLE_GIRL'></a>
<h3>A NOBLE GIRL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From the <i>Floridian</i>, 1864.]</p>
<p>Upon the arrival of the troops at Madison sent to reinforce
our army in East Florida, the ladies attended at
the depot with provisions and refreshments for the defenders
of their home and country. Among the brave
war-worn soldiers who were rushing to the defence of
our State there was, in one of the Georgia regiments, a
soldier boy, whose bare feet were bleeding from the exposure
and fatigue of the march. One of the young
ladies present, moved by the impulse of her sex, took the
shoes from her own feet, made the suffering hero put
them on, and walked home herself barefooted. Wherever
Southern soldiers have suffered and bled for their country’s
freedom, let this incident be told for a memorial of
Lou Taylor, of Madison county.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_GOOD_SAMARITAN' id='THE_GOOD_SAMARITAN'></a>
<h3>THE GOOD SAMARITAN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Christ in Camp, pages 98-99; J. William Jones, D. D.]</p>
<p>At Richmond, Va., there was a little model hospital
known as the “Samaritan,” presided over by a lady who
gave it her undivided attention, and greatly endeared
herself to the soldiers who were fortunate enough to be
sent there. “Through my son, a young soldier of eighteen,”
writes a father, “I have become acquainted with
this lady superintendent, whose memory will live in many
hearts when our present struggle shall have ended. But
for her motherly care and skilful attention my son and
many others must have died. One case of her attention
deserves special notice. A young man, who had been
previously with her, was taken sick in camp near Richmond.
The surgeon being absent, he lay for two weeks
in his tent without medical aid. She sent several requests
to his captain to send him to her, but he would not
in the absence of the surgeon. She then hired a wagon
and went for him herself; the captain allowed her to take
him away, and he was soon convalescent. She says she
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span>
feels that not their bodies only but their souls are committed
to her charge. Thus, as soon as they are comfortably
fixed in a good, clean bed, she inquires of every one if he
has chosen the good part; and through her instruction
and prayers several have been converted. Her house can
easily accommodate twenty, all in one room, which is
made comfortable in winter with carpet and stove, and
adorned with wreaths of evergreen and paper flowers,
and in summer well ventilated, and the windows and yard
filled with green-house plants. A library of religious
books is in the room, and pictures are hung on the walls.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='FEMALE_RELATIVES_VISIT_THE_HOSPITALS' id='FEMALE_RELATIVES_VISIT_THE_HOSPITALS'></a>
<h3>FEMALE RELATIVES VISIT THE HOSPITALS.</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]</p>
<p>There was no means of keeping the relations of patients
from coming to them. There had been rules made
to meet their invasion, but it was impossible to carry them
out, as in the instance of a wife wanting to remain with
her husband; and, besides, even the better class of people
looked upon the comfort and care of a hospital as a farce.
They resented the detention there of men who in many
instances could lie in bed and point to their homes within
sight, and argued that they would have better attention
and food if allowed to go to their families. That <i>maladie
du pays</i> called commonly nostalgia, the homesickness
which rings the heart and impoverishes the blood, killed
many a brave soldier, and the matron who day by day
had to stand helpless and powerless by the bed of the sufferer,
knowing that a week’s furlough would make his
heart sing with joy and save his wife from widowhood,
learned the most bitter lesson of endurance that could be
taught.</p>
<p>My hospital was now entirely composed of Virginians
and Marylanders, and the nearness to the homes of the
former entailed upon me an increase of care in the shape
of wives, sisters, cousins, aunts, and whole families, including
the historic baby at the breast. They came in
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span>
troops, and, hard as it was to know how to dispose of
them, it was harder to send them away. Sometimes they
brought their provisions with them, but not often, and
even when they did there was no place for them to cook
their food. It must be remembered that everything was
reduced to the lowest minimum, even fuel. They could
not remain all day in the wards with men around them,
and if even they were so willing, the restraint on
wounded, restless patients who wanted to throw their
limbs about with freedom during the hot days was unbearable.</p>
<p>Generally their only idea of kindness was giving the
sick men what food they would take in any quantity and
of every quality, and in the furtherance of their views
they were pugnacious in the extreme. Whenever rules
circumscribed their plans they abused the government,
then the hospitals, and then myself. Many ludicrous incidents
happened daily, and I have often laughed heartily
at seeing the harassed ward-master heading away a pertinacious
female who, failing to get past him at the door,
would try the three others perseveringly. They seemed
to think it a pious and patriotic duty not to be afraid or
ashamed under any circumstances. One sultry day I
found a whole family, accompanied by two young lady
friends, seated around a sick man’s bed. As I passed
through six hours later, they held the same position.</p>
<p>“Had not you all better go home?” I said good-naturedly.</p>
<p>“We came to see my cousin,” answered one very
crossly. “He is wounded.”</p>
<p>“But you have been with him all morning and that is a
restraint upon the other men. Come again to-morrow.”</p>
<p>A consultation was held, but when it ceased no movement
was made, the older ones only lighting their pipes
and smoking in silence.</p>
<p>“Will you come back to-morrow and go now?”</p>
<p>“No! You come into the wards when you please, and
so will we.”</p>
<p>“But it is my duty to do so. Besides, I always ask
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span>
permission to enter, and never stay longer than fifteen
minutes at a time.”</p>
<p>Another unbroken silence, which was a trial to any
patience left, and finding no movement made, I handed
some clothing to the patient near.</p>
<p>“Here is a clean shirt and drawers for you, Mr. Wilson.
Put them on as soon as I get out of the ward.”</p>
<p>I had hardly reached my kitchen, when the whole procession,
pipes and all, passed me solemnly and angrily;
but, for many days, and even weeks, there was no ridding
the place of this large family connection. Their sins
were manifold. They overfed their relative who was
recovering from an attack of typhoid fever, and even
defiantly seized the food for the purpose from under my
very nose. They marched on me <i>en-masse</i> at 10 o’clock
at night, with a requisition from the boldest for sleeping
quarters. The steward was summoned, and said “he
didn’t keep a hotel,” so in a weak moment of pity for their
desolate state, I imprudently housed them in my laundry.
They entrenched themselves there for six days, making
predatory incursions into my kitchen during my temporary
absences, ignoring Miss G. completely. The object
of their solicitude recovered and was sent to the field, and
finding my writs of ejectment were treated with contemptuous
silence, I sought an explanation. The same spokeswoman
alluded to above met me half-way. She said a
battle was imminent she had heard, and she had determined
to remain, as her husband might be wounded. In
the ensuing press of business she was forgotten, and
strangely enough, her husband was brought in with a
bullet in his neck the following week. The back is surely
fitted to the burden, so I contented myself with retaking
my laundry and letting her shift for herself, while a whole
month slipped away. One morning my arrival was
greeted with a general burst of merriment from everybody
I met, white and black. Experience had made me
sage, and my first question was a true shot, right in the
center.</p>
<p>“Where is Mrs. Daniels?”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span></div>
<p>She had always been spokeswoman.</p>
<p>“In ward G. She has sent for you two or three times.”</p>
<p>“What is the matter now?”</p>
<p>“You must go and see.”</p>
<p>There was something going on either amusing or
amiss. I entered ward G, and walked up to Daniel’s bed.
One might have heard a pin drop.</p>
<p>I had supposed, up to this time, that I had been called
upon to bear and suffer every annoyance that humanity
and the state of the country could inflict, but here was
something most unexpectedly in addition; for lying composedly
on her husband’s cot (for he had relinquished it
for the occasion) lay Mrs. Daniels and her baby (just
two hours old).</p>
<p>The conversation that ensued is not worth repeating,
being more of the nature of a soliloquy. The poor wretch
had ventured into a bleak and comfortless portion of the
world, and its inhuman mother had not provided a rag
to cover it. No one could scold her at such a time, however
ardently they might desire to do so. But what was
to be done? I went in search of my chief surgeon, and
our conversation although didactic was hardly satisfactory
on the subject.</p>
<p>“Doctor, Mrs. Daniels has a baby. She is in ward G.
What shall I do with her?”</p>
<p>“A baby! Ah, indeed! You must get it some clothes.”</p>
<p>“What must I do with her?”</p>
<p>“Move her to an empty ward and give her some tea
and toast.”</p>
<p>This was offered, but Mrs. Daniels said she would
wait until dinner time and have some bacon and greens.</p>
<p>The baby was a sore annoyance. The ladies of Richmond
made up a wardrobe, each contributing some
article, and at the end of the month, Mrs. D., the child,
and a basket of clothing and provisions were sent to the
cars with a return ticket to her home in western Virginia.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span></div>
<h4>Sadie Curry And “Clara Fisher”</h4>
<p class='center'>[I. L. U.]</p>
<p>In later years of the war a great many of the wounded
soldiers were brought from east and west to Augusta,
Ga. Immediately the people from the country on both
sides of the Savannah River came in and took hundreds
of the poor fellows to their homes and nursed them with
every possible kindness. Ten miles up the river, on the
Carolina side, was the happy little village of Curryton,
named for Mr. Joel Curry and his father, the venerable
Lewis Curry. Here, many a poor fellow from distant
States was taken in most cordially and every home was
a temporary hospital. Among those nursed at Mr.
Curry’s, whose house was always a home for the preacher,
the poor man, and the soldier, was Major Crowder, who
suffered long from a painful and fatal wound, and a
stripling boy soldier from Kentucky, Elijah Ballard,
whose hip wound made him a cripple for life.</p>
<p>Miss Sadie Curry nursed both, night and day, as she
did others, when necessary, like a sister. Her zeal never
flagged, and her strength never gave way. After young
Ballard, who was totally without education, became
strong enough, she taught him to read and write, and
when the war ended he went home prepared to be a book-keeper.
Others received like kindness.</p>
<p>But this noble girl had from the beginning of the war
made it her daily business to look after the families of the
poorer soldiers in the neighborhood. She mounted her
horse daily and made her round of angel visits. If she
found anybody sick she reported to the kind and patriotic
Dr. Hugh Shaw. If any of the families lacked meal or
other provisions, it was reported to her father, who would
send meal from his mill or bacon from his smoke-house.</p>
<p>In appreciation of her heroic work, her father and her
gallant brother-in-law, Major Robert Meriwether, who
was in the Virginia army, now living in Brazil, bought
a beautiful Tennessee riding horse and gave it to her.
She named it “Clara Fisher” and many poor hearts in
old Edgefield were made sad and many tears shed in the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span>
fall of 1864, when Sadie Curry and “Clara Fisher” moved
to southwest Georgia.</p>
<p>Bless God, there were many Sadie Currys all over the
South, wherever there was a call and opportunity. Miss
Sadie married Dr. H. D. Hudson and later in life Rev.
Dr. Rogers, of Augusta, where she died a few years ago.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MANIA_FOR_MARRIAGE' id='MANIA_FOR_MARRIAGE'></a>
<h3>MANIA FOR MARRIAGE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Diary of a Refugee, pages 329-330.]</p>
<p>There seems to be a perfect mania on the subject of
matrimony. Some of the churches may be seen open and
lighted almost every night for bridals, and wherever I
turn, I hear of marriages in prospect.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“In peace Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;</p>
<p>In war he mounts the warrior’s steed,”</p>
</div></div>
<p>sings the “Last Minstrel” of the Scottish days of
romance; and I do not think that our modern warriors
are a whit behind them, either in love or war. My only
wonder is, that they find time for love-making amid the
storms of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose
our valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage
of the short respite, caused by alternate snows and sunshine
of our variable climate having made the roads impassable
to Grant’s artillery and baggage-wagons.</p>
<p>A soldier in our hospital called to me as I passed his
bed the other day, “I say, Mrs. ——, when do you
think my wound will be well enough for me to go to the
country?”</p>
<p>“Before very long, I hope.”</p>
<p>“But what does the doctor say, for I am mighty
anxious to go?”</p>
<p>I looked at his disabled limb and talked to him hopefully
of his being able to enjoy country air in a short
time.</p>
<p>“Well, try to get me up, for, you see, it ain’t the
country air I’m after, but I wants to get married, and the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span>
lady don’t know that I am wounded, and maybe she’ll
think I don’t want to come.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” said I, “but you must show her your scars, and
if she is a girl worth having she will love you all the
better for having bled for your country, and you must
tell her that—</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“‘It is always the heart that is bravest in war</p>
<p>That is fondest and truest in love.’”</p>
</div></div>
<p>He looked perfectly delighted with the idea; and as I
passed him again he called out, “Lady, please stop a minute
and tell me the verse over again, for, you see, when
I do get there, if she is affronted, I wants to give her the
prettiest excuse I can, and I think that verse is beautiful.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GOVERNMENT_CLERKSHIPS' id='GOVERNMENT_CLERKSHIPS'></a>
<h3>GOVERNMENT CLERKSHIPS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond During the War, pages 174-175.]</p>
<p>From the Treasury Department, the employment of
female clerks extended to various offices in the War Department,
the Post Office Department, and indeed every
branch of business connected with the government. They
were all found efficient and useful. By this means many
young men could be sent into the ranks, and by testimony
of the chiefs of bureaus, the work left for the women was
better done; for they were more conscientious in their
duties than the more self-satisfied, but not better qualified,
male attaches of the government offices. The experiment
of placing women in government clerkships proved eminently
successful, and grew to be extremely popular under
the Confederate government.</p>
<p>Many a young girl remembers with gratitude the
kindly encouragement of our Adjutant-General Cooper,
our chief of ordnance, Colonel Gorgas, or the first auditor
of the Confederate treasury, Judge Bolling Baker, or
Postmaster-General Reagan, and various other officials,
of whom their necessities drove them to seek employment.
The most high-born ladies of the land filled these places
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span>
as well as the humble poor; but none could obtain employment
under the government who could not furnish testimonials
of intelligence and superior moral worth.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SCHOOLS_IN_WAR_TIMES' id='SCHOOLS_IN_WAR_TIMES'></a>
<h3>SCHOOLS IN WAR TIMES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond During the War, pages 188-189.]</p>
<p>As the war went on a marked change was made in the
educational interests of the South. For a certain number
of pupils, the teachers of schools were exempt from
military duty. To their credit be it recorded that few,
comparatively, availed themselves of this exception, and
the care of instructing the youth devolved, with other
added responsibilities, upon the women of the country.
Only the boys under conscript age were found in the
schools; all older were made necessary in the field or in
some department of government service, unless physical
inability prevented them from falling under the requirements
of the law. Many of our colleges for males
suspended operation, and at the most important period
in the course of their education our youths were instructed
in the sterner lessons of military service.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='HUMANITY_IN_THE_HOSPITALS' id='HUMANITY_IN_THE_HOSPITALS'></a>
<h3>HUMANITY IN THE HOSPITALS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Richmond <i>Enquirer</i>, June 6, 1862.]</p>
<p>In our visits to the various hospitals, we cannot but
remark, admire, and commend the kindly harmony and
sweet-tempered familiarity which mark the intercourse
of the ladies who have devoted themselves to the care of
the sick and the wounded. There is a unity in the actions
and solicitude of all which only a unity of motive could
induce. The amiable and unpretending sister of mercy,
the earnest bright-eyed Jewish girl and the womanly,
gentle, and energetic Protestant, mingle their labors with
a freedom and geniality which would teach the most prejudiced
zealot a lesson that would never be forgotten.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span>
The necessity of charity, once demonstrated, teaches us
that we are one kindred, after all, and whatever differences
may exist in the peculiar tenets of the many, all
hearts are alike open to the same impulses, and the couch
of suffering at once commands their sympathy and reminds
them of an identity of hope and a common fate.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_DAVIS_AND_THE_FEDERAL_PRISONER' id='MRS_DAVIS_AND_THE_FEDERAL_PRISONER'></a>
<h3>MRS. DAVIS AND THE FEDERAL PRISONER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Augusta, Ga., <i>Constitutionalist</i>.]</p>
<p>A clerical friend of ours in passing through one of
our streets a few days since, to perform a ministerial
duty—attending to the sick and wounded in the hospitals—encountered
a stranger, who accosted him thus:
“My friend, can you tell me if Mrs. Jeff Davis is in the
city of Augusta?”</p>
<p>“No, sir,” replied our friend. “She is not.”</p>
<p>“Well, sir,” replied the stranger, “you may be surprised
at my asking such a question, and more particularly
so when I inform you that I am a discharged
United States soldier. But (and here he evinced great
feeling), sir, that lady has performed acts of kindness
to me which I can never forget. When serving in the
valley of Virginia, battling for the Union, I received a
severe and dangerous wound. At the same time I was
taken prisoner and conveyed to Richmond, where I received
such kindness and attention from Mrs. Davis that
I can never forget her; and, now that I am discharged
from the army and at work in this city, and understanding
that the lady was here, I wish to call upon her, renew
my expressions of gratitude to her, and offer to
share with her, should she unfortunately need it, the last
cent I have in the world.”</p>
<p>Can it be truly charged on a nation that it was wantonly,
criminally cruel, when a generous foe bears testimony
to the mercy, kindness, and lowly service of the highest
lady of the land?</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span>
<a name='SOCKS_THAT_NEVER_WORE_OUT' id='SOCKS_THAT_NEVER_WORE_OUT'></a>
<h3>SOCKS THAT NEVER WORE OUT</h3>
</div>
<p>General Gordon tells of a simple-hearted country Confederate
woman who gave a striking idea of the straits
to which our people were reduced later in the war. She
explained that her son’s only pair of socks did not wear
out, because, said she: “When the feet of the socks get
full of holes, I just knit new feet to the tops, and when
the tops wear out I just knit new tops to the feet.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='BURIAL_OF_AUNT_MATILDA' id='BURIAL_OF_AUNT_MATILDA'></a>
<h3>BURIAL OF AUNT MATILDA</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. R. A. Pryor’s Reminiscences.]</p>
<p>This precise type of a Virginia plantation will never
appear again, I imagine. I wish I could describe a plantation
wedding as I saw it that summer. But a funeral
of one of the old servants was peculiarly interesting to
me. “Aunt Matilda” had been much loved and, when
she found herself dying, she had requested that the mistress
and little children should attend her funeral.</p>
<p>“I ain’ been much to church,” she urged. “I couldn’t
leave my babies. I ain’ had dat shoutin’ an’ hollerin’
religion, but I gwine to heaven jes’ de same”—a fact of
which nobody who knew Aunt Matilda could have the
smallest doubt.</p>
<p>We had a long, warm walk behind hundreds of negroes,
following the rude coffin in slow procession through the
woods, singing antiphonally as they went, one of those
strange, weird hymns not to be caught by any Anglo-Saxon
voice.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful and touching scene, and at the grave
I longed for an artist (we had no kodaks then) to perpetuate
the picture. The level rays of the sun were filtered
through the green leaves of the forest, and fell
gently on the dusky pathetic faces, and on the simple
coffin surrounded by orphan children and relatives, very
dignified and quiet in their grief.</p>
<p>The spiritual patriarch of the plantation presided. Old
Uncle Abel said:</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span></div>
<p>“I ain’ gwine keep you all long. ’Tain’ no use. We
can’t do nothin’ for Sis’ Tildy. All is done fer her, an’
she done preach her own fune’al sermon. Her name was
on dis church book here, but dat warn’ nothin’; no doubt
’twas on de Lamb book, too.</p>
<p>“Now, whiles dey fillin’ up her grave, I’d like you all
to sing a hymn Sis’ Tildy uster love, but you all know I
bline in one eye, an’ I dunno as any o’ you all ken do it”—and
the first thing I knew, the old man had passed his
well-worn book to me, and there I stood at the foot of
the grave, “lining out”:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“‘Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep,</p>
<p>From which none ever wake to weep.’”</p>
</div></div>
<p>Words of immortal comfort to the great throng of negro
mourners who caught it up line after line, on an air of
their own, full of tears and tenderness,—a strange, weird
tune no white person’s voice could ever follow.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='ILLEGANT_PAIR_OF_HANDS' id='ILLEGANT_PAIR_OF_HANDS'></a>
<h3>“ILLEGANT PAIR OF HANDS”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember.]</p>
<p>A large number of the surgeons were absent, and the
few left would not be able to attend to all the wounds at
that late hour of the night. I proposed in reply that the
convalescent men should be placed on the floor on blankets
or bed-sacks filled with straw, and the wounded take
their place, and, purposely construing his silence into
consent, gave the necessary orders, eagerly offering my
services to dress simple wounds, and extolling the
strength of my nerves. He let me have my way (may
his ways be of pleasantness and his paths of peace), and
so, giving Miss G. orders to make an unlimited supply
of coffee, tea, and stimulants, armed with lint, bandages,
castile soap, and a basin of warm water, I made my first
essay in the surgical line. I had been spectator often
enough to be skilful. The first object that needed my
care was an Irishman. He was seated upon a bed with
his hands crossed, wounded in both arms by the same
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span>
bullet. The blood was soon washed away, wet lint applied,
and no bones being broken, the bandages easily arranged.</p>
<p>“I hope that I have not hurt you much,” I said with
some trepidation. “These are the first wounds that I
have ever dressed.”</p>
<p>“Sure, they be the most illegant pair of hands that ever
touched me, and the lightest,” he gallantly answered.
“And I am all right now.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_GUNBOAT_RICHMOND' id='THE_GUNBOAT_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>THE GUN-BOAT “RICHMOND”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Scharf’s Confederate Navy.]</p>
<p>The “Ladies’ Defence Association” was then formed
at Richmond, with Mrs. Maria G. Clopton, president;
Mrs. General Henningsen, vice-president; Mrs. R. H.
Maury, treasurer, and Mrs. John Adams Smith, secretary.
At its meeting, on April 9th, an address, prepared
by Captain J. S. Maury, was read by Rev. Dr. Doggett.
In this address it was eloquently stated that the first efforts
of the association would be “directed to the building
and putting afloat in the waters of the James River
a steam man-of-war, clad in shot-proof armor; her
panoply to be after the manner of that gallant ship, the
noble <i>Virginia</i>.” Committees were appointed to solicit
subscriptions, and so much encouragement was received
that the managers of the association called upon President
Davis for sanction of its purpose, which he gladly
gave, and it was announced that the keel of the vessel
would be laid in a few days; that Commander Farrand
would be in charge of the work, and that he would be
assisted by Ship-builder Graves.</p>
<p>Words can but inadequately represent the energy with
which the women of Virginia undertook this work, or
the sacrifices which they made to complete it. That their
jewels and their household plate, heirlooms, in many instances,
that had been handed down from generation to
generation and were the embodiments of ancestral rank
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span>
and tradition, were freely given up, is known. “Virginia,”
said they in their appeal, “when she sent her sons
into this war, gave up her jewels to it. Let not her
daughters hold back. Mothers, wives, sisters! what are
your ornaments of silver and gold in decoration, when by
dedicating them to a cause like this, you may in times
like these strengthen the hand or nerve the arm, or give
comfort to the heart that beats and strikes in your defence!
Send them to us.”</p>
<p>The organization, moreover, did not confine itself to
urging upon the women of the State that this was particularly
their contribution to the maintenance of the
Confederacy. “Iron railings,” the address continued,
“old and new, scrap-iron about the house, broken ploughshares
about the farm, and iron in any shape, though
given in quantities ever so small, will be thankfully received
if delivered at the Tredegar Works, where it may
be put into the furnace, reduced, and wrought into shape
or turned into shot and shell.” A friendly invasion of
the tobacco factories was made by a committee of ladies,
consisting of Mrs. Brooke Gwathney, Mrs. B. Smith, and
Mrs. George T. Brooker, and the owners cheerfully broke
up much of their machinery that was available for the
specified purpose. Mrs. R. H. Maury, treasurer of the
association, took charge of the contributions in money,
plate, and jewelry; the materials and tools were sent to
Commodore Farrand, and an agent, S. D. Hicks, was
appointed to receive the contributions of grain, country
produce, etc., that were sent in by Virginia farmers to be
converted into cash. By the end of April the construction
had reached an advanced stage; President Davis and
Secretary Mallory had congratulated the Ladies’ Association
upon the assured success of its self-allotted task,
and by the sale of articles donated to a public bazaar or
fair, almost a sufficient sum to complete the ship was secured.</p>
<p>The <i>Richmond</i> was completed in July, 1862, and although
detailed descriptions are lacking all mention made
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span>
of her is unanimous that she was an excellent ship of her
type. Captain Parker says that “she was a fine vessel,
built on the plan of the <i>Virginia</i>.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Note.—Mrs. General Henningsen received from New Orleans
boxes containing articles to be sold for contribution to building the
Richmond. Among the articles were two beautiful vases, which
were bought by a gentleman of Richmond and are now in the possession
of his family. The Richmond was destroyed on the evacuation
of the Capital City.—J. L. U.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='CAPTAIN_SALLY_TOMPKINS' id='CAPTAIN_SALLY_TOMPKINS'></a>
<h3>CAPTAIN SALLY TOMPKINS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Southern women have cared little for public honors
nor have they courted masculine titles. But a recent number
of the Richmond <i>Times-Dispatch</i> recalls the pleasant
bit of history that in the case of Miss Sallie Tompkins a
remarkable honor was deservedly conferred upon a
worthy Virginia girl by the Confederate authorities.</p>
<p>While yet a very young woman Miss Tompkins used
her ample means to establish in Richmond a private hospital
for Confederate soldiers. She not only provided
for its support at her own expense, but devoted her time
to the work of nursing the patients.</p>
<p>The wounded were brought into the city by the hundreds
and there was hardly a private house without its
quota of sick and wounded. Quite a number of private
hospitals were established but, unlike Miss Tompkins’s
splendid institution, charges were made by some of them
for services rendered. In course of time abuses grew
with the system, and General Lee ordered that they all be
closed—all except the hospital of Miss Tompkins. This
was recognized as too helpful to the Confederate cause
to be abolished.</p>
<p>In order to preserve it it had to be brought under government
control, and to do this General Lee ordered a
commission as captain in the Confederate army to be issued
to Miss Sallie Tompkins. Though a government
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span>
hospital from that time on, Captain Tompkins conducted
it as before, paying its expenses out of her private purse.</p>
<p>The veterans are proud of her record, and a movement
is now on foot among them to place Captain Tompkins in
a position of independence as long as she lives.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_ANGEL_OF_THE_HOSPITAL' id='THE_ANGEL_OF_THE_HOSPITAL'></a>
<h3>THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From the Gray Jacket, pages 143-146.]</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>’Twas nightfall in the hospital. The day,</p>
<p>As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rain</p>
<p>From the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,</p>
<p>And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lamps</p>
<p>Shed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,</p>
<p>And flitted mystic shadows o’er the walls.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>No more the cry of “Charge! On, soldiers, on!”</p>
<p>Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;</p>
<p>But the deep moan of human agony,</p>
<p>From the pale lips quivering as they strove in vain</p>
<p>To smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,</p>
<p>And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.</p>
<p>Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,</p>
<p>Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,</p>
<p>Displayed the pomp of battle; but instead</p>
<p>The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,</p>
<p>The bandage, and the splint were strewn around—</p>
<p>Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speak</p>
<p>The awful shadows of the fiend of war.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>Look! Look! What gentle form with cautious step</p>
<p>Passes from couch to couch as silently</p>
<p>As yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,</p>
<p>And, bending o’er the gasping sufferer’s head,</p>
<p>Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,</p>
<p>From her own tender hand, or pours the cup</p>
<p>Whose cordial powers can quench the inward flame</p>
<p>That burns his heart to ashes, or with voice</p>
<p>As tender as a mother’s to her babe,</p>
<p>Pours pious consolation in his ear.</p>
<p>She came to one long used in war’s rude scenes—</p>
<p>A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,</p>
<p>Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,</p>
<p>Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.</p>
<p>His life had passed without a friendly word,</p>
<p>Which timely spoken to his willing ear,</p>
<p>Had wakened God-like hopes, and filled his heart</p>
<p>With the unfading bloom of sacred truth.</p>
<p>Beside his couch she stood, and read the page</p>
<p>Of heavenly wisdom and the law of love,</p>
<p>And bade him follow the triumphant chief</p>
<p>Who bears the unconquered banner of the cross.</p>
<p>The veteran heard with tears and grateful smile,</p>
<p>Like a long-frozen fount whose ice is touched</p>
<p>By the restless sun, and melts away,</p>
<p>And, fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,</p>
<p>Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span></p>
<p>She passed to one, in manhood’s blooming prime,</p>
<p>Lately the glory of the martial field,</p>
<p>But now, sore-scathed by the fierce shock of arms,</p>
<p>Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning’s stroke,</p>
<p>Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,</p>
<p>And saw its thickening damps obscure the light</p>
<p>Which make our world so beautiful. Yet those</p>
<p>He heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flown</p>
<p>O’er rivers and illimitable woods,</p>
<p>To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,</p>
<p>Where his young bride and prattling little ones—</p>
<p>Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war—</p>
<p>Watched for the coming of the absent one</p>
<p>In utter desolation’s bitterness.</p>
<p>O, agonizing thought! which smote his heart</p>
<p>With sharper anguish than the sabre’s point.</p>
<p>The angel came with sympathetic voice,</p>
<p>And whispered in his ear: “Our God will be</p>
<p>A husband to the widow, and embrace</p>
<p>The orphan tenderly within his arms;</p>
<p>For human sorrow never cries in vain</p>
<p>To His compassionate ear.” The dying man</p>
<p>Drank in her words with rapture; cheering hope</p>
<p>Shone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,</p>
<p>And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gave</p>
<p>The dearest earthly treasures of his heart,</p>
<p>In resignation to the care of God.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>A fair man-boy of fifteen summers tossed</p>
<p>His wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.</p>
<p>Ah! how unlike the downy bed prepared</p>
<p>By his fond mother’s love, whose tireless hands</p>
<p>No comforts for her only offspring spared</p>
<p>From earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept,</p>
<p>Soft—nestling in her bosom all the night,</p>
<p>Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heart</p>
<p>Of swelling summer wave, till that sad day</p>
<p>He left the untold treasure of her love</p>
<p>To seek the rude companionship of war.</p>
<p>The fiery fever struck his swelling brain</p>
<p>With raving madness, and the big veins throbbed</p>
<p>A death-knell on his temples, and his breath</p>
<p>Was hot and quick, as is the panting deer’s,</p>
<p>Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.</p>
<p>“Mother! Oh, mother!” oft his faltering tongue</p>
<p>Shrieked to the cold, bare wall, which echoed back</p>
<p>His wailing in the mocking of despair.</p>
<p>Oh! angel nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heart</p>
<p>For the young sufferer’s grief! She knelt beside</p>
<p>The dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locks</p>
<p>Back from his aching brow, and wept and prayed</p>
<p>With all a woman’s tenderness and love,</p>
<p>That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,</p>
<p>Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,</p>
<p>And shelter him in His all-circling arms,</p>
<p>In the green valleys of Immortal rest.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>And so the angel passed from scene to scene</p>
<p>Of human suffering, like that blessed One,</p>
<p>Himself the man of sorrows and of grief,</p>
<p>Who came to earth to teach the law of love,</p>
<p>And pour sweet balm upon the mourner’s heart,</p>
<p>And raise the fallen and restore the lost.</p>
<p>Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine</p>
<p>Through all the darkness of this weary world—</p>
<p>Its selfishness, its coolness, and its sin,</p>
<p>Pure as the holy evening star of love,</p>
<p>The brightest planet in the host of heaven.</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_III_THEIR_TRIALS' id='CHAPTER_III_THEIR_TRIALS'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER III
<span class='chsub'> <br />THEIR TRIALS</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='OLD_MAIDS' id='OLD_MAIDS'></a>
<h3>OLD MAIDS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>This would be a dark world without old maids—God
bless them! No one can measure their usefulness.
Many a one of them has never married because she has
never found a man good enough for her. The saddest
mourners the world ever saw were some of our Southern
girls whose hearts and hopes were buried in a soldier’s
grave in Virginia or the Far West. For four years the
daughters of the South waited for their lovers, and alas!
many waited in a life widowhood of unutterable sorrow.
After the seven days’ battles in front of Richmond a
horseman rode up to the door of one of the houses on
—— street in Richmond and cried out to an anxious
mother: “Your son is safe, but Captain —— is killed.”
On the opposite side of the street a fair young girl was
sitting. She was the betrothed of the ill-fated captain,
and heard the crushing announcement. That’s the way
war made so many Southern girls widows without coming
to the marriage altar.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“It matters little now, Lorena;</p>
<p class='indent2'>The past is the eternal past.</p>
<p>Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena;</p>
<p class='indent2'>Life’s tide is ebbing out so fast</p>
<p>But, there’s a future—oh, thank God—</p>
<p class='indent2'>Of life this is so small a part;</p>
<p>’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,</p>
<p class='indent2'>But there—up there,—’tis heart to heart.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>The writer is so partial to the old maids of the Confederacy
that he is afraid of a charge of extravagance
were he to say anything more. But the author of this
book is not the only one to admire and love them. Hear
what another old Confederate soldier says in the following
letter in the Atlanta <i>Journal</i>:</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span></div>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Sugar Valley, Ga.</span></p>
<p><span class='smcap'>Dear Miss Thomas:</span></p>
<p>Will you permit an old Confederate soldier, who has
nearly reached his three-score and ten, to occupy a seat
while he says a few words?</p>
<p>The old maids of to-day were young girls in my youthful
days. They were once young and happy and looked
forward with bright hopes to the future, while the
flowers opened as pretty, the birds sung as sweetly, and
the sun shone as brightly as it does to the young girls of
to-day. They had sweethearts; they loved and were
loved in return; they had pleasant dreams of the coming
future to be passed in their own happy homes surrounded
by husband and children. But, alas! the dark
war clouds lowered above the horizon and all their
bright dreams of the future were overcast with gloom.
They loved with a pure and unselfish devotion, but they
loved their country best. The young men of the sixties
were the first to respond to their country’s call and
marched away to the front, to undergo the hardships and
dangers of a soldier’s life.</p>
<p>Now, can you imagine the pangs that rent the maiden’s
breast as she bid farewell, maybe for the last time this
side of eternity, to the one who was dearer than her own
heart’s blood, as she watched his manly form clothed in
his uniform of gray disappear in the distance? She tried
to be brave when she bade him go and fight the battles
of his country. She remained at home and prayed to an
all-wise and merciful God to spare him amidst the storm
of iron and lead, but her heart seemed rent in twain and
all of her bright hopes for the future seemed turned to
ashes. The weary days and months passed in dread suspense.</p>
<p>Now and then a letter from the front revived her
drooping spirits, as her soldier boy told of his many
escapes amid the charging columns and roar of battle.
After many months or maybe years she received the sad
tidings that her gallant soldier was no more; his gallant
spirit had flashed out with the guns, and his manly
form, wrapped in a soldier’s blanket, had been consigned
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span>
to an unmarked grave far away from home and loved
ones. The last rays of hope fled, and she resigned herself
to her sad and lonely fate. They were true to their
country in its sore distress, true to their heroes wearing
the gray, and true to their God who doeth all things
well. Could any one lead a more consecrated life?
Now, let us, instead of deriding, cast the veil of charity
over their desolate lives.</p>
<p>The once smooth cheek is furrowed with the wrinkles
of time, the glossy braids have whitened with the snows
of winter, the once graceful form is bending under the
weight of years, while the bright eyes have grown dim
watching, not for the soldier in gray, but for the summons
that calls her to meet him on that bright and beautiful
shore, there to be with loved ones who have gone
before, and receive the reward of “Well done, thou good
and faithful servant.” Soon the last one of those
patriotic women of the sixties will have passed over the
river, and their like may never be seen again, but their
love of home and country will be handed down to generations
yet unknown.</p>
<p>With best wishes for the household,</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>W. H. Andrews</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_MOTHERS_LETTER' id='A_MOTHERS_LETTER'></a>
<h3>A MOTHER’S LETTER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From a dying soldier boy.]</p>
<p>The Alabama papers in 1863 published the following
letter from Private John Moseley, a youth who gave up
his life at Gettysburg:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>Battlefield, Gettysburg, Pa.</span>,<br />
<i>July 4, 1863</i>.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>Dear Mother</span>:</p>
<p>I am here, prisoner of war and mortally wounded. I
can live but a few hours more at furthest. I was shot
fifty yards from the enemy’s line. They have been exceedingly
kind to me. I have no doubt as to the final
result of this battle, and I hope I may live long enough to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span>
hear the shouts of victory before I die. I am very weak.
Do not mourn my loss. I had hoped to have been spared,
but a righteous God has ordered it otherwise, and I feel
prepared to trust my case in His hands. Farewell to you
all. Pray that God may receive my soul.</p>
<p class='sig1'>Your unfortunate son,</p>
<p class='sig2'><span class='smcap'>John</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TOM_AND_HIS_YOUNG_MASTER' id='TOM_AND_HIS_YOUNG_MASTER'></a>
<h3>TOM AND HIS YOUNG MASTER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond During the War, pages 178-179.]</p>
<p>A young soldier from Georgia brought with him to
the war in Virginia a young man who had been brought
up with him on his father’s plantation. On leaving his
home with his regiment, the mother of the young soldier
said to his negro slave: “Now, Tom, I commit your
master Jemmy into your keeping. Don’t let him suffer
for anything with which you can supply him. If he is
sick, nurse him well, my boy; and if he dies, bring his
body home to me; if wounded, take care of him; and
oh! if he is killed in battle, don’t let him be buried on the
field, but secure his body for me, and bring him home to
be buried!” The negro faithfully promised his mistress
that all her wishes should be attended to, and came on
to the seat of war charged with the grave responsibility
placed upon him.</p>
<p>In one of the battles around Richmond the negro saw
his young master when he entered the fight, and saw him
when he fell, but no more of him. The battle became
fierce, the dust and smoke so dense that the company to
which he was attached, wholly enveloped in the cloud,
was hidden from the sight of the negro, and it was not
until the battle was over that Tom could seek for his
young master. He found him in a heap of slain. Removing
the mangled remains, torn frightfully by a piece
of shell, he conveyed them to an empty house, where he
laid them out in the most decent order he could, and
securing the few valuables found on his person, he sought
a conveyance to carry the body to Richmond. Ambulances
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span>
were in too great requisition for those whose lives
were not extinct to permit the body of a dead man to be
conveyed in one of them. He pleaded most piteously for
a place to bring in the body of his young master. It was
useless, and he was repulsed; but finding some one to
guard the dead, he hastened into the city and hired a cart
and driver to go out with him to bring in the body to
Richmond.</p>
<p>When he arrived again at the place where he had left
it, he was urged to let it be buried on the field, and was
told that he would not be allowed to take it from Richmond,
and therefore it were better to be buried there. “I
can’t do it. I promised my mistress (his mother) to bring
his body home to her if he got killed, and I’ll go home
with it or I’ll die by it; I can’t leave my master Jemmy
here.” The boy was allowed to have the body and
brought it to Richmond, where he was furnished with a
coffin, and the circumstances being made known, the
faithful slave, in the care of a wounded officer who went
South, was permitted to carry the remains of his master
to his distant home in Georgia. The heart of the mother
was comforted in the possession of the precious body of
her child, and in giving it a burial in the church-yard near
his own loved home.</p>
<p>Fee or reward for this noble act of fidelity would have
been an insult to the better feelings of this poor slave;
but when he delivered up the watch and other things
taken from the person of his young master, the mistress
returned him the watch, and said: “Take this watch,
Tom, and keep it for the sake of my boy; ’tis but a poor
reward for such services as you have rendered him and
his mother.” The poor woman, quite overcome, could
only add: “God bless you, boy!”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='I_KNEW_YOU_WOULD_COME' id='I_KNEW_YOU_WOULD_COME'></a>
<h3>“I KNEW YOU WOULD COME”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 58-59.]</p>
<p>Col. W. R. Aylett tells the following tender story:</p>
<p>Once during the war, when the lines of the enemy
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span>
separated me from my home, I was an inmate of my
brother’s Richmond home while suffering from a wound.
As soon as I could walk about a little, my first steps were
directed to Seabrook’s Hospital to see some of my dear
comrades who were worse wounded than I. While sitting
by the cot of a friend, who was soon to “pass over
the river and rest under the shade of the trees,” I witnessed
a scene that I can hardly ever think of without
quickened pulse and moist eye.</p>
<p>A beautiful boy, too young to fight and die, and a
member of an Alabama regiment, was dying from a
terrible wound a few feet off. His mother had been telegraphed
for at his request. In the wild delirium of his
dying moments he had been steadily calling for her, “Oh,
mother, come; do come quickly!” Then, under the influence
of opiates given to smooth his entrance into
eternal rest, he dozed and slumbered. The thunders of
the great guns along the lines of the immortal Lee roused
him up. Just then his dying eyes rested upon one of the
lovely matrons of Richmond advancing toward him.
His reeling brain and distempered imagination mistook
her for his mother. Raising himself up, with a wild,
delirious cry of joy, which rang throughout the hospital,
he cried: “Oh, mother! I knew you would come! I
knew you would come! I can die easy now;” and she,
humoring his illusion, let him fall upon her bosom, and
he died happy in her arms, her tears flowing for him as
if he had been her own son.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='LETTERS_FROM_THE_POOR_AT_HOME' id='LETTERS_FROM_THE_POOR_AT_HOME'></a>
<h3>LETTERS FROM THE POOR AT HOME</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember.]</p>
<p>A thousand evidences of the loving care and energetic
labor of the patient ones at home, telling an affecting
story that knocked hard at the gates of the heart, were the
portals ever so firmly closed; and with all these came
letters written by poor, ignorant ones who often had no
knowledge of how such communications should be addressed.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span>
These letters, making inquiries concerning
patients from anxious relatives at home, directed oftener
to my office than my home, came in numbers, and were
queer mixtures of ignorance, bad grammar, worse spelling,
and simple feeling. However absurd the style, the
love that filled them chastened and purified them. Many
are stored away, and though irresistibly ludicrous, are
too sacred to print for public amusement. In them could
be detected the prejudices of the different sections. One
old lady in upper Georgia wrote a pathetic appeal for a
furlough for her son. She called me “My dear sir,”
while still retaining my feminine address, and though expressing
the strongest desire for her son’s restoration to
health, entreated in moving accents that if his life could
not be spared, that he should not be buried in “Ole Virginny
dirt”—rather a derogatory term to apply to the
sacred soil that gave birth to the Presidents,—the soil of
the Old Dominion.</p>
<p>Almost all of these letters told the same sad tale of
destitution of food and clothing; even shoes of the
roughest kind being either too expensive for the mass or
unattainable by the expenditure of any sum, in many
parts of the country. For the first two years of the war,
privations were lightly dwelt upon and courageously
borne, but when want and suffering pressed heavily, as
times grew more stringent, there was a natural longing
for the stronger heart and frame to bear part of the burden.
Desertion is a crime that meets generally with as
much contempt as cowardice, and yet how hard for the
husband or father to remain inactive in winter quarters,
knowing that his wife and little ones were literally starving
at home—not even at home, for few homes were left.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='LIFE_IN_RICHMOND_DURING_THE_WAR' id='LIFE_IN_RICHMOND_DURING_THE_WAR'></a>
<h3>LIFE IN RICHMOND DURING THE WAR</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Southern Historical Papers, Volume 19. From the <i>Cosmopolitan</i>, December,
1891; by Edward M. Alfriend.]</p>
<p>For many months after the beginning of the war between
the States, Richmond was an extremely gay,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span>
bright, and happy city. Except that its streets were filled
with handsomely attired officers and that troops constantly
passed through it, there was nothing to indicate
the horrors or sorrows of war, or the fearful deprivations
that subsequently befell it. As the war progressed its
miseries tightened their bloody grasp upon the city,
happiness was nearly destroyed, and the hearts of the
people were made to bleed. During the time of McClellan’s
investment of Richmond, and the seven days’ fighting
between Lee’s army and his own, every cannon
that was fired could be heard in every home in Richmond,
and as every home had its son or sons at the front of
Lee’s army, it can be easily understood how great was
the anguish of every mother’s heart in the Confederate
capital. These mothers had cheerfully given their sons
to the Southern cause, illustrating, as they sent them to
battle, the heroism of the Spartan mother, who, when
she gave the shield to her son, told him to return with it
or on it.</p>
<h4><i>Happy Phases</i></h4>
<p>And yet, during the entire war, Richmond had happy
phases to its social life. Entertainments were given
freely and very liberally the first year of the war, and at
them wine and suppers were graciously furnished, but as
the war progressed all this was of necessity given up, and
we had instead what were called “starvation parties.”</p>
<p>The young ladies of the city, accompanied by their
male escorts (generally Confederate officers on leave)
would assemble at a fashionable residence that before the
war had been the abode of wealth, and have music and
plenty of dancing, but not a morsel of food or a drop of
drink was seen. And this form of entertainment became
the popular and universal one in Richmond. Of course,
no food or wine was served, simply because the host
could not get it, or could not afford it. And at these
starvation parties the young people of Richmond and the
young army officers assembled and danced as brightly
and as happily as though a supper worthy of Lucullus
awaited them.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span></div>
<p>The ladies were simply dressed, many of them without
jewelry, because the women of the South had given their
jewelry to the Confederate cause. Often on the occasion
of these starvation parties, some young Southern girl
would appear in an old gown belonging to her mother or
grandmother, or possibly a still more remote ancestor,
and the effect of the antique garment was very peculiar;
but no matter what was worn, no matter how peculiarly
any one might be attired, no matter how bad the music,
no matter how limited the host’s or hostess’s ability to
entertain, everybody laughed, danced, and was happy,
although the reports of the cannon often boomed in their
ears, and all deprivations, all deficiencies, were looked on
as a sacrifice to the Southern cause.</p>
<h4><i>The Dress of a Grandmother</i></h4>
<p>I remember going to a starvation party during the war
with a Miss M., a sister of Annie Rive’s mother. She
wore a dress belonging to her great-grandmother or
grandmother, and she looked regally handsome in it.
She was a young lady of rare beauty, and as thoroughbred
in every feature of her face or pose and line of her
body as a reindeer, and with this old dress on she looked
as though the portrait of some ancestor had stepped out
of its frame.</p>
<p>Such spectacles were very common at our starvation
parties. On one occasion I attended a starvation party
at the residence of Mr. John Enders, an old and honored
citizen of Richmond, and, of course, there was no supper.
Among those present was Willie Allan, the second
son of the gentleman, Mr. John Allan, who adopted
Edgar Allan Poe, and gave him his middle name. About
1 o’clock in the morning he came to one other gentleman
and myself, and asked us to go to his home just across
the street, saying he thought he could give us some supper.
Of course, we eagerly accepted his invitation and
accompanied him to his house. He brought out a half
dozen mutton chops and some bread, and we had what
was to us a royal supper. I spent the night at the Allan
home and slept in the same room with Willie Allan. The
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span>
next morning there was a tap on the door, and I heard
the mother’s gentle voice calling: “Willie, Willie.” He
answered, “Yes, mother; what is it?” And she replied:
“Did you eat the mutton chops last night?” He
answered, “Yes,” when she said, “Well, then, we haven’t
any breakfast.”</p>
<h4><i>Frightful Contrasts</i></h4>
<p>The condition of the Allan household was that of all
Richmond. Sometimes the contrasts that occurred in
these social gayeties in Richmond were frightful, ghastly.
A brilliant, handsome, happy, joyous young officer, full
of hope and promise, would dance with a lovely girl and
return to his command. A few days would elapse, another
“starvation” would occur, the officer would be
missed, he would be asked for, and the reply come,
“Killed in battle;” and frequently the same girls with
whom he danced a few nights before would attend his
funeral from one of the churches of Richmond. Can life
have any more terrible antithesis than this?</p>
<p>A Georgia lady was once remonstrating with General
Sherman against the conduct of some of his men, when
she said: “General, this is barbarity,” and General Sherman,
who was famous for his pregnant epigrams, replied:
“Madame, war is barbarity.” And so it is.</p>
<p>On one occasion, when I was attending a starvation
party in Richmond, the dancing was at its height and
everybody was bright and happy, when the hostess, who
was a widow, was suddenly called out of the room. A
hush fell on everything, the dancing stopped, and every
one became sad, all having a premonition in those
troublous times that something fearful had happened.
We were soon told that her son had been killed late that
evening, in a skirmish in front of Richmond, a few miles
from his home.</p>
<p>Wounded and sick men and officers were constantly
brought into the homes of the people of Richmond to be
taken care of, and every home had in it a sick or wounded
Confederate soldier. From the association thus brought
about many a love affair occurred and many a marriage
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span>
resulted. I know of several wives and mothers in the
South who lost their hearts and won their soldier husbands
in this way, so this phase of life during the war
near Richmond was prolific of romance.</p>
<h4><i>General Lee Kissed the Girls</i></h4>
<p>General Robert E. Lee would often leave the front,
come into Richmond and attend these starvation
parties, and on such occasions he was not only the
cynosure of all eyes, but the young ladies all crowded
around him, and he kissed every one of them. This was
esteemed his privilege and he seemed to enjoy the exercise
of it. On such occasions he was thoroughly urbane,
but always the dignified, patrician soldier in his bearing.</p>
<p>Private theatricals were also a form of amusement
during the war. I saw several of them. The finest I
witnessed, however, was a performance of Sheridan’s
comedy, of Alabama, played by Mrs. Malaprop. Her
rendition of the part was one of the best I ever saw,
rivalling that of any professional. The audience was
very brilliant, the President of the Confederacy, Mrs.
Davis, Judah P. Benjamin, and others of equal distinction
being present.</p>
<p>Mrs. Davis is a woman of great intellectual powers and
a social queen, and at these entertainments she was very
charming. Mr. Davis was always simple, unpretentious,
and thoroughly cordial in his manner. To those who
saw him on these occasions it was impossible to associate
his gentle, pleasing manner with the stern decision with
which he was then directing his side of the greatest war
of modern times. The world has greatly misunderstood
Mr. Davis, and in no way more than in personal traits of
his character. My brother, the late Frank H. Alfriend,
was Mr. Davis’s biographer, and through personal intercourse
with Mr. Davis I knew him well. In all his social,
domestic, and family relations, he was the gentlest, the
noblest, the tenderest of men. As a father and husband
he was almost peerless, for his domestic life was the
highest conceivable.</p>
<p>Mr. Davis, at the executive mansion, held weekly receptions,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span>
to which the public were admitted. These continued
until nearly the end of the war. The occasions
were not especially marked, but Mr. and Mrs. Davis
were always delightful hosts.</p>
<h4><i>John Wise and His Big Clothes</i></h4>
<p>The spectacle presented at the social gatherings, particularly
the starvation parties, was picturesque in the
extreme. The ladies often took down the damask and
other curtains and made dresses of them. My friend,
Hon. John S. Wise, formerly of Virginia, now of New
York, tells the following story of himself: He was
serving in front of Richmond and was invited to come
into the city to attend a starvation party. Having no
coat of his own fit to wear, he borrowed one from a
brother officer nearly twice his height. The sleeves of
his coat covered his hands entirely, the skirt came below
his knees several inches, and the buttons in the back were
down on his legs. So attired, Captain Wise went to the
party. His first partner in the dance was a young lady
of Richmond belonging to one of its best families. She
was attired in the dress of her great-grandmother, and a
part of this dress was a stomacher very suggestive in its
proportions. Captain Wise relates with exquisite humor
that in the midst of the dance he found himself in front
of a mirror, and that the sight presented by himself and
his partner was so ridiculous that he burst out laughing;
and his partner turned and looked at him angrily, left
his side and never spoke to him again.</p>
<h4><i>Contrasts That Were Pretty</i></h4>
<p>The varied and sometimes handsome uniforms of the
Confederate officers commingling with each other and
contrasting with the simple, pretty, sometimes antiquated
dresses of the ladies, made pictures that were beautiful
in their contrasts of color and of tone. An artist would
have found these scenes infinite opportunity for his pencil
or brush.</p>
<p>I am sure that this phase of social life in Richmond
during the war is without parallel in the world’s history.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span>
The army officers, of course, had only their uniforms,
and the women wore whatever they could get to wear.
In the last year of the war, particularly the last few
months, the pinch of deprivation, especially as to food,
became frightful. There were many families in Richmond
that were in well-nigh a starving condition. I
know of some that lived for days on pea soup and bread.
Confederate money was almost valueless. Its purchasing
power had so depreciated that it used to be said it
took a basketful to go to market. Of course, the people
had very few greenbacks, and very little gold or silver.
The city was invested by two armies, Grant’s and Lee’s,
and its railroad communications constantly destroyed
by the Union cavalry. Supplies of food were very
scarce and enormously costly; a barrel of flour cost
several hundred dollars in Confederate money, and just
before the fall of the Confederacy I paid $500 for a pair
of heavy boots. The suffering of this period was dreadful,
and when Richmond capitulated many of its people
were in an almost starving condition. Indeed, there was
little food outside, and the Southern troops were but
little better off.</p>
<h4><i>Loyalty of the Slaves</i></h4>
<p>But in April, 1865, the Confederacy ceased to exist;
it passed into history, and Richmond was occupied by
the Northern army. Many of its people were without
food and without money—I mean money of the United
States. It was at this period that the colored people of
Richmond, slaves up to the time the war ended, but now
no longer bondsmen, showed their loyalty and love for
their former masters and mistresses. They, of course,
had access to the commissary of the United States, and
many, very many, of these former negro slaves went to
the United States commissary, obtained food seemingly
for themselves, and took it in basketfuls to their former
owners, who were without food or money. I do not
recall any record in the world’s history nobler than this—indeed,
equal to it.</p>
<p>These are memories of a dead past, and thank God!
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span>
we now live under the old flag and in a happy, reunited
country, which the South loves with a patriotic devotion
unsurpassed by the North itself.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS' id='THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS'></a>
<h3>THE WOMEN OF NEW ORLEANS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>While the patriotic women of New Orleans saw very
little of war’s ravages, yet they endured three years of
war’s hardships. The Crescent City fell into the hands
of the Federals in 1862, Commodore Farragut commanding
the navy, and General B. F. Butler the land forces.
The latter was made military governor. Farragut
carried on war against combatants, and as an officer is
to this day respected and honored by the Southern people.
Butler carried on war on civilians and against defenceless
women. The history of these women cannot be told
without telling of their odious military tyrant.</p>
<p>President Davis in his proclamation said:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The helpless women have been torn from their homes and subjected
to solitary confinement, some in fortresses and prisons, and
one, especially, on an island of barren sand under a tropical sun,
have been fed with loathsome rations that had been condemned as
unfit for soldiers, and have been exposed to the vilest insults.</p>
<p>Egress from the city has been refused to those whose fortitude
could withstand the test, even to lone and aged women and to helpless
children; and after being ejected from their homes and robbed
of their property, they have been left to starve in the streets or subsist
on charity.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>But this does not tell half the story. The civilized
world stood aghast when General Butler issued his infamous
“Order No. 28,” which reads as follows:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subjected
to insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of
New Orleans in return for the most scrupulous noninterference and
courtesy on our part, it is ordered that hereafter when any female
shall by word, gesture, or movement insult or show contempt for
any officer or soldier of the United States, she shall be regarded and
held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation.</p>
<p>By Command of Major General Butler.</p>
</blockquote>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span></div>
<p>Human language cannot describe the cowardice, the
meanness, the brutality of such an order. All Europe denounced
him, President Davis outlawed him, some of his
own Northern newspapers would not at first believe that
he had issued such an order.</p>
<p>From that time on the name of “Butler, the Beast,”
was fastened to him. In this day we pity women who
are in danger of falling into the clutches of the black
brute. These women of 1862 were under the heels of a
white brute. Every American patriot will hang his head
in shame for all time that President Lincoln kept Butler
in high military office to the end of the war, and the
government never did repudiate his infamous official outrage.
Be it recorded to the everlasting honor of the
Federal army that none of the soldiers of “The Beast”
availed themselves of the license conferred by his order.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='INCORRIGIBLE_LITTLE_DEVIL' id='INCORRIGIBLE_LITTLE_DEVIL'></a>
<h3>“INCORRIGIBLE LITTLE DEVIL”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston’s Recollections, pages 65-66.]</p>
<p>In New Orleans, soon after the war, I saw in a drawing-room,
one day, an elaborately framed letter, of
which, the curtains being drawn, I could read only the
signature, which to my astonishment was that of General
Butler.</p>
<p>“What is that?” I asked of the young gentlewoman I
was visiting.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s my diploma, my certificate of good behavior
from General Butler;” and taking it down from
the wall, she permitted me to read it, telling me at the
same time its history. It seems that the young lady had
been very active in aiding captured Confederates to
escape from New Orleans, and for this and other similar
offenses she was arrested several times. A gentleman
who knew General Butler personally had interested himself
in behalf of her and some friends, and upon making
an appeal for their discharge received this personal note
from the commanding general, in which he declared his
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span>
willingness to discharge all the others. “But that black-eyed
Miss B.,” he wrote, “seems to me an incorrigible
little devil, whom even prison fare won’t tame.” The
young lady had framed the note, and she cherishes it yet,
doubtless.</p>
<p>Later on Butler was given a command in the East and
General Banks put in control at New Orleans. He was
clean and soldierly, but more stern and overbearing in
some respects than Butler. Dr. Stone, the most prominent
citizen of New Orleans, said to the writer in 1863:
“We could manage Butler better than we can Banks.
We could scare Butler, but we can’t move Banks.” Our
poor women, patient and prudent through it all, were out
of the fire, but they were in the frying-pan.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_HANDKERCHIEFS' id='THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_HANDKERCHIEFS'></a>
<h3>THE BATTLE OF THE HANDKERCHIEFS</h3>
</div>
<p>We are indebted to the Honorable W. H. Seymour for
the following very interesting story:</p>
<p>There was a great stir and intense excitement one time
during General Banks’s administration. A number of the
“rebels” were to leave for the “Confederacy.” Their
friends, amounting to some 20,000 persons, women and
children principally, wended their way down to the levee
to see them off and to take their last farewell. Such a
quantity of women frightened the Federal officials: they
were greatly exasperated at their waving of handkerchiefs,
their loud calling to their friends, and their going
on to vessels in the vicinity.</p>
<p>Orders were given to “stand back,” but no heed was
given; the bayonets were pointed at the ladies, but they
were not scared. A lady ran across to get a nearer view.
An officer seized her by the arm, but she escaped, leaving
a scarf in his possession. At last the military received
orders to do its duty.</p>
<p>The affair was called the Pocket Handkerchief War
and has been put in verse, as follows:</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span></div>
<h4><i>The Greatest Victory of the War—La Battaille des
Mouchoirs.</i></h4>
<p class='center'>[By Capt. James Dinkins, in New Orleans <i>Picayune</i>; Southern Historical
Papers, Volume 31.]</p>
<p class='center'>[Fought Friday, February 20, 1863, at the head of Gravier Street.]</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>Of all the battles modern or old,</p>
<p>By poet sung or historian told;</p>
<p>Of all the routs that ever was seen</p>
<p>From the days of Saladin to Marshall Turenne,</p>
<p>Or all the victories later yet won,</p>
<p>From Waterloo’s field to that of Bull Run;</p>
<p>All, all, must hide their fading light,</p>
<p>In the radiant glow of the handkerchief fight;</p>
<p>And a paean of joy must thrill the land,</p>
<p>When they hear of the deeds of Banks’s band.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>’Twas on a levee, where the tide of “Father Mississippi” flows,</p>
<p>Our gallant lads, their country’s pride,</p>
<p>Won this great victory o’er her foes,</p>
<p>Four hundred rebels were to leave</p>
<p>That morning for Secessia’s shades,</p>
<p>When down there came (you’d scarce believe)</p>
<p>A troop of children, wives, and maids,</p>
<p>To wave their farewells, to bid God-speed,</p>
<p>To shed for them the parting tear,</p>
<p>To waft their kisses as the meed of praise to soldiers’ hearts most dear.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>They came in hundreds; thousands lined</p>
<p class='indent2'>The streets, the roofs, the shipping, too;</p>
<p>Their ribbons dancing in the wind,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Their bright eyes flashing love’s adieu.</p>
<p>’Twas then to danger we awoke,</p>
<p class='indent2'>But nobly faced the unarmed throng,</p>
<p>And beat them back with hearty stroke,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Till reinforcements came along.</p>
<p>We waited long; our aching sight</p>
<p class='indent2'>Was strained in eager, anxious gaze,</p>
<p>At last we saw the bayonets bright</p>
<p class='indent2'>Flash in the sunlight’s welcome blaze.</p>
<p>The cannon’s dull and heavy roll,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Fell greeting on our gladdened ear,</p>
<p>Then fired each eye, then glowed each soul,</p>
<p class='indent2'>For well we knew the strife was near.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Charge!” rang the cry, and on we dashed</p>
<p class='indent2'>Upon our female foes,</p>
<p>As seas in stormy fury lashed,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Whene’er the tempest blows.</p>
<p>Like chaff their parasols went down,</p>
<p class='indent2'>As our gallants rushed;</p>
<p>And many a bonnet, robe, and gown</p>
<p class='indent2'>Was torn to shreds or crushed;</p>
<p>Though well we plied the bayonet,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Still some our efforts braved,</p>
<p>Defiant both of blow and threat,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Their handkerchiefs still waved.</p>
<p>Thick grew the fight, loud rolled the din,</p>
<p class='indent2'>When “charge!” rang out again</p>
<p>And then the cannon thundered in,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And scoured o’er the plain.</p>
<p>Down, ’neath the unpitying iron heels of horses children sank,</p>
<p class='indent2'>While through the crowd the cannon</p>
<p>Wheels mowed roads on either flank,</p>
<p class='indent2'>One startled shriek, one hollow groan,</p>
<p>One headlong rush, and then</p>
<p class='indent2'>“Huzza!” the field was all our own,</p>
<p>For we were Banks’s men.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span></p>
<p>That night, released from all our toils,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Our dangers passed and gone,</p>
<p>We gladly gathered up the spoils</p>
<p class='indent2'>Our chivalry had won!</p>
<p>Five hundred ’kerchiefs we had snatched</p>
<p class='indent2'>From rebel ladies’ hands,</p>
<p>Ten parasols, two shoes (not matched),</p>
<p class='indent2'>Some ribbons, belts, and bands,</p>
<p>And other things that I forgot;</p>
<p class='indent2'>But then you’ll find them all</p>
<p>As trophies in that hallowed spot—</p>
<p class='indent2'>The cradle—Faneuil Hall!</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>And long on Massachusetts’ shore</p>
<p class='indent2'>And on Green Mountain’s side,</p>
<p>Or where Long Island’s breakers roar,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And by the Hudson’s tide,</p>
<p>In times to come, when lamps are lit,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And fires brightly blaze,</p>
<p>While round the knees of heroes sit</p>
<p class='indent2'>The young of happier days,</p>
<p>Who listen to their storied deeds,</p>
<p class='indent2'>To them sublimely grand,</p>
<p>Then glory shall award its meed</p>
<p class='indent2'>Of praise to Banks’s band,</p>
<p>And Fame proclaim that they alone</p>
<p class='indent2'>(In Triumph’s loudest note)</p>
<p>May wear henceforth, for valor shown,</p>
<p class='indent2'>A woman’s petticoat.</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS_AND_VICKSBURG_PRISONERS' id='THE_WOMEN_OF_NEW_ORLEANS_AND_VICKSBURG_PRISONERS'></a>
<h3>THE WOMEN OF NEW ORLEANS AND VICKSBURG PRISONERS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>General Pemberton’s army at Vicksburg surrendered
on the 4th of July, 1863. According to the liberal terms,
the thirty thousand Confederates were paroled and
allowed to march to their homes across the country. It
was about a month before the sick and wounded could
be removed. They were sent on Federal transports down
the Mississippi River by the way of New Orleans and
thence across the Gulf of Mexico by Fort Morgan to
Mobile.</p>
<p>The first boatload consisted of the sick in the hospital,
which was under the charge of Dr. Richard Whitfield, of
Alabama. I went to Vicksburg as sergeant major of the
Twentieth Alabama Regiment, but, at the request of the
Thirtieth Alabama, had been commissioned captain and
appointed chaplain of that command a few months before
the surrender. On the very evening of the surrender
I was taken very sick and for some days lay at the point
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span>
of death. Under the kind nursing of friends in Vicksburg,
and by the good medicines provided by the noble
Chaplain Porter, of Illinois, of the Federal army, I began
to rally in time to be moved to Dr. Whitfield’s hospital
and be put aboard the first boat for home. By the time
we reached New Orleans I had nearly recovered my
usual strength. At New Orleans we were transferred to
a gulf steamer, which lay at the wharf for nearly two
days. Soon after our arrival it looked as if the whole
population of the Crescent City had crowded down to
look at us and they stood there all day to comfort us with
their smiles during our stay.</p>
<p>General Banks allowed Dr. Stone and five other physicians
to come on our steamer and look after the sick, to
furnish coffins for the dead and remove them for burial.
No other citizens could pass the sentinels or a rope guard
extending about thirty yards from the boat. A detail of
Federal soldiers kept all our private Confederates on the
boat. There were only three or four Confederate officers
and we were allowed full liberty to go to the guard line
and talk to the citizens. Very soon the people began to
bring such supplies and refreshments as General Banks
would allow, and they literally loaded the steamer with
all sorts of good things, from hams and pickles down to
fans, pipes, and tobacco. Every soldier had enough for
his wants and as much as he could take home. Dr.
Stone told me that General Banks would not allow his
people to do half of what they were anxious to do. He
said the people wanted to keep us a while and clothe us
in new outfits.</p>
<p>I must just here put on record one of the most touching
instances of soldierly generosity and kindness that
ever occurred in war. Lieutenant Winslow, of Massachusetts,
was in command of the Federal guard on our
steamer, and Captain —— in charge of the guard on
the wharf. These two gallant young Federal officers,
although in full dress uniform, worked like beavers all
day under a hot sun, in assisting me to get the refreshments
and provisions from the hands of the ladies or
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span>
servants at the guard line and take them to the boat, there
to be handed to our men. The good women thought, of
course, we had wounded men among us, but there was
not one. An amazing quantity of lint and bandages was
sent aboard. In the linen furnished for this purpose
were whole garments of the finest fibre of female underwear,
most of it all bright and new. Many a rusty
Vicksburg soldier that night decked himself in a fine
nightrobe with amazingly short sleeves, and many a
soldier’s wife accepted for her own use the dainty peace-offering
when we reached home. None of these good
people, men nor women, were allowed to cheer us. All
that they could do was to give us sympathy by their presence
and their smiles. I saw the police or the soldiers
arrest man after man for some disloyal utterance.</p>
<p>The day we left the throng of beautiful women seemed
to extend up and down the levee as far as the eye could
reach. As the boat pushed off for Mobile our poor fellows
crowded the deck and the excitement on shore grew
intense. Neither side could cheer and the tension was
painful. Finally the awfully trying stillness was broken
by the waving of a little white handkerchief, in a fair
woman’s hand.</p>
<p>In a moment thousands of others were to be seen,
silently telling us “Good-bye and God bless you.” In a
few moments we could see excitement in every face, and
presently a little tender woman’s voice screamed out
“Hurrah! hurrah!” and then a thousand sweet throats
took up the shout. That “Hurrah” from Southern
women and those handkerchiefs waved under the point
of hostile bayonets told with pathos of a world of patriotism
in the breasts of those noble women. We old Confederates
were overcome. One grim old North Carolinian,
standing by my side, with Federal guards all
around us, and the tears streaming down his sun-hardened
cheeks, cried out at the top of his voice: “Men,
they may kill me, but I tell you I am willing to die a
hundred times for such women as them.” We all felt so,
and the living veterans feel that way yet.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span>
<a name='IT_DONT_TROUBLE_ME' id='IT_DONT_TROUBLE_ME'></a>
<h3>“IT DON’T TROUBLE ME”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember.]</p>
<p>There was but little sensibility exhibited by soldiers for
the fate of their comrades in field or hospital. The results
of war are here to-day and gone to-morrow. I
stood still, spell-bound by that youthful death-bed, when
my painful revery was broken upon by a drawling voice
from a neighboring bed, which had been calling me such
peculiar names and titles that I had been oblivious to
whom they were addressed.</p>
<p>“Look here. I say, Aunty!—Mammy!—You!” Then
in despair, “Missus Mauma! Kin you gim me sich a
thing as a b’iled sweet pur-r-rta-a-a-tu-ur? I b’long to
the Twenty-secun’ Nor’ Ka-a-a-li-i-na Regiment.” I
told the nurse to remove his bed from proximity to his
dead neighbor, that in the low state of his health from
fever the sight might affect his nerves, but he treated the
suggestion with contempt.</p>
<p>“Don’t make no sort of difference to me; they dies all
around me in the field and it don’t trouble me.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SAVAGE_WAR_IN_THE_VALLEY' id='SAVAGE_WAR_IN_THE_VALLEY'></a>
<h3>SAVAGE WAR IN THE VALLEY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In the Rise and Fall of Confederate Government, Volume 2, pages 700-709.]</p>
<p>On June 19, 1864, Major-General Hunter began his
retreat from before Lynchburg down the Shenandoah
Valley. Lieutenant-General Early, who followed in pursuit,
thus describes the destruction he witnessed along the
route:</p>
<p>“Houses had been burned, and helpless women and
children left without shelter. The country had been
stripped of provisions, and many families left without a
morsel to eat. Furniture and bedding had been cut to
pieces, and old men and women and children robbed of
all the clothing they had, except that on their backs.
Ladies’ trunks had been rifled, and their dresses torn to
pieces in mere wantonness. Even the negro girls had lost
their little finery. At Lexington he had burned the Military
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span>
Institute with all its contents, including its library
and scientific apparatus. Washington College had been
plundered, and the statue of Washington stolen. The
residence of ex-Governor Letcher at that place had been
burned by orders, and but a few minutes given Mrs.
Letcher and her family to leave the house. In the
county a most excellent Christian gentleman, a Mr.
Creigh, had been hung, because, on a former occasion, he
had killed a straggling and marauding Federal soldier
while in the act of insulting and outraging the ladies of
his family.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_ROBERT_TURNER_WOODSTOCK_VA' id='MRS_ROBERT_TURNER_WOODSTOCK_VA'></a>
<h3>MRS. ROBERT TURNER, WOODSTOCK, VA.</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The patriotic husband was in Lee’s army and had left
his wife at home with two little girls and an infant in
her arms. The home had fallen within the lines of the
Federals and the officers had stationed a guard in the
house for her protection. One night a marauding party
of bummers, who were fleeing from a party of soldiers
seeking to arrest them, came to her house and demanded
that she should go and show them the road they wanted
to take. The soldier guarding her said they were asking
too much and refused to let her go. They shot him down
so near her that his blood fell on her dress. She went
with her little children in the dark night and showed
them the road they asked for, and the poor woman
hastened back to her home, only to hear the ruffians coming
again. They overtook her in the yard and came with
such rough threats that she thought they were going to
kill her, and to save her oldest little girl, she tried to
conceal her by throwing her into some thick shrubbery.
Unfortunately the fall and the excitement inflicted an injury
which followed the child all her life. The marauders
followed the poor mother into the house and threatened
to kill her. But as one of them held a pistol in her
face the pursuing party rushed in and an officer knocked
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span>
the pistol up and shot the ruffian, who proved to be the
one who had killed the guard of the home.</p>
<p>Some one wrote to Mr. Turner of the situation of his
family. General Lee saw the letter and sent Turner
home to remove his little family to a place of safety.
This he did, and promptly returned to his post in the
army, where he served faithfully to the end of the war
and then became a staunch citizen.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='HIGH_PRICE_OF_NEEDLES_AND_THREAD' id='HIGH_PRICE_OF_NEEDLES_AND_THREAD'></a>
<h3>HIGH PRICE OF NEEDLES AND THREAD</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By Walter, a Soldier’s Son; from Mrs. Fannie A. Beer’s Memoirs, pages
293-295.]</p>
<p>My father was once a private soldier in the Confederate
army, and he often tells me interesting stories of the
war. One morning, just as he was going down town,
mother sent me to ask him to change a dollar. He could
not do it, but he said,</p>
<p>“Ask your mother how much change she wants?”</p>
<p>She only wanted a dime to buy a paper of needles and
some silk to mend my jacket. So I went back and asked
for ten cents. Instead of taking it out of his vest pocket,
father opened his pocket-book and said,</p>
<p>“Did you say you wanted ten dollars or ten cents, my
boy?”</p>
<p>“Why, father,” said I, “who ever heard of paying ten
dollars for needles and thread?”</p>
<p>“I have,” said he. “I once heard of a paper of needles,
and a skein of silk, worth more than ten dollars.”</p>
<p>His eyes twinkled and looked so pleasant that I knew
there was a story on hand, so I told mother and sis’ Loo,
who promised to find out all about it. After supper that
night mother coaxed father to tell us the story.</p>
<p>We liked it so well that I got mother to write it down
for the <i>Bivouac</i>.</p>
<p>After the battle of Chickamauga, one of “our mess”
found a needle case which had belonged to some poor
fellow, probably among the killed. He did not place
much value upon the contents, although there was a paper
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span>
of No. 8 needles, several buttons, and a skein or two of
thread, cut at each end and neatly braided so that each
thread could be smoothly drawn out. He put the whole
thing in his breast-pocket, and thought no more about it.
But one day while out foraging for himself and his mess,
he found himself near a house where money could have
procured a meal of fried chicken, corn-pone, and buttermilk,
besides a small supply to carry back to camp. But
Confederate soldiers’ purses were generally as empty as
their stomachs, and in this instance the lady of the house
did not offer to give away her nice dinner. While the
poor fellow was inhaling the enticing odor, and feeling
desperately hungry, a girl rode up to the gate on horseback,
and bawled out to another girl inside the house,</p>
<p>“Oh, Cindy, I rid over to see if you couldn’t lend me a
needle. I broke the last one I had to-day, and pap says
thar ain’t nary ’nother to be bought in the country hereabouts!”</p>
<p>Cindy declared she was in the same fix, and couldn’t
finish her new homespun dress for that reason.</p>
<p>The soldier just then had an idea. He retired to a
little distance, pulled out his case, sticking two needles
on the front of his jacket, then went back and offered one
of them, with his best bow, to the girl on the horse.
Right away the lady of the house offered to trade for the
one remaining. The result was a plentiful dinner for
himself; and in consideration of a thread or two of silk,
a full haversack and canteen. After this our mess was
well supplied, and our forager began to look sleek and
fat. The secret of his success did not leak out till long
afterward, when he astonished the boys by declaring he
“had been ‘living like a fighting-cock’ on a paper of
needles and two skeins of silk.”</p>
<p>“And,” added father, “if he had paid for all the meals
he got in Confederate money, the amount would have
been far more than ten dollars.”</p>
<p>I know other boys and girls will think this a queer
story, but I hope they will like it as well as mother and
Loo and I did.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span>
<a name='DESPAIR_AT_HOMEHEROISM_AT_THE_FRONT' id='DESPAIR_AT_HOMEHEROISM_AT_THE_FRONT'></a>
<h3>DESPAIR AT HOME—HEROISM AT THE FRONT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages 349-350.]</p>
<p>There is one feature of our Confederate struggle, to
which I have already made two or three indirect allusions,
as to which there has been such a strange popular
misapprehension that I feel as if there rested upon the
men who thoroughly understand the situation a solemn
obligation to bring out strongly and clearly the sound and
true view of the matter. I refer to an impression, quite
common, that the desertions from the Confederate
armies, especially in the latter part of the war, indicated
a general lack of devotion to the cause on the part of the
men in the ranks.</p>
<p>On the contrary, it is my deliberate conviction that
Southern soldiers who remained faithful under the unspeakable
pressure of letters and messages revealing suffering,
starvation, and despair at home displayed more
than human heroism. The men who felt this strain most
were the husbands of young wives and fathers of young
children, whom they had supported by their labor, manual
or mental. As the lines of communication in the Confederacy
were more and more broken and destroyed, and
the ability, both of county and public authorities and of
neighbors, to aid them became less and less, the situation
of such families became more and more desperate, and
their appeals more and more piteous to their only earthly
helpers who were far away, filling their places in “the
thin gray line.” Meanwhile the enemy sent into our
camps, often by our own pickets, circulars offering our
men indefinite parole, with free transportation to their
homes.</p>
<p>I am not condemning the Federal Government or military
authorities for making these offers or putting out
these circulars; but if there was ever such a thing as a
conflict of duties, that conflict was presented to the private
soldiers of the Confederate army who belonged to
the class just mentioned, and who received, perhaps simultaneously,
one of these home letters and one of these
Federal circulars; and if ever the strain of such a conflict
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span>
was great enough to unsettle a man’s reason and to
break a man’s heart strings these men were subjected to
that strain.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_OLD_DRAKES_TERRITORY' id='THE_OLD_DRAKES_TERRITORY'></a>
<h3>THE OLD DRAKE’S TERRITORY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>When Sherman’s army was making its celebrated
“march to the sea,” it cut a swath of fire and desolation
from Atlanta to Savannah and on through the Carolinas.
What food was not seized for the army was consumed by
fire. Mills and barns and hundreds of dwellings were
consigned to the flames. Most of the people fled from
the approach of the Federals and especially were the old
men, who might be thought by negroes and bummers to
have money concealed on their persons or premises,
afraid to fall into their hands. Somewhere not far
from Milledgeville, a well-to-do farmer lay hid in the
woods where he saw the Federals enter his premises and
carry off everything of any use or value. Not a strip of
bedding, not an ear of corn, a hough of a cow nor the
tail of a pig did they leave him. Before the Yankee brigade
got entirely out of sight the old farmer came into
his desolate home. One glance at the wreck and away
he went in pursuit of the Federals. “Oh, General, General,
stop your command,” was the cry. On they
marched without hearing him. On he rushed and cried
as he ran, “Oh, General, oh, General, stop your command.”
Finally when he was nearly out of breath the
cry was heard and the brigade halted.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, man?” said the soldiers, as he
passed on by them, his face all flushed with excitement.</p>
<p>“Where’s the General?”</p>
<p>“Yonder he is, sitting on that black horse.”</p>
<p>Everybody stood still to hear the breathless message.</p>
<p>“Oh, General!”</p>
<p>“Well, what’s the trouble, sir?”</p>
<p>“General, your men have been yonder to my house and
literally ruined me. They have taken everything I have
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span>
on God’s earth; they have left me nothing but one old
drake, and he says he is very lonesome, and he wishes
you would come back and get him.”</p>
<p>This was too much for the soldiers. Up went a shout
of laughter and a yell all up and down the lines. The
general was completely unhorsed by the desperate drollery
of the old farmer, and rolled on the ground. Calling
the man to him, he heard more of his story and finally
had a list made of all the property which had been taken
from him and had it all sent back to him, and the old
rebel and the old drake felt better.</p>
<p>I saw much of that old drake’s territory. It was the
only drake or fowl of any kind I ever heard of being left
by Sherman’s bummers. I was with a cavalry company
on Sherman’s flanks or front all the way to Savannah.
Miles and miles of smoke from burning houses, barns,
and mills could be seen every day and the red line shone
by night. He did not burn all the dwellings, but for
months and years there stood the lone chimneys of hundreds
of once happy homes. These chimneys were
called “Sherman’s sentinels.” As he said, “War is hell.”
It is hell when conducted on the devil’s plan instead of the
principles of civilized warfare. For all time to come the
march of Sherman and the burning of the Shenandoah
Valley by Sheridan will cause the American patriot,
North and South, to hang his head in shame.</p>
<p>The women and children in the burned district were, in
many localities, reduced almost to starvation. There is
a lady living now near Blakely, Ga., who, as a little girl
fourteen years old, walked fifteen miles to bring a half
bushel of meal for her mother’s family. Some of the
old men were murdered. The body of old Mr. Brewer,
of Effingham county, father of Judge Harlan Brewer
of Waycross, was never seen by his family after he was
made prisoner. The charred remains of a man were
found in a burned mill not far away. Sherman was the
right man in the right place. He had lived in the South
as a teacher and knew her people; and knew that in fair
and honorable warfare the South never could be subdued.
He knew, too, the devotion of Southern men to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span>
home and family, and he knew that the quickest way to
thin the lines of Lee and Johnston was to fire the homes
and beggar the families of the Confederate soldiers. As
soon as I saw the lines of his fire I said confidentially to
my captain, “Our men in Virginia can’t stand this.
Sherman has whipped us with fire. He drives the
women and children out of Atlanta and then burns the
country ahead of them. Our cause is lost.” And it was.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“But the whole world was against us;</p>
<p class='indent2'>We fought our fight alone;</p>
<p>To the Conquerors Want and Famine,</p>
<p class='indent2'>We laid our standard down.”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_REFUGEE_IN_RICHMOND' id='THE_REFUGEE_IN_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>THE REFUGEE IN RICHMOND</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By A Lady of Virginia, in Diary of a Refugee, pages 252-254.]</p>
<p>Prices of provisions have risen enormously—bacon, $8
per pound, butter, $15, etc. Our old friends from the
lower part of Essex, Mr. ——’s parishioners for many
years, sent over a wagon filled most generously with all
manner of necessary things for our larder. We have no
right to complain, for Providence is certainly supplying
our wants. The clerks’ salaries, too, have been raised to
$250 per month, which sounds very large; but when we
remember that flour is $300 per barrel, it sinks into insignificance.</p>
<p>28th.—Our hearts ache for the poor. A few days
ago, as E. was walking out, she met a wretchedly dressed
woman, of miserable appearance, who said she was seeking
the Young Men’s Christian Association, where she
hoped to get assistance and work to do. E. carried her to
the door, but it was closed, and the poor woman’s wants
were pressing. She then brought her home, supplied her
with food, and told her to return to see me the following
afternoon. She came, and with an honest countenance
and manner told me her history. Her name was Brown;
her husband had been a workman in Fredericksburg; he
joined the army, and was killed at the second battle of
Manassas. Many of her acquaintances in Fredericksburg
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span>
fled last winter during the bombardment; she became
alarmed, and with her three little children fled,
too. She had tried to get work in Richmond; sometimes
she succeeded, but could not supply her wants. A kind
woman had lent her a room and a part of a garden, but
it was outside of the corporation; and although it saved
house-rent, it debarred her from the relief of the associations
formed for supplying the city poor with meal,
wood, etc. She had evidently been in a situation little
short of starvation. I asked her if she could get bread
enough for her children by her work? She said she
could sometimes, and when she could not, she “got turnip-tops
from her piece of a garden, which were now putting
up smartly, and she boiled them, with a little salt,
and fed them on that.”</p>
<p>“But do they satisfy their hunger?” said I.</p>
<p>“Well, it is something to go upon for awhile, but it
does not stick by us like as bread does, and then we gets
hungry again, and I am afraid to let the children eat
them to go to sleep; and sometimes the woman in the
next room will bring the children her leavings, but she
is monstrous poor.”</p>
<p>When I gave her meat for her children, taken from the
bounty of our Essex friends, tears of gratitude ran down
her cheeks; she said they “had not seen meat for so
long.” Poor thing, I promised her that her case should
be known, and that she should not suffer so again. A
soldier’s widow shall not suffer from hunger in Richmond.
It must not be, and will not be when her case is
known.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='DESOLATIONS_OF_WAR' id='DESOLATIONS_OF_WAR'></a>
<h3>DESOLATIONS OF WAR</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Diary of a Refugee, page 283-284.]</p>
<p>When the war is over, where shall we find our old
churches, where her noble homesteads, scenes of domestic
comfort and generous hospitality? Either laid low by
the firebrand, or desecrated and desolated. In the march
of the army, or in the rapid evolutions of raiding parties,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span>
woe betide the houses which are found deserted. In
many cases the men of the family having gone to the
war, the women and children dare not stay; then the
lawless are allowed to plunder. They seem to take the
greatest delight in breaking up the most elegant or the
most humble furniture, as the case may be; cut the portraits
from the frames, split pianos in pieces, ruin libraries
in any way that suits their fancy; break doors from
their hinges, and locks from the doors; cut the windows
from the frames, and leave no pane of glass unbroken;
carry off house-linen and carpets; the contents of the
store-rooms and pantries, sugar, flour, vinegar, molasses,
pickles, preserves, which cannot be eaten or carried off,
are poured together in one general mass. The horses are
of course taken from the stables; cattle and stock of all
kinds driven off or shot in the woods and fields. Generally,
indeed, I believe always, when the whole army is
moving, inhabited houses are protected. To raiders such
as Hunter and Co. is reserved the credit of committing
such outrages in the presence of ladies—of taking their
watches from their belts, their rings from their fingers,
and their ear-rings from their ears; of searching their
bureaus and wardrobes, and filling pockets and haversacks
in their presence. Is it not, then, wonderful that
soldiers whose families have suffered such things could
be restrained when in a hostile country? It seems to me
to show a marvellous degree of forbearance in the officers
themselves and of discipline in the troops.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='DEATH_OF_A_SOLDIER' id='DEATH_OF_A_SOLDIER'></a>
<h3>DEATH OF A SOLDIER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Diary of a Refugee, pages 311-313.]</p>
<p>An officer from the far South was brought in mortally
wounded. He had lost both legs in a fight below
Petersburg. The poor fellow suffered excessively;
could not be still a moment; and was evidently near his
end. His brother, who was with him, exhibited the bitterest
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span>
grief, watching and waiting on him with silent
tenderness and flowing tears. Mr. —— was glad to
find that he was not unprepared to die. He had been a
professor of religion some years, and told him that he
was suffering too much to think on that or any other
subject, but he constantly tried to look to God for mercy.
Mr. —— then recognized him, for the first time, as a
patient who had been in the hospital last spring, and
whose admirable character had then much impressed him.
He was a gallant and brave officer, yet so kind and gentle
to those under his control that his men were deeply attached
to him, and the soldier who nursed him showed
his love by his anxious care of his beloved captain.
After saying to him a few words about Christ and his
free salvation, offering up a fervent prayer in which he
seemed to join, and watching the sad scene for a short
time, Mr. —— left him for the night. The surgeons
apprehended that he would die before morning, and so it
turned out; at the chaplain’s early call there was nothing
in his room but the chilling signal of the empty “hospital
bunk.” He was buried that day, and we trust will be
found among the redeemed in the day of the Lord.</p>
<p>This, it was thought, would be the last of this good
man; but in the dead of night came hurriedly a single
carriage to the gate of the hospital. A lone woman, tall,
straight, and dressed in deep mourning, got out quickly,
and moved rapidly up the steps into the large hall, where,
meeting the guard, she asked anxiously, “Where’s Captain
T.?”</p>
<p>Taken by surprise, the man answered hesitatingly,
“Captain T. is dead, madam, and was buried to-day.”</p>
<p>This terrible announcement was as a thunderbolt at
the very feet of the poor lady, who fell to the floor as
one dead. Starting up, oh, how she made that immense
building ring with her bitter lamentations. Worn down
with apprehension and weary with traveling over a thousand
miles by day and night, without stopping for a
moment’s rest, and wild with grief, she could hear no
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span>
voice of sympathy—she regarded not the presence of one
or many; she told the story of her married life as if she
were alone—how her husband was the best man that ever
lived; how everybody loved him; how kind he was to
all; how devoted to herself; how he loved his children,
took care of, and did everything for them; how, from
her earliest years almost, she had loved him as herself;
how tender he was of her, watching over her in sickness,
never seeming to weary of it, never to be unwilling to
make any sacrifice for her comfort and happiness; how
that, when the telegraph brought the dreadful news that
he was dangerously wounded, she never waited an instant
nor stopped a moment by the way, day nor night, and
now—“I drove as fast as the horses could come from the
depot to this place, and he is dead and buried. I never
shall see his face again. What shall I do? But where
is he buried?”</p>
<p>They told her where.</p>
<p>“I must go there; he must be taken up; I must see
him.”</p>
<p>“But, madam, you can’t see him; he has been buried
some hours.”</p>
<p>“But I must see him; I can’t live without seeing him;
I must hire some one to go and take him up; can’t you
get some one to take him up? I’ll pay him well; just
get some men to take him up. I must take him home;
he must go home with me. The last thing I said to his
children was that they must be good children, and I
would bring their father home, and they are waiting for
him now. He must go, I can’t go without him; I can’t
meet his children without him;” and so, with her woman’s
heart, she could not be turned aside—nothing could alter
her purpose.</p>
<p>The next day she had his body taken up and embalmed.
She watched by it until everything was ready, and then
carried him back to his own house and children, only to
seek a grave for the dead father close by those he loved,
among kindred and friends in the fair sunny land he died
to defend.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span>
<a name='MRS_HENRIETTA_E_LEES_LETTER_TO_GENERAL_HUNTER_ON_T' id='MRS_HENRIETTA_E_LEES_LETTER_TO_GENERAL_HUNTER_ON_T'></a>
<h3>MRS. HENRIETTA E. LEE’S LETTER TO GENERAL HUNTER ON THE BURNING OF HER HOUSE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 8, pages 215-216.]</p>
<p>The following burning protest against a cruel wrong
deserves to be put on record, as a part of the history of
General David Hunter’s inglorious campaign in the Valley
of Virginia, and we cheerfully comply with the request
of a distinguished friend to publish it. The burning
of this house and those of Col. A. R. Boteler and
Andrew Hunter, esq., in the lower valley, and of Governor
Letcher’s and the Virginia Military Institute at
Lexington give him a place in the annals of infamy only
equaled by the contempt felt for his military achievements:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Jefferson County</span>, <i>July 20, 1864</i>.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>General Hunter</span>:</p>
<p>Yesterday your underling, Captain Martindale, of the
First New York Cavalry, executed your infamous order
and burned my house. You have had the satisfaction ere
this of receiving from him the information that your
orders were fulfilled to the letter; the dwelling and every
out-building, seven in number, with their contents, being
burned. I, therefore, a helpless woman whom you have
cruelly wronged, address you, a Major-General of the
United States army, and demand why this was done?
What was my offence? My husband was absent, an
exile. He had never been a politician or in any way engaged
in the struggle now going on, his age preventing.
This fact your chief of staff, David Strother, could have
told you. The house was built by my father, a Revolutionary
soldier, who served the whole seven years for
your independence. There was I born; there the sacred
dead repose. It was my house and my home, and there
has your niece (Miss Griffith), who has tarried among
us all this horrid war up to the present time, met with all
kindness and hospitality at my hands. Was it for this
that you turned me, my young daughter, and little son
out upon the world without a shelter? Or was it because
my husband is the grandson of the Revolutionary patriot
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span>
and “rebel,” Richard Henry Lee, and the near kinsman
of the noblest of Christian warriors, the greatest of generals,
Robert E. Lee? Heaven’s blessing be upon his
head forever. You and your Government have failed to
conquer, subdue, or match him; and disappointment,
rage, and malice find vent on the helpless and inoffensive.</p>
<p>Hyena-like, you have torn my heart to pieces! for all
hallowed memories clustered around that homestead, and
demon-like, you have done it without even the pretext of
revenge, for I never saw or harmed you. Your office is
not to lead, like a brave man and soldier, your men to
fight in the ranks of war, but your work has been to separate
yourself from all danger, and with your incendiary
band steal unaware upon helpless women and children, to
insult and destroy. Two fair homes did you yesterday
ruthlessly lay in ashes, giving not a moment’s warning to
the startled inmates of your wicked purpose; turning
mothers and children out of doors, you are execrated by
your own men for the cruel work you give them to do.</p>
<p>In the case of Colonel A. R. Boteler, both father and
mother were far away. Any heart but that of Captain
Martindale (and yours) would have been touched by that
little circle, comprising a widowed daughter just risen
from her bed of illness, her three fatherless babies—the
oldest not five years old—and her heroic sister. I repeat,
any man would have been touched at that sight but
Captain Martindale. One might as well hope to find
mercy and feeling in the heart of a wolf bent on his prey
of young lambs, as to search for such qualities in his
bosom. You have chosen well your agent for such
deeds, and doubtless will promote him.</p>
<p>A colonel of the Federal army has stated that you deprived
forty of your officers of their commands because
they refused to carry on your malignant mischief. All
honor to their names for this, at least! They are men;
they have human hearts and blush for such a commander!</p>
<p>I ask who that does not wish infamy and disgrace attached
to him forever would serve under you? Your
name will stand on history’s page as the Hunter of weak
women, and innocent children, the Hunter to destroy defenceless
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span>
villages and refined and beautiful homes—to
torture afresh the agonized hearts of widows; the Hunter
of Africa’s poor sons and daughters, to lure them on
to ruin and death of soul and body; the Hunter with the
relentless heart of a wild beast, the face of a fiend and the
form of a man. Oh, Earth, behold the monster! Can
I say, “God forgive you?” No prayer can be offered
for you. Were it possible for human lips to raise your
name heavenward, angels would thrust the foul thing
back again, and demons claim their own. The curses of
thousands, the scorns of the manly and upright, and the
hatred of the true and honorable, will follow you and
yours through all time, and brand your name infamy!
infamy!</p>
<p>Again, I demand why you have burned my home?
Answer as you must answer before the Searcher of all
hearts, why have you added this cruel, wicked deed to
your many crimes?</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SHERMANS_BUMMERS' id='SHERMANS_BUMMERS'></a>
<h3>SHERMAN’S BUMMERS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[E. J. Hale, Jr.]</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Fayetteville, N. C.</span>, <i>July 31st, 1865</i>.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>My Dear General</span>:</p>
<p>It would be impossible to give you an adequate idea of
the destruction of property in this good old town. It
may not be an average instance, but it is one, the force
of whose truth we feel only too fully. My father’s property,
before the war, was easily convertible into about
$85,000 to $100,000 in specie. He has not now a particle
of property which will bring him a dollar of income.
His office, with everything in it, was burned by Sherman’s
order. Slocum, who executed the order, with a
number of other generals, sat on the veranda of a hotel
opposite watching the progress of the flames, while they
hobnobbed over wines stolen from our cellar. A fine
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span>
brick building adjacent, also belonging to my father, was
burned at the same time. The cotton factory, of which
he was a large shareholder, was burned, while his bank,
railroad, and other stocks are worse than worthless, for
the bank stock, at least, may bring him in debt, as the
stockholders are responsible. In fact, he has nothing
left, besides the ruins of his town buildings and a few
town lots which promise to be of little value hereafter,
in this desolated town, and are of no value at present,
save his residence, which (with brother’s house) Sherman
made a great parade of saving from a mob (composed of
corps and division commanders, a nephew of Henry
Ward Beecher, and so on down,) by sending to each
house an officer of his staff, after my brother’s had been
pillaged and my father’s to some extent. By some accidental
good fortune, however, my mother secured a
guard before the “bummers” had made much progress in
the house, and to this circumstance we are indebted for
our daily food, several months’ supply of which my father
had hid the night before he left, in the upper rooms of
the house, and the greater part of which was saved.</p>
<p>You have, doubtless, heard of Sherman’s “bummers.”
The Yankees would have you believe that they were only
the straggling pillagers usually found with all armies.
Several letters written by officers of Sherman’s army, intercepted
near this town, give this the lie. In some of
these letters were descriptions of the whole burning process,
and from them it appears that it was a regularly organized
system, under the authority of General Sherman
himself; that one-fifth of the proceeds fell to General
Sherman, another fifth to the other general officers,
another fifth to the line officers, and the remaining two-fifths
to the enlisted men. There were pure silver bummers,
plated-ware bummers, jewelry bummers, women’s
clothing bummers, provision bummers, and, in fine, a
bummer or bummers for every kind of stealable thing.
No bummer of one specialty interfering with the stealables
of another. A pretty picture of a conquering army,
indeed, but true.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span>
<a name='REMINISCENCES_OF_THE_WAR_TIMESA_LETTER' id='REMINISCENCES_OF_THE_WAR_TIMESA_LETTER'></a>
<h3>REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR TIMES—A LETTER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[B. Winston, in Confederate Scrap-Book.]</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Signal Hill</span>, <i>February 27th</i>.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>My Dear</span> ——:</p>
<p>Your very kind letter received.
I delayed perhaps too long replying. I have hunted up a
few little things. We are so unfortunate as to have
nearly all our war relics burnt in an outhouse, so I have
little left unless I took what I remember. We were left
so bare of everything at that time. Our only pokers and
tongs were pokers and ramrods; old canteens came into
domestic service; we made our shoes of parts of old canvas
tents, and blackened them with elderberry juice (the
only ink we could command was elderberry juice); we
plaited our hats of straw (I have a straw-splinter now,
for which I gave $13; it did good service); the inside
corn-shuck made dainty bonnets; sycamore balls, saturated
with grease, made excellent tapers, though nothing
superseded the time-honored lightwood knots.</p>
<p>The Confederate army was camped around us for
months together. We often had brilliant assemblages
of officers. On one occasion, when all went merry as a
marriage-bell, and uniformed officers and lovely girls
wound in and out in the dance, a sudden stillness fell—few
words, sudden departures. The enemy were in full
force, trying to effect a crossing at a strategic point. We
were left at daybreak in the Federal camp, a sharp engagement
around us—the beginning of the seven days’
fight around Richmond. It was a bright, warm day in
May. An unusual stillness brooded over everything. A
few officers came and went, looking grave and important.
In a short time, from a dense body of pines near us,
curled the blue smoke, and volley after volley of musketry
succeeded in sharp succession, the sharp, shrill scream of
flying shells falling in the soft green of the growing
wheat. Not long, and each opposing army emerged
from ambush and stood in the battle’s awful array. Our
own forces (mostly North Carolinians) fell back into a
railroad cut. The tide of battle swept past us, but the
day was lost to us. At evening they brought our dead
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span>
and wounded and made a hospital of our house. Then
came the amputating surgeon to finish what the bullet
had failed to do. Arms and legs lay in a promiscuous
heap on our back piazza.</p>
<p>On another occasion I saw a sudden surprise in front
of our house. A regiment of soldiers, under General
Rosser’s command, were camped around us. It was
high, blazing noon. The soldiers, suspecting nothing,
were in undress, lying down under every available
shadow, when a sudden volley and shout made every man
spring to his feet. The enemy were all around them,
and panic was amongst our men; they were running, but
as they rose a little knoll every man turned, formed, and
fired. I saw some poor fellows fall.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='AUNT_MYRA_AND_THE_HOECAKE' id='AUNT_MYRA_AND_THE_HOECAKE'></a>
<h3>AUNT MYRA AND THE HOE-CAKE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Our Women in the War, pages 419-420.]</p>
<p>Another instance was that of an old lady. Small and
fragile-looking, with soft and gentle manners, it seemed
as if a whiff of wind might have blown her away, and she
was not one who was likely to tempt the torrent of a
ruffian’s wrath. But how often can we judge of appearances,
for in that tiny body was a spirit as strong and
fearless as the bravest in the land. The war had been
a bitter reality to her. One son had been brought home
shattered by a shell, and for long months she had seen him
in the agony which no human tongue can describe; while
another, in the freshness of his young manhood, had been
numbered with the slain. She was a widow, and having
the care of two orphan grandchildren upon her, was experiencing
the same difficulty in obtaining food that we
were. One morning she had made repeated efforts to
get something cooked, but failed as often as she tried, for
just as soon as it was ready to be eaten in walked a Federal
soldier and marched off with it, expostulations or entreaties
availing naught. Finally, after some difficulty, a
little corn meal was found which was mixed with a hoe-cake
and set in the oven to bake. Determined not to lose
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span>
this, Aunt Myra, the lady in question, took her seat before
the fire and vowed she would not leave the spot until the
bread was safe in her own hands. Scarcely had she done
so when, as usual, a soldier made his appearance, and,
seeing the contents of the oven, took his seat on the opposite
side and coolly waited its baking. I have since
thought what a picture for a painter that would make—upon
one side the old lady with the proud, high-born face
of a true Southern gentlewoman, but, alas! stamped with
the seal of care and sorrow; and upon the other, the man,
strong in his assumed power, both intent upon that one
point of interest, a baking hoe-cake. When it had
reached the desired shade of browning, Aunt Myra
leaned forward to take possession, but ere she could do so
that other hand was before her and she saw it taken from
her. Rising to her feet and drawing her small figure to
its fullest height, the old lady’s pent up feelings burst
forth, and she gave expression to the indignation which
“this last act caused to overflow.”</p>
<p>“You thieving scoundrel!” she cried in her gathering
wrath. “You would take the very last crust from the
orphans’ mouths and doom them to starvation before
your very eyes.”</p>
<p>Then, before the astonished man could recover himself,
with a quick movement she had snatched the bread
back again. Scarcely had she got possession, however,
when a revulsion of feeling took place, and, breaking it in
two, tossed them at him in the scorn which filled her soul
as she said: “But if your heart is hard enough to take it,
then you may have it.”</p>
<p>She threw them with such force that one of the hot
pieces struck him in the face, the other immediately following.
Strange to say, he did not resent her treatment
of him; but it was too much for Aunt Myra’s excited
feelings when he picked up the bread, and commenced
munching upon it in the most unconcerned manner possible.
Again snatching it from him, she flung it far out
of the window, where it lay rolling in dirt, crying as she
did so: “Indeed, you shan’t eat it; if I can’t have it, then
you shan’t.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span>
<a name='THE_CORN_WOMAN' id='THE_CORN_WOMAN'></a>
<h3>“THE CORN WOMAN”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Our Women in the War, page 276.]</p>
<p>“The corn woman” was a feature of the times. The
men in the counties north of us were mostly farmers,
owning small farms which they worked with the assistance
of the family. Few owned slaves, and they planted
garden crops chiefly. The men were now in the army,
and good soldiers many of them made. During the last
two years, for various reasons, many of the wives of
these soldiers failed in making a crop, and were sent with
papers from the probate judges to the counties south to
get corn. No doubt these were really needy, and they
were supplied abundantly, and then, thinking it an easy
way to make a living, others not needing help came.
They neglected to plant crops, as it was far more easy to
beg all the corn they wanted than to work it. Women
whose husbands were at home, who never had been in
the army, young girls and old women came in droves—all
railroad cars and steamboats were filled with “corn
women.”</p>
<p>They came twenty and thirty together, got off at the
stations and landings for miles, visiting every plantation
and never failing to get their sacks filled and sent to the
depot or river for them. Some had bedticks; one came
to me with a sack over two yards long and one yard wide
that would have held ten bushels of corn, and she had
several like it. They soon became perfect nuisances.
When you objected to giving they abused you; they no
longer brought papers; when we had no corn to spare we
gave them money, which they said they would rather
have. It would save the trouble of toting corn, and they
could buy it at home for the money. I once gave them
twenty-five dollars, all I had in the house at the time.
“Well, this won’t go to buy much corn, but as far as it
do go we’s obliged to you,” were the thanks. I saw a
party of them on a steamboat counting their money.
They had hundreds of dollars and a quantity of corn.
The boats and railroads took them free. I was afterward
told by a railroad official that their husbands and fathers
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span>
met them at the depot and either sold the corn or took it
to the stills and made it into whiskey. They hated the
army and all in it and despised the negro, who returned
the compliment with interest. The very sight of a corn
woman made them and the overseers angry. They regarded
them as they did the army worm.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GENERAL_ATKINS_AT_CHAPEL_HILL' id='GENERAL_ATKINS_AT_CHAPEL_HILL'></a>
<h3>GENERAL ATKINS AT CHAPEL HILL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Last Ninety Days of the War, page 33.]</p>
<p>While the command of General Atkins remained in
Chapel Hill—a period of nearly three weeks—the same
work, with perhaps some mitigation, was going on in
the country round us, and around the city of Raleigh,
which had marked the progress of the Federal armies all
through the South. Planters having large families of
white and black were left without food, forage, cattle, or
change of clothing. Being in camp so long, bedding became
an object with the marauders; and many wealthy
families were stripped of what the industry of years had
accumulated in that line. Much of what was so wantonly
taken was as wantonly destroyed and squandered
among the prostitutes and negroes who haunted the
camps. As to Raleigh, though within the corporate limits,
no plundering of the houses was allowed; yet in the
suburbs and the country the policy of permitting it to its
widest extent was followed.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TWO_SPECIMEN_CASES_OF_DESERTION' id='TWO_SPECIMEN_CASES_OF_DESERTION'></a>
<h3>TWO SPECIMEN CASES OF DESERTION</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Heroes in the Furnace; Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<p>We by no means excuse or palliate desertion to the
enemy, which is universally recognized as one of the
basest crimes known to military law; but most of the desertions
from the Confederate army occurred during
the latter part of the war, and many of them were
brought about by the most heartrending letters from
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span>
home, telling of suffering, and even starving families, and
we cannot class these cases with those who deserted to
join the enemy, or to get rid of the hardships and dangers
of the army. Some most touching cases came
under our observation, but we give only the following incidents
as illustrating many other cases.</p>
<p>A distinguished major-general in the Western army
has given us this incident. A humble man but very gallant
soldier from one of the Gulf States, had enlisted on
the assurance of a wealthy planter that he would see his
young wife and child should not lack for support.</p>
<p>The brave fellow had served his country faithfully,
until one day he received a letter from his wife, saying
that the rich neighbor who had promised to keep her from
want now utterly refused to give or to sell her anything
to eat, unless she would submit to the basest proposals
which he was persistently making her, and that unless he
could come home she saw nothing but starvation before
her and his child. The poor fellow at once applied for a
furlough, and was refused. He then went to the gallant
soldier who is my informant and stated the case in full,
and told him that he must and would go home if he was
shot for it the day he returned. The general told him
while he could not give him a permit, he did not blame
him for his determination.</p>
<p>The next day he was reported “absent without leave,”
and was hurrying to his home. He moved his wife and
child to a place of safety and made provision for their
support. Then returning to the neighborhood of his
home, he caught the miscreant who had tried to pollute
the hearthstone of one who was risking his life for him,
dragged him into the woods, tied him to a tree, and administered
to him a flogging that he did not soon forget.
The brave fellow then hurried back to his regiment,
joined his comrades just as they were going into battle,
and behaved with such conspicuous gallantry as to make
all forget that he had ever, even for a short time, been a
“deserter.”</p>
<p>The other incident which we shall give was related by
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span>
General C. A. Battle, in a speech at Tuscumbia, Ala., and
is as follows:</p>
<p>During the winter of 1862-3 it was my fortune to be
president of one of the courts-martial of the Army of
Northern Virginia. One bleak December morning, while
the snow covered the ground and the winds howled
around our camp, I left my bivouac fire to attend the
session of the court. Winding for miles along uncertain
paths, I at length arrived at the court-ground at Round
Oak church. Day after day it had been our duty to try
the gallant soldiers of that army charged with violations
of military law; but never had I on any previous occasion
been greeted by such anxious spectators as on that
morning awaited the opening of the court. Case after
case was disposed of, and at length the case of “The Confederate
States vs. Edward Cooper” was called; charge,
desertion. A low murmur rose spontaneously from the
battle-scarred spectators as a young artilleryman rose
from the prisoner’s bench, and, in response to the question,
“Guilty or not guilty?” answered, “Not guilty.”</p>
<p>The judge advocate was proceeding to open the prosecution,
when the court, observing that the prisoner was
unattended by counsel, interposed and inquired of the
accused, “Who is your counsel?”</p>
<p>He replied, “I have no counsel.”</p>
<p>Supposing that it was his purpose to represent himself
before the court, the judge-advocate was instructed to
proceed. Every charge and specification against the
prisoner was sustained.</p>
<p>The prisoner was then told to introduce his witnesses.</p>
<p>He replied, “I have no witnesses.”</p>
<p>Astonished at the calmness with which he seemed to be
submitting to what he regarded as inevitable fate, I said
to him, “Have you no defence? Is it possible that you
abandoned your comrades and deserted your colors in the
presence of the enemy without any reason?”</p>
<p>He replied, “There was a reason, but it will not avail
me before a military court.”</p>
<p>I said, “Perhaps you are mistaken; you are charged
with the highest crime known to military law, and it is
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span>
your duty to make known the causes that influenced your
actions.”</p>
<p>For the first time his manly form trembled and his
blue eyes swam in tears. Approaching the president of
the court, he presented a letter, saying, as he did so,
“There, colonel, is what did it.” I opened the letter,
and in a moment my eyes filled with tears.</p>
<p>It was passed from one to another of the court until all
had seen it, and those stern warriors who had passed with
Stonewall Jackson through a hundred battles wept like
little children. Soon as I sufficiently recovered my self-possession,
I read the letter as the prisoner’s defence. It
was in these words:</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class='smcap'>My Dear Edward</span>: I have always been proud of you, and since
your connection with the Confederate army I have been prouder of
you than ever before. I would not have you do anything wrong for
the world; but before God, Edward, unless you come home we must
die! Last night I was aroused by little Eddie’s crying. I called
and said, “What’s the matter, Eddie?” and he said, “Oh, mamma,
I’m so hungry!” And Lucy, Edward, your darling Lucy, she never
complains, but she is growing thinner and thinner every day. And
before God, Edward, unless you come home we must die.</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Your Mary.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Turning to the prisoner, I asked, “What did you do
when you received this letter?”</p>
<p>He replied, “I made application for a furlough, and it
was rejected; again I made application, and it was rejected;
and that night, as I wandered backward and
forward in the camp, thinking of my home, with the mild
eyes of Lucy looking up to me, and the burning words of
Mary sinking in my brain, I was no longer the Confederate
soldier, but I was the father of Lucy and the husband
of Mary, and I would have passed those lines if
every gun in the battery had fired upon me. I went to
my home. Mary ran out to meet me, her angel arms embraced
me, and she whispered, ‘O, Edward, I am so happy!
I am so glad you got your furlough!’ She must
have felt me shudder, for she turned pale as death, and,
catching her breath at every word, she said, ‘Have you
come without your furlough? O, Edward, Edward, go
back! go back! Let me and my children go down
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span>
together to the grave, but O, for heaven’s sake, save the
honor of our name! And here I am, gentlemen, not
brought here by military power, but in obedience to the
command of Mary, to abide the sentence of your court.”</p>
<p>Every officer of that court-martial felt the force of the
prisoner’s words. Before them stood, in beatific vision,
the eloquent pleader for the husband’s and father’s
wrongs; but they had been trained by their great leader,
Robert E. Lee, to tread the path of duty though the lightning’s
flash scorched the ground beneath their feet, and
each in his turn pronounced the verdict: “Guilty.”
Fortunately for humanity, fortunately for the Confederacy,
the proceedings of the court were reviewed by the
commanding-general, and upon the record was written:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia.</span></p>
<p>The finding of the court is approved. The prisoner is pardoned,
and will report to his company.</p>
<p class='sig2'><span class='smcap'>R. E. Lee</span>, <i>General</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>During a subsequent battle, when shot and shell were
falling “like torrents from the mountain cloud,” my attention
was directed to the fact that one of our batteries
was being silenced by the concentrated fire of the enemy.
When I reached the battery every gun but one had been
dismantled, and by it stood a solitary soldier, with the
blood streaming from his side. As he recognized me,
he elevated his voice above the roar of battle, and said,
“General, I have one shell left. Tell me, have I saved the
honor of Mary and Lucy?” I raised my hat. Once
more a Confederate shell went crashing through the
ranks of the enemy, and the hero sank by his gun to rise
no more.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SHERMAN_IN_SOUTH_CAROLINA' id='SHERMAN_IN_SOUTH_CAROLINA'></a>
<h3>SHERMAN IN SOUTH CAROLINA</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Cornelia B. Spencer, in Last Days of the War, pages 29-31.]</p>
<p>A letter dated Charleston, September 14, 1865, written
by Rev. Dr. John Bachman, then pastor of the Lutheran
Church in that city, presents many facts respecting the
devastation and robberies by the enemy in South Carolina.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span>
So much as relates to the march of Sherman’s army
through parts of the State is here presented:</p>
<p>“When Sherman’s army came sweeping through Carolina,
leaving a broad track of desolation for hundreds of
miles, whose steps were accompanied with fire, and sword,
and blood, reminding us of the tender mercies of the
Duke of Alva, I happened to be at Cash’s Depot, 6 miles
from Cheraw. The owner was a widow, Mrs. Ellerbe,
71 years of age. Her son, Colonel Cash, was absent. I
witnessed the barbarities inflicted on the aged, the widow,
and young and delicate females. Officers, high in command,
were engaged tearing from the ladies their
watches, their ear and wedding rings, the daguerreotypes
of those they loved and cherished. A lady of delicacy
and refinement, a personal friend, was compelled to strip
before them, that they might find concealed watches and
other valuables under her dress. A system of torture
was practiced toward a weak, unarmed, and defenceless
people which, as far as I know and believe, was universal
throughout the whole course of that invading army.
Before they arrived at a plantation, they inquired the
names of the most faithful and trustworthy family servants;
these were immediately seized, pistols were presented
at their heads; with the most terrific curses, they
were threatened to be shot if they did not assist them in
finding buried treasures. If this did not succeed, they
were tied up and cruelly beaten. Several poor creatures
died under the infliction. The last resort was that of
hanging, and the officers and men of the triumphant army
of General Sherman were engaged in erecting gallows and
hanging up these faithful and devoted servants. They
were strung up until life was nearly extinct, when they
were let down, suffered to rest awhile, then threatened
and hung up again. It is not surprising that some should
have been left hanging so long that they were taken down
dead. Coolly and deliberately these hardened men proceeded
on their way, as if they had perpetrated no crime,
and as if the God of heaven would not pursue them with
his vengeance. But it was not alone the poor blacks (to
whom they professed to come as liberators) that were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span>
thus subjected to torture and death. Gentlemen of high
character, pure and honorable and gray-headed, unconnected
with the military, were dragged from their fields
or beds, and subjected to this process of threats, beating,
and hanging. Along the whole track of Sherman’s army
traces remain of the cruelty and inhumanity practiced on
the aged and the defenceless. Some of those who were
hung up died under the rope, while their cruel murderers
have not only been left unreproached and unhung, but
have been hailed as heroes and patriots.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='OLD_NORTH_STATES_TRIALS' id='OLD_NORTH_STATES_TRIALS'></a>
<h3>OLD NORTH STATE’S TRIALS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Cornelia P. Spencer, in Last Ninety Days of the War, pages 95-97.]</p>
<p>By January, 1865, there was very little room for
“belief” of any sort in the ultimate success of the Confederacy.
All the necessaries of life were scarce, and
were held at fabulous and still increasing prices. The
great freshet of January 10th, which washed low grounds,
carried off fences, bridges, mills, and tore up railroads all
through the central part of the State, at once doubled the
price of corn and flour. Two destructive fires in the
same months, which consumed great quantities of government
stores at Charlotte and at Salisbury, added materially
to the general gloom and depression. The very elements
seemed to have enlisted against us. And soon, with
no great surplus of food from the wants of her home population,
North Carolina found herself called upon to furnish
supplies for two armies. Early in January an urgent
and most pressing appeal was made for Lee’s army; and
the people, most of whom knew not where they would get
bread for their children in three months’ time, responded
nobly, as they had always done to any call for “the soldiers.”
Few were the hearts in any part of the land that
did not thrill at the thought that those who were fighting
for us were in want of food. From a humble cabin on
the hill-side, where the old brown spinning-wheel and the
rude loom were the only breastworks against starvation,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span>
up through all grades of life, there were none who did
not feel a deep and tender, almost heartbreaking solicitude
for our noble soldiers. For them the last barrel of
flour was divided, the last luxury in homes that had once
abounded cheerfully surrendered. Every available resource
was taxed, every expedient of domestic economy
was put into practice—as, indeed, had been done all
along; but our people went to work even yet with fresh
zeal. I speak now of central North Carolina, where
many families of the highest respectability and refinement
lived for months on corn-bread, sorghum, and peas;
where meat was seldom seen on the table, tea and coffee
never, where dried apples and peaches were a luxury;
where children went barefoot through winter, and ladies
made their own shoes, and wove their own homespuns;
where the carpets were cut up into blankets, and window-curtains
and sheets were torn up for hospital uses;
where the soldiers’ socks were knit day and night, while
for home service clothes were twice turned, and patches
were patched again; and all this continually, and with an
energy and a cheerfulness that may well be called heroic.</p>
<p>There were localities in the State where a few rich
planters boasted of having “never felt the war;” there
were ladies whose wardrobes encouraged the blockade-runners,
and whose tables were still heaped with all the
luxuries they had ever known. There were such doubtless
in every State in the Confederacy. I speak not now
of these, but of the great body of our citizens—the middle
class as to fortune, generally the highest as to cultivation
and intelligence—these were the people who denied
themselves and their little ones, that they might be able
to send relief to the gallant men who lay in the trenches
before Petersburg, and were even then living on crackers
and parched corn.</p>
<p>The fall of Fort Fisher and the occupation of Wilmington,
the failure of the peace commission, and the unchecked
advance of Sherman’s army northward from
Savannah, were the all-absorbing topics of discussion
with our people during the first months of the year 1865.
The tide of war was rolling in upon us. Hitherto our
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span>
privations, heavily as they had borne upon domestic comfort,
had been light in comparison with those of the people
in the States actually invaded by the Federal armies;
but now we were to be qualified to judge, by our own experience,
how far their trials and losses had exceeded
ours. What the fate of our pleasant towns and villages
and of our isolated farm-houses would be we could easily
read by the light of the blazing roof-trees that lit up the
path of the advancing army. General Sherman’s principles
were well known, for they had been carefully laid
down by him in his letter to the Mayor of Atlanta, September,
1864, and had been thoroughly put in practice
by him in his further progress since. To shorten the war
by increasing its severity: this was his plan—simple, and
no doubt to a certain extent effective.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SHERMAN_IN_NORTH_CAROLINA' id='SHERMAN_IN_NORTH_CAROLINA'></a>
<h3>SHERMAN IN NORTH CAROLINA</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Cornelia P. Spencer, in Last Ninety Days of the War, pages 214-215.]</p>
<p>General Sherman’s reputation had preceded him, and
the horror and dismay with which his approach was anticipated
in the country were fully warranted. The town
itself was in a measure defended, so to speak, by General
Schofield’s preoccupation; but in the vicinity and for
twenty miles around the country was most thoroughly
plundered and stripped of food, forage, and private property
of every description. One of the first of General
Sherman’s own acts, after his arrival, was of peculiar
hardship. One of the oldest and most venerable citizens
of the place, with a family of sixteen or eighteen children
and grandchildren, most of them females, was ordered,
on a notice of a few hours, to vacate his house, which of
course was done. The gentleman was nearly 80 years
old, and in very feeble health. The outhouses, fences,
grounds, etc., were destroyed, and the property greatly
damaged during its occupation by the general. Not a
farm-house in the country but was visited and wantonly
robbed. Many were burned, and very many, together
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span>
with outhouses, were pulled down and hauled into camps
for use. Generally not a live animal, not a morsel of
food of any description was left, and in many instances
not a bed or sheet or change of clothing for man, woman,
or child. It was most heartrending to see daily crowds
of country people, from three score and ten years down
to the unconscious infant carried in its mother’s arms,
coming into the town to beg food and shelter, to ask
alms from those who had despoiled them. Many of these
families lived for days on parched corn, on peas boiled
in water without salt, or scraps picked up about the
camps. The number of carriages, buggies, and wagons
brought in is almost incredible. They kept for their
own use what they wished, and burned or broke up the
rest. General Logan and staff took possession of seven
rooms in the house of John C. Slocumb, esq., the gentleman
of whose statements I avail myself. Every assurance
of protection was given to the family by the quartermaster;
but many indignities were offered to the inmates,
while the house was effectually stripped as any other of
silver plate, watches, wearing apparel, and money.
Trunks and bureaus were broken open and the contents
abstracted. Not a plank or rail or post or paling was
left anywhere upon the grounds, while fruit trees, vines,
and shrubbery were wantonly destroyed. These officers
remained nearly three weeks, occupying the family beds,
and when they left the bed-clothes also departed.</p>
<p>It is very evident that General Sherman entered North
Carolina with the confident expectation of receiving a
welcome from its Union-loving citizens. In Major
Nichol’s “Story of the Great March,” he remarks, on
crossing the line which divides South from North
Carolina:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The conduct of the soldiers is perceptibly changed. I have seen
no evidence of plundering; the men keep their ranks closely; and
more remarkable yet, not a single column of the fire or smoke,
which a few days ago marked the positions of the heads of columns,
can be seen upon the horizon. Our men seem to understand that
they are entering a State which has suffered for its Union sentiment,
and whose inhabitants would gladly embrace the old flag again if
they can have the opportunity, which we mean to give them.</p>
</blockquote>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span></div>
<p>But the town meeting and war resolutions of the
people of Fayetteville, the fight in her streets, and Governor
Vance’s proclamation, soon undeceived them, and
their amiable dispositions were speedily corrected and
abandoned.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_VANCES_TRUNKGENERAL_PALMERS_GALLANTRY' id='MRS_VANCES_TRUNKGENERAL_PALMERS_GALLANTRY'></a>
<h3>MRS. VANCE’S TRUNK—GENERAL PALMER’S GALLANTRY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Cornelia B. Spenser, in Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<p>On the road from Statesville a part of the command
was dispatched in the direction of Lincolnton, under General
Palmer. Of this officer the same general account is
given as of General Stoneman, that he exhibited a
courtesy and forbearance which reflected honor on his
uniform, and have given him a just claim to the respect
and gratitude of our western people. The following
pleasant story is a sample of his way of carrying on war
with ladies: Mrs. Vance, the wife of the governor, had
taken refuge, from Raleigh, in Statesville with her children.
On the approach of General Stoneman’s army,
she sent off to Lincolnton, for safety, a large trunk filled
with valuable clothing, silver, etc., and among other
things two thousand dollars in gold, which had been
entrusted to her care by one of the banks. This trunk
was captured on the road by Palmer’s men, who of
course rejoiced exceedingly over this finding of spoil,
more especially as belonging to the rebel General Vance.
Its contents were speedily appropriated and scattered.
But the circumstances coming to General Palmer’s
knowledge, within an hour’s time he had every article
and every cent collected and replaced in the trunk, which
he then immediately sent back under guard to Mrs.
Vance with his compliments. General Palmer was aiming
for Charlotte when he was met by couriers announcing
news of the armistice.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span>
<a name='THE_EVENTFUL_THIRD_OF_APRIL' id='THE_EVENTFUL_THIRD_OF_APRIL'></a>
<h3>THE EVENTFUL THIRD OF APRIL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Correspondent of New York <i>Herald</i>, Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<p>It was known about this time to the people of Richmond
that the negro troops in the Union army had requested
General Grant to give them the honor of being the first
to enter the fallen capital. The fact gave rise to a fear
that they would unite with the worst class of resident
negroes and burn and sack the city. When, therefore,
the black smoke and lurid flames arose on that eventful
3d of April, caused by the Confederates themselves, the
terror-stricken inhabitants at first thought their fears
were to be realized, but were soon relieved when they saw
the manful fight made by many of the negroes and Union
troops to suppress the flames. At no time did they fear
their own servants; indeed, I was afterwards assured
that the many negroes who filled the streets and welcomed
the Union troops would have resisted any attack
upon the households of their old masters.</p>
<p>The behavior of many of the old family servants was
very marked in the care and great solicitude shown by
them for their masters during this trying period. As an
amusing instance of this, I will tell you this incident:</p>
<p>An old lady had a very bright, good-looking maid servant,
to whom some of the Union officers had shown considerable
attention by taking her out driving. The girl
came in one morning and asked her old mistress if she
would not take a drive with her in the hack which stood
at the door, with her sable escort in waiting. Doubtless
this was done not in a spirit of irony, but really in feeling
for her old mistress.</p>
<p>In another family, on the day the troops entered the
city, when all the males had fled, leaving several young
ladies with their mother alone, “Old Mammy,” the faithful
nurse, was posted at the front door with the baby in
her arms, while the trembling females locked themselves
in an upper room. When the hurrahing, wild Union
troops passed along, many straggled into the house and
asked where the white ladies were.</p>
<p>“Old Mammy” replied: “Dis is de only white lady;
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span>
all de rest ar’ culled ladies,” and she laughed and tossed
up the baby, which seemed to please the soldiers, who
chucked the baby and passed on.</p>
<h4><i>Spartan Richmond Ladies</i></h4>
<p>The ladies of Richmond who bore such an active part
on that terrible 3d of April, many of whom with blackened
faces mounted the tops of their roofs, and with their
faithful servants swept off the flying firebrands as they
were wafted over the city, or bore in their arms the sick
to places of safety, or sent words of comfort to their husbands
and their sons who were battling against the
flames—these were the true women of the South, who
had never given up the hope of final victory until Lee
laid down his sword at Appomattox. They were calm
even in defeat; and though strong men lost their reason
and shed tears in maniacal grief over the destruction of
their beautiful city, yet her noble women still stood unflinching,
facing all dangers with heroism that has never
been equalled since the days of Sparta.</p>
<p>Sauntering along the street, making a few purchases
preparatory to leaving the doomed city, I was suddenly
accosted by a friend, who with trembling voice and terrified
countenance exclaimed:</p>
<p>“Sir, I have just heard that the Petersburg and Weldon
railroad will be cut by the Yankees in a few days.
My daughter, who is in North Carolina, will be made
a prisoner. I will give all I have to get her home.”</p>
<p>I saw the intense anguish of the father, and learning
that he could not get a pass to go through Petersburg, I
said, “Mr. T——, if you will pay my expenses, I will
have your daughter here in two days.”</p>
<p>He overwhelmed me with thanks, crammed my pockets
full of Confederate notes, filled my haversack with
rations for several days, and I left next morning for
Petersburg. The train not being allowed to enter the
city, we had to make a mile or more in a conveyance of
some kind at an exorbitant price. Learning that the
Weldon train ran only at night for fear of the Yankee
batteries, which were alarmingly near, I had time to inspect
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span>
the city. I found here a marked contrast to Richmond.
As I passed along its streets, viewing the marks
of shot and shell on every side, hearing now and then the
heavy, sullen boom of the enemy’s guns, seeing on every
hand the presence of war, I noticed its business men had,
nevertheless, a calm, determined look. Its streets were
filled with women and children, who seemed to know no
fear, though at any moment a shrieking shell might dash
among them, but each eye would turn in loving confidence
to the Confederate flag which floated over the headquarters
of General Lee, feeling that they were secure as long
as he was there.</p>
<p>That night, when all was quiet and darkness reigned,
with not a light to be seen, our train quietly slipped out
of the city, like a blockade-runner passing the batteries.
The passengers viewed in silence the flashing of the guns
as they were trying to locate the train. It was a moment
of intense excitement, but on we crept, until at last the
captain came along with a lantern and said, “All right!”
and we breathed more freely; but from the proximity of
the batteries, I surmised that it would not be “all right”
many days hence.</p>
<p>Hastening on my journey, I found the young lady,
and telling her she must face the Yankee batteries if she
would see her home, I found her even enthusiastic at the
idea, and we hastily left, though under protest of her
friends.</p>
<p>Returning by the same route—which, indeed, was the
only one now left—we approached to within five miles of
Petersburg and waited for darkness. The lights were
again extinguished, the passengers warned to tuck their
heads low, which in many cases was done by lying flat
on the floor, and then we began the ordeal, moving very
slowly, sometimes halting, at every moment fearing a
shell from the belching batteries, which had heard the
creaking of the train and were “feeling” for our position.
The glare and the boom of the guns, the dead silence
broken only by a sob from some terrified heart, all filled
up a few moments of time never to be forgotten.</p>
<p>But we entered the city safely just as the moon was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span>
rising, and the next morning I handed my friend his
daughter. A few days after the batteries closed the gap
on the Weldon road, cutting off Petersburg and Richmond
from the South, and compelling General Lee to
prepare for retreat.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_FEDERALS_ENTER_RICHMOND' id='THE_FEDERALS_ENTER_RICHMOND'></a>
<h3>THE FEDERALS ENTER RICHMOND</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember.]</p>
<p>Before the day was over the public buildings were occupied
by the enemy, and the minds of the citizens relieved
from all fear of molestation. The hospitals were
attended to, the ladies being still allowed to nurse and
care for their own wounded; but rations could not be
drawn yet, the obstructions in the James River preventing
the transports from coming up to the city. In a few days
they arrived, and food was issued to those in need. It
had been a matter of pride among the Southerners to
boast that they had never seen a greenback, so the entrance
of the Federal army had thus found them entirely
unprepared with gold and silver currency. People who
had boxes of Confederate money and were wealthy the
day previously looked around in vain for wherewithal to
buy a loaf of bread. Strange exchanges were made on
the street of tea and coffee, flour, and bacon. Those who
were fortunate in having a stock of household necessaries
were generous in the extreme to their less wealthy neighbors,
but the destitution was terrible. The sanitary commission
shops were opened, and commissioners appointed
by the Federals to visit among the people and distribute
orders to draw rations, but to effect this, after receiving
tickets, required so many appeals to different officials,
that decent people gave up the effort. Besides, the musty
cornmeal and strong codfish were not appreciated by fastidious
stomachs; few gently nurtured could relish such
unfamiliar food.</p>
<p>But there was no assimilation between the invaders and
invaded. In the daily newspapers a notice had appeared
that the military bands would play in the beautiful capitol
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span>
grounds every afternoon, but when the appointed hour
arrived, except the Federal officers, musicians and
soldiers, not a white face was to be seen. The negroes
crowded every bench and path. The next week another
notice was issued that the colored population would not
be admitted; and then the absence of everything and anything
feminine was appalling. The entertainers went
alone to their own entertainment. The third week still
another notice appeared: “Colored nurses were to be
admitted with their white charges,” and lo, each fortunate
white baby received the cherished care of a dozen
finely dressed black ladies, the only drawback being that
in two or three days the music ceased altogether, the
entertainers feeling at last the ingratitude of the subjugated
people.</p>
<p>Despite their courtesy of manner—for, however despotic
the acts, the Federal authorities maintained a respectful
manner—the newcomers made no advance
toward fraternity. They spoke openly and warmly of
their sympathy with the sufferings of the South, but
committed and advocated acts that the hearers could not
recognize as “military necessities.” Bravely-dressed
Federal officers met their former old classmates from
colleges and military institutions and inquired after the
relatives to whose houses they had ever been welcome in
days of yore, expressing a desire to “call and see them;”
while the vacant chairs, rendered vacant by Federal bullets,
stood by the hearth of the widow and bereaved
mother. They could not be made to understand that
their presence was painful. There were but few men in
the city at this time; but the women of the South still
fought their battles for them: fought it resentfully,
calmly, but silently. Clad in their mourning garments,
overcome, but hardly subdued, they sat within their desolate
homes, or if compelled to leave that shelter went on
their errands to church or hospital with veiled faces and
swift steps. By no sign or act did the possessors of their
fair city know that they were even conscious of their
presence. If they looked in their faces they saw them
not; they might have supposed themselves a phantom
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span>
army. There was no stepping aside with affectation to
avoid the contact of dress; no feigned humility in giving
the inside of the walk; they simply totally ignored their
presence.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SOMEBODYS_DARLING' id='SOMEBODYS_DARLING'></a>
<h3>SOMEBODY’S DARLING</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond During the War, pages 152-154.]</p>
<p>Our best and brightest young men were passing away.
Many of them, the most of them, were utter strangers to
us; but the wounded soldier ever found a warm place in
our hearts, and they were strangers no more. A Southern
lady has written some beautiful lines, suggested by
the death of a youthful soldier in one of our hospitals.
So deeply touching is the sentiment, and such the exquisite
pathos of the poetry, that we shall insert them in
our memorial to those sad times. When all sentiment
was well nigh crushed out, which courts the visit of the
nurse, these lines sent a thrill of ecstasy to our hearts,
and comfort and sweetness to the bereaved in many far-off
homes of the South. Of “Somebody’s Darling,” she
writes:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>Into a ward of the whitewashed halls</p>
<p class='indent2'>Where the dead and dying lay;</p>
<p>Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Somebody’s darling was borne one day.</p>
<p>Somebody’s darling so young and so brave,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face,</p>
<p>Soon to be laid in the dust of the grave,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>Matted and damp are the curls of gold,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;</p>
<p>Pale are the lips of delicate mould,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Somebody’s darling is dying now!</p>
<p>Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Brush the wandering waves of gold;</p>
<p>Cross his hands on his bosom now—</p>
<p class='indent2'>Somebody’s darling is still and cold.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>Kiss him once, for somebody’s sake,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Murmur a prayer, soft and low.</p>
<p>One bright curl from its fair mates take,</p>
<p class='indent2'>They were somebody’s pride, you know.</p>
<p>Somebody’s hand hath rested there,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Was it a mother’s, soft and white;</p>
<p>Or have the lips of a sister fair</p>
<p class='indent2'>Been baptized in their waves of light?</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span></p>
<p>God knows best! He has somebody’s love,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;</p>
<p>Somebody wafted his name above,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.</p>
<p>Somebody wept when he marched away,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Looking so handsome, brave and grand!</p>
<p>Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Somebody clung to his parting hand.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>Somebody’s waiting, and watching for him,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Yearning to hold him again to her heart,</p>
<p>And there he lies—with his blue eyes dim,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And his smiling, child-like lips apart!</p>
<p>Tenderly bury the fair young dead,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Pausing to drop o’er his grave a tear;</p>
<p>Carve on the wooden slab at his head,</p>
<p class='indent2'>“‘Somebody’s darling’ is lying here!”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_IV_THEIR_PLUCK' id='CHAPTER_IV_THEIR_PLUCK'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER IV
<span class='chsub'> <br />THEIR PLUCK</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='FEMALE_RECRUITING_OFFICERS' id='FEMALE_RECRUITING_OFFICERS'></a>
<h3>FEMALE RECRUITING OFFICERS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The young women and girls brightly and cordially
cheered every Confederate volunteer. Nothing was too
good for him, and smiles of sisterly esteem and love met
him at every turn. There was a sort of intoxication in
the welcome and applause that everywhere greeted the
young volunteer. To many it was full pay for the sacrifice.
Many an expectant bride sadly but resolutely postponed
marriage, and sent her affianced lover to the
army.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>With a woman’s proudest heart,</p>
<p>Which shall ever hold thee nearest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Shrined in its inmost part?</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Listen then! My country’s calling</p>
<p class='indent2'>On her sons to meet the foe!</p>
<p>Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;</p>
<p>Like young Koerner, scorn the turtle</p>
<p class='indent2'>When the eagle screams above.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>But there were many young men who did not want
to hear Koerner’s war eagle scream. They wanted a
battle, but they wanted to “smell it afar off.” They believed
in the righteousness of the war more strongly than
anybody. Yes, many of them were the first to don the
blue cockade of the “minute men;” that is, the militia
organized with the avowed object of fighting on a
moment’s warning. They were ever so ready to be
soldiers at home for a “minute,” but held back when it
came to volunteering for six months, a year, or three
years. Then the young women would turn loose their
little tongues, and their jeers and sarcasm would drive
the skulker clear out of their society, and eventually in
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span>
self-defense he would have to “jine the cavalry,” or infantry
one, to get away from the darts of woman’s
tongue. A hornet could not sting like that little tongue.</p>
<p>One of these girls was a lone sister, with many brothers,
in a very wealthy family, which we will call the DeLanceys,
in one of the richest counties of Alabama. A
cavalry company had been organized and drilled for the
war, but not a DeLancey’s name was on the roll. The
company was to leave the home camp for the front. The
whole county gathered to cheer them and bid them good-bye.
Presents and honors were showered upon the
young patriots. The sister mentioned above owned a
very fine favorite horse, named “Starlight,” which she
presented to the company in a touching little speech,
which brought tears to many eyes, and which wound up
with the following apostrophe, “Farewell, Starlight!
I may never see you again; but, thank God, you are the
bravest of the DeLanceys.”</p>
<p>All through the war cowards were between two fires,
that of the Federals at the front and that of the women
in the rear.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_SUSAN_ROY_CARTER' id='MRS_SUSAN_ROY_CARTER'></a>
<h3>MRS. SUSAN ROY CARTER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Thomas Nelson Page.]</p>
<p>Old Mathews and Gloucester, Virginia, as they are
affectionately termed by those who knew them in the old
times, were filled with colonial families and were the
home of a peculiarly refined and aristocratic society.
Miss Roy was the daughter of William H. Roy, esq.,
of “Green Plains,” Mathews county, and of Anne Seddon,
a sister of Hon. James A. Seddon, Secretary of War
of the Confederate States. She was a noted beauty and
belle, even in a society that was known throughout Virginia
for its charming and beautiful women. Her loveliness,
radiant girlhood, and early womanhood is still
talked of among the survivors of that time. Old men,
who have seen the whole order of society in which they
spent their youths pass from the scene, still refresh
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span>
themselves with the memory of her brilliant beauty and
of her gracious charms. She was the centre and idol of
that circle.</p>
<p>In 1855, on November 7th, she gave her hand
and heart to Dr. Thomas H. Carter, esq., of Shirley,
and from that time to the day of her death their life was
one of the ideal unions which justify the saying that
“marriages are made in heaven.” “It has always been
a honeymoon with us,” he used to say. The young
couple almost immediately settled at “Pampatike,” on the
Pamunkey, an old colonial estate. Here Mrs. Carter
lived for thirty-four years, occupied in the duties of mistress
of a great plantation, dispensing that gracious hospitality
which made it noted even in Old Virginia; shedding
the light of a beautiful life on all about her, and exemplifying
in herself the character to which the South
points with pride and affection as a refutation of every
adverse criticism.</p>
<p>Such a plantation was a world in itself, and the life
upon it was such as to entail on the master and mistress
labors and responsibilities such as are not often produced
under any other conditions. In addition to the demands
of hospitality, which were exacting and constant, the
conduct of such a large establishment, with the care of
over one hundred and fifty servants, whose eyes were
ever turned to their mistress, called forth the exercise of
the highest powers from those who felt themselves
answerable to the Great Master of All for the full performance
of their duty. No one ever performed this
duty with more divine devotion than did this young mistress.
She was at once the friend and the servant of
every soul on the place. Mrs. Carter was a fine illustration
of the rare quality of the character formed by such
conditions. In sickness and in health she watched over,
looked after, and cared for all within her province.</p>
<p>It is the boast of the South, and one founded on truth,
that when during the war the men were withdrawn from
the plantations to do their duty on the field, the women
rose to the full measure of every demand, filling often,
under new conditions that would have tried the utmost
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span>
powers of the men themselves, a place to which only men
had been supposed equal.</p>
<p>When, on the outbreak of war, her husband was
among the first who took the field as a captain of artillery,
Mrs. Carter took charge of the plantation and
during all the stress of that trying period she conducted
it with an ability that would have done honor to a man
of the greatest experience. The Pampatike plantation,
lying not far from West Point, the scene of so many
operations during the war, was within the “debatable
land” that lay between the lines and was alternately swept
by both armies. The position was peculiarly delicate,
and often called for the exercise of rare tact and courage
on the part of the mistress. It was known to the enemy
that her husband was a gallant and rising officer and a
near relative of General Lee, and the plantation was a
marked one.</p>
<p>On one occasion a small party of mounted Federal
troops on a foraging expedition visited the place and
were engaged in looting, when a party of Confederate
cavalry suddenly appeared on the scene, and a brisk little
skirmish took place in the garden and yard. The Federals
were caught by surprise, and getting the worst of
it, broke and retreated across the lawn, with the enemy
close to their heels in hot chase. A Union trooper was
shot from his horse and fell just in front of the house,
but rising, tried to run on. Mrs. Carter, seeing his
danger, rushed out, calling to him to come to her and
she would protect him. Turning, he staggered to her,
but though she sheltered him, his wound was mortal, and
he died at her feet. The surprise and defeat of this party
having been reported at West Point, a stronger force was
sent up to wreak vengeance on the place. But on learning
of Mrs. Carter’s act in rushing out amid the flying
bullets to save this man at the risk of her life, the officer
in command posted a guard, and orders were given that
the place should be henceforth respected.</p>
<p>The hospital service on the Confederate side during the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span>
war, as wretched as it was, without medicines or surgical
appliances, would have been far more dreadful but for the
devotion with which the Southern women consecrated
themselves to it. Every woman was a nurse if she were
within reach of wounds and sickness. Every house was
a hospital if it was needed; and to their honor be it said
that the principle enunciated by Dr. Dunant, and finally
established in the creation of the Red Cross Society,
found its exemplification here some time before the
Geneva Congress. To them a wounded man of whatever
side was sacred, and to his service they consecrated themselves.
Unhappily, devotion, even as divine as theirs,
could not make up for all.</p>
<p>At the battle of Seven Pines—“Fair Oaks”—Captain
Carter’s battery rendered such efficient service that the
commanding general declared he would rather have commanded
that battery that day than to have been President
of the Confederate States. But the fame of the battery
was won at the expense of about sixty per cent of its
officers and men killed and wounded. The Carter plantation
was within sound of the guns, and Mrs. Carter
immediately constituted herself the nurse of the wounded
men of her husband’s battery. And from this time she
was regarded by them as their guardian angel—an affection
that was extended to her by all of the men of her
husband’s command, as he rose from rank to rank, until
he became a colonel and acting chief of artillery in the
last Valley campaign.</p>
<p>When the war closed nothing remained except the
lands and a few buildings, but the energy of the master
and mistress began from the first to build up the plantation
again. The servants were free; the working force
was broken up and scattered, yet large numbers of them,
including all who were old and infirm, remained on the
place and had to be cared for and fed. To this master
and mistress alike applied all their abilities, with the result
that defeat was turned into success and the place
became known as one of the estates that had survived the
destruction of war.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span></div>
<p>Having a family of young children, the best tutors
were secured, and owing largely to the knowledge of the
good influence to which the boys would be subjected under
Mrs. Carter’s roof, many applied to send their boys
to them, and “Pampatike School” soon became known
far beyond the limits of Virginia. Among those who
have testified to the influence upon them of their life at
Pampatike are men now nearing the top of every profession
in many States.</p>
<p>It was at this period that the writer came to know her.
And he can never forget the impression made on him by
her—an impression that time and fuller knowledge of her
only served to deepen. Of commanding and gracious
presence, with a face of rare beauty and loveliness, and
manners, whose charm can never be described, she
might have been noble Brunhilda, softened and made
sweet by the chastening influence of Christianity and unselfish
love. No one that ever saw her could forget her.
It was, indeed, the beautifying influences of a simple
piety and devoted love that guided her life, which
stamped their impress on that noble face. In every relation
of life she was perfect. And the influence of such
a life can never cease. Many besides her children rise
up and call her blessed.</p>
<p>In closing this incomplete sketch of one whose life
illustrated all that was best in life, and admits of justice
in no sketch whatsoever, the writer feels that he cannot
do better than to use the words of him who knew and
loved her best:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Every day an anthem of love and praise swells up from all over
the land to do her honor. Old boys of Pampatike schooling, new
boys of the University, girls and old people, recall her delight to
make them happy and to give them pleasure. It was her greatest
happiness to make others happy; for she was absolutely the most
unselfish and generous being on earth. Her generosity was not
always of abundance, for abundance was not always hers; but a
generosity out of everything that she had.</p>
<p>Her beautiful life has passed away, and is now only a memory,
but a memory fraught and fragrant with all that is sweetest and
loveliest and purest and best in noblest womanhood. Who that ever
saw her can forget her noble and beautiful face, resplendent with
all that was exalted and high-souled, gracious, and kindest to
others—the Master’s index to the heart within!</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span>
<a name='J_L_M_CURRYS_WOMEN_CONSTITUENTS' id='J_L_M_CURRYS_WOMEN_CONSTITUENTS'></a>
<h3>J. L. M. CURRY’S WOMEN CONSTITUENTS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Hon. J. L. M. Curry had ever since the war with
Mexico been the idol of his district in Alabama, which
kept him steadily in the United States Congress and sent
him to the Confederate House of Representatives.
Toward the latter part of the war in the Congressional
campaign Mr. Curry found an opponent in Mayor
Cruickshank, of Talladega. The latter skilfully played
upon the hardships and hopelessness of the war and in
some of the upper mountain counties considerable opposition
to Mr. Curry was developed. At a gathering of
the mountaineers, largely composed of women, Mr.
Curry was appealing with his usual favor to his people
to continue their efforts to secure the independence of
the Confederacy and not to listen to any suggestion of
submission to the Northern States. About the time his
eloquence reached its highest point, up rose an old woman
and hurled at him what struck him like a thunderbolt:</p>
<p>“I think it time for you to hush all your war talk.
You go yonder to Richmond and sit up there in Congress
and have a good time while our poor boys are being all
killed; and if you are going to do anything it’s time for
you to stop this war.”</p>
<p>In a moment up sprang another mountain woman.
“Go on, Mr. Curry,” said she. “Go on, you are right.
We can never consent to give up our Southern cause.
Don’t listen to what this other woman says. I have
sent five sons to the army. Three of them have fallen on
the battlefield. The other two are at their post in the
Virginia army and they will all stand by Lee to the last.
This woman here hasn’t but two sons and they had to
be conscripted. One of them has deserted and it takes
all of Lewis’s Cavalry to keep the other one in ranks.
Go on, Mr. Curry. We are with you.” And Curry
went on, more edified by this last woman’s speech, said he
afterward, than any speech he ever heard in his life.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span>
<a name='NORA_MCCARTHY' id='NORA_MCCARTHY'></a>
<h3>NORA MCCARTHY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In The Gray Jacket, pages 26-29.]</p>
<p>Norah McCarthy won by her courage the name of the
“Jennie Deans” of the West. She lived in the interior
of Missouri—a little, pretty, black-eyed girl, with a soul
as huge as a mountain, and a form as frail as a fairy’s,
and the courage and pluck of a buccaneer into the bargain.
Her father was an old man—a secessionist. She
had but a single brother, just growing from boyhood to
youthhood, but sickly and lame. The family had lived
in Kansas during the troubles of ’57, when Norah was a
mere girl of fourteen or thereabouts. But even then her
beauty, wit and devil-may-care spirit were known far
and wide; and many were the stories told along the
border of her sayings and doings. Among other charges
laid at her door it is said that she broke all the hearts of
the young bloods far and wide, and tradition goes even
so far as to assert that, like Bob Acres, she killed a man
once a week, keeping a private church-yard for the purpose
of decently burying her dead. Be this as it may,
she was then, and is now, a dashing, fine-looking, lively
girl, and a prettier heroine than will be found in a novel,
as will be seen if the good-natured reader has a mind to
follow us to the close of this sketch.</p>
<p>Not long after the Federals came into her neighborhood,
and after they had forced her father to take the
oath, which he did partly because he was a very old man,
unable to take the field, and hoped thereby to save the
security of his household, and partly because he could
not help himself; not long after these two important
events in the history of our heroine, a body of men
marched up one evening, while she was on a visit to a
neighbor’s, and arrested her sickly, weak brother, bearing
him off to Leavenworth City, where he was lodged in the
military guard-house.</p>
<p>It was nearly night before Norah reached home. When
she did so, and discovered the outrage which had been
perpetrated, and the grief of her old father, her rage
knew no bounds. Although the mists were falling and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span>
the night was closing in, dark and dreary, she ordered
her horse to be resaddled, put on a thick surtout, belted a
sash round her waist, and sticking a pair of ivory-handled
pistols in her bosom, started off after the soldiers. The
post was many miles distant. But that she did not regard.
Over hill, through marsh, under cover of the
darkness, she galloped on to the headquarters of the
enemy. At last the call of a sentry brought her to stand,
with a hoarse “Who goes there?”</p>
<p>“No matter,” she replied. “I wish to see Colonel
Prince, your commanding officer, and instantly, too.”</p>
<p>Somewhat awed by the presence of a young female on
horseback at that late hour, and perhaps struck by her
imperious tone of command, the Yankee guard, without
hesitation, conducted her to the fortifications, and thence
to the quarters of the colonel commanding, with whom
she was left alone.</p>
<p>“Well, madam,” said the Federal officer, with bland
politeness, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”</p>
<p>“Is this Colonel Prince?” replied the brave girl,
quietly.</p>
<p>“It is, and you are—”</p>
<p>“No matter. I have come here to inquire whether
you have a lad by the name of McCarthy a prisoner?”</p>
<p>“There is such a prisoner.”</p>
<p>“May I ask why he is a prisoner?”</p>
<p>“Certainly! For being suspected of treasonable connection
with the enemy.”</p>
<p>“Treasonable connection with the enemy! Why the
boy is sick and lame. He is, besides, my brother; and
I have come to ask his immediate release.”</p>
<p>The officer opened his eyes; was sorry he could not
comply with the request of so winning a supplicant; and
must “really beg her to desist and leave the fortress.”</p>
<p>“I demand his release,” cried she, in reply.</p>
<p>“That you cannot have. The boy is a rebel and a
traitor, and unless you retire, madam, I shall be forced
to arrest you on a similar suspicion.”</p>
<p>“Suspicion! I am a rebel and a traitor, too, if you
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span>
wish; young McCarthy is my brother, and I don’t leave
this tent until he goes with me. Order his instant release
or,”—here she drew one of the aforesaid ivory
handles out of her bosom and levelled the muzzle of it
directly at him—“I will put an ounce of lead in your
brain before you can call a single sentry to your relief.”</p>
<p>A picture that!</p>
<p>There stood the heroic girl; eyes flashing fire, cheek
glowing with earnest will, lips firmly set with resolution,
and hand outstretched with a loaded pistol ready to send
the contents through the now thoroughly frightened,
startled, aghast soldier, who cowered, like blank paper
before flames, under her burning stare.</p>
<p>“Quick!” she repeated, “order his release, or you die.”</p>
<p>It was too much. Prince could not stand it. He bade
her lower her infernal weapon, for God’s sake, and the
boy should be forthwith liberated.</p>
<p>“Give the order first,” she replied, unmoved.</p>
<p>And the order was given; the lad was brought out;
and drawing his arm in hers, the gallant sister marched
out of the place, with one hand grasping one of his, and
the other holding her trusty ivory handle. She mounted
her horse, bade him get up behind, and rode off, reaching
home without accident before midnight.</p>
<p>Now that is a fact stranger than fiction, which shows
what sort of metal is in our women of the much abused
and traduced nineteenth century.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WOMEN_IN_THE_BATTLE_OF_GAINESVILLE_FLA' id='WOMEN_IN_THE_BATTLE_OF_GAINESVILLE_FLA'></a>
<h3>WOMEN IN THE BATTLE OF GAINESVILLE, FLA.</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Dickinson and His Men, pages 99-100.]</p>
<p>As Captain Dickinson and our brave defenders
charged the enemy through the streets, many of the
ladies could be seen, whose inspiring tones and grateful
plaudits cheered these noble heroes on to deeds of greater
daring. While charging the enemy, near the residence
of Judge Dawkins, Mrs. Dawkins and her lovely sister,
Miss Lydia Taylor, passed from their garden into the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span>
street, and in the excitement of the moment, actuated by
the heroic spirit that ever animated our noble women,
united their voices in repeating the captain’s word of
command. “Charge, charge!” was heard with the
musical rhythm of a benediction from their grateful
hearts.</p>
<p>The enemy, halting, made a stand a few yards below the
entrance to their residence, firing up the street almost
a hailstorm of Minie balls from their Spencer rifles. Apparently
indifferent to their danger, these heroic ladies
stood unmoved, cheering on our gallant soldiers, among
whom were many near and dear to them. Captain Dickinson
earnestly entreated them to return to the house, as
they were in imminent danger of being killed.</p>
<p>Many ladies brought buckets of water for the heated,
famished soldiers who had no time to give even to this
needed refreshment. Through all the desperate fight
not a citizen was hurt. The sweet incense of prayer
arose from hundreds of agonized hearts to the mercy-seat,
in behalf of husbands, sons, fathers, and brothers who
were in the battle.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SHE_WOULD_SEND_TEN_MORE' id='SHE_WOULD_SEND_TEN_MORE'></a>
<h3>“SHE WOULD SEND TEN MORE”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Judge John H. Reagan’s address in 1897.]</p>
<p>To illustrate the character and devotion of the women
of the Confederacy, I will repeat a statement made to me
during the war by Governor Letcher, of Virginia. He
had visited his home in the Shenandoah Valley, and on
his return to the State capitol called at the house of an
old friend who had a large family. He found no one
but the good old mother at home, and inquired about the
balance of the family. She told him that her husband,
her husband’s father and her ten sons were all in the
army. And on his suggestion that she must feel lonesome,
having had a large family with her and now to be
left alone, her answer was that it was very hard, but if
she had ten more sons they should all go to the army.
Can ancient or modern history show a nobler or more
unselfish and patriotic devotion to any cause?</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span>
<a name='WOMEN_AT_VICKSBURG' id='WOMEN_AT_VICKSBURG'></a>
<h3>WOMEN AT VICKSBURG</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>On first thought it would be expected that women
would be greatly excited when under fire and amid other
scenes of actual war. But almost invariably they exhibited
during our war a calm fearlessness that was
amazing. My girl wife and her war companion, Mrs.
Lieutenant Lockett, of Marion, Ala., a daughter of Alabama’s
noble war governor, A. B. Moore, spent several
months of the spring of 1863 at Vicksburg and its vicinity,
to be near their husbands. They were boarding
in the city the night when Porter’s fleet ran down the
river by the batteries. The cannonading was terrific. I
was with my regiment, the Thirtieth Alabama, some few
miles away. Next morning, as soon as regimental duties
would allow, I hastened to the city. To my astonishment
I found that neither “the girls” nor the ladies of
the city had been at all alarmed. They seemed to look
upon it as a sort of enjoyable episode.</p>
<p>In May we were at Warrenton, 10 miles below the
city, where the two ladies were quartered with old Mr.
Withington and his good wife, in one of the most independent
and comfortable plantation homes in the land.
When our brigade, under command of the brave but ill-fated
Gen. Ed. Tracy, was ordered to Grand Gulf, I
was left under orders to take the ladies to Vicksburg and
send them home out of danger. But before we could
get away from Mr. Withington’s news came that a battle
was raging at Bayou Pierre. I told the ladies that I
could not stay away from my command while it was engaged
in battle and that they would just have to do the
best they could where they were. Their cheeks never
blanched; nor was a protest uttered. After the battle I
hurried back and got them to Vicksburg, hoping to have
them beyond Jackson before Grant’s flanking army could
reach it. The idea of having them shut up in Vicksburg
during a siege was a horror to me. What was my chagrin
when, on reaching the railroad station, I was informed
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span>
by the officials that not another train would be
allowed to go out. There were numbers of officers’
wives and other women all round the depot, eager to go.
They bore their bitter disappointment even cheerfully.
Their courage and cheerfulness soon took another happy
turn when under orders I passed around to whisper to
them, “Be ready to jump quickly and quietly on a train
which has been provided to carry off soldiers’ wives in a
few minutes.”</p>
<p>Away they went and reached their homes safely,
though we at Vicksburg never learned this until after the
surrender. The siege lasted forty-seven days. Day and
night, not only the entrenchments but the entire city was
exposed to artillery and rifle fire day and night. Many
a man was killed far away from the front lines. Many
a private house was torn by shells from Grant’s rifle
cannon or Porter’s mortar fleet. While the shot and
shell did not fall incessantly at any one point there was
no place they did not reach. I knew several poor fellows
to receive fresh wounds while lying on their cots in the
hospitals.</p>
<p>Porter did not spare the city hospital, although carrying
the yellow flag. In it I had an old college friend,
Capt. Ben Craig, of Alabama, sick with fever, whose wife
and venerable father had remained to nurse him. Just
before one of my visits a thirteen-inch shell came down
through the roof, leaving an ugly hole in the floor within
six inches of poor Craig’s bed. His brave little wife,
(formerly Miss Eliza Tucker, of Milledgeville, Ga.)
never flinched.</p>
<p>A great many families of the city had dug caves in
the soft clay of the Vicksburg hills and could hide in
them in perfect safety. Many did not avail themselves
of this refuge, but bravely remained in their houses and
took chances. Even the cave dwellers had to come out
to cook their food. Nobly did these good women render
whatever attention they could to our sick and wounded.
They were as brave and as calm as the soldiers.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span>
<a name='MOTHER_TELL_HIM_NOT_TO_COME' id='MOTHER_TELL_HIM_NOT_TO_COME'></a>
<h3>“MOTHER, TELL HIM NOT TO COME”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages 322-326.]</p>
<p>I sat in the porch, where were also sitting an old
couple, evidently the joint head of the establishment, and
a young woman dressed in black, apparently their daughter,
and, as I soon learned, a soldier’s widow. My coat
was badly torn, and the young woman kindly offering to
mend it I thanked her and, taking it off, handed it to her.
While we were chatting, and groups of men sitting on
the steps and lying about the yard, the door of the house
opened and another young woman appeared. She was
almost beautiful, was plainly but neatly dressed, and had
her hat on. She had evidently been weeping and her
face was deadly pale. Turning to the old woman, as she
came out, she said, cutting her words off short,
“Mother, tell him if he passes here he is no husband of
mine,” and turned again to leave the porch. I rose, and
placing myself directly in front of her, extended my arm
to prevent her escape. She drew back with surprise and
indignation. The men were alert on the instant, and
battle was joined.</p>
<p>“What do you mean, sir?” she cried.</p>
<p>“I mean, madam,” I replied, “that you are sending
your husband word to desert, and that I cannot permit
you to do this in the presence of my men.”</p>
<p>“Indeed! and who asked your permission, sir?
And pray, sir, is he your husband or mine?”</p>
<p>“He is your husband, madam, but these are my soldiers.
They and I belong to the same army with your
husband, and I cannot suffer you, or any one, unchallenged,
to send such a demoralizing message in their
hearing.”</p>
<p>“Army! do you call this mob of retreating cowards an
army? Soldiers! if you are soldiers, why don’t you
stand and fight the savage wolves that are coming upon
us defenceless women and children?”</p>
<p>“We don’t stand and fight, madam, because we are
soldiers, and have to obey orders, but if the enemy should
appear on that hill this moment I think you would find
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span>
that these men are soldiers, and willing to die in defense
of women and children.”</p>
<p>“Quite a fine speech, sir, but rather cheap to utter,
since you very well know the Yankees are not here, and
won’t be, till you’ve had time to get your precious carcasses
out of the way. Besides, sir, this thing is over,
and has been for some time. The government has now
actually run off, bag and baggage,—the Lord knows
where,—and there is no longer any government or any
country for my husband to owe allegiance to. He does
owe allegiance to me and to his starving children, and if
he doesn’t observe this allegiance now, when I need him,
he need not attempt it hereafter when he wants me.”</p>
<p>The woman was quick as a flash and cold as steel.
She was getting the better of me. She saw it, and, worst
of all, the men saw and felt it, too, and had gathered thick
and pressed up close all round the porch. There must
have been a hundred or more of them, all eagerly listening,
and evidently strongly to the woman’s side. This
would never do. I tried every avenue of approach to
that woman’s heart. It was congealed by suffering, or
else it was encased in adamant. She had parried every
thrust, repelled every advance, and was now standing defiant,
with her arms folded across her breast, rather
courting further attack. I was desperate, and with the
nonchalance of pure desperation—no stroke of genius—I
asked the soldier-question:</p>
<p>“What command does your husband belong to?”</p>
<p>She started a little, and there was a trace of color in
her face as she replied, with a slight tone of pride in her
voice: “He belongs to the Stonewall Brigade, sir.”</p>
<p>I felt, rather than thought it—but, had I really found
her heart? We would see.</p>
<p>“When did he join it?”</p>
<p>A little deeper flush, a little stronger emphasis of
pride.</p>
<p>“He joined in the spring of ’61, sir.”</p>
<p>Yes, I was sure of it now. Her eyes had gazed
straight into mine; her head inclined and her eyelids
drooped a little now, and there was something in her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span>
face that was not pain and was not fight. So I let myself
out a little, and turning to the men, said:</p>
<p>“Men, if her husband joined the Stonewall Brigade in
’61, and has been in the army ever since, I reckon he’s a
good soldier.”</p>
<p>I turned to look at her. It was all over. Her wifehood
had conquered. She had not been addressed this
time, yet she answered instantly, with head raised high,
face blushing, eyes flashing: “General Lee hasn’t a better
in his army!” As she uttered these words she put
her hand in her bosom, and drawing out a folded paper,
extended it toward me, saying: “If you doubt it, look at
that.”</p>
<p>Before her hand reached mine she drew it back, seeming
to have changed her mind, but I caught her wrist,
and without much resistance possessed myself of the
paper. It had been much thumbed and was much worn.
It was hardly legible, but I made it out. Again I turned
to the men.</p>
<p>“Take off your hats, boys, I want you to hear this with
uncovered heads”—and then I read an endorsement on
an application for furlough, in which General Lee himself
had signed a recommendation of this woman’s husband
for a furlough of special length on account of extraordinary
gallantry in battle.</p>
<p>During the reading of this paper the woman was transfigured,
glorified. No Madonna of old master was ever
more sweetly radiant with all that appeals to what is
best and holiest in man. Her bosom rose and fell with
deep, quiet sighs; her eyes rained gentle, happy tears.</p>
<p>The men felt it all—all. They were all gazing upon
her, but the dross was clean, purified out of them. There
was not, upon any one of their faces, an expression that
would have brought a blush to the cheek of the purest
womanhood on earth. I turned once more to the soldier’s
wife.</p>
<p>“This little paper is your most precious treasure, isn’t
it?”</p>
<p>“It is.”</p>
<p>“And the love of him whose manly courage and devotion
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span>
won this tribute is the best blessing God ever gave
you, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“It is.”</p>
<p>“And yet, for the brief ecstasy of one kiss, you would
disgrace this hero-husband of yours, stain all his noble
reputation, and turn this priceless paper to bitterness;
for the rear-guard would hunt him from his own cottage,
in half an hour, a deserter and a coward.”</p>
<p>Not a sound could be heard save her hurried breathing.
The rest of us held our breath. Suddenly, with a gasp
of recovered consciousness, she snatched the paper from
my hand, put it back hurriedly in her bosom, and turning
once more to her mother, said: “Mother, tell him
not to come.”</p>
<p>I stepped aside at once. She left the porch, glided
down the path to the gate, crossed the road, surmounted
the fence with easy grace, climbed the hill, and as she
disappeared in the weedy pathway I caught up my hat
and said:</p>
<p>“Now, men, give her three cheers.”</p>
<p>Such cheers. Oh, God, shall I ever again hear a cheer
which bears a man’s whole soul in it? For the first time
I felt reasonably sure of my battalion. It would follow
anywhere.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='BRAVE_WOMAN_IN_DECATUR_GA' id='BRAVE_WOMAN_IN_DECATUR_GA'></a>
<h3>BRAVE WOMAN IN DECATUR, GA.</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Miss Mary A. H. Gay, in Life in Dixie, pages 127-132.]</p>
<p>Garrad’s Cavalry selected our lot, consisting of several
acres, for headquarters, and soon what appeared to us to
be an immense army train of wagons commenced rolling
into it. In less than two hours our barn was demolished
and converted into tents, which were occupied by privates
and noncommissioned officers, and to the balusters of our
portico and other portions of the house were tied a number
of large ropes, which, the other ends being secured to
the trees and shrubbery, answered as a railing to which at
short intervals apart a number of smaller ropes were tied,
and to these were attached horses and mules, which were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span>
eating corn and oats out of troughs improvised for the
occasion out of bureau, washstand, and wardrobe drawers.
Men in groups were playing cards on tables of
every size and shape, and whisky and profanity held high
carnival. Thus surrounded, we could but be apprehensive
of danger; and, to assure ourselves of as much
safety as possible, we barricaded the doors and windows,
and arranged to sit up all night; that is, my mother and
myself.</p>
<p>As we sat on a lounge, every chair having been taken
to the camps, we heard the sound of footsteps entering
the piazza, and in a moment, loud rapping, which meant
business. Going to the window nearest the door, I removed
the fastenings, raised the sash, and opened the
blinds. Perceiving by the light of a brilliant moon that
at least a half dozen men in uniforms were on the piazza,
I asked: “Who is there?”</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” was the laconic reply.</p>
<p>“If so, you will not persist in your effort to come into
the house. There is only a widow and one of her daughters,
and two faithful servants in it,” said I.</p>
<p>“We have orders from headquarters to interview Miss
Gay. Is she the daughter of whom you speak?”</p>
<p>“She is, and I am she.”</p>
<p>“Well, Miss Gay, we demand seeing you, without intervening
barriers. Our orders are imperative,” said he
who seemed to be the spokesman of the delegation.</p>
<p>“Then wait a moment,” I amiably responded. Going
to my mother, I repeated in substance the above colloquy,
and asked her if she would go with me out of one of the
back doors and around the house into the front yard.
Although greatly agitated and trembling, she readily assented,
and we noiselessly went out. In a few moments
we announced our presence, and our visitors descended
the steps and joined us. And these men, occupying a
belligerent attitude toward ourselves and all that was
dear to us, stood face to face with us and in silence we
contemplated each other. When the silence was broken,
the aforesaid officer introduced himself as Major Campbell,
a member of General Schofield’s staff. He also introduced
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span>
the accompanying officers each by name and
title. This ceremony over, Major Campbell said:</p>
<p>“Miss Gay, our mission is a painful one, and yet we
will carry it out unless you satisfactorily explain acts reported
to us.”</p>
<p>“What is the nature of those acts?”</p>
<p>“We have been told that it is your proudest boast that
you are a rebel, and that you are ever on duty to aid and
abet in every possible way the wouldbe destroyers of the
United States government. If this be so, we can not permit
you to remain within our lines. Until Atlanta surrenders,
Decatur will be our headquarters, and every consideration
of interest to our cause requires that no one
inimical to it should remain within our boundaries established
by conquest.”</p>
<p>In reply to these charges, I said:</p>
<p>“Gentlemen, I have not been misrepresented, so far as
the charges you mentioned are concerned. If I were a
man, I should be in the foremost ranks of those who are
fighting for rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the
United States. The Southern people have never broken
that compact, nor infringed upon it in any way. They
have never organized mobs to assassinate any portion of
people sharing the privileges granted by that compact.
They have constructed no underground railroads to bring
into our midst incendiaries and destroyers of the peace,
and to carry off stolen property. They have never
sought to array the subordinate element of the North in
deadly hostility to the controlling element. No class of
the women of the South have ever sought positions at
the North which secured entrance into good households,
and then betrayed the confidence reposed by corrupting
the servants and alienating the relations between the
master and the servant. No class of women in the South
have ever mounted the rostrum and proclaimed falsehoods
against the women of the North—falsehoods
which must have crimsoned with shame the very cheeks
of Beelzebub. No class of the men of the South have
ever tramped over the North with humbugs, extorting
money either through sympathy or credulity, and engaged
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span>
at the same time in the nefarious work of exciting
the subordinate class to insurrection, arson, rapine, and
murder. If the South is in rebellion, a well-organized
mob at the North has brought it about. Long years of
patient endurance accomplished nothing. The party
founded on falsehood and hate strengthened and grew to
enormous proportions. And, by the way, mark the
cunning of that party. Finding that the Abolition party
made slow progress and had to work in the dark, it
changed its name and took in new issues, and by a systematic
course of lying in its institutions of learning, from
the lowly school-house to Yale College, and from its pulpits
and rostrums, it inculcated lessons of hate toward the
Southern people, whom it would hurl into the crater of
Vesuvius if endowed with the power. What was left us
to do but to try to relieve that portion of the country
which had permitted this sentiment of hate to predominate
of all connection with us, and of all responsibility for
the sins of which it proclaimed us guilty? This effort the
South has made, and I have aided and abetted in every
possible manner, and will continue to do so as long as
there is an armed man in the Southern ranks. If this is
sufficient cause to expel me from my home, I await your
orders. I have no favors to ask.”</p>
<p>Imagine my astonishment, admiration, and gratitude
when that group of Federal officers with unanimity said:</p>
<p>“I glory in your spunk, and am proud of you as my
countrywoman; and so far from banishing you from
your home, we will vote for your retention within our
lines.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GIVING_WARNING_TO_MOSBY' id='GIVING_WARNING_TO_MOSBY'></a>
<h3>GIVING WARNING TO MOSBY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From original manuscript, now in the Confederate Museum.]</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>My Dear Friend</span>: * * * Soon after the Yankees
went into winter quarters in Warrenton, I was requested
by a soldier friend to avail myself of every opportunity
to obtain and transmit information that might be of service
to our scouts and guerrillas, and this of course I was
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span>
most willing to do. Our house was at that time within
the lines in the day time, and beyond them at night. I
walked up to Warrenton one bright but very cold morning,
(the 22d of December) and as soon as I arrived was
informed by a lady friend, who was also on the lookout,
that she had just seen a negro, who looked like a newcomer,
escorted by several officers to the provost marshal’s
office. I immediately concluded that he was bearer
of some tidings, most probably from “Mosby’s Confederacy,”
and that I must know what it might be, but how
could I accomplish it? A sentinel was placed always
before the office. I had my purse with me. I fell into
conversation with him. I offered him so much to let me
pass into the basement of the house on pretense of wishing
to transact some business with the negroes who occupied
it. He accepted it, and I went—not into the room
which the negroes occupied, but into the one adjoining
it—a place very damp and dark, where I could hear, but
not be seen, and suiting my purpose admirably, as it
was immediately under the office. I listened; heard the
negro questioned and heard him answer that he could
and would guide a force to Mosby’s headquarters, to the
houses where he knew many of his men boarded, to the
place where the command had stored a quantity of corn.
About the corn they seemed to care little, but oh! to catch
Mosby,—they waxed warm at the thought—they talked
long and loudly (all for my convenience, no doubt) and
the result of the consultation was a plan to go “riding on
a raid” with the “reliable contraband” acting as guide—to
go that very night if certain reinforcements arrived in
time, or should they fail to do so, the next night. I had
heard enough. I came out of my cell, walked through
town to a picket post, with the remaining contents of my
purse bribed the faithful soldier of the Union to let me
pass, then walked two miles to a neighbor’s where I
thought I could get a horse, which was most gladly
furnished me when my errand was made known.
By this time it was late in the afternoon; it
had been turning colder all day, and was now
intensely cold with a blustering wind, the sky
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span>
covered with moving masses of black clouds. My
friends wrapped me up as best they could. I mounted
and rode three miles to a neighbor’s house, where I took
a little boy up behind me for escort. My object now was
to ride in what seemed the right direction until I met
some Southern soldier to whom I could impart the information
I gathered, and commission him to convey it
to those whom it most nearly concerned. I rode on for
miles—the country becoming entirely new to me—the
cold increasing—the darkness deepening—the wind rising
higher and higher. Mosby’s men were always hanging
about the outposts of the enemy. Why was it that I
could not meet one of them? Did they think the night
too terrible to be out? Oh! how I ached with cold, and
when I thoughtlessly said as much, my gallant little
escort, who was not less so, I am sure, begged that he
might be allowed to take off his overcoat and put it
around me. Suddenly, just before me, I saw a large
fire—the temptation was too great—I forgot that its
light might reveal me to those whom the darkness hid,
drew the reins—old Kitty Grey stood still, and I stretched
out my hands toward the genial warmth. I then discovered
that I was near the “View Tree” to reach which,
though only four miles from Warrenton, I had traveled
eight or ten. The fire, thought I to myself, was built by
some Southern scouts, but they left it as I came on lest
it should endanger them. The thought aroused me. I
started on, but had scarcely done so when the moon came
out, and almost immediately Walter called my attention
to a body of men on my right, in the form of a V, each
with his carbine levelled, and moving slowly toward me:
I expected them to fire any moment, but I neither quickened
nor slackened my pace. The moon went under a
cloud and I passed into the sheltering darkness, wondering
much why they did not fire. My curiosity on that
point was afterwards satisfied. On I rode. It was not
long before I saw a single horseman with his raised
weapon just in front of me.</p>
<p>“Halt,” he said.</p>
<p>Boldness alone I believed could save me. The cold
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span>
wind made my voice hoarse; stern purpose made it
strong. I tell you I was astonished at the manliness of
its tone, as lifting my arm I said, “Surrender or I’ll blow
your brains out.”</p>
<p>I only knew that a moment afterwards I heard his
horse’s retreating hoofs clattering on the stony road.
Now surely, thought I, I am safe; surely the last picket
is passed, and my spirits rose. Soon after this, deceived
by the darkness and my ignorance of the mountain ways,
I lost my direction and took a wrong road; but believing
myself right and at last out of danger, I moved on as fast
as I could over the rough, frozen ground, when on reaching
the top of the hill, what was my amazement and horror
on finding that instead of proceeding I was retracing
my steps, though by a different route. I saw distinctly,
perhaps three miles off, the lights of the town of Warrenton.
And this was all that I had accomplished after
riding at least twelve miles. What should I do? Was
I to fail altogether of my mission? To keep going
toward Warrenton would inevitably lead me to the
Yankees. If I turned and lost my way entirely, what
would become of me on such a night? Just then there
came into my mind those sweet quaint lines which I did
not know that I could repeat:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“God shall charge his angel legions</p>
<p class='indent2'>Watch and ward o’er thee to keep,</p>
<p>Tho’ thou walk thro’ hostile regions,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Tho’ in desert wilds thou sleep.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>They were to me then an inspiration—a harbinger of
safety and success. It would have been still further inspiration,
could I have seen how just at the time, dear old
Mrs. ——, who had helped to wrap me up when I
started, and had encouraged me by her sympathy and interest,
was watching for my return, keeping up a big
fire—warming some of her own clothes for me; and
when at last she laid down, it was with her lamp still
burning, a pillow arranged for me close by her kind heart,
and with a prayer for me on her lips, that she slept. God
bless her!</p>
<p>Turning my back to the lights once more, I rode on.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span>
I had only gone a few hundred yards when I saw just
before me a horse and his dismounted rider. The man
stepped out, laid his hand on my bridle and said: “Stop,
lady, you can go no further; but where are you going?”</p>
<p>I answered in the very tone of candor: “I was trying
to go to the neighborhood of Salem to see a sick friend.
It was later than I thought when I set off. My poor old
borrowed horse traveled very slowly; night overtook
me suddenly and I determined to make my way back to
my home near Warrenton, but have lost my way.”</p>
<p>He then said: “It is my painful duty to take you to the
reserves, where you will be detained all night and taken
to headquarters in the morning.”</p>
<p>I replied: “You can shoot me on the spot, but I will not
spend this night unprotected among your soldiers. I cannot
consent that you should perform your duty.”</p>
<p>“Nor am I willing to perform it!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p>After a few moments’ hesitation, which seemed to me
a century, he pointed out to me a light at some distance
and said, “Go to that house; no one will be so cruel as
to turn you away on such a night.”</p>
<p>I turned into what I thought the right path, but presently
he called out to me in a tone of earnest entreaty:
“Not that way, for God’s sake; that leads to the reserves.”</p>
<p>He then came to me, and leading my horse into the
right path said: “Good-by, I shall be three hours on
picket to think of a freezing lady.”</p>
<p>Keeping the light in my eye, I soon reached the house,
which was not far off, and although the inmates evidently
looked upon me with suspicion, they agreed to let me stay
all night and let me feed my horse. I gave them an assumed
name, asked to go to bed immediately, had a hot
brick put to my feet and plenty of cover; but I was too
thoroughly cold to be warmed easily, so I lay and shivered
and wept the live-long night.</p>
<p>Next morning six Yankees, just off post, rode up to the
house. At first I feared the kind picket had proved as
treacherous as the rest, had informed on me, and that
they had come to arrest me. I hurried down to meet
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span>
them and was not a little relieved to find that they only
wanted to buy milk and eggs. There was a captain
among them.</p>
<p>“We had an alarm last night,” said he to me.</p>
<p>“Ah! how was it?”</p>
<p>“Why, the rebels wanted to attack our soldiers and they
thought to fool us by sending one man on ahead as if he
were alone, thinking we would all fire on him and not be
ready for the rest when they came up; but we were too
sharp for them, did not fire at all and the rascals were
afraid to try it.”</p>
<p>Ah! what mistakes we sometimes make! I learned
from them by a little judicious questioning that no raiding
party had passed up during the night, and hoped that
I might still be in time.</p>
<p>After they left I found that the mistress of the house
was a true Southern woman. I told her my real name
and my errand; she went with me to a house in the mountains,
where were some of Mosby’s men. We also met
several on the way. I entreated them to give due notice
and then joyfully turned my face homewards. Gentle,
faithful, old Kitty Grey stood me in good stead upon
more than one occasion, but the Yankees have since stolen
her, too. I soon returned her to her owners and had
nothing to do but get through the lines to our house.
This I accomplished without difficulty, and when I got in
sight of the camp, just about sundown, I saw every preparation
making for a raid—the raid which was to catch
Mosby and his men. I had the satisfaction to learn in
a few days that it met with very poor success. Not a
few soldiers have since told me that the warning saved
them from capture. Several were in bed when they received
it. One had not left his boarding-house twenty
minutes when it was surrounded by the enemy. They
preferred one night in the mountains of Virginia to a
winter in a Yankee dungeon. Am I not more than repaid
by their thanks?</p>
<p>A few days after this, during Christmas, some friends
in the neighborhood came through the lines to spend the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span>
day and night with us. To show you how difficult it was
to overcome a Yankee sentinel’s stern sense of duty, I
must tell you that one of the young ladies of the party
bribed the incumbent of the post on this occasion to let
them all pass for the small consideration of two ginger-cakes
and one turn-over pie.</p>
<p>Between 11 and 12 that night, as we girls were undressing
and chatting around the fire, we heard a gentle
tapping on the window below, and immediately mother
came up and whispering as softly and mysteriously as if
she feared the walls, which they so closely watched, or
the winds, that whistled so keenly around the corners of
the house, and also their ears might repeat her words to
the pickets, informed me that Colonel Mosby and a few
of his men were in the yard and wished to see me. I put
on the first dress I came to and crept down noiselessly,
lest I should arouse our spy of a guard. The colonel
wanted to know the exact position of the pickets and
videttes. I told him as well as I could, and in order to
give him a more correct idea, I offered to go with any of
them whom he might select to a certain hill, where I could
point out their positions more definitely. Capt. Wm. R.
Smith begged leave to go with me. He led his horse and
we walked along, talking in a low tone. There was a
full moon, but she wore a veil of fleecy clouds.</p>
<p>When we had gone about two hundred yards, very unexpectedly
there rode out from behind a tree a Yankee
picket.</p>
<p>“Halt,” he cried.</p>
<p>It was but the work of an instant for Captain Smith to
spring on his horse, and with an effort of his strong arm,
“Light to the croup the fair lady he swung.” The next
instant a bullet seemed to graze our ears; in quick succession
six bullets came, but they soon fell far behind us.
We heard the whole line take up the alarm. As we flew
along, Captain Smith said, very calmly, “A little romance
for you.” We soon reached our reserve and after some
further conversation, bade one another goodnight—they
going forth to meet other adventures and I to my friends,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span>
who having heard the firing, were awaiting my return
somewhat anxiously. When I took off the dress I had
worn, I discovered a very jagged rent, evidently made by
the spur of a cavalier. Brave, brave Captain Smith!
soon he gave his young life to our cause.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='AINT_YOU_ASHAMED_OF_YOUUNS' id='AINT_YOU_ASHAMED_OF_YOUUNS'></a>
<h3>“AIN’T YOU ASHAMED OF YOU’UNS?”</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Phoebe Y. Pember.]</p>
<p>Directly in front of me sat an old Georgia up-country
woman, placidly regarding the box cars full of men on
the parallel rails, waiting, like ourselves, to start. She
knitted and gazed, and at last inquired “who was them
ar’ soldiers, and whar’ was they a-going to?” The information
that they were Yankee prisoners startled her
considerably. The knitting ceased abruptly (all the old
women in the Southern States knitted socks for the soldiers
while traveling), and the cracker bonnet of dark
brown homespun was thrown back violently, for her
whole nervous system seemed to have received a galvanic
shock. Then she caught her breath with a long gasp,
lifted on high her thin, trembling hand, accompanied by
the trembling voice, and made a speech:</p>
<p>“Ain’t you ashamed of you’uns,” she piped. “A-coming
down here a-spiling our country, and a-robbing our
hen-roosts? What did we ever do to you’uns that you
should come a-killing our brothers and sons? Ain’t you
ashamed of you’uns? What for do you want us to live
with you’uns, you poor white trash? I ain’t got a single
nigger that would be so mean as to force himself where
he warn’t wanted, and what do we-uns want with you?
Ain’t you—” but there came a roar of laughter from both
cars, and, shaking with excitement, the old lady pulled
down her spectacles, which in the excitement she had
pushed up on her forehead, and tried in vain to resume
her labors with uncertain fingers.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span>
<a name='FALSE_TEETH' id='FALSE_TEETH'></a>
<h3>FALSE TEETH</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond During the War, pages 165-166.]</p>
<p>In connection with the battle of the Cross Keys, we
are just here reminded of an amusing stratagem of a
rebel lady to conceal her age and charms from the enemy,
who held possession of her house. She says: “Mr. K.,
you know, was compelled to evacuate his premises when
the Federals took possession, and succeeding in making
good their escape, left me here, with my three children,
to encounter the consequences of their intrusion upon
my premises. Not wishing to appear quite as youthful
as I really am, and desiring to destroy, if possible, any
remains of my former beauty, I took from my mouth a
set of false teeth, (which I was compelled to have put in
before I was 20 years old,) tied a handkerchief around
my head, donned my most sloven apparel, and in every
way made myself as hideous as possible. The disguise
was perfect. I was sullen, morose, sententious. You
could not have believed I could so long have kept up a
manner so disagreeable; but it had the desired effect.
The Yankees called me ‘old woman.’ They took little
thought I was not 30 years of age. They took my house
for a hospital for their sick and wounded, and allowed
me only the use of a single room, and required of me
many acts of assistance in nursing their men, which under
any circumstances my own heart-promptings would have
made a pleasure to me. But I did not feel disposed to
be compelled to prepare food for those who had driven
from me my husband, and afterwards robbed me of all
my food and bed-furniture, with the exception of what
they allowed me to have in my room. But they were not
insulting in their language to the ‘old woman,’ and I
endured all the inconveniences and unhappiness of my
situation with as much fortitude as I could bring into
operation, feeling that my dear husband, at least, was
safe from harm. After they left,” she continued, “I was
forced to go into the woods, near by, and with my two
little boys pick up fagots to cook the scanty food left to
me.” This is the story of one of the most luxuriously
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span>
reared women of Virginia, and is scarcely the faintest
shadow of what many endured under similar circumstances.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='EMMA_SANSOM' id='EMMA_SANSOM'></a>
<h3>EMMA SANSOM</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Gen. T. Jordan and J. P. Pryor, in Campaigns of General Forrest, pages
267-270.]</p>
<p>The Federal column under Colonel Streight was again
overtaken by 10 A. M., on the 2d; and the Confederate
general selected fifty of the best mounted men, with
whom his escort charged swiftly upon its rear in the face
of a hot fire. For ten miles now, to Black Creek, an
affluent of the Coosa, a sharp, running conflict occurred.
The Federals, however, effected the passage of the stream
without hindrance, by a bridge, which, being old and
very dry, was in flames and impassable as the Confederates
approached; besides which it was commanded by
Streight’s artillery, planted on the opposite bank. Black
Creek is deep and rapid, and its passage in the immediate
presence of the Federal force was an impossibility before
which even Forrest was forced to pause and ponder.
But while reflecting upon the predicament, he was approached
by a group of women, one of whom, a tall,
comely girl of about 18 years of age, stepped forward
and inquired, “Whose command?”</p>
<p>The answer was, “The advance of General Forrest’s
cavalry.”</p>
<p>She then requested that General Forrest should be
pointed out, which being done, advancing, she addressed
him nearly in these words:</p>
<p>“You are General Forrest, I am told. I know of an
old ford to which I could guide you, if I had a horse.
The Yankees have taken all of ours.”</p>
<p>Her mother, stepping up, exclaimed:</p>
<p>“No, Emma; people would talk about you.”</p>
<p>“I am not afraid to trust myself with as brave a man
as General Forrest, and don’t care for people’s talk,” was
the prompt rejoinder of this Southern girl, her face
illuminated with emotion.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214' name='page_214'></a>214</span></div>
<p>The general then remarked, as he rode beside a log
nearby: “Well, Miss ——, jump up behind me.”</p>
<p>Quickly or without an instant of hesitation, she sprang
from the log behind the redoubtable cavalry leader, and
sat ready to guide him—under as noble an inspiration of
unalloyed, courageous patriotism as that which has rendered
the Maid of Zaragossa famous for all time.
Calling for a courier to follow, guided by Miss Sansom,
Forrest rode rapidly, leaping over fallen timber, to a
point about half a mile above the bridge, where, at the
foot of a ravine, she said there was a practicable ford.
There, dismounting, they walked to the river-bank, opposite
to which, on the other side, were found posted a
Federal detachment, who opened upon both immediately
with some forty small arms, the balls of which whistled
close by, and tore up the ground in their front as they
approached. Inquiring naively what caused the noise,
and being answered that it was the sound of bullets, the
intrepid girl stepped in front of her companion, saying,
“General, stand behind me; they will not dare shoot me.”
Gently putting her aside, Forrest observed he could not
possibly suffer her to do so, or to make a breastwork of
herself, and gave her his arm so as to screen her as much
as possible. By this time they had reached the ravine.
Placing her behind the shelter afforded by the roots of a
fallen tree, he asked Miss Sansom to remain there until
he could reconnoitre the ford, and proceeded at once to
descend the ravine on his hands and knees. After having
gone some fifty yards in this manner, looking back, to
his surprise and regret, she was immediately at his back;
and in reply to his remark that he had told her to remain
under shelter, replied: “Yes, General, but I was fearful
that you might be wounded; and it is my purpose to be
near you.”</p>
<p>The ford-mouth reached and examined, they then returned
as they came, through the ravine, to the crown of
the bank, under fire, when she took his arm as before—an
open mark for the Federal sharpshooters, whose fire
for some instants was even heavier than at first; and
several of their balls actually passed through her skirts,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215' name='page_215'></a>215</span>
exciting the observation, “They have only wounded my
crinoline.” At the same time, withdrawing her arm, the
dauntless girl, turning round, faced the enemy, and waved
her sun-bonnet defiantly and repeatedly in the air. We
are pleased to be able to record that, at this, the hostile
fire was stopped; the Federals took off their own caps,
and, waving them, gave three hearty cheers of approbation.
Remounting, Forrest and Miss Sansom returned
to the command, who received her with unfeigned enthusiasm.</p>
<p>The artillery was sent forward, and with a few shells,
well thrown, quickly drove away the Federal guard at
the ford, which Major McLemore was directed to seize
with his regiment. The stream was boggy, with high,
declivitous banks on both sides, and it was necessary to
take the ammunition from the caissons by hand, and to
force the animals down the steep slopes, and to take the
ford, but, nevertheless, the passage was successfully effected
in less than two hours. Meantime, the Confederate
general delivered his fair, daring young guide back
safely into the hands of her mother, took a knightly farewell,
inspired by the romantic coloring of the occurrence,
and dashed after his command to resume the chase, as
soon as the passage of the creek was effected.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='PRESIDENT_ROOSEVELTS_MOTHER_AND_GRANDMOTHER' id='PRESIDENT_ROOSEVELTS_MOTHER_AND_GRANDMOTHER'></a>
<h3>PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT’S MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The story has often been told of Mrs. Roosevelt, formerly
Miss Bulloch, of Georgia, and mother of President
Roosevelt, that early in the war between the States, when
a regiment of Federal soldiers was marching past her
residence in New York, she displayed a Confederate flag
at her window and refused to take it down when ordered
to do so.</p>
<p>In October, 1905, a similar story was told by the
Philadelphia correspondent of the Richmond <i>Times-Dispatch</i>
that Mrs. Bulloch, the grandmother of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216' name='page_216'></a>216</span>
President, at some period of the war did the same thing
in that city. The author of this volume was about to
insert both incidents when a moment’s reflection caused
him to hesitate. He remembered that both the ladies
mentioned were typical Southern women, of one of the
best and most knightly families. The stories lack
<i>vraisemblance</i>. Whatever may have been their sympathies
during the war between the States, such a needless
display as that indicated in the stories does not sound
like the Bullochs of Georgia. Southern women were not
given to showing their patriotism by waving flags. It
is rather too cheap. Southern women of the best type,
while members of Northern families or guests of Northern
friends, during the war, would not volunteer to
flaunt before the public a family division of political
sentiment under such sad circumstances. In addition to
this, the author has too much regard for the sanctity of
home, be it ever so humble or so highly exalted, to enter
its portals for a striking story without knocking for admission.
Under the circumstances he felt it due to consult
our magnanimous President himself as to the
authenticity of either or both incidents. President
Roosevelt kindly forwarded the following reply:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class='center'>“<span class='smcap'>The White House</span>,<br />
<span class='smcap'>Washington, D. C.</span>, <i>Nov. 20, 1905</i>.<br />
Personal.</p>
<p><span class='smcap'>Dear Sir</span>: It is always a pleasure to hear from
an old Confederate soldier, and I thank you for your
letter and for the kind way in which you speak of me;
but that incident about my mother never took place.
This is the first time I ever heard the story about my
grandmother and I am sure it is equally without basis.
My grandmother was very infirm during the war and I
do not believe she ever lived at Philadelphia. She was
with us in New York.</p>
<p class='sig1'>Sincerely yours,
<span class='smcap'>Theodore Roosevelt.</span></p>
<p class='sig2'><span class='smcap'>Rev. J. L. Underwood</span>,
<i>Kellam’s Hospital, Richmond, Va.</i>”</p>
</blockquote>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217' name='page_217'></a>217</span></div>
<p>Elsewhere in this volume it is shown that John G.
Whittier’s famous story of Barbara Freitchie and the
Federal flag is a myth, pure and simple. This letter of
the President consigns the two stories above mentioned to
a similar fate. The Southern people will thank him for
it. They desire nothing but simple truth about their
honored President and his family.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_LITTLE_GIRL_AT_CHANCELLORSVILLE' id='THE_LITTLE_GIRL_AT_CHANCELLORSVILLE'></a>
<h3>THE LITTLE GIRL AT CHANCELLORSVILLE</h3>
</div>
<p>General Fitz Hugh Lee loved to tell of the little girl in
the house where Stonewall Jackson breathed his last,
who said to her mother that she “wished that God would
let her die instead of the general, for then only her
mother would cry; but if Jackson died all the people of
the country would cry.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SAVED_HER_HAMS' id='SAVED_HER_HAMS'></a>
<h3>SAVED HER HAMS</h3>
</div>
<p>In Mississippi a farmer’s wife heard that a regiment
of Federal cavalry was coming. She had a smoke-house
full of fine hams and shoulder meat. Immediately she
went to work, and when the soldiers came they found
the meat lying all about the yard with a knife hole stuck
deep into each piece. The Yankees rushed in and began
to pick it up.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with this meat, madam? How
came these holes in it?”</p>
<p>“Now, look here,” said she, “you know the Confederate
cavalry has just been here, and if you all get poisoned
by that meat you must not blame me.”</p>
<p>They left the meat.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218' name='page_218'></a>218</span>
<a name='HEROISM_OF_A_WIDOW' id='HEROISM_OF_A_WIDOW'></a>
<h3>HEROISM OF A WIDOW</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. Allie McPeek, in Southern Historical Papers, Volume 23, page 328; from
the Atlanta (Ga.) <i>Constitution</i>, November 9, 1905.]</p>
<p>It was on the first and second days of September, 1864,
General Hardee of the Southern forces was sent to Jonesboro
from Atlanta with 22,000 men to head off a formidable
flank movement of the enemy, which had for its
purpose to cut off Southern communication and thereby
compel the evacuation of the city of Atlanta. The flank
movement consisted of 40,000 men, and was commanded
chiefly by Major-General John M. Schofield, together
with General Sedgwick, who was also a corps commander,
and consisted of the best fighters of the Federal
army.</p>
<p>As the two armies confronted each other two miles to
the north and northwest of Jonesboro, it so happened
that the little house and farm of a poor old widow was
just between the two lines of battle when the conflict
opened, and, having nowhere to go, she was necessarily
caught between the fire of the two commanding lines of
battle, which was at comparatively close range and doing
fierce and deadly work. The house and home of this old
lady was soon converted into a Federal hospital, and
with the varying fortunes she was alternately within the
lines of each contending army, when not between them
on disputed ground.</p>
<p>During the whole of this eventful day this good and
brave woman, exposed as she was to the incessant showers
of shot and shell from both sides, moved fearlessly
about among the wounded and dying of both sides alike,
and without making the slightest distinction. Finally
night closed the scene with General Schofield’s army
corps in possession of the ground, and when the morning
dawned it found this grand old lady still at her post
of duty, knowing, too, as she did, the fortunes, or rather
misfortunes, of war had stripped her of the last vestige
of property she had except her little tract of land which
had been laid waste. Now it was that General John M.
Schofield, having known her suffering and destitute condition,
sent her, under escort and arms, a large wagon-load
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span>
of provisions and supplies, and caused his adjutant-general
to write her a long and touching letter of thanks,
and wound up the letter with a special request that she
keep it until the war was over and present it to the United
States government, and they would repay all her losses.</p>
<p>She kept the letter, and soon after the Southern Claims
Commission was established she brought it to the writer,
who presented her claim in due form, and she was
awarded about $600—all she claimed, but not being all
she lost. The letter is now on file with other proofs of
the exact truth of this statement with the files of the
Southern Claims Commission at Washington. Her
name was Allie McPeek, and she died several years ago.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WINCHESTER_WOMEN' id='WINCHESTER_WOMEN'></a>
<h3>WINCHESTER WOMEN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Fremantle’s Three Months in Southern Lines.]</p>
<p>Winchester used to be a most agreeable town, and its
society extremely pleasant. Many of its houses are now
destroyed or converted into hospitals, the outlook miserable
and dilapidated. Its female inhabitants (for the
able-bodied males are all absent in the army) are
familiar with the bloody realities of war. As many as
5,000 wounded have been accommodated here at one
time. All the ladies are accustomed to the bursting of
shells and the sight of fighting, and all are turned into
hospital nurses or cooks.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SPARTA_IN_MISSISSIPPI' id='SPARTA_IN_MISSISSIPPI'></a>
<h3>SPARTA IN MISSISSIPPI</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Gen. J. B. Gordon.]</p>
<p>The heroines of Sparta who gave their hair for bow-strings
have been immortalized by the muse of history;
but what tongue can speak or pen indite a tribute worthy
of the Mississippi woman who with her own hands applied
the torch to more than half a million dollars’ worth
of cotton, reducing herself to poverty rather than have
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span>
that cotton employed against her people. The day will
come, and I believe it is rapidly approaching, when in all
will be seen evidences of appreciation of these inspiring
incidents; when all lips will unite in expressing gratitude
to God that they belong to such a race of men and
women.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WOMANS_DEVOTIONA_WINCHESTER_HEROINE' id='WOMANS_DEVOTIONA_WINCHESTER_HEROINE'></a>
<h3>“WOMAN’S DEVOTION”—A WINCHESTER HEROINE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Gen. D. H. Maury, in Southern Historical Papers.]</p>
<p>The history of Winchester is replete with romantic
and glorious memories of the late war. One of the most
interesting of these has been perpetuated by the glowing
pencil of Oregon Wilson, himself a native of this valley,
and the fine picture he has made of the incident portrayed
by him has drawn tears from many who loved their
Southern country and the devoted women who elated
and sanctified by their heroic sacrifices the cause which,
borne down for a time, now rises again to honor all who
sustained it.</p>
<p>That truth, which is stranger than fiction, is stronger,
too. The simple historic facts which gave Wilson the
theme of his great picture gains nothing from the romantic
glamour his beautiful art has thrown about the actors
in the story.</p>
<p>In 1864, General Ramseur, commanding a Confederate
force near Winchester, was suddenly attacked by a
Federal force under General Averell, and after a sharp
encounter was forced back through the town. The
battlefield was near the residence of Mr. Rutherford,
about two miles distant, and the wounded were gathered
in his house and yard. The Confederate surgeons left
in charge of these wounded men appealed to the women
of Winchester (the men had all gone off to the war) to
come out and aid in dressing the wounds and nursing the
wounded. As was always the way of these Winchester
women, they promptly responded to this appeal, and on
the —— day of July more than twenty ladies went out
to Mr. Rutherford’s to minister to their suffering countrymen.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span>
There were more than sixty severely wounded
men who had been collected from the battlefield and were
lying in the house and garden of Mr. Rutherford. The
weather was warm, and those out of doors were as comfortable
and as quiet as those within. Amongst them
was a beardless boy named Randolph Ridgely; he was
severely hurt; his thigh was broken by a bullet, and his
sufferings were very great; his nervous system was
shocked and unstrung, and he could find no rest. The
kind surgeon in charge of him had many others to care
for; he felt that quiet sleep was all important for his
young patient, and he placed him under charge of a
young girl who had accompanied these ladies from Winchester;
told her his life depended on his having quiet
sleep that night; showed her how best to support his
head, and promised to return and see after his condition
as soon and as often as his duties to the other wounded
would permit.</p>
<p>All through that anxious night the brave girl sat, sustaining
the head of the wounded youth and carefully
guarding him against everything that could disturb his
rest or break the slumber into which he gently sank, and
which was to save his life. She only knew and felt that
a brave Confederate life depended on her care. She had
never seen him before, nor has she ever seen him since.
And when at dawn the surgeon came to her, he found her
still watching and faithful, just as he had left her at
dark—as only a true woman, as we love to believe our
Virginia women, can be. The soldier had slept soundly.
He awoke only once during the night, when tired nature
forced his nurse to change her posture; and when after
the morning came she was relieved of her charge, and
she fell ill of the exhaustion and exposure of that night.
Her consolation during the weary weeks she lay suffering
was that she had saved a brave soldier for her
country.</p>
<p>In the succeeding year, Captain Hancock, of the
Louisiana Infantry, was brought to Winchester, wounded
and a prisoner. He lay many weeks in the hospital, and
when nearly recovered of his wounds, was notified that
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span>
he would be sent to Fort Delaware. As the time drew
near for his consignment to this hopeless prison, he confided
to Miss Lenie Russell, the same young girl who
had saved young Ridgely’s life, that he was engaged to
be married to a lady of lower Virginia, and was resolved
to attempt to make his escape. She cordially entered
into his plans, and aided in their successful accomplishment.
The citizens of Winchester were permitted sometimes
to send articles of food and comfort to the sick
and wounded Confederates, and Miss Russell availed herself
of this to procure the escape of the gallant captain.
She caused him to don the badge of a hospital attendant,
take a market basket on his arm and accompany her to a
house, whence he might, with least danger of detection
and arrest, effect his return to his own lines. Captain
Hancock made good use of his opportunity and safely rejoined
his comrades; survived the war; married his
sweetheart, and to this day omits no occasion for showing
his respect and gratitude for the generous woman to
whose courage and address he owes his freedom and his
happiness.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SPOKEN_LIKE_CORNELIA' id='SPOKEN_LIKE_CORNELIA'></a>
<h3>SPOKEN LIKE CORNELIA</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From The Gray Jacket, page 529.]</p>
<p>A young lady of Louisiana, whose father’s plantation
had been brought within the enemy’s lines in their operations
against Vicksburg, was frequently constrained by
the necessities of her situation to hold conversation with
the Federal officers. On one of these occasions, a
Yankee official inquired how she managed to preserve
her equanimity and cheerfulness and so many trials and
privations, and such severe reverses of fortune. “Our
army,” said he, “has deprived your father of two hundred
negroes, and literally desolated two magnificent
plantations.”</p>
<p>She said to the officer—a leader of that army, which
had, for months, hovered around Vicksburg, powerless
to take it with all their vast appliances of war, and mortified
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span>
by their repeated failures: “I am not insensible to
the comforts and elegances which fortune can secure,
and of which your barbarian hordes have deprived me;
but a true Southern woman will not weep over them,
while her country remains. If you wish to crush me,
take Vicksburg.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_SPECIMEN_MOTHER' id='A_SPECIMEN_MOTHER'></a>
<h3>A SPECIMEN MOTHER</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers’ Memories, pages 208-209.]</p>
<p>At the commencement of the war there lived in
Sharon, Miss., Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary, surrounded
by a family of five stalwart sons. Mrs. Catherine
O’Leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an unfaltering
patriot, and her heart was fired with love for
the cause of Southern liberty. Therefore when her brave
sons, one after another, went forth to battle for the right,
she bade them God-speed. “Be true to your God and
your country,” said this noble woman, “and never disgrace
your mother by flinching from duty.”</p>
<p>Her youngest and, perhaps, dearest, was at that time
only 14. For a while she felt that his place was by her
side; but in 1863, when he was barely 17, she no longer
tried to restrain him. Her trembling hands, having
arrayed the last beloved boy for the sacrifice, rested in
blessings on his head ere he went forth. Repressing the
agony which swelled her heart, she calmly bade him,
also, “Do your duty. If you must die, let it be with
your face to the foe.” And so went forth James A.
O’Leary, at the tender age of 17, full of ardor and hope.
He was at once assigned to courier duty under General
Loring. On the 28th of July, 1864, at the battle of
Atlanta, he was shot through the hip, the bullet remaining
in the wound, causing intense suffering, until 1870,
when it was extracted, and the wound healed for the first
time. Notwithstanding this wound, he insisted upon
returning to his command, which, in the mean time, had
joined Wood’s regiment of cavalry. This was in 1865,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span>
and, so wounded, he served three months, surrendering
with General Wirt Adams at Gainesville. A short but
very glorious record. Mrs. O’Leary still lives in Sharon.
The old fire is unquenched.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MRS_ROONEY' id='MRS_ROONEY'></a>
<h3>MRS. ROONEY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers’ Memories, pages 217-220.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>“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 asked
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span>
me, ‘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.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span>
The 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.”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WARNING_BY_A_BRAVE_GIRL' id='WARNING_BY_A_BRAVE_GIRL'></a>
<h3>WARNING BY A BRAVE GIRL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Our Women in the War, pages 63-64.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span>
<a name='A_PLUCKY_GIRL_WITH_A_PISTOL' id='A_PLUCKY_GIRL_WITH_A_PISTOL'></a>
<h3>A PLUCKY GIRL WITH A PISTOL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Our Women in the War, pages 37-39.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“What do you want here?” she asked. “Why do you
and your troops rush into my house?”</p>
<p>“We want quarters here, and quarters we will have.
Move aside and let us in.”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“D——n you, move aside, or I will throw you down.”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>“By God! I believe you have got a pistol; let’s search
her person for arms.”</p>
<p>“I have a pistol and shall shoot the first person that
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span>
touches 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!”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MOSBYS_MEN_AND_TWO_NOBLE_GIRLS' id='MOSBYS_MEN_AND_TWO_NOBLE_GIRLS'></a>
<h3>MOSBY’S MEN AND TWO NOBLE GIRLS</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Wearing of the Gray, pages 545-547.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>We beg now to introduce upon the scene the female
<i>dramatis personae</i> of 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 than
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span>
agreeable to one consulting the dictates of a prudent
regard to his or her safety.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Where is the nearest ford?” they shouted.</p>
<p>“In the woods there,” was the reply of one of the
young ladies, pointing with her hand, and not moving.</p>
<p>“How can we reach it?”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The partisan had scarcely disappeared in the woods,
when the enemy rushed up, and demanded which way
the Confederates had taken.</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>“Which way?” he thundered.</p>
<p>The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said:
“How do I know?”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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 ladies
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span>
shrunk 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.</p>
<p>“Take me from my horse!” murmured the wounded
man, stretching out his arms and tottering.</p>
<p>The young girls ran to him.</p>
<p>“Who are you—one of the Yankees?” they exclaimed.</p>
<p>“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!’”</p>
<p>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—”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_SPARTAN_DAME_AND_HER_YOUNG' id='A_SPARTAN_DAME_AND_HER_YOUNG'></a>
<h3>A SPARTAN DAME AND HER YOUNG</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From The Gray Jacket, page 488.]</p>
<p>“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,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span>
regardless 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.’”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SINGING_UNDER_FIRE' id='SINGING_UNDER_FIRE'></a>
<h3>SINGING UNDER FIRE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[A Rebel’s Recollections, pages 72-73.]</p>
<p>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:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Your truth and valor bearing;</p>
<p>The bravest are the tenderest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The loving are the daring!”</p>
</div></div>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span>
<a name='A_WOMANS_LAST_WORD' id='A_WOMANS_LAST_WORD'></a>
<h3>A WOMAN’S LAST WORD</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 225-227.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>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?”</p>
<p>The woman straightened herself and replied: “I
would rather be the widow of a brave man than the wife
of a coward.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 command
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span>
of the piece. Just before fire opened he beckoned
to me, and I rode up to hear what he had to say.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='TWO_MISSISSIPPI_GIRLS_HOLD_YANKEES_AT_PISTOL_POINT' id='TWO_MISSISSIPPI_GIRLS_HOLD_YANKEES_AT_PISTOL_POINT'></a>
<h3>TWO MISSISSIPPI GIRLS HOLD YANKEES AT PISTOL POINT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Richmond Enquirer, July 22, 1862, page 3.]</p>
<p>A Memphis correspondent of the <i>Appeal</i>, in referring
to the bad treatment of citizens by the Federal soldiers,
related the following:</p>
<p>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 would
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span>
say 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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WAR_WOMEN_OF_PETERSBURG' id='WAR_WOMEN_OF_PETERSBURG'></a>
<h3>“WAR WOMEN” OF PETERSBURG</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 72-73.]</p>
<p>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:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Your truth and valor bearing;</p>
<p>The bravest are the tenderest,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The loving are the daring.”</p>
</div></div>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span></div>
<p>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.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='JOHN_ALLENS_COW' id='JOHN_ALLENS_COW'></a>
<h3>JOHN ALLEN’S COW</h3>
</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“I can’t do anything for you rebels and I will not let
you pass. The rebellion has got to be crushed,” said he.</p>
<p>“Well,” answered the girl, “if you think you can crush
the rebellion by starving John Allen’s old cow, just crush
away.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_FAMILY_THAT_HAD_NO_LUCK' id='THE_FAMILY_THAT_HAD_NO_LUCK'></a>
<h3>THE FAMILY THAT HAD NO LUCK</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 23-24.]</p>
<p>At the battle of Fredericksburg, as we tumbled into
the sunken road, an old man came in bearing an Enfield
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span>
rifle 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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>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’.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ve got ’em both back again,” called out
Billy Goodwin, from down the line.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“You’re shot,” he said.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span>
<a name='BRAVE_WOMEN_AT_RESACA_GA' id='BRAVE_WOMEN_AT_RESACA_GA'></a>
<h3>BRAVE WOMEN AT RESACA, GA.</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>“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 scene
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span>
never 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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_WOMANS_HAIR' id='A_WOMANS_HAIR'></a>
<h3>A WOMAN’S HAIR</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 82-84.]</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span></div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>When we brought her to Charlie Irving she was all
smiles and graciousness, and Charlie was all blushes.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 indigestible
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span>
fried paste. Then he mounted her on her mare again and
summoned Ham Seay and me.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>We did all this.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='A_BREACH_OF_ETIQUETTE' id='A_BREACH_OF_ETIQUETTE'></a>
<h3>A BREACH OF ETIQUETTE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 121-123.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span>
arms 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!”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='LOLA_SANCHEZS_RIDE' id='LOLA_SANCHEZS_RIDE'></a>
<h3>LOLA SANCHEZ’S RIDE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Women in The War.]</p>
<p>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 seek
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span>
a 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span>
woods 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 their
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244' name='page_244'></a>244</span>
transports, this young woman went alone to St. Augustine,
and gained her father’s freedom, taking him with
her back to the old homestead.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>These facts were recently related to me by Mrs. Eugenia
Rogers, of St. Augustine.</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Elizabeth W. Mullings.</span></p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_REBEL_SOCK_A_TRUE_EPISODE_IN_SEWARDS_RAIDS_ON_' id='THE_REBEL_SOCK_A_TRUE_EPISODE_IN_SEWARDS_RAIDS_ON_'></a>
<h3>THE REBEL SOCK
<span class='chsub'> <br />A TRUE EPISODE IN SEWARD’S RAIDS ON THE OLD LADIES OF MARYLAND</span></h3>
</div>
<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>By Tenella.</span></p>
<p class='center'>[The Gray Jacket, pages 510-513.]</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>In all the pride and pomp of war</p>
<p class='indent2'>The Lincolnite was dressed;</p>
<p>High beat his patriotic heart</p>
<p class='indent2'>Beneath his armoured vest.</p>
<p>His maiden sword hung by his side,</p>
<p class='indent2'>His pistols both were right,</p>
<p class='indent2'>His coat was buttoned tight.</p>
<p>His shining spurs were on his heels;</p>
<p>A firm resolve sat on his brow,</p>
<p class='indent2'>For he to danger went.</p>
<p>By Seward’s self that day he was</p>
<p class='indent2'>On secret service sent.</p>
<p>“Mount and away!” he sternly cried</p>
<p class='indent2'>Unto the gallant band.</p>
<p>Who all equipped from head to heel</p>
<p class='indent2'>Awaited his command.</p>
<p>“But halt, my boys—before we go</p>
<p class='indent2'>These solemn words I’ll say,</p>
<p>Lincoln expects that every man</p>
<p class='indent2'>His duty’ll do to-day!”</p>
<p>“We will! we will!” the soldiers cried,</p>
<p class='indent2'>“The President shall see</p>
<p>That we will only run away</p>
<p class='indent2'>From Jackson or from Lee!”</p>
<p>And now they’re off, just four score men,</p>
<p class='indent2'>A picked and chosen troop.</p>
<p>And like a hawk upon a dove</p>
<p class='indent2'>On Maryland they swoop.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span></p>
<p>From right to left, from house to house,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The little army rides.</p>
<p>In every lady’s wardrobe look</p>
<p class='indent2'>To see that there she hides;</p>
<p>They peep in closets, trunks, and drawers,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Examine every box;</p>
<p>Not rebel soldiers now they seek,</p>
<p class='indent2'>But rebel soldiers’ socks!</p>
<p>But all in vain—too keen for them</p>
<p class='indent2'>Were those dear ladies there,</p>
<p>And not a sock or flannel shirt</p>
<p class='indent2'>Was taken anywhere.</p>
<p>The day wore on to afternoon,</p>
<p class='indent2'>That warm and drowsy hour,</p>
<p>When Nature’s self doth seem to feel</p>
<p class='indent2'>A touch of Morpheus’ power.</p>
<p>A farm-house door stood open wide,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The men were all away,</p>
<p>The ladies sleeping in their rooms,</p>
<p class='indent2'>The children at their play;</p>
<p>The house dog lay upon the steps,</p>
<p class='indent2'>But never raised his head,</p>
<p>Though cracking on the gravel walk</p>
<p class='indent2'>He heard a stranger’s tread.</p>
<p>Old grandma, in her rocking chair,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Sat knitting in the hall,</p>
<p>When suddenly upon her work</p>
<p class='indent2'>A shadow seemed to fall.</p>
<p>She raised her eyes and there she saw</p>
<p class='indent2'>Our Fed’ral hero stand.</p>
<p>His little cap was on his head;</p>
<p class='indent2'>His sword was in his hand;</p>
<p>While circling round and round the house</p>
<p class='indent2'>His gallant soldiers ride</p>
<p>To guard the open kitchen door</p>
<p class='indent2'>And chicken coop beside.</p>
<p>Slowly the dear old lady rose</p>
<p class='indent2'>And tottering forward came,</p>
<p>And peering dimly through her “specks,”</p>
<p class='indent2'>Said, “Honey, what’s your name?”</p>
<p>Then as she raised her withered hand</p>
<p class='indent2'>To pat his sturdy arm—</p>
<p>“There’s no one here but grandmamma,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And she won’t do you harm;</p>
<p>Come, take a seat and don’t be scared;</p>
<p class='indent2'>Put up your sword, my child,</p>
<p>I would not hurt you for the world,”</p>
<p class='indent2'>She gently said and smiled.</p>
<p>“Madam, my duty must be done,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And I am firm as rock!”</p>
<p>Then pointing to her work he said,</p>
<p class='indent2'>“Is that a rebel sock!”</p>
<p>“Yes, honey, I am getting old,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And for hard work ain’t fit,</p>
<p>But for Confederate soldiers still</p>
<p class='indent2'>I, thank the Lord, can knit.”</p>
<p>“Madam, your work is contraband,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And Congress confiscates</p>
<p>This rebel sock, which I now seize,</p>
<p class='indent2'>To the United States.”</p>
<p>“Yes, honey, don’t be scared, for I</p>
<p class='indent2'>Will give it up to you.”</p>
<p>Then slowly from the half knit sock</p>
<p class='indent2'>The dame her needles drew,</p>
<p>Broke off her thread, wound up her ball</p>
<p class='indent2'>And stuck her needles in.</p>
<p>“Here, take it, child, and I to-night</p>
<p class='indent2'>Another will begin!”</p>
<p>The soldier next his loyal heart</p>
<p class='indent2'>The dear-bought trophy laid,</p>
<p>And that was all that Seward got</p>
<p class='indent2'>By this “old woman’s raid.”</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_V_THEIR_CAUSE' id='CHAPTER_V_THEIR_CAUSE'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER V
<span class='chsub'> <br />THEIR CAUSE</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='INTRODUCTORY_NOTE_TO_THEIR_CAUSE' id='INTRODUCTORY_NOTE_TO_THEIR_CAUSE'></a>
<h3>INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO “THEIR CAUSE”</h3>
</div>
<p>In no sense does the author offer the suggestions in
this section as an apology for the course of Southern
women or men in the war between the States. They are
presented simply as a part of history, showing the political
principles which guided and moved the South in the
momentous struggle. They explain the lofty zeal and
heroic fortitude of the Confederate women. They cannot
be attributed to partisanship or sectional bias on the
part of the author, for sufficient quotations are herewith
presented from well-known Northern, English, and Continental
public men to show that if there is an extreme
Southern view it is held by other people as well as by our
own.</p>
<p>Right or wrong, each Southern man in the field and
each woman at home, toiled in that war with a <i>mens sibi
conscia recti</i>. It was a movement of the people. In the
ranks of the army were found hundreds of college graduates
and men carrying muskets whose property was valued
at a hundred thousand dollars, and at home the rich
and the poor women toiled with equal zeal for the cause
so dear to their hearts.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='WHEN_THIS_CRUEL_WAR_IS_OVER' id='WHEN_THIS_CRUEL_WAR_IS_OVER'></a>
<h3>“WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER”</h3>
</div>
<p>Mrs. W. W. Gordon, of Savannah, the wife of the
brave ex-Confederate officer who was commissioned
brigadier general by President McKinley, and served
with distinguished gallantry in the Spanish War, had
kindred in the Federal army, which under Sherman captured
Savannah. As the troops were entering the city
she stood with her children watching them as they
marched under the windows of her Southern home. Just
then the splendid brass band at the head of one of the divisions
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span>
began to play the old familiar air, “When this
cruel war is over.” Just as soon as the notes struck the
ear of her little daughter this enthusiastic young Confederate
exclaimed, “Mamma, just listen to the Yankees.
They are playing, ‘When this cruel war is over,’ and
they are just doing it themselves.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='NORTHERN_MEN_LEADERS_OF_DISUNION' id='NORTHERN_MEN_LEADERS_OF_DISUNION'></a>
<h3>NORTHERN MEN LEADERS OF DISUNION</h3>
</div>
<p>In 1860 it was plain to the world that the people of the
North were determined to spurn the compact of union
with the Southern States and to deny to those States all
right to control their own affairs. Here are the sentiments
of the Northern leaders:</p>
<p>“There is a higher law than the Constitution which
regulates our authority over the domain. Slavery must
be abolished, and we must do it.”—<i>Wm. H. Seward.</i></p>
<p>“The time is fast approaching when the cry will become
too overpowering to resist. Rather than tolerate national
slavery as it now exists, let the Union be dissolved
at once, and then the sin of slavery will rest where it
belongs.”—<i>New York Tribune.</i></p>
<p>“The Union is a lie. The American Union is an imposture—a
covenant with death and an agreement with
hell. We are for its overthrow! Up with the flag of
disunion, that we may have a free and glorious republic
of our own.”—<i>Wm. Lloyd Garrison.</i></p>
<p>“I look forward to the day when there shall be a servile
insurrection in the South; when the black man,
armed with British bayonets, and led on by British officers,
shall assert his freedom and wage a war of extermination
against his master. And, though we may not
mock at their calamity nor laugh when their fear cometh,
yet we will hail it as the dawn of a political millennium.”—<i>Joshua
Giddings.</i></p>
<p>“In the alternative being presented of the continuance
of slavery or a dissolution of the Union, we are for a
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span>
dissolution, and we care not how quick it comes.”—<i>Rufus
P. Spaulding.</i></p>
<p>“The fugitive-slave act is filled with horror; we are
bound to disobey this act.”—<i>Charles Sumner.</i></p>
<p>“The <i>Advertiser</i> has no hesitation in saying that it
does not hold to the faithful observance of the fugitive-slave
law of 1850.”—<i>Portland Advertiser.</i></p>
<p>“I have no doubt but the free and slave States ought
to be separated. * * * The Union is not worth
supporting in connection with the South.”—<i>Horace
Greeley.</i></p>
<p>“The times demand and we must have an anti-slavery
Constitution, an anti-slavery Bible, and an anti-slavery
God.”—<i>Anson P. Burlingame.</i></p>
<p>“There is merit in the Republican party. It is this:
It is the first sectional party ever organized in this country.
* * * It is not national; it is sectional. It is
the North arrayed against the South. * * * The
first crack in the iceberg is visible; you will yet hear it
go with a crack through the center.”—<i>Wendell Phillips.</i></p>
<p>“The cure prescribed for slavery by Redpath is the only
infallible remedy, and men must foment insurrection
among the slaves in order to cure the evils. It can never
be done by concessions and compromises. It is a great
evil, and must be extinguished by still greater ones. It
is positive and imperious in its approaches, and must be
overcome with equally positive forces. You must commit
an assault to arrest a burglar, and slavery is not arrested
without a violation of law and the cry of fire.”—<i>Independent
Democrat</i>, leading Republican paper in New
Hampshire.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_UNION_VS_A_UNION' id='THE_UNION_VS_A_UNION'></a>
<h3>THE UNION VS. A UNION</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Early in the war a son of the Emerald Isle, but not
himself green, was taken prisoner not far from Manassas
Junction. In a word, Pat was taking a quiet nap in the
shade; and was aroused from his slumber by a Confederate
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span>
scouting party. He wore no special uniform of
either army, but looked more like a spy than an alligator
and on this was arrested.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” “What is your name?” and “Where
are you from?” were the first questions put to him by
the armed party.</p>
<p>Pat rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, and answered:
“Be me faith, gintlemen, them is ugly questions to
answer, anyhow; and before I answer any of them, I
be after axing yo, by yer lave, the same thing.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the leader, “we are out of Scott’s army
and belong to Washington.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Pat. “I knowed ye was a gintleman,
for I am that same. Long life to General Scott.”</p>
<p>“Ah ha!” replied the scout. “Now you rascal, you
are our prisoner,” and seized him by the shoulder.</p>
<p>“How is that,” inquired Pat, “are we not friends?”</p>
<p>“No,” was the answer; “we belong to General Beauregard’s
army.”</p>
<p>“Then ye tould me a lie, me boys, and thinking it
might be so, I told you another. An’ now tell me the
truth, an’ I’ll tell you the truth too.”</p>
<p>“Well, we belong to the State of South Carolina.”</p>
<p>“So do I,” promptly responded Pat, “and to all the
other States uv the country, too, and there I am thinking,
I hate the whole uv ye. Do ye think I would come all
the way from Ireland to belong to one State when I have
a right to belong to the whole of ’em?”</p>
<p>This logic was rather a stumper; but they took him
up, as before said, and carried him for further examination.</p>
<p>This Irishman’s unionism is a fair sample of what
sometimes passes in this country as broad patriotism.
“We don’t believe in so much State and State’s right.
We want a nation and we want it spelt with a big N.”
This is the merest twaddle. From the very nature of
the formation of our government there can be no organized
Nation. Alexander Hamilton wrote, “The State
governments are essentially necessary to the form and
spirit of the general system. * * * They can never
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span>
lose their powers till the whole of America are robbed
of their liberties.” It is a Union of States and can be
made nothing else. Bancroft, the great historian, says:
“But for Staterights the Union would perish from the
paralysis of its limbs. The States, as they gave life to
the Union, are necessary to the continuance of that life.”</p>
<p>Madison wrote as follows: “The assent and ratification
of the people, not as individuals composing the entire nation,
but as composing the distinct and independent
States to which they belong, are the sources of the Constitution.
It is therefore not a National but a Federal compact.”</p>
<p>The Irishman could only belong to the “whole of ’em”
by belonging to one of them. No man can love all the
other States without loving his own State. A Swiss
loves Schwyz or Unterwalden or some other canton
before he loves the Confederation of Cantons. The loyal
Scotchmen love Scotland before they love the British Empire.
The Union man loves the Union through his immediate
part of Union. Daniel Webster loved the
Union, but his speeches show how he loved Massachusetts
first. Calhoun loved the Union, but he loved it as
a Federal Union with his beloved Carolina. Many of
the best people of the North loved their several States
and in loyalty to them took sides against the South.</p>
<p>The Southern people, Whigs and Democrats, were devoted
to the Union of the fathers as long as it was a
reality. But as soon as they realized that it had become
only a confederation of the Northern majority States,
with the protecting features of the old Constitution directly
discarded, the love for their own States led them
heart and soul into the Confederate cause. Our Irishman
might be satisfied with A Union, but nothing but
THE Union of the fathers could satisfy Southern men.
They loved the definite Union of 1789; they fought the
indefinite Union of 1861. The former was a union on
a Constitution without a flag; the latter was a mere sentimental
union under a flag without a Constitution. The
Constitution had been thrown away.</p>
<p>The writer’s father, a plain old farmer-merchant of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span>
Alabama, was a fair specimen of the staunchest Southern
Union man. A Whig all his life, he almost adored
Henry Clay and idolized the Union. The great old Union
paper, the <i>National Intelligencer</i>, of Washington City,
was his political Bible, and he made it follow his son all
through school and college. Like all other Whigs, he
believed in the right of secession, but did not think
the time had come for such a step. He opposed
with all his might the secession of Alabama. But when
it was an accomplished fact, he wrote sadly to his son,
who was then a student in a foreign land:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Alabama has seceded. She has the right to do so, but I didn’t
want her to exercise it. I belong to my State, and I secede with
her. And I know the other States have no right to coerce her.
My son, your old father is like a Tennessee hog, he can be tolled,
but he can’t be driven.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Savoyard tells us truly that no State embraced secession
with more reluctance than North Carolina, and yet
no State supported the Southern cause with more heroism
or fortitude. When the news flashed over the wires that
President Lincoln had issued a call for volunteers to
coerce the sovereign Southern States, Zebulon B. Vance
was addressing an immense audience, pleading for the
Union and opposing the Confederacy. His hand was
raised aloft in appealing gesture when the fatal tidings
came, and in relating the incident to a New England
audience a quarter of a century later, he said:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>When my hand came down from that impassioned gesticulation
it fell slowly and sadly by the side of a secessionist. I immediately,
with altered voice and manner, called upon the assembled multitude
to volunteer, not to fight against but for South Carolina. If war
must come, I preferred to be with my own people. If we had to
shed blood I preferred to shed Northern rather than Southern
blood.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>North Carolina took her favorite son at his word,
turned secessionist with him, and volunteered for the
conflict.</p>
<p>Robert E. Lee felt in Virginia just like Zeb Vance felt
in North Carolina. The women of the South were the
women of Lee and Vance and Alex. Stephens and Judah
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span>
P. Benjamin, Charles J. Jenkins and Ben Hill. They
loved the Union, but when it was gone, they, with their
States, opposed what, to them, was only a Union of invading,
coercing States.</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“We were not the first to break the peace</p>
<p class='indent2'>That blessed our happy land;</p>
<p>We loved the quiet calm and ease,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Too well to raise a hand,</p>
<p>Till fierce oppression stronger grew,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And bitter were your sneers.</p>
<p>Then to our land we must be true,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Or show a coward’s fears!</p>
<p>We loved our banner while it waved</p>
<p class='indent2'>An emblem of our Union.</p>
<p>The fiercest dangers we had braved</p>
<p class='indent2'>To guard that sweet communion.</p>
<p>But when it proved that ‘stripes’ alone</p>
<p class='indent2'>Were for our Sunny South,</p>
<p>And all the ‘stars’ in triumph shone</p>
<p class='indent2'>Above the chilly North,</p>
<p>Then, not till then, our voices rose</p>
<p class='indent2'>In one tumultuous wave:</p>
<p>‘We will the tyranny oppose,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Or find a bloody grave.’”</p>
</div></div>
<p>It was Southern devotion to the Union which led so
many men of Kentucky and Tennessee into the Federal
army. It was the same traditional love for the Union
of the fathers that held back Virginia and the other
border States from secession too long. It led them to
make the mistake of the crisis. The writer, like nearly
all the Southern men of his ultra Unionism, at the time
thought South Carolina made the mistake of too much
haste in her secession. He does not think so now. He
has not thought so since calmly and thoroughly studying
the history of those times.</p>
<p>The new party in the North was in a triumphant majority
and was determined to deprive the minority States
of the South of their share in the government. Delay
on the part of Southern border States did no good. It
did harm. It misled the Northern people as to the true
feeling in Virginia and the other border States. Had
they all seceded on the same day with South Carolina
there would have been no war.</p>
<p>Now that the Northern people, through the broad,
patriotic administrations of Cleveland, McKinley and
Roosevelt, have restored the Union, and Florida is again
a coequal State with New York, and Texans once more
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span>
fellow-citizens with Pennsylvanians, what section shows
more loyalty to the Union and the common country than
the South?</p>
<p>Our patriot mothers and grandmothers of 1860 loved
the Union. Those who yet survive, and their children,
love the Union in 1905. No State is under the ban now.
The captured battle flags of Confederate States have been
restored to the States by a Republican Congress. The
Federal government volunteers to take care of Confederate
soldiers’ graves. President, and Congress and Army
and Navy follow General Wheeler’s coffin to an honored
grave. A Republican President publicly avows his attachment
to Confederate veterans and shows his faith by
his appointments. Thank God, our Union to-day is
again <i>the</i> Union of equal States.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_NORTHERN_STATES_SECEDE_FROM_THE_UNION' id='THE_NORTHERN_STATES_SECEDE_FROM_THE_UNION'></a>
<h3>THE NORTHERN STATES SECEDE FROM THE UNION</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The denial of the equal rights of the Southern States in
the public territorial domain, and the nullification by the
Northern States of the acts of Congress and the decisions
of the Supreme Court on territorial questions, and the
formation and triumph of a party pledged to hostility to
the South, were not the only considerations that convinced
the Southern States that their only honorable
course lay in secession. The compact of the written Constitution
was the only Union that had existed. A breach
or repudiation of that compact was a breach of the Union.
It was secession without its name.</p>
<p>In 1850, after a violent sectional agitation, which
shook the country, over the admission of California as a
free State, a compromise measure, proposed by Mr. Clay
and advocated by Webster and Calhoun, was adopted by
Congress. It was known as the “omnibus bill.” It provided,
among other things, that California should be a
free State; that the slave trade should be abolished in
the District of Columbia, and that slaves escaping from
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span>
their owners, from one State into another, could be arrested
anywhere and returned to their owners. Article
four, section two of the Federal Constitution makes this
provision in the plainest of terms. It was similar to the
New England Fugitive Slave law of 1643 enacted by
Massachusetts, Connecticut, Plymouth and New Haven.
Mr. Webster in his great speech in Faneuil Hall in Boston,
in defense of his vote for the “omnibus bill,” read
the words of the Constitution and showed that the fugitive
slave section of the omnibus bill was almost a literal
reiteration of the constitutional provision.</p>
<p>The majority of the Northern States repudiated this
feature of the act of Congress and declared that it should
not be enforced. Here was the boldest nullification, the
most direct breaking up of the old Union. Here was the
arch rebellion of the century. The question was not
what should be done with the fugitive slaves, but whether
the Northern States would do what, in the Constitution,
they had agreed to do. The South waited for
the Northern States to revoke such a flagrant disregard
of their rights under the Constitution and such a bold repudiation
of the original terms of Union. Patriotic little
Rhode Island did rescind her action in the matter, but
she was alone. Most of the other States had become desperate
in their hostility to the South and, when the South,
seeing all hope of justice, all vestige of the old Union, all
prospect of peace, hopelessly gone, resorted to quiet,
peaceable withdrawal from these domineering States,
the resolution was formed and carried out by the party
in power, to subjugate the Southern States to the will of
the majority States, and keep them in what was called the
Union against their will.</p>
<p>The South in seceding made no threat, and contemplated
no attempt to invade a Northern State in pursuit
of slaves, but simply sought to sever all connection with
the States and people who were so determined to ignore
her rights, and who nullified their own plighted terms of
union. She did not secede in the interest of slavery nor
for the purpose of war. The Southern States seceded
to take care of the fragments of a broken Union.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span>
Slavery, it is true, was the occasion of the rupture.
Peaceable secession on the one hand and coercion on the
other was the issue of the war. Emancipation was
adopted as a war measure two years later by the Northern
administration and finally consummated in 1865 as a
punitive measure to further crush the conquered South.
Such was the public opinion at the time of the fall of Fort
Sumter that not a regiment could have been raised at the
North to invade Virginia if it had been distinctly called
out for the purpose of setting the negroes free. Fanatics
by the thousands made a demigod of the murderous John
Brown, but it was not fanatics who were in control at
Washington. It was the politicians, not working from
humanitarian sentiment, true or false, but impelled by a
determination to cripple the South and break up her controlling
influence in national politics,—a preeminence
which had existed from the first days of the government.
The politicians shrewdly employed the anti-slavery excitement
to gain power for themselves and especially to
aggravate the South into secession, and then, smothering
every whisper of war for the freedom of the negroes, they
raised the rallying cry of “Save the Union” and marshalled
the Northern hosts for subjugation. President
Davis justly said to a self-constituted umpire visiting him
in Richmond, “We are not fighting for slavery; we are
fighting for independence. The war will go on unless
you acknowledge our right to self-government.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='FRENZIED_FINANCE_AND_THE_WAR_OF_1861' id='FRENZIED_FINANCE_AND_THE_WAR_OF_1861'></a>
<h3>FRENZIED FINANCE AND THE WAR OF 1861</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Was the war between the States in 1861 a war in
behalf of slavery on the one side and freedom on the
other? Not at all. After all the noisy and fanatical agitation
on the subject, only a small minority of the Northern
people had expressed any desire to have the negroes
of the South emancipated at that time, and no State nor
people of the South had said that slavery should be perpetual.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span>
All the parties which in 1860 cast any electoral
votes distinctly disavowed any intention to interfere with
slavery where it existed. This was the declaration even
of the Republican party which was triumphant and was
now in power. Mr. Lincoln, the President-elect, repeatedly
declared that slavery was not to be disturbed in the
States, although he said the country could not remain
“half slave and half free.” Here, then, the North and
the South were thoroughly agreed that slavery within
the States should continue undisturbed. As to emancipation,
both sections of the country and all parties except
the ultra-Abolitionists were pro-slavery. The Abolitionists
admitted that under the Federal Constitution
there could be no power in the national government to
free the slaves. They cursed and burned the Constitution
as “a compact with the devil and a league with hell,”
and defiantly repudiated all laws which carried out its
provisions. Under the plea of what they called “higher
law,” they defied law. They were really anarchists.
The Free Soil party, which had assumed the name of
Republican for party purposes, secretly encouraged the
Abolitionists in their mad crusade and welcomed their
votes, but persistently disavowed their aims. All rational
men knew that the time had not come to turn loose
millions of half-civilized Africans in this country; while
many, North and South, deplored the existence of slavery
and would not advocate it in the abstract, yet they believed
that emancipation was not best for the negro and
would be accompanied by tremendous peril to the white
people. The truth is that the Abolitionists of the North
kept up such a blatant and fanatical agitation against the
South that it was out of the question, in the excitement of
the times, for conservative men, North or South, to think
or speak of such an alternative as the immediate freedom
of the negroes.</p>
<p>The Republican party, now the dominant party, and its
leader, Mr. Lincoln, stood against the immediate freedom
of the slaves. But this party had come into power
on two ground principles which made its triumph a direct
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span>
attack on the rights and interests of the Southern
States in the Territories.</p>
<p>It gloried in its free-soil doctrine, which was a declaration
that the Southern States should no longer enjoy
their share in the Territories of the government. It never
mounted the steed of abolitionism until 1862 when the
emancipation of the slaves was adopted as a war measure,
and was so declared by Mr. Lincoln himself. In defiance
of the decisions of the Supreme Court, the triumphant
party held that Congress should not allow the Southern
people the right to take their slave property, although
distinctly recognized as property by the Constitution, into
the Territories. The Northern legislatures deliberately
defied the Supreme Court and its people denounced it
and reiterated their free soil demand. Of course this
was a direct insult to the South and a public outlawry of
the South that no self-respecting people ought to submit
to. The Territories were common property to all the
States. The South held that while they were Territories
the Southern people had as much right to enter and enjoy
them as the people of the North, but the South was
always willing that the people of the Territory,
in organizing a State government, should decide
for themselves as a State whether it should be
admitted as a slave or free State. The new
party declared that under no circumstances should
another slave State be admitted. The territorial demands
of the new party had been endorsed by the
formal acts of a majority of Northern States in their
legislatures. The catch-word of the new party was “no
more extension of slavery.” The South had never
brought a slave into the country, and never did propose
to add another slave to it, but its rights in the common
property of the Union it could not surrender to the dictation
of the more numerous and populous Northern States.</p>
<p>Then what? Declare war? No. Simply fall back
on the right of original sovereignty, on their several Constitutional
rights, as the people of New England, when
they were in the minority, had threatened to do, and
withdraw from the Union with States who declared
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span>
so distinctly a purpose not to abide by the terms of
Union. Then came secession, the only peaceable remedy.
In it the South made no claim on territorial or other
property. In fact, it was a voluntary surrender of everything
not on its own soil to the remaining States. It was
old Abraham’s alternative to Lot. “Let there be no
strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my
herdsmen and thy herdsmen, for we be brethren. Is not
the whole land before thee? Separate thyself, I pray
thee, from me; If thou wilt take the left hand, then I will
go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then
I will go to the left.” Then why should there be war?
Indeed, why?</p>
<p>So natural and just was the step of secession that the
more enlightened and conscientious Abolitionists conceded
the right of South Carolina to withdraw from the
Union. Horace Greeley, the powerful editor of the
great Abolition organ, the New York <i>Tribune</i>, boldly
protested against any interference with her departure.
Wendell Phillips, the great lawyer and Abolition orator
of Boston, said in a public speech: “Deck her brow with
flowers, pave her way with gold, and let her go.” But
Greeley and Phillips were not the politicians nor the party
in control of the country. We have shown how the
Free Soil aim of the triumphant party led the Northern
States to adopt such a course as really to drive the Southern
States into secession. What was the main spring of
the Free Soil crusade? This brings us to tell in one
word what brought on the war. What was the ground
issue which held the Northern States so desperately on
their crusade against the South? It was the “tariff.”
New England ideas dominated the thought of the North
and Northwest, and it was always a ruling New England
idea to get all money possible from the government.
New England never lost sight of business, and especially
her own business interests. It was only by Virginia’s
surrender of her vast territories that New England could
be brought into the Union and it took subsidies, appropriations
for internal improvement, and fishing and tariff
bounties to keep her in it.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span></div>
<p>Very soon she set up a persistent demand for high duties
on imports to assist in building up her increasing
manufactures. The moderate protective tariffs of the
twenties, the tariff of Henry Clay, did not satisfy her.
Her cry up to the final passage of the trust-breeding
Dingley tariff bill of our day has been that of the horse
leech, “Give! give!” The Southern States were agricultural
and the prevailing doctrine as to tariff duties was
a “tariff for revenue only.” The old Southern Whigs,
like Clay, only favored a moderate protective tariff as a
compromise sop to New England in behalf of her infant
industries. But New England was not satisfied with the
tariff of the twenties. A little taste of incidental protection
had only increased her greed. In the thirties she
demanded more. The tariff of 1832 was enacted and
proved such a heavy tax on the consumers for the benefit
of the manufacturers that South Carolina took the bold
stand of nullification against it. By the combined efforts
of Clay and Calhoun a compromise was effected and the
tariff modified and the country saved. In 1846 the moderate
Walker tariff, the “free-trade tariff,” was adopted
and under it the people of all classes and all sections enjoyed
more general prosperity up to 1861 than the country
has ever before or since seen.</p>
<p>But New England “frenzied finance” was at work.
The taste for public pap had grown by what it fed on.
The “almighty dollar” idea in politics was sweeping the
North. The <i>auri sacra fames</i> had formed a league with
a fanatical sectional party. The seed sowing was over;
the harvest of financial politics had come. New England
must have a higher tariff and votes from agricultural
States meant more anti-tariff votes and the tariff advocates
decreed that there should be no slave States carved
out of the Territories. To secure this the Southern
people with their property must be excluded from the
occupancy of the Territorial soil. Frenzied finance
triumphed, and in the election of Mr. Lincoln the North
declared the national territory forbidden ground to the
South. Free soil exclusion from their property was
openly flaunted in the face of the slave States.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span></div>
<p>What could the Southern States do under such an insulting
ultimatum from the triumphant North? What
did they do? Why, they simply fell back on their original
right of State sovereignty and, as the North had already
broken the Union, peaceably seceded from it.</p>
<p>Then why not, as Greeley and Phillips and thousands
of Northern patriots urged, why not let these States go?
Frenzied Finance replied in the words of Mr. Lincoln,
“If we let the South go, where will we get our revenues?”
There it is. They were needed to furnish their cotton
and their trade to support the North. It was the frenzied
Pharoah of finance that refused to let tribute-paying,
brick-making Israel go. Hence the war of subjugation.</p>
<p>It is a grotesque and sad bit of history that while
patriots like Crittenden, of Kentucky, Bayard, of Delaware,
Black, of Pennsylvania and Seymour, of New
York, were anxiously trying to avert war and save the old
Union, while the whole world was watching with bated
breath the storm gathering around Fort Sumter, the
party of frenzied finance, now in control of Congress,
defiantly discarded all propositions of peace compromise
and concentrated all its mighty energies on the passage
of its darling Morrill Tariff Bill. The Morrill tariff
bill was enacted April 2, 1861. Fort Sumter fell April
14, 1861. There is the record of cold-blood-money worship.
It was not Nero “fiddling while Rome was burning”
but it was the legislators of the great American
Republic fiddling on a scheme for the financial gain of
private business while the glorious Union that we loved
and our fathers loved was falling to pieces! The laborer’s
groans, the widow’s sobs, the roar of cannon and the
crash of States could not drown the mad New England
cry for private subsidy from the public treasury.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_RIGHT_OF_SECESSION' id='THE_RIGHT_OF_SECESSION'></a>
<h3>THE RIGHT OF SECESSION</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 31, pages 87-88.]</p>
<p>It may not be amiss, however, to call attention to the
fact that the North already admits that the people of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span>
South were honest in their contentions, and that they at
least thought they were right. Furthermore, it is even
conceded that the South was not without great support
for its contentions from legal, moral and historical points
of view. For instance, Professor Goldwin, of Canada,
an Englishman, a distinguished historian, resident of
and sympathizing with the North during the civil war,
recently said:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Few who have looked into the history can doubt that the Union
originally was, and was generally taken by the parties to it to be, a
compact; dissoluble, perhaps most of them would have said, at
pleasure, dissoluble certainly on breach of the articles of Union.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>To the same effect, but in even stronger terms, are the
words of Mr. Henry Cabot Lodge, now a Senator from
Massachusetts, who said in one of his historic works:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>When the Constitution was adopted by the votes of States at
Philadelphia, and accepted by the votes of States in popular conventions,
it is safe to say that there was not a man in the country
from Washington and Hamilton on the one side to George Clinton
and George Mason on the other, who regarded the new system as
anything but an experiment entered upon by the States and from
which each and every State had the right peaceably to withdraw, a
right which was very likely to be exercised.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>As far back as 1887, General Thomas C. Ewing, of
Ohio, said in a speech in New York:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The North craves a living and lasting peace with the South; it
also asks no humiliating conditions; it recognizes the fact that the
proximate cause of the war was the constitutional question of the
right of secession—a question which, until it was settled by the war,
had neither a right side nor a wrong side to it. Our forefathers in
framing the Constitution purposely left the question unsettled; to
have settled it distinctly in the Constitution would have been to
prevent the formation of the Union of the thirteen States. They,
therefore, committed that question to the future, and the war came
on and settled it forever. And, right here, let me say that the South
has accepted that settlement in good faith, and will forever abide
by it as loyally as the North, although we will never admit that our
people were wrong in making the contest.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This question was calmly and logically discussed by
Mr. Charles Francis Adams in a late speech delivered in
Charleston, S. C., when he said:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>When the Federal Constitution was framed and adopted, “an indestructible
union of imperishable States,” what was the law of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span>
treason, to what or to whom in case of final issue did the average
citizen own allegiance? Was it to the Union or to his State? As a
practical question, seeing things as they were then—sweeping aside
all incontrovertible legal arguments and metaphysical disquisitions—I
do not think the answer admits of doubt. If put in 1788, or indeed
at any time anterior to 1825, the immediate reply of nine men out of
ten in the Northern States, and ninety-nine out of a hundred in the
Southern States, would have been that, as between the Union and
the State, ultimate allegiance was due to the State.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_CAUSE_NOT_LOST' id='THE_CAUSE_NOT_LOST'></a>
<h3>THE CAUSE NOT LOST</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Memorial Day, pages 30-31.]</p>
<p>A few weeks ago Dr. E. Benjamin Andrews, president
of Brown University, a leading institution of learning in
a New England State, in a lecture delivered in the city
of New Orleans upon the life and character of the General
of the Confederate armies, uttered this language:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>People are prone to allude to all Lee fought for as the “Lost
Cause.” Yet, like Oliver Cromwell, Lee has accomplished what he
fought for, and more than could have been accomplished had he
been victorious. At the close of the war we find the Supreme Court
of the United States deciding the status of individual States, and
the result is found to be that while the Union is declared to be indestructible,
each State is regarded as an indestructible unit of that
nation. Who would dare to wipe out to-day a State’s individuality?
And do we not find to-day, instead of centralized power in Congress
adjudicating things pertaining to the States, the States themselves
settling these matters?</p>
<p>Inasmuch as the war brought out these utterances with regard
to the States of the Union upon matters then in question, who can
say that Lee fought in vain?</p>
</blockquote>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SLAVERY_AS_THE_SOUTH_SAW_IT' id='SLAVERY_AS_THE_SOUTH_SAW_IT'></a>
<h3>SLAVERY AS THE SOUTH SAW IT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Vice-President Alexander H. Stephens, in War Between the States, page 539.]</p>
<p>The matter of slavery, so called, which was the proximate
cause of these irregular movements on both sides,
and which ended in the general collision of war, was of
infinitely less importance to the seceding States than the
recognition of the great principles of constitutional liberty.
There was with us no such thing as slavery in the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span>
true and proper sense of that word. No people ever
lived more devoted to the principles of liberty, secured
by free democratic institutions, than were the people of
the South. None had ever given stronger proofs of this
than they had done. What was called slavery amongst
us was but a legal subordination of the African to the
Caucasian race. This relation was so regulated by law
as to promote, according to the intent and design of the
system, the best interests of both races, the black as well
as the white, the inferior as well as the superior. Both
had rights secured and both had duties imposed. It was
a system of reciprocal service and mutual bonds. But
even the two thousand million dollars invested in the
relations thus established between private capital and the
labor of this class of population under system, was but
the dust in the balance compared with the vital attributes
of the rights of independence and sovereignty on the
part of the several States.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='VINDICATION_OF_SOUTHERN_CAUSE' id='VINDICATION_OF_SOUTHERN_CAUSE'></a>
<h3>VINDICATION OF SOUTHERN CAUSE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, pages 332-336.]</p>
<p>Mr. Percy Greg, the justly famous English historian,
says: “If the Colonies were entitled to judge their own
cause, much more were the Southern States. Their
rights—not implied, assumed, or traditional, like those
of the Colonies, but expressly defined and solemnly
guaranteed by law—had been flagrantly violated; the
compact which alone bound them, had beyond question
been systematically broken for more than forty years
by the States which appealed to it.”</p>
<p>After showing the perfect regularity and legality of
the secession movement, he then says: “It was in defence
of this that the people of the South sprang to arms
‘to defend their homes and families, their property and
their rights, the honor and independence of their States
to the last, against five fold numbers and resources a hundred
fold greater than theirs.’”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span></div>
<p>He says of the cause of the North: “The cause seems
to me as bad as it well could be—the determination of a
mere numerical majority to enforce a bond, which they
themselves had flagrantly violated, to impose their own
mere arbitrary will, their idea of national greatness, upon
a distinct, independent, determined, and almost unanimous
people.”</p>
<p>And then he says as Lord Russell did: “The North
fought for empire which was not and never had been
hers; the South for an independence she had won by
the sword, and had enjoyed in law and fact ever since
the recognition of the thirteen sovereign and independent
States, if not since the foundation of Virginia. Slavery
was but the occasion of the rupture, in no sense the object
of the war.”</p>
<p>Let me add a statement which will be confirmed by
every veteran before me—no man ever saw a Virginia
soldier who was fighting for slavery.</p>
<p>This letter then speaks of the conduct of the Northern
people as “unjust, aggressive, contemptuous of law and
right,” and as presenting a striking contrast to the
“boundless devotion, uncalculating sacrifice, magnificent
heroism, and unrivalled endurance of the Southern
people.”</p>
<p>But I must pass on to what a distinguished Northern
writer has to say of the people of the South, and their
cause, twenty-one years after the close of the war. The
writer is Benjamin J. Williams, Esq., of Lowell, Mass.,
and the occasion which brought forth this paper (addressed
to the Lowell <i>Sun</i>) was the demonstration to President
Davis when he went to assist in the dedication of
a Confederate monument at Montgomery, Ala. He says
of Mr. Davis:</p>
<p>“Everywhere he receives from the people the most
overwhelming manifestations of heartfelt affection, devotion,
and reverence, exceeding even any of which
he was the recipient in the time of its power; such manifestations
as no existing ruler in the world can obtain
from his people, and such as probably were never given
before to a public man, old, out of office, with no favors
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span>
to dispense, and disfranchised. Such homage is significant;
it is startling. It is given, as Mr. Davis himself
has recognized, not to him alone, but to the cause whose
chief representative he is, and it is useless to attempt to
deny, disguise, or evade the conclusion that there must
be something great and noble and true in him and in the
cause to evoke this homage.”</p>
<p>Mr. Davis, in his speech on the occasion referred to,
alluded to the fact that the monument then being erected
was to commemorate the deeds of those “who gave their
lives a free-will offering in defence of the rights of their
sires, won in the war of the Revolution, the State sovereignty,
freedom and independence which were left to us
as an inheritance to their posterity forever.”</p>
<p>Mr. Williams says of this definition: “These masterful
words, ‘the rights of their sires, won in the war of the
Revolution, the State sovereignty, freedom and independence
which were left to us an inheritance to their posterity
forever,’ are the whole case, and they are not only
a statement but a complete justification of the Confederate
cause to all who are acquainted with the origin and character
of the American Union.”</p>
<p>He then proceeds to tell how the Constitution was
adopted and the government formed by the individual
States, each acting for itself, separately and independently
of the others, and then says:</p>
<p>“It appears, then, from this view of the origin and
character of the American Union, that when the Southern
States, deeming the constitutional compact broken, and
their own safety and happiness in imminent danger in the
Union, withdrew therefrom and organized their new Confederacy,
they but asserted, in the language of Mr. Davis,
the rights of their sires, won in the war of the Revolution,
the State sovereignty, freedom, and independence, which
were left to us as an inheritance to their posterity forever,’
and it was in defence of this high and sacred cause that
the Confederate soldiers sacrificed their lives. There was
no need of war. The action of the Southern States was
legal and constitutional, and history will attest that it
was reluctantly taken in the extremity.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span></div>
<p>He now goes on to show how Mr. Lincoln precipitated
the war, and describes the unequal struggle in which the
South was engaged in these words: “After a glorious
four years’ struggle against such odds as have been depicted,
during which independence was often almost secured,
where successive levies of armies, amounting in all
to nearly three millions of men, had been hurled against
her, the South, shut off from all the world, wasted, rent,
and desolate, bruised and bleeding, was at last overpowered
by main strength; out-fought, never; for from
first to last, she everywhere out-fought the foe. The Confederacy
fell, but she fell not until she had achieved immortal
fame. Few great established nations in all time
have ever exhibited capacity and direction in government
equal to hers, sustained as she was by the iron will and
fixed persistence of the extraordinary man who was her
chief; and few have ever won such a series of brilliant
victories as that which illuminates forever the annals of
her splendid armies, while the fortitude and patience of
her people, and particularly of her noble women, under
almost incredible trials and sufferings, have never been
surpassed in the history of the world.”</p>
<p>And then he adds: “Such exalted character and
achievement are not all in vain. Though the Confederacy
fell, as an actual physical power, she lives, illustrated
by them, eternally in her just cause—the cause of
constitutional liberty.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='NORTHERN_VIEW_OF_SECESSION' id='NORTHERN_VIEW_OF_SECESSION'></a>
<h3>NORTHERN VIEW OF SECESSION</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Charles L. C. Minor’s Real Lincoln.]</p>
<p>W. H. Russell, the famous correspondent of the <i>London
Times</i>, in his diary (page 13) quotes Bancroft, the
historian, afterwards Minister to England, for the opinion,
in 1860, that the United States had no authority to
coerce the people of the South; and Russell reports the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span>
same opinion prevailing in March, 1861, in New York
and in Washington.</p>
<p>The life of Charles Francis Adams, Lincoln’s Minister
to England, says that up to the very day of the firing on
the flag the attitude of the Northern States, even in case
of hostilities, was open to grave question, while that of
the border States did not admit of a doubt; that Mr.
Seward, the member of the President’s Cabinet, repudiated
not only the right but the wish even to use armed
force in subjugating the Southern States.</p>
<p>Morse’s Lincoln (Volume I, page 131) makes the following
remarkable statement: “Greeley and Seward and
Wendell Phillips, representative men, were little better
than secessionists. The statement sounds ridiculous, yet
the proof against each one comes from his own mouth.
The <i>Tribune</i> had retracted none of these disunion sentiments
of which examples have been given.”</p>
<p>Even so late as April 10, 1861, Seward wrote officially
to Charles Francis Adams, Minister to England:</p>
<p>“Only an imperial and despotic government could subjugate
thoroughly disaffected and insurrectionary members
of the State.”</p>
<p>On April 9th, the rumor of a fight at Sumter being
spread abroad, Wendell Phillips said:</p>
<p>“Here are a series of States girding the gulf who think
that their peculiar institutions require that they should
have a separate government; they have a right to decide
the question without appealing to you and to me. * * *
Standing with the principles of ’76 behind us, who
can deny them that right?”</p>
<p>Woodrow Wilson’s Division and Reunion says (page
214) that President Buchanan agreed with the Attorney
General (Hon. Jere Black, of Pennsylvania) that there
was no constitutional means for coercing a State (as his
last message shows beyond a doubt) and adds that such
for the time seemed to be the general opinion of the country.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='MAJOR_J_SCHEIBERT_OF_THE_PRUSSIAN_ARMY_ON_CONFEDER' id='MAJOR_J_SCHEIBERT_OF_THE_PRUSSIAN_ARMY_ON_CONFEDER'></a>
<h3>MAJOR J. SCHEIBERT (OF THE PRUSSIAN ARMY) ON CONFEDERATE HISTORY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 18, pages 425-428.]</p>
<h4><i>Tariff</i></h4>
<p>Besides the differences of race and religion, nature
itself, through the varied geographical position of the
States, had created relations of varied character that not
only must conflict ensue, but the least law affecting the
whole Union often aroused diametrically and sharply
opposed interests; the consequences of which were to
embitter sectional opinions to an intolerable degree.</p>
<p>When the North demanded tariff protection for their
industries as against European competition, the Southern
States insisted upon free trade, so as not to be compelled
to buy costly products of the North. The New England
States strove for concentration of power in the national
government; the Southerners believed that the independence
of the individual States must be maintained, and
when the Southerners demanded protection for their
labor, which was performed by imported negroes, the
North answered with evasion of the laws, while, in direct
opposition to these laws, it denied to the master the right
to his escaped negroes. From any point of view, there
existed, and exist to-day, interests almost irreconcilably
opposed, which make it difficult for the most earnest
student of American affairs to find a clew in such a
tangled labyrinth. The difficulty in the present undertaking
is to make good the fact that the so-called Confederates,
who have been by almost all the German
writers represented as “Rebels,” stood firm upon a
ground of right of law.</p>
<p>If the central government at Washington was the sovereign
power, then the (Southern) States were in the
wrong, and their citizens were simply rebels. If, on
the other hand, the individual States were separate and
sovereign political bodies, then their secession, independent
of consideration of expediency or selfishness, was a
politically justifiable withdrawal from a previous limited
alliance; and in this case it was the duty of citizens of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span>
the States to go with their States. As a proper consequence
of these different views, the Federals considered
as a traitor every citizen who opposed the central government,
however his individual State may have determined;
while the Confederates, after the declaration of war on
the part of the Union, looked on the Federalists indeed
as enemies, but considered as traitors only those citizens
who, in opposition to the vote of their States, yet adhered
to the Union. * * * * Instead of inquiring into
emotion and sympathies, the question is an historical one
as to the origin of the Union; that is, to seek in the
founding of the United States in what relation,—at that
time, the States stood to the central government, the mode
of their covenant, and how the relation of the several
States to the common union was developed. The colonies,
therefore, united not because the citizens in general
were oppressed by the British Government, but because
one colony felt, whether rightly or not, that it was oppressed
and insulted as an independent political body.
In the first movement of independence was exhibited
clearly the consciousness that the colonies felt themselves
separate political bodies. Even at that time the assembly
of delegates designated itself “as a congress of twelve
independent political bodies,” and in the Union each of
the colonies issued its separate declaration. When the
delegates of the thirteen colonies met in their first Congress
the first permanent Union was founded; which was
ratified by each colony as a separate body, as one by one
they entered the Union.</p>
<h4><i>Slavery</i></h4>
<p>With the question as to the origin of the war, the
enemies of the South have mingled another—the slavery
question—which strictly does not belong to it. This
slavery question was inscribed on the banners of the war
when it was seen that thereby could be enlisted on the
side of the North the sympathies of the old world, and of
a great part of their own inhabitants, especially of the
German immigrants. This question could never legally
be the cause of the war, for the Constitution expressly
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span>
says that the question of slavery should be regulated by
the State legislatures. * * * * At the time of the
founding of the Union, eleven of the thirteen States were
slave-holding, and it is a remarkable fact that it then
occurred to no writer nor humanitarian in America or
Europe even to think that this ownership (of slaves) was
a wrong or a crime. It is enough to say that the institution
was accepted not only as a matter of course, but
that it was also especially protected, the farming interest
being granted an increased suffrage in proportion to the
number of negroes on their plantations. * * * * *
Even in the last days, before the outbreak of war, when
the press and demagogues raised the slavery question in
order to inflame the masses, the statesman (of the North)
carefully avoided such a blunder, since the slavery question
was not the ground of the war, and could not be proclaimed
as such.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span>
<a name='CHAPTER_VI_MATER_REDIVIVA' id='CHAPTER_VI_MATER_REDIVIVA'></a>
<h2>CHAPTER VI
<span class='chsub'> <br />MATER REDIVIVA</span></h2>
</div>
<div class='chsp' style='padding-top:0'>
<a name='INTRODUCTORY_NOTE' id='INTRODUCTORY_NOTE'></a>
<h3>INTRODUCTORY NOTE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>For twenty years after the close of the war most of
the Southern States, through the bayonet-enforced
amendments to the Constitution and the carpet-bag negro
governments established under them, were kept under
military rule. The men met the awful responsibility and
their hideous trials with an amazing courage and sought
to counteract, in every possible way, the work of Congress
at Washington and the work of the Union Leagues and
other secret societies among the negroes at home, and to
build up the South in spite of the demoralization of labor.
The Ku Klux Klan, a secret vigilance committee, did
much good in terrifying the carpet-bag deposits and
breaking up the secret armed midnight meetings of the
negroes. Rowdy imitators of the Ku Klux afterwards
in many instances did much harm.</p>
<p>But the women kept on at work. They have never
faltered, and never shown any weariness. Thousands
left penniless who were once wealthy, took up whatever
work came to hand. The writer knew the daughter-in-law
of a wealthy Congressman and the daughter of a
governor of two States to plow her own garden with a
mule. He saw all over the country the members of the
oldest and wealthiest families of the Atlantic coast teaching
school, even far in the west. Not a murmur escaped
their lips. They cheered each other as they strengthened
the nerves of the men.</p>
<p>But they kept up their work for the Confederate
soldiers, and keep it up to this day. Soldiers’ graves were
everywhere looked after. Memorial associations were
organized all over the South. The two great societies
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272' name='page_272'></a>272</span>
of Richmond, the Hollywood and the Oakwood, each
looking after thousands of graves, the names of whose
occupants are unknown, are doing the most sublime work
the world ever saw. The Southern women soon extended
their efforts to building Confederate monuments all
over the South, providing soldiers’ homes in the various
States and securing what pensions the Southern States
could afford. As long as they live they work for the
cause they loved; when they die their spirit lives on in
their worthy daughters.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_EMPTY_SLEEVE' id='THE_EMPTY_SLEEVE'></a>
<h3>THE EMPTY SLEEVE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By Dr. G. W. Bagby.]</p>
<p class='center'>[In Living Writers of the South, pages 28-29.]</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see</p>
<p class='indent2'>That sleeve hanging loose at your side.</p>
<p>The arm you lost was worth to me</p>
<p class='indent2'>Every Yankee that ever died.</p>
<p>But you don’t mind it at all.</p>
<p class='indent2'>You swear you’ve a beautiful stump,</p>
<p>And laugh at the damnable ball.</p>
<p class='indent2'>Tom, I knew you were always a trump!</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>A good right arm, a nervy hand,</p>
<p class='indent2'>A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,</p>
<p>Buried deep in the Malvern sand—</p>
<p class='indent2'>To laugh at that is a sorry joke.</p>
<p>Never again your iron grip</p>
<p class='indent2'>Shall I feel in my shrinking palm.</p>
<p>Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip.</p>
<p class='indent2'>How on earth can I be calm?</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>Well! the arm is gone, it is true;</p>
<p class='indent2'>But the one nearest the heart</p>
<p>Is left, and that’s as good as two.</p>
<p class='indent2'>Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?</p>
<p>Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve</p>
<p class='indent2'>A badge of honor; so do I</p>
<p>And all of us,—I do believe</p>
<p class='indent2'>The fellow is going to cry.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>“She deserves a perfect man,” you say.</p>
<p class='indent2'>You, “not worth her in your prime.”</p>
<p>Tom, the arm that has turned to clay</p>
<p class='indent2'>Your whole body has made sublime;</p>
<p>For you have placed in the Malvern earth</p>
<p class='indent2'>The proof and the pledge of a noble life,</p>
<p>And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Will be dearer than all to your wife.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>I see the people in the street</p>
<p class='indent2'>Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;</p>
<p>And know you, Tom, there’s nought so sweet,</p>
<p class='indent2'>As homage shown in mute surmise.</p>
<p>Bravely your arm in battle strove,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Freely for freedom’s sake you gave it;</p>
<p>It has perished, but a nation’s love</p>
<p class='indent2'>In proud remembrance will save it.</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span></p>
<p>As I look through the coming years,</p>
<p class='indent2'>I see a one-armed married man;</p>
<p>A little woman, with smiles and tears,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Is helping as hard as she can</p>
<p>To put on his coat, and pin his sleeve,</p>
<p class='indent2'>Tie his cravat, and cut his food,</p>
<p>And I say, as these fancies I weave,</p>
<p class='indent2'>“That is Tom, and the woman he wooed.”</p>
</div><div class='stanza'>
<p>The years roll on, and then I see</p>
<p class='indent2'>A wedding picture, bright and fair;</p>
<p>I look closer, and it’s plain to me</p>
<p class='indent2'>That is Tom, with the silver hair.</p>
<p>He gives away the lovely bride,</p>
<p class='indent2'>And the guests linger, loth to leave</p>
<p>The house of him in whom they pride,—</p>
<p class='indent2'>Brave Tom, old Tom, with the empty sleeve.</p>
</div></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_OLD_HOOPSKIRT' id='THE_OLD_HOOPSKIRT'></a>
<h3>THE OLD HOOPSKIRT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The only ante-bellum property which Sherman and
Thad Stevens left the Confederate woman was her old
hoopskirt. They could neither confiscate nor burn, nor
set this free. Like slavery, it was so closely connected
with her life that it cannot be ignored in her history.</p>
<p>The Southern woman always kept well up with the
latest fashions in dress. In the fifties the modistes of
Paris, whose word, however absurd, was law to the
women of the civilized world, sent out the famous hoopskirt.
It was not an article of dress, but a mere contrivance
for sustaining and exhibiting the clothes that
were worn over it. It was made of a succession of small
but strong steel wires bent into circles and fastened to
each other by cross bars of tape. The lower hoop was
usually from four to eight feet in diameter, according
to taste, and the top one but little larger than the woman’s
waist, from which the whole net-work was hung. It held
whatever clothes were put over it in the shape of a church
bell or a horizontal section of a balloon.</p>
<p>Like all new fashions, some carried this one to grotesque
extremes. One of the bon-ton set of Columbia,
S. C., in 1858 was the remarkably beautiful and charming
Mrs. ——, the wife of one of the professors in
South Carolina College. It is a fact that, on average
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274' name='page_274'></a>274</span>
sidewalks in that beautiful city, wherever she was met by
gentlemen they had to step into the street and give the
whole pavement to her tremendous skirt. Most of our
Southern beauties were more merciful.</p>
<p>When the hoopskirt first came, it looked as if Paris
had sent out the greatest of all the absurdities. The men
laughed, the boys jeered, and the newspapers poured out
invectives against the monster. The country preachers
anathematized it and urged its excommunication from
the church. But the hoopskirt came to stay. <i>Veni, vidi,
vici.</i> It whipped the fight, and when the war between
the States came on it was in control of the Southern female
wardrobe. It enlisted for “three years or the war.”
It clung to our mothers like Ruth to Naomi. “Entreat
me not to leave thee, or to return from following after
thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou
lodgest I will lodge.” It proved a godsend on account
of the Federal blockade of the ports. Articles of clothing
soon became scarce, and when the silks had all gone into
flags and the gingham into shirts for the soldiers, with a
dainty homespun skirt stretched over the hoopskirt, our
mothers looked like they were dressed whether they were
or not.</p>
<p>It was a good umbrella as far as it went and it was
a special convenience to the refugee women who had to
camp in the woods. At night a short pole was set in the
ground with a short horizontal cross piece tacked across
its top. Over this was stretched the hoopskirt and over
it a sheet, and, behold a beautiful, cozy Sibley tent for
two or three children to sleep under. It was our mother’s
faithful friend and companion to the end of the war.
Like the old soldier’s sword it came out very much battered
and worn by long service. Like the old soldier
himself, it had been wounded and broken and mended and
spliced until it was hardly its former self. In their
fatigue outfit our mothers laid aside the hoopskirt and
tucked up what was left. But on dress parade, in meeting,
company, and attending church it was her constant
friend and companion. The South embalms in its memories
the deeds of its men and the toil of its women.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span>
Father’s old sword and John’s gray jacket are sacred
heirlooms. So are the old spinning wheel and hand loom,</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“And e’en the old hoopskirt which hung on the wall,</p>
<p class='indent4'>The old hoopskirt</p>
<p class='indent4'>The steel-ribbed shirt,</p>
<p>The old hoopskirt which hung on the wall.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>One thing in the management of the hoopskirt the men
never could understand. How in the world could all
those steel wires be bundled and controlled when a woman
rode horseback or had to be packed in a buggy or carriage?</p>
<p>It was always a like wonder how the women could
dance so nimbly and gracefully with long trains and
never get tripped or tangled in them. Our women managed
the trains and the hoopskirts just as tactfully and
thoroughly and gracefully as they did their hard-headed
husbands and silly sweethearts. How they did it nobody
can tell, but they did it.</p>
<p>About the very last days of the war one of these old
hoopskirts played a conspicuous part in a tragedy in the
suburbs of Camilla, then a very small village, the county
seat of Mitchell County, Ga. A farmer by the name of
Taylor lived near the Hoggard Swamp. He had a friend
living in the town by the name of O’Brien. Both of them
often visited a very thrifty widow by the name of Woolley.
On her disappearance Taylor had put out the report
that she had moved back to South Carolina, but the truth
was he had murdered her for her money and buried her
body under some peach trees near the swamp. No suspicion
was aroused until Taylor returned from a trip to
Albany without O’Brien, who had gone off with him, and
a report came down from Albany that O’Brien’s dead body
had been found near there in the woods. Then suspicion
put in its work. Murder was in the air, but nowhere else
as yet. People held their breath. Some women late one
afternoon happened to pass the peach trees mentioned and
noticed the suspicious looking fresh soil under them. As
soon as they reached home they reported the circumstance
and a party was soon made up to go that night and make
an examination. The women guided them to the spot.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span>
They were afraid to make a bright fire and they used
only a dim light by burning corn cobs. Their blood ran
cold when in a very few moments they were satisfied that
they were digging into the poor woman’s grave. Suddenly
on the quick removal of a shovel or two more of
dirt, up flew a woman’s dress and white underclothing
pretty high in the air. Then there was a stampede for
life. Terror seized the men’s very bones. After a while
they mustered courage enough to return and find that the
woman was dead and her hoopskirt had been weighted
down by the soil and as soon as this was sufficiently removed,
it flew up with all its fearful elasticity. There
was life in it even in the grave. Taylor was tried, convicted,
and hung.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_POLITICAL_CRIMES_OF_THE_NINETEENTH_CENTURY' id='THE_POLITICAL_CRIMES_OF_THE_NINETEENTH_CENTURY'></a>
<h3>THE POLITICAL CRIMES OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[By J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The first of the great crimes of the last century was
the great rebellion of the Northern States against the
Federal constitutional Union, “the best government the
world ever saw.” Nine of these States in solemn legislative
action, in the fifties, utterly repudiated their contract
in the Federal Constitution. They nullified the acts
of Congress and repudiated and defied the decisions of
the Supreme Court.</p>
<p>This rebellion at the North broke up “the glorious
Union of our fathers,” and drove the South, like poor
Hagar, into the wilderness to look out for herself, without
a charge from any quarter that a Southern State had
committed one single act in violation of Federal law or
in hostility to the Constitution. Then came the second
great crime, the crime so vigorously denounced at the
time by William Lloyd Garrison, the most consistent and
the most heroic of the Northern Abolitionists, Horace
Greeley and Wendell Phillips, the crime of coercion of the
weaker by the stronger States, the military invasion of
the South under the prostituted flag of the Union, and
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span>
the final subjugation of her people by fire and sword.
<i>O tempora! O mores!</i></p>
<p>The acts of congress for years after the Southern army
had honorably laid down its arms and gone home to plow
and plant the fields make the blackest pages in the history
of modern times. The writer dreads to put in print his
estimate of such a political monster as Thad Stevens, the
misanthropic genius of reconstruction, the Robespierre of
America. Robespierre’s guillotine cut off the heads of
its victims. Thad Stevens’s guillotine cut off all hopes
from Southern hearts. He avowed it his purpose to exterminate
the Southern white people, to confiscate their
property into the hands of the negroes, and with these
negroes to keep the country forever under the dominion
of his party. According to him and his followers to this
day this party of (so-called) high moral ideas must
be kept in power no matter what crimes are committed in
securing the ascendency. This is political Jesuitism run
mad.</p>
<p>The saddest, strangest part of the history is that it was
twenty years before the Northern people came to their
reason and put a check on this ruinous fratricidal policy.
If the writer shall go to his grave with a holy horror of
the bald malignity, the reckless folly, the cowardly spite,
the sweeping curse of the reconstruction measures of
Thad. Stevens and his Congress, he will find himself in
good company. He once heard the great and good Dr.
John A. Broadus, of the Southern Baptist Theological
Seminary, say, “I can easily forgive and forget the war.
It was war, and all the wrongs done in it died away with
the cannon’s roar. But I find it so hard to forgive the
excuseless wrongs done to the Southern people since the
war.”</p>
<p>Dr. Broadus was a Southern man, but Rev. Dr. H. M.
Field, the fair-minded and patriotic author of “Bright
Skies and Dark Shadows,” is not a Southern man. Hear
what he says in his book:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>In South Carolina and the Gulf States negro government had
a clean sweep, and if we are to believe the records of the times, it
was a period of corruption such as had never been known in the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span>
history of the country. The blacks having nothing to lose, were
ready to vote to impose any tax, or to issue any bonds of town,
country or State provided they had a share in the booty; and this
negro government manipulated by the carpet baggers, ran riot over
the South. It was chaos come again. The former masters were
governed by their servants, while the latter were governed by a set
of adventurers and plunderers. The history of these days is one
which we cannot recall without indignation and shame. After a
time the moral sense of the North was so shocked by their performances
that a Republican administration had to withdraw its proconsuls,
when things resumed their former condition and the management
of affairs came back into the old hands.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>These national crimes which so woefully afflicted the
people of the South after peace was made were:</p>
<p>1. The refusal to carry out Mr. Lincoln’s cherished
plan of reconstruction by immediate readmission of seceding
States after an orderly and legal abolition of
slavery.</p>
<p>2. The sudden emancipation of millions of African
slaves. Gradual emancipation would have been so much
better for their interests and for the welfare of the country.</p>
<p>3. The conferring of civil rights so early upon the
freedmen. If they had not been made citizens they could
have been colonized in due time and provided for, as the
Indians have been, with land and homes.</p>
<p>4. Enfranchisement of these grossly ignorant Africans.</p>
<p>5. Disfranchisement of the best people of the South.</p>
<p>6. Arming the blacks and disarming the white people.</p>
<p>7. The un-American crime of uniting church and state
and the employment of a religious society to carry out
directly the schemes of a political faction. Jesus Christ
never authorized any such work. He never gave the
least authorization of any church machinery through
which such a union could be effected. God wants the
good lives of men, and not compact and imposing church
organizations. They can be so easily perverted to unholy
purposes and made so effective in destroying human
liberty and crushing human rights. The union of church
and state was the curse of the middle ages and the blight
of modern Europe.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span></div>
<p>It was an ominous day for America and a woeful day
for the South, when, upon the enfranchisement of the
negroes, the politicians in power and the fanatical Northern
Methodist Episcopal Church organized and transplanted
in the South the African Methodist Episcopal
Church and employed it directly in manipulating the votes
of the ignorant negroes. The great iron wheel controlling
the whole machine was put into the hands of a political
boss committee in Washington. Just within this
was the wheel turned by an absolute bishop in each State.
The most malignant of all the Southern negro politicians,
Bishop H. M. Turner, had the control of the Georgia
wheel and turns it to this day. Then came the smaller
wheels, turned by the presiding elder in each Congressional
district, enclosing the little wheels in the hands of
the preachers and circuit riders and stewards. The ignorant
negroes were wound tightly by the ropes into
a solid mass, and voted like slaves by the officers of the
new imported Northern church and the strikers of the
Union League. It was enough to make a patriot despair
of the country and a Christian to despair of religion
to witness these scenes. It made the white people of
the South get together in self-defence. It inevitably set
race against race in politics. This slimy trail of this
union of church and state has done sad work for the
South and dangerous work for the whole country. The
church iron wheel organized a solid mass of ignorant
negro voters on one side of the Southern ballot box.
This necessitated a “solid South” of white voters on the
other side.</p>
<p>8. Demoralizing the negroes for generations by making
them believe themselves to be special wards of the
nation and holding out to them the delusive promise of
“forty acres and a mule” as a pension for slavery and a
reward for party loyalty.</p>
<p>9. Taking away by act of Congress, without a dollar
of compensation, the slave property of orphans, widows
and Union men, the property recognized by the Constitution
of the government.</p>
<p>10. By force of bayonets keeping in the Southern high
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span>
places of power the carpet-bag adventurer from the North
and the irresponsible, unprincipled scalawag who had for
the sake of office turned his back upon his native South.</p>
<p>11. Unlawful confiscation of Southern lands, much of
it belonging to orphans and widows.</p>
<p>12. Enormous and unjust tax on cotton, at that time
the only marketable product of the Southern farms.</p>
<p>These were the woes which the “Reconstruction” measures
of the Federal Congress made for our Southern people,
a burden mountain-high, Ossa on Pelion, Pelion upon
Ossa. But grimly, patiently, bravely did our men bear
up under it. Political crimes always hurt the women
more than the men. Our women stood by and cheered
and comforted and helped as only such women can help
through all the toil, the gloom and wrongs of those dark
days. God bless their memories!</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='BRAVE_TO_THE_LAST' id='BRAVE_TO_THE_LAST'></a>
<h3>BRAVE TO THE LAST</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Eggleston’s Recollections, pages 73-76.]</p>
<p>But if the cheerfulness of the women during the war
was remarkable, what shall we say of the way in which
they met its final failure and the poverty that came with
it? The end of the war completed the ruin which its
progress had wrought. Women who had always lived
in luxury, and whose labors and sufferings during the
war were lightened by the consciousness that in suffering
and laboring they were doing their part toward the accomplishment
of the end upon which all hearts were set,
were now compelled to face not temporary but permanent
poverty, and to endure, without a motive or a sustaining
purpose, still sorer privations than they had known in
the past. The country was exhausted, and nobody could
foresee any future but one of abject wretchedness.
Everybody was poor except the speculators who had fattened
upon the necessities of the women and children, and
so poverty was essential to anything like good repute.
The return of the soldiers made some sort of social festivity
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span>
necessary, and “starvation parties” were given, at
which it was understood that the givers were wholly unable
to set out refreshments of any kind. In the matter
of dress, too, the general poverty was recognized, and
every one went clad in whatever he or she happened to
have. The want of means became a jest, and nobody
mourned over it; while all were laboring to repair their
wasted fortunes as they best could. And all this was due
solely to the unconquerable cheerfulness of the Southern
women. The men came home moody, worn out, discouraged,
and but for the influence of woman’s cheerfulness
the Southern States might have fallen into a lethargy
from which they could not have recovered for generations.
Such prosperity as they have since achieved is
largely due to the courage and spirit of their noble
women.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SALLIE_DURHAM' id='SALLIE_DURHAM'></a>
<h3>SALLIE DURHAM</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[From Life In Dixie, pages 304-308, by Mary A. H. Gay.]</p>
<p>Dr. Durham came to Decatur, Ga., in 1859. Well do
I remember the children—two handsome sons, John and
William—two pretty brown-eyed girls, Sarah and Catherine.</p>
<p>The Durham residence, which was on Sycamore
Street, then stood just eastward of where Colonel G. W.
Scott now lives. The rear of the house faced the site
where the depot had been before it was burned by the
Federals, the distance being about 350 yards. Hearing
an incoming train, Sallie went to the dining-room window
to look at the cars, as she had learned in some way
that they contained Federal troops. While standing at
the window, resting against the sash, she was struck by a
bullet fired from the train. It was afterwards learned
that the cars were filled with negro troops on their way
to Savannah, who were firing off their guns in a random,
reckless manner. The ball entered the left breast of this
dear young girl, ranging obliquely downward, coming
out just below the waist, and lodging in the door of a
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span>
safe, or cupboard, which stood on the opposite side of
the room. This old safe, with the mark of the ball, is
still in the village. The wounded girl fell, striking her
head against the dining table, but arose, and, walking up
a long hall, she threw open the door of her father’s room,
calling to him in a voice of distress.</p>
<p>Springing from the bed, he said: “What is it, my
child?”</p>
<p>“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, “the Yankees have
killed me!”</p>
<p>Every physician in the village and city and her father’s
three brothers were summoned, but nothing could be done
except to alleviate her sufferings. She could only lie on
her right side, with her left arm in a sling suspended from
the ceiling. Every attention was given by relatives and
friends. Her grandmother Durham came and brought
with her the old family nurse. Sallie’s schoolmates and
friends were untiring in their attentions.</p>
<p>During the week that her life slowly ebbed away, there
was another who ever lingered near her, a sleepless and
tireless watcher, a young man of a well known family, to
whom this sweet young girl was engaged to be married.
Sallie was shot on Friday at 7.30 A. M., and died
the following Friday at 3.30 A. M. General Stephenson
was in command of the Federal post at Atlanta. He was
notified of this tragedy, and sent an officer to investigate.
This officer refused to take anybody’s word that Sallie
had been shot by a United States soldier from the train;
but, dressed in full uniform, with spur and sabre rattling
upon the bare floor, he advanced to the bed where the
dying girl lay, and threw back the covering “to see if she
had really been shot.” This intrusion almost threw her
into a spasm. This officer and the other at Atlanta promised
to do all in their power to bring the guilty party to
justice, but nothing ever came of the promise, so far as
we know.</p>
<p>As a singular coincidence, as well as an illustration of
the lovely character of Sallie, I will relate a brief incident
given by the gifted pen already quoted: “One of the
most vivid pictures in my memory is that of Sallie Durham
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span>
emptying her pail of blackberries into the hands of
Federal prisoners on a train that had just stopped for a
moment at Decatur, in 1863. We had been gathering
berries at Moss’s Hill, and stopped on our way home for
the train to pass.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_NEGRO_AND_THE_MIRACLE' id='THE_NEGRO_AND_THE_MIRACLE'></a>
<h3>THE NEGRO AND THE MIRACLE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Grady’s New South, pages 97-118.]</p>
<p>What of the negro? This of him. I want no better
friend than the black boy who was raised by my side, and
who is now trudging patiently, with downcast eyes and
shambling figure, through his lowly way in life. I want
no sweeter music than the crooning of my old “mammy,”
now dead and gone to rest, as I heard it when she held
me in her loving arms and bending her old black face
above me stole the cares from my brain, and led me smiling
into sleep. I want no truer soul than that which
moved the trusty slave, who for four years, while my
father fought with the armies that barred his freedom,
slept every night at my mother’s chamber door, holding
her and her children as safe as if her husband stood
guard, and ready to lay down his humble life for her
household. History has no parallel to the faith kept by
the negro in the South during the war. Of five hundred
negroes to a single white man, and yet through these
dusky throngs the women and children walked in safety,
and the unprotected homes rested in peace. Unmarshalled,
the black battalions moved patiently to the fields
in the morning to feed the armies their idleness would
have starved, and at night gathered anxiously at the big
house to “hear the news from marster,” though conscious
that his victory made their chains enduring. Everywhere
humble and kindly; the body-guard of the helpless; the
observant friend; the silent sentry in his lowly cabin;
the shrewd counsellor; and when the dead came home, a
mourner at the open grave. A thousand torches would
have disbanded every Southern army, but not one was
lighted. When the master, going to a war in which
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span>
slavery was involved, said to his slave, “I leave my home
and loved ones in your charge,” the tenderness between
man and master stood disclosed. And when the slave
held that charge sacred through storm and temptation he
gave new meaning to faith and loyalty. I rejoice that
when freedom came to him after years of waiting, it was
all the sweeter, because the black hands from which the
shackles fell were stainless of a single crime against the
helpless ones confided to his care.</p>
<p>This friendliness, the most important factor of the
problem, the saving factor now as always, the North has
never, and it appears will never, take account of. It explains
that otherwise inexplicable thing—the fidelity and
loyalty of the negro during the war to the women and
children left in his care. Had “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” portrayed
the habit rather than the exception of slavery, the
return of the Confederate armies could not have stayed
the horrors of arson and murder their departure would
have invited. Instead of that, witness the miracle of the
slave in loyalty closing the fetters about his own limbs,
maintaining the families of those who fought against his
freedom, and at night on the far-off battlefield searching
among the carnage for his young master, that he might
lift the dying head to his humble breast and with rough
hands wipe the blood away and bend his tender ear to
catch the last words for the old ones at home, wrestling
meanwhile in agony and love, that in vicarious sacrifice
he would have laid down his life in his master’s stead.
This friendliness, thank God, survived the lapse of years,
the interruption of factions and the violence of campaigns
in which the bayonet fortified and the drum-beat inspired.
Though unsuspected in slavery, it explains the miracle of
1864; though not yet confessed, it must explain the
miracle of 1888.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='GEORGIA_REFUGEES' id='GEORGIA_REFUGEES'></a>
<h3>GEORGIA REFUGEES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Mrs. W. H. Felton, in Georgia Land and People, pages 404-405.]</p>
<p>From the time that Oglethorpe planted his colony upon
Yamacraw Bluff, Georgia has never passed through such
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span>
an ordeal as the present. Nine-tenths of her sons were
practically disfranchised because they had served the
Southern Confederacy, and all the conditions of life were
new; their servants were no longer subject to their control,
and most of their property was scattered to the four
winds of heaven. It tested the blood that had come down
to them from Cavalier and Huguenot, from Scotch and
Irish ancestry. The private life of many Georgians for
the first few years after the war beggars description; but
the women rose to the occasion.</p>
<p>The surrender found a gentle, shrinking Georgia
woman on the Florida line, nearly four hundred miles
from her luxurious home, from which she had fled in
haste as Sherman “marched to the sea.” The husband
was with General Lee in Virginia. The last tidings came
from Petersburg—before Appomattox—and his fate was
uncertain. Hiring a dusky driver, with his old army
mule and wagon, she loaded the latter with the remnant
of goods and chattels that were left to her, and, placing
her four children on top, this brave woman trudged the
entire distance on foot, cheering, guiding, and protecting
the driver and her little ones in the tedious journey.
Under an August sun through sand and dust she plodded
along, footsore and anxious, until she reached the dismantled
home and restored her little stock of earthly
goods under their former shelter. When her soldier husband
had walked from Virginia to Georgia, he found,
besides his noble wife and precious children, the nucleus
of a new start in life, glorified by woman’s courage and
fidelity under a most trying ordeal. For a twelve-month
the exigencies of their situation deprived her of a decent
pair of shoes; still she toiled in the kitchen, the garden,
and, perhaps, the open fields, without a repining word or
complaining murmur. The same material is found in a
steel rail as in the watch spring, and the only difference
between the soldier and his wife was physical strength.</p>
<p>This was no exceptional case. The hardships of
Georgia women were extreme and long-continued.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span></div>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_NEGROES_AND_NEW_FREEDOM' id='THE_NEGROES_AND_NEW_FREEDOM'></a>
<h3>THE NEGROES AND NEW FREEDOM</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[In Last Ninety Days of the War, pages 186-187.]</p>
<p>The negroes, however, behaved much better, on the
whole, than Northern letter-writers represent them to
have done. Indeed, I do not know a race more
studiously misrepresented than they have been and are at
this present time. They behaved well during the war;
if they had not, it could not have lasted eighteen months.
They showed a fidelity and a steadiness which speaks
not only well for themselves but well for their training
and the system under which they lived. And when their
liberators arrived, there was no indecent excitement on
receiving the gift of liberty, nor displays of impertinence
to their masters. In one or two instances they gave
“missus” to understand that they desired present payment
for their services in gold and silver, but, in general, the
tide of domestic life flowed on externally as smoothly as
ever. In fact, though of course few at the North will
believe me, I am sure that they felt for their masters, and
secretly sympathized with their ruin. They knew that
they were absolutely penniless and conquered; and
though they were glad to be free, yet they did not turn
round, as New England letter-writers have represented,
to exult over their owners, nor exhibit the least trace of
New England malignity. So the bread was baked in
those latter days, the clothes were washed and ironed, and
the baby was nursed as zealously as ever, though both
parties understood at once that the service was voluntary.
The Federal soldiers sat a good deal in the kitchens; but
the division being chiefly composed of Northwestern men,
who had little love for the negro, (indeed I heard some
d——n him as the cause of the war, and say that they
would much rather put a bullet through an Abolitionist
than through a Confederate soldier,) there was probably
very little incendiary talk and instructions going on. In
all of which, compared with other localities we were much
favored.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span>
<a name='THE_CONFEDERATE_MUSEUM_IN_THE_CAPITAL_OF_THE_CONFE' id='THE_CONFEDERATE_MUSEUM_IN_THE_CAPITAL_OF_THE_CONFE'></a>
<h3>THE CONFEDERATE MUSEUM IN THE CAPITAL OF THE CONFEDERACY</h3>
</div>
<p>This house, built for a gentleman’s private residence,
was thus occupied until 1862, when Mr. Lewis Crenshaw,
the owner, sold it to the city of Richmond for the use of
the Confederate government. The city, having furnished
it, offered it to Mr. Davis, but he refused to accept
the gift. The Confederate government then rented
it for the “Executive Mansion” of the Confederate States.
President Davis lived here with his family, using the
house both in a private and official capacity. The present
“Mississippi” room was his study, where he often held
important conferences with his great leaders. In this
house, amid the cares of state, joy and sorrow visited
him; “Winnie,” the cherished daughter, was born here,
and here “little Joe” died from the effects of a fall from
the back porch. It remained Mr. Davis’s home until
the evacuation of the city of Richmond. He left with the
government officials on the night of April 2, 1865. On
the morning of April 3, 1865, General Godfrey Witzel,
in command of the Federal troops, upon entering the city,
made this house his headquarters. It was thus occupied
by the United States Government during the five years
Virginia was under military rule, and called “District No.
1.”</p>
<p>In the present “Georgia” room, a day or two after the
evacuation, Mr. Lincoln was received. He was in the
city only a few hours. When at last the military was removed
and the house vacated, the city at once took possession,
using it as a public school for more than twenty
years. In order to make it more comfortable for school
purposes, a few unimportant alterations were made. It
was the first public school in the city. War had left its
impress on the building, and the constant tread of little
feet did almost as much damage. It was with great distress
that our people (particularly the women), saw the
“White House of the Confederacy” put to such uses,
and rapidly falling into decay. To save it from destruction,
a mass-meeting was called to take steps for its restoration.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288' name='page_288'></a>288</span>
A society was formed, called the “Confederate
Memorial Literary Society,” whose aim was the preservation
of the mansion. Their first act was to petition
the city to place it in their hands, to be used as a memorial
to President Davis and a museum of those never-to-be-forgotten
days, ’61-’65. It was amazing to see the wide-spread
enthusiasm aroused by the plan. With as little
delay as possible the city, acting through alderman and
council, made the deed of conveyance, which was ratified
by the then Mayor of Richmond, the Hon. J. Taylor
Ellyson.</p>
<p>The dilapidation of the entire property was extreme,
but to its restoration and preservation the society had
pledged itself. They had no money—the city had
already given its part—what could be done? To raise
the needed funds it was decided to hold a “memorial bazaar”
in Richmond for the joint benefit of the museum
and the monument to the private soldier and sailor.</p>
<p>All through the South the plan of the museum and the
bazaar was heartily endorsed; so that donations of every
kind poured in. Each State of the Confederacy was represented
by a booth, with the name, shield, and flag of
her State. The whole sum realized was $31,400. Half
of this was given to complete the monument to the private
soldiers and sailors now standing on Libby Hill, and the
other half went to the museum.</p>
<p>The partition walls were already of brick, and the
whole house had been strongly and well built, but the
entire building was now made fireproof, and every other
possible precaution taken for its safety. In every particular
the old house in its entirety was preserved, the
wood work (replaced by iron) being used for souvenirs.
The repairs were so extensive that the building was not
ready for occupancy until late in 1895.</p>
<p>On February 22, 1896, the dedication service was held,
and the museum formally thrown open to the public.</p>
<p>But the house was entirely empty. Rapidly the
memorials were gathered from each loyal State and
placed in their several rooms. From start to finish the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289' name='page_289'></a>289</span>
whole work has been free-will offering to the beloved
cause.</p>
<p>The treasury had been nearly exhausted by the restoration
of the building. The current expenses were met
only by the strictest economy, and largely carried on by
faith. In the past nine years much has been accomplished.
The institution is free from debt; and the museum
is now widely known. But much lies ahead in the
ideal the patriotic women have set before them and the
work grows larger, more important and far reaching as
it is approached. Such is the interest felt in the museum
that during the past year they have had 7,459 visitors, of
whom 3,717 were from the North. It is by these door-fees
that the expenses are met.</p>
<p>It would be quite impossible to enumerate all the articles
of interest to be found here. The memorials gathered
are not only interesting in themselves, but invaluable
for the truth and lessons which they teach. Historians
in search of information can here obtain original data in
regard to the “War between the States.” The United
States Government has already made use of these records
for its new Navy Register. Each confederate State is
hereby represented by a room, set apart in special honor
of her sons and their deeds. A regent in that State has it
in charge, and is responsible for its contents and appearance.
A vice-regent (as far as possible a native of that
State, but residing in Richmond) gives her personal supervision
to the room and its needs. The labor is incessant,
and would be impossible, but for the fact that it
is impelled by a sense of sacred love and duty.</p>
<p>Of the women of the Confederacy, of our brave and
uncomplaining soldiers, of their great leaders, as well as
of our illustrious chief, it well may be said:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Would you see their monument?</p>
<p class='indent2'>Look around.”</p>
</div></div>
<h4><i>The Mary DeRenne Collection</i></h4>
<p>The late Dr. Everard DeRenne bequeathed to the
Georgia room “The Mary DeRenne (of Georgia) collection.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290' name='page_290'></a>290</span>
Mrs. Mary DeRenne, of Savannah, Ga., was his
mother, an enthusiastic Georgian, and patriotic Confederate.
Soon after the close of the war between the States,
finding that an officer of the Northern army was making
a collection of Southern relics, she felt that there were
few in the South who had the means to do the same, but
that it ought to be done. She determined at once to
begin, and while life lasted she spared neither effort nor
expense in gathering relics, books, papers, and all that
added to their value. Mrs. DeRenne soon found that
persons were glad to put together what made history,
when isolated relics or papers told so little. The result
tells an absorbing story.</p>
<p>Miss C. N. Usina, of Savannah, Georgia, presented in
1903 a liberal addition to this library.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='FEDERAL_DECORATION_DAYADOPTION_FROM_OUR_MEMORIAL' id='FEDERAL_DECORATION_DAYADOPTION_FROM_OUR_MEMORIAL'></a>
<h3>FEDERAL DECORATION DAY—ADOPTION FROM OUR MEMORIAL</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[Taken from Confederate Dead in Hollywood Cemetery, page 7.]</p>
<p class='center'><span class='smcaplc'>MRS. JOHN A. LOGAN WITNESSED OBSERVANCE IN RICHMOND AND MADE THE SUGGESTION.</span></p>
<p>The New York <i>Herald</i> contains the following contribution
from Mrs. John A. Logan, in which she says that
the “Decoration Day” in the North was an adoption from
the South’s “Memorial Day.”</p>
<p><i>To the editor of the Herald</i>:</p>
<p>In the spring of 1868, General Logan and I were invited
to visit the battle-grounds of the South with a party
of friends. As certain important matters kept him from
joining the party, however, I went alone, and the trip
proved a most interesting and impressive one. The
South had been desolated by the war. Everywhere signs
of privation and devastation were constantly presenting
themselves to us. The graves of the soldiers, however,
seemed as far as possible the objects of the greatest care
and attention.</p>
<p>One graveyard that struck me as being especially pathetic
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291' name='page_291'></a>291</span>
was in Richmond. The graves were new, and just
before our visit there had been a “Memorial Day” observance,
and upon each grave had been placed a small
Confederate flag and wreaths of beautiful flowers. The
scene seemed most impressive to me, and when I returned
to Washington I spoke of it to the General and said I
wished there could be concerted action of this kind all
over the North for the decoration of the graves of our
own soldiers. The General thought it a capital idea, and
with enthusiasm set out to secure its adoption.</p>
<p>At that time he was commander-in-chief of the Grand
Army. The next day he sent for Adjutant-General
Chipman, and they conferred as to the best means of beginning
a general observance. On the 5th day of May in
that year the historic order was put out. General Logan
often spoke of the issuing of this order as the proudest act
of his life.</p>
<p>It was marvelous how popular the idea became. The
papers all over the land copied the order, and the observance
was a general one. The memorial ceremonies that
took place at Arlington that year were perfectly inspiring
to all the old soldiers. Generals Grant, Sherman, and
Sheridan and many of those who have since passed away
attended the first solemn observance of that day.</p>
<p class='sig1'><span class='smcap'>Mrs. John A. Logan.</span></p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='THE_DAUGHTERS_AND_THE_UNITED_DAUGHTERS_OF_THE_CONF' id='THE_DAUGHTERS_AND_THE_UNITED_DAUGHTERS_OF_THE_CONF'></a>
<h3>THE DAUGHTERS AND THE UNITED DAUGHTERS OF THE CONFEDERACY</h3>
</div>
<p>The following valuable bit of history is taken from the
Macon (Ga.) <i>Telegraph’s</i> account of the meeting of
the United Daughters of the Confederacy in Macon, October,
1905.</p>
<p>“In the presentation to Mrs. L. H. Raines of a gold pin,
a testimonial from the United Daughters of Georgia, a
very pretty climax to the morning’s session was reached.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292' name='page_292'></a>292</span>
The speech with which Miss Mildred Rutherford presented
the pin in behalf of the Daughters will be memorable
to every one present, for it was touched with emotion
and instruction as a bit of history. Miss Rutherford explained
that when the war between the States ended, the
Ladies’ Aid Societies resolved themselves into associations
whose work it was to care for the graves of the
fallen heroes and to collect the bodies from far-off fields.</p>
<p>“There was a woman in Nashville, who had ever been
foremost in Confederate work—a Mrs. M. C. Goodlet,
who in 1892 was president of the auxiliary to the Cheatham
Bivouac. She had just aided in building the soldiers’
home near Nashville and felt that there was a work
not included in the work of the auxiliaries as then constituted.
So she resolved to form an organization to be
called the ‘Daughters of the Confederacy.’ The purpose
of this organization was to be the care of aged veterans
and the wives and children of veterans, the building
of monuments, the collection and preservation of records.</p>
<p>“Mrs. L. H. Raines was one of the first to write for information
to Mrs. Goodlet, and on reply she took the
matter before the Savannah auxiliary. This auxiliary,
while not willing to lose its individuality in the new organization,
quickly formed within its own ranks a chapter
of the Daughters of the Confederacy. So the charter
chapter of Georgia came into existence.”</p>
<p>Miss Rutherford then related how the chapters grew
in number until it occurred to Mrs. Raines that strength
would come through union. She wrote to Mrs. Goodlet
suggesting a “United Daughters of the Confederacy,”
and Mrs. Goodlet agreed with the idea, so that a constitution
and by-laws were formulated and a convention of the
various chapters called at Nashville in 1894, “Mother”
Goodlet presiding. The convention of the United
Daughters at San Francisco formally recognized Mrs.
Goodlet as founder of the Daughters of the Confederacy
and Mrs. Raines as founder of the United Daughters.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293' name='page_293'></a>293</span>
<a name='A_DAUGHTERS_PLEA' id='A_DAUGHTERS_PLEA'></a>
<h3>A DAUGHTER’S PLEA</h3>
</div>
<p>The following is an extract from the Macon (Ga.)
<i>Telegraph’s</i> report of the proceedings of the United
Daughters of the Confederacy in Macon on the 26th of
October, 1905:</p>
<p>Mrs. Plaine had not then learned that Virginia opened
last year a large and comfortable home for Confederate
women on Grace street in the city of Richmond. It is
a noble monument to our mothers and grandmothers and
a needed asylum for some of the very lonely. Mrs.
Plaine among other things said:</p>
<p>“We have corrected many falsehoods disseminated
throughout the South in Northern histories and readers,
substituting impartial and truthful Southern books; and
we have children’s chapters as auxiliaries to the United
Daughters of the Confederacy that they may learn even
more of the imperishable grandeur of the men and women
of the old South. But, my dear friends, have we not
failed in one paramount duty? Should we not in all
these years have made some organized effort for the succor
and support of the aged women of the Confederacy
whose noble deeds we have been busily recording?
Texas is the only State which has made any decided move
in this direction. The United Daughters of the Confederacy
of that State have purchased a lot in Austin and
have several thousand dollars towards building a home to
be known as ‘Heroines’ Home.’ They propose to have for
these precious old ladies pleasant and comfortable housing,
good food cheerfully served, efficient attendants,
nurses and physicians, books, and all the little pastimes
with which cherished mothers should be provided to keep
them satisfied and happy as the depressing shadows grow
longer.</p>
<p>“When we of Atlanta were working so hard to have
the State accept and maintain the soldiers’ home which
had been built by public subscription eight years before
and was fast going to decay, the only opposition we had
was from those who thought there were too few soldiers
left to need such a home. But what has been the result
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294' name='page_294'></a>294</span>
of opening it to them? Why, hundreds of old, infirm
and needy veterans have found there a comfortable place
in which to pass the remnant of their lives, and we feel
more than repaid for our small share in opening it for
their use.</p>
<p>“Now, in the effort to establish a home for the aged
women of the Confederacy, the same objection will be
raised of ‘so few to occupy it.’</p>
<p>“Where are the women who represented the six hundred
thousand valiant soldiers who constituted the grandest
army the world has yet known?</p>
<p>“Where are those who with unflinching courage sent
forth husbands, sons, fathers, brothers and lovers to
swell that immortal host which marched and suffered beneath
the ‘Stars and Bars?’ Where the little girls who
carded and spun and knitted to help their mothers clothe
the naked soldiers? Where the young girls who stood
by the wayside to feed the hungry and quench the thirst
of the men on their long and weary marches? Where
the women who with tireless energy ministered night and
day to the sick and wounded and spoke words of hope to
the dying? Where those who stood at the threshold of
desolate homes to welcome with smiles and loving caresses
their uncrowned heroes, and who by their courage
and patient endurance, amidst want and poverty, saved
from despair and even suicide the men by whose heroic
efforts a new and greater South has arisen from the ashes
of the old?</p>
<p>“Hundreds of these women, my dear friends, some of
them once queens in the old Southern society of which
we still boast, and who would even now grace the court
of the proudest monarch on earth, are still with us, but
many of them in poverty and obscurity, suffering in
silence rather than acknowledge their changed condition.</p>
<p>“I know personally of four cultured, refined women,
born and bred in luxury, who gave some of the best years
of their lives to help the Southern cause, and who for
the love of it still work with their feeble hands to make
the money with which to pay their dues as members of
the United Daughters of the Confederacy.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295' name='page_295'></a>295</span></div>
<p>“I know of another, reared by aristocratic, wealthy
parents in this city, who drove with her patriotic mother
almost daily to take in their private carriage the sick and
wounded from the trains to the hospitals, and who on one
occasion retired behind one of the brick pillars of your
depot and tore off her undergarments to furnish bandages
for bleeding arteries. She is now quite advanced in
years, nearly all her relatives dead, and she is in very
straitened circumstances. But she is proud and brave
still, and makes no moan.</p>
<p>“A few years ago it was announced in an Atlanta paper
that a lady from Sharpsburg, Md., was visiting a friend
in Atlanta. A gentleman in Griffin, after seeing the notice,
took the next train to Atlanta and called to see the
lady without giving his name. As she entered the parlor
he stared at her for a moment and then grasped both
her hands in his and tears sprang to his eyes as he said
with great emotion, ‘Yes, yes, this is Miss Julia, only
grown older—the same sweet face that looked so compassionately
into mine, and the same person who with
her beautiful sister Alice and her mother, worthy to have
been the mother of Napoleon, nursed me into life as you
did so many poor fellows after that awful battle. I have
come to take you home with me. My wife and children
love you and all your family; your names are honored
household words with us.’ Everything in the fine old
mansion of that family was literally soaked in the blood
of Southern soldiers. To these two young girls, Julia
and Alice, scores of Southern families owe the recovery
of the bodies of their dead upon the memorable and
bloody field of Antietam or Sharpsburg. Most of the
people around there were Northern sympathizers, and
took pleasure in desecrating Confederate graves, and
these young ladies, with the assistance of a gentleman,
who posed as a Yankee, made, secretly, diagrams of the
burial places of our dead, marking distances from trees,
fences and other objects, and sometimes burying pieces
of iron or other indestructible articles near by, that they
might be able, if need be, to recover the bodies, and thus
many were restored to their friends. So much was this
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296' name='page_296'></a>296</span>
family hated by the Yankee element in the surrounding
country it became unsafe for them to keep a light in the
house after night, for fear of being fired into. I have
myself seen since the war the bullets which lodged in the
inside walls of the rooms. Just at the close of the war
these brave girls, in order to send the body of a noble
Confederate captain to his wife, then living in Macon,
drove with it in a wagon seventeen miles at night, crossing
the broad Potomac in a ferryboat, their only companion
a boy of twelve, and delivered the casket to the
express agent at Leesburg, Va. Both of these Southern
heroines are still living. Poverty long since overtook
them; the dear old home has passed into strange hands,
and they are left almost alone—one a widow, the other
never married.</p>
<p>“Think you that such as these are not deserving the
help of those of us who have been more fortunate? In the
language of Mrs. Vincent, of Texas, a native Georgian,
‘because they have stifled their cries, and in silent self-reliance
labored all these years for subsistence, are we
Daughters to close our ears to their appeals, now that the
patient hands and the feeble footsteps hesitate in the oncoming
darkness?’</p>
<p>“The time will come—is already here—when marble
shafts will arise to commemorate the deeds of the Spartan
women of the South, but a better and more enduring
monument would be a home for such of them as are still
alive and in need, and for the benefit of the female descendants
of the men and women of the Confederacy who
may yet become old and homeless, and are eligible to the
United Daughters of the Confederacy.</p>
<p>“Memorial Hall in course of erection by the Daughters
of the American Revolution, commemorative of the deeds
of our Revolutionary ancestry, is a worthy and patriotic
enterprise, but a home for the aged heroines of the Confederacy
would serve not alone as a memorial of our dead
heroes and heroines, but what is still better, it would be
a blessing to worthy, suffering humanity.”</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297' name='page_297'></a>297</span>
<a name='HOME_FOR_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN' id='HOME_FOR_CONFEDERATE_WOMEN'></a>
<h3>HOME FOR CONFEDERATE WOMEN</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>These women of the South not only work for the men,
but when the men undertake to work for them, they take
up the work and do it for themselves. In March, 1897,
the Ladies’ Auxiliary of the George E. Pickett Camp,
Confederate Veterans, began a movement to establish a
home for the wives, sisters, and daughters of dead and
disabled Confederate soldiers. Of this Auxiliary Society
Mrs. R. N. Northern was president, Miss Alice V.
Loehr, secretary. A call was made to the people of the
State and a Confederate festival, in charge of a committee
of which Mrs. Mary A. Burgess was chairman, was
held in the Regimental Armory in Richmond from the
19th to 29th of May for the purpose of raising funds.
The movement was most heartily endorsed by the veterans,
by Governor C. T. O’Ferrall, and the people generally,
and was continued to complete success. A very
desirable building was secured on Grace street and the
home dedicated and opened in 1904 and is now occupied
by a number of grateful inmates. In all the historic memorials
about noble old Richmond there is no monument
more touching than this practical offering to the women
of the Confederacy. A similar home has already been
provided in Texas and the R. A. Smith Camp of Veterans
at Macon, Ga., which recently laid the corner-stone of a
monument to the Confederate Women, has already begun
a movement for the establishment of a home in that city
and the United Daughters of the Confederacy are at
work for its accomplishment.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='JEFFERSON_DAVIS_MONUMENT' id='JEFFERSON_DAVIS_MONUMENT'></a>
<h3>JEFFERSON DAVIS MONUMENT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>The project to erect an appropriate monument to the
great Chieftain of the Confederacy was undertaken by
the veterans years ago. They raised about $20,000.
The Daughters of the Confederacy, just as they always
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298' name='page_298'></a>298</span>
do, then took hold of the matter and they have increased
the fund to $70,000. The Georgia United Daughters of
the Confederacy, who have built a Winnie Davis dormitory
at the Georgia Normal School, have been very active
in the work for the Davis Monument at Richmond, and
Georgia has the credit of leading all the States in the
amount contributed. The city of Richmond has donated
a very eligible lot at the crossing of Franklin and Cedar
streets, near the splendid R. E. Lee monument. It is
fitting that the monuments to the leading civil and military
heroes of the great cause shall be so near each other.
Very near to these will be monuments each to Gen. J. E.
B. Stuart, and to Gen. Fitz Hugh Lee. These monuments
will all stand in the Lee district, the new and coming
choice residence section of the glorious city.</p>
<p>It is expected that the splendid monument to Mr. Davis
will be unveiled at the Confederate reunion in 1907.
Work has already begun and the foundations are being
laid. Dirt was formally broken on the 7th of November,
1905, by Mrs. Thomas McCullough, of Staunton, president
of the Davis Monument Association. Hon. J. Taylor
Ellyson, lieutenant-governor elect, a noble veteran,
and others, also took part in the historic ceremonies. The
picks and shovels will be preserved in the Confederate
Museum. The monument will be unique in its design
and will worthily tell future generations of the great man
and the great cause. The writer confesses to a great
pleasure, while preparing this volume, of almost daily
visits to see the foundation work of this monument going
on. He spent five years of his life in Mississippi in the
old days, and he knows Mr. Davis before our war to have
been a gentleman, a patriot, and a Christian, and the kindest
of masters to his slaves. He was a Chevalier Bayard,
a knight <i>sans peur et sans reproche</i>, and yet, under the
responsibility laid on him by the Confederate States, he
became the mark for all the abuse and slander that could
be heaped on the Confederate cause by the fanatics among
our foes. His grave in Hollywood Cemetery and the
Confederate Memorial Museum building, which was Mr.
Davis’s home during the sad war, have been precious
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299' name='page_299'></a>299</span>
though mournful Meccas to the author during many
months of hospital suffering in Richmond, and, by
courtesy of the Ladies’ Memorial Literary Society, a large
part of the actual work on this memorial volume was
done in the very rooms occupied by our great leader.
May God bless our noble women for the monument which
promises to be worthy of its mission.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='RECIPROCAL_SLAVERY' id='RECIPROCAL_SLAVERY'></a>
<h3>RECIPROCAL SLAVERY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Humanity and kindness were the rule which marked
the treatment of the slaves in the South. For this the
Southern people have claimed no credit. A man deserves
no credit for taking care of a $50 cow. Much more will
his very self interest treat well a $250 horse. How much
more to his interest to feed, house, clothe and nurse a
$1,500 negro. As in all things human, there were evils
connected even with Southern slavery, and Southern
patriots rejoice that it is all gone. But history will only
render simple justice to the men and women of the South
when it records that any real cruel treatment of the negro
was very rare.</p>
<p>The writer’s life has nearly all been spent in the negro
belts of Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and South Carolina,
and he knew of but three cases where slave owners
were charged with habitual cruel treatment of the slaves.
One of these, in the Alabama canebrake, gave his slaves
the best of medical attention, but they were evidently not
supplied with the clothing they ought to have. The other
two, one man and one woman, had the reputation of giving
way to a cruel temper when chastising their slaves.
All of them stood branded with public odium.</p>
<p>The truth is that in Southern slavery there was a sort
of mutuality. The owner belonged to the negro as truly
as the negro belonged to the white man. In many respects
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300' name='page_300'></a>300</span>
the master rendered service to the slave. The State
laws, to say nothing of humanity and religion, made it
so, but you say “it was a very pleasant sort of slavery
for the master.” Yes, and a very pleasant sort of slavery
for the negro. They were the jolliest set of working
people the world ever saw. The chains of the negro
were not the only shackles removed by the great revolution.
When the time came the slave owners felt that a
great burden had been rolled from their own shoulders.</p>
<p>As far as the writer knows, the universal feeling of the
slave owners was expressed in the language of a good
old couple who had worked hard and finally become the
owners of a hundred slaves. Said the old man, “I
didn’t enslave the negroes, and I didn’t set them free,
and I am glad the whole of the great responsibility has
been lifted from my shoulders.” His wife, sitting by,
said, “I feel like a new woman. I am now set free from
a great burden.”</p>
<p>The truth is, while negro slavery was the most convenient
property ever owned in America, it made heavy
and constant exactions of care, attention, and worry on
the part of the owner. The ignorant, childish Africans
needed a master more than any master needed them.
There lived near the author’s home in Sumter county,
Ala., a Mr. Jere Brown. He was of a fine family and a
graduate of South Carolina College. He was a splendid
type of the intelligent, polished, Christian gentleman of
the old school. He owned at least a thousand negro
slaves and kept them all near him. While he had overseers
and foremen to direct the farm labor, he devoted
all his time to attendance upon his slaves. He was their
physician and their nurse and very rarely ever left the
boundaries of his own land. His slaves all loved him,
and it was long said of him that he wore himself out
looking after the negroes. They belonged to him and
he to them. This identity of interest, the closeness of
relationship, the mutual, kind feeling between owners and
slaves was never realized by the fanatics and party politicians
of the North until since the emancipation. The
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301' name='page_301'></a>301</span>
eyes of the world have been opened to the fact that nearly
all of the substantial help for the negro’s school, his
church and for himself and his family when in distress,
has been rendered by the old slave owners and their children.
This practical help has been rendered all over the
South.</p>
<p>Alas! this mutual interest is growing weaker very fast.
The slave owners and their children, the true friends to
the negro, will soon be all dead. How much sympathy
the negro is to get from the next generation is for the
negro himself to say. He has used his ballot in such a
way as to cut himself off from his neighbors, employers
and life-long friends; and to bring down the contempt
of the world. For years he used it as a bludgeon to beat
the life out of what had been sovereign States and free
people. Later on he has made it a toy to be sold for a
drink of whiskey or thrown into the gutter. The whole
American people know this negro ballot to be a travesty
on liberty. His natural civil rights are secure in the
North and in the South. But his own folly has raised
the question of the continuance of the privilege of voting.
Anglo Saxons will continue to rule America. They are
not a people who will long put up with child’s play and
stupidity in politics. They mean business. And if the
negro expects to use the ballot, he must catch the step of
a freeman. He must vote for the interest of his State
and his section and through a prosperous united State,
work for the well being of the whole Union. In this
Christian land he has met with unbounded sympathy in
his helplessness. That sympathy is being at times sorely
tried. It is waning, sadly waning. If he expects the
privilege of an American, he must act like an American.
It saddens the Confederate veterans of 1861 to see how
far white and black have drifted apart within the last
twenty years. The “friendliness” of which Henry Grady
wrote in 1888 will not, it is feared, last to 1908. God
grant they may get closer together in all that makes for
the good of both races.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302' name='page_302'></a>302</span>
<a name='BARBARA_FRIETCHIE' id='BARBARA_FRIETCHIE'></a>
<h3>BARBARA FRIETCHIE</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>Here is a part of the story of the Maryland woman and
the Federal flag in the famous poem of John G. Whittier:</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“Bravest of all in Fredericktown</p>
<p>She took up the flag the men hauled down;</p>
<p>In her attic window the staff she set</p>
<p>To show that one heart was loyal yet.</p>
<p>Up the street came the rebel tread,</p>
<p>Stonewall Jackson riding ahead:</p>
<p>Under his slouch hat left and right</p>
<p>He glanced; the old flag met his sight.</p>
<p>‘Halt!’ the dust-brown ranks stood fast,</p>
<p>‘Fire!’ Out blazed the rifle blast,</p>
<p>It shivered the window pane and sash,</p>
<p>It rent the banner with seam and gash.</p>
<p>Quick as it fell from the broken staff,</p>
<p>Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.”</p>
</div></div>
<p>This is poetry, but it is not history. It is not truth.
It does not sound like it. Nobody but men like Whittier,
blinded by New England prejudice and steeped in ignorance
of Southern people, would for a moment have
thought Stonewall Jackson capable of giving an order
to fire on a woman. None of the story sounds at all like
“Stonewall Jackson’s way.” To their credit the later editions
of Whittier’s poems cast a grave doubt on the truth
of the story, and now Mr. John McLean, an old next-door
neighbor to the genuine Barbara Frietchie, has given
to Mr. Smith Clayton, of the Atlanta <i>Journal</i>, the true
story showing Whittier’s tale to be nothing but a myth.
Mr. Clayton says:</p>
<p>“Coming up to Washington from Richmond the other
day I brushed up an acquaintance with a very pleasant,
intelligent and, by the way, handsome gentleman, Mr.
John McLean, a conductor on the Richmond, Fredericksburg
and Washington Railroad. In the course of conversation
he mentioned Frederick, Md. I laughed and
said:</p>
<p>“Did you ever meet Barbara Frietchie?”</p>
<p>“Why, my dear sir,” he replied, “she lived just across
the street from my father’s home.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say so?”</p>
<p>“It’s a fact; and let me tell you, that poem is a ‘fake,’
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303' name='page_303'></a>303</span>
pure and simple. I was a child during the war, but I’ll
give you the truth about Barbara Frietchie as I got it
from the lips of my father and mother.”</p>
<p>And then he told me this interesting story:</p>
<p>“Ever been to Frederick?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Well, just where the turnpike enters the town my
father and mother lived in the old homestead. Directly
across the way lived Mr. Frietchie. He was a tailor, and
a good, clever man and honest citizen. His house had
two stories. On the ground, or street floor, was his shop.
The family lived up stairs. There was a balcony to the
upper story of the house facing the street. It was from
that balcony that the flag was waved, but Barbara
Frietchie had no more to do with it than you. General
Stonewall Jackson, returning from Monocacy, passed
through Frederick at the head of his army. He entered
the town by the turnpike and marched between the house
of Mr. Frietchie and the home of my parents. There was
a United States flag in the tailor’s house. His eldest
daughter, Mary Quantrell, thinking that the Union army
was coming, mistaking Jackson’s men for the Federals,
seized this flag, ran out upon the balcony and waved it.
Observing her, General Stonewall Jackson, who was riding
at the head of his troops, took off his hat, and ordered
his men to uncover their heads. They did so, and General
Jackson said that he gave the order to uncover because
he wanted his men to show proper appreciation of
a woman who had the loyalty and patriotism to stand up
for her side. Those are the facts. My parents were
there. They told me. I tell you. There was no sticking
any flag staff in any window. No order by General
Jackson to ‘Halt’ and ‘Fire;’ no seizing of the flag and
waving it after it had been shot from the staff; no begging
General Jackson to shoot anybody’s grey head but
to ‘spare the flag of his country’—all of this is described
in the poem—but none of it happened. Very funny about
Barbara Frietchie being four score and ten.”</p>
<p>“Who was Barbara Frietchie?”</p>
<p>“Why she was the young daughter of Mr. Frietchie—the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304' name='page_304'></a>304</span>
young sister of Mary Quantrell, who waved the flag—that’s
all.”</p>
<p>Mr. McLean told me that he had three brothers in the
Federal army. His brother was doorkeeper of the Maryland
assembly, and his uncle a member during the stormy
sessions held at Frederick, when that body hotly discussed,
for many days, the question as to whether Maryland
should secede.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='SOCIAL_EQUALITY_BETWEEN_THE_RACES' id='SOCIAL_EQUALITY_BETWEEN_THE_RACES'></a>
<h3>SOCIAL EQUALITY BETWEEN THE RACES</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>When the men of the writer’s generation see or read
of the growing sensitiveness in all parts of the country,
at the North and South, as to negro social equality, there
rush up memories from the days of slavery that make the
present jealousy to some extent ridiculous. As to religious
equality, the slaves joined the churches of their
own choice. In the cities there were some churches composed
entirely of negro slaves and nearly all had white
preachers. The country has had few if any preachers
more eloquent and accomplished than Dr. Giradeau, who
in late years was professor in the Presbyterian Theological
Seminary at Columbia, S. C. He spent all of his
ministry up to the breaking out of the war as pastor of
one of these negro churches in Charleston.</p>
<p>In the country towns and villages seats were provided
for the negroes to attend the 11 o’clock and night services
of the whites. They shared in the ordinances and communed
from the same plate and cup in perfect Christian
equality with the whites. In the afternoon the house was
turned over to their exclusive use and the white pastor
was required to preach to them and worthy preachers
from among themselves were always encouraged. It always
appeared to the writer, all through his boyhood
days, that the white preachers preached better sermons to
the negroes than they did to the whites. The negro was
thus blessed with the most thorough and efficient evangelist
work ever done for the benighted. The negroes
trained under it have been the salt of the earth to their
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305' name='page_305'></a>305</span>
race in their churches since the war. In those days in
the South the white evangelist Phillip rode in the wagon
with the Ethiopian and taught him, and both were blessed.
When the lamented good old deacon Alex. Smith, of
Thomasville, Ga., was ordained a deacon, one of the ordaining
elders was his negro slave. At Bainbridge, Ga.,
Rev. Jesse Davis officiated as a member of the Presbytery
ordaining to the ministry his slave, Ben. Munson. What
a calamity that this close brotherly association in religious
matters should have been so rudely broken in many
directions by the politics of the wild reconstruction which
was forced on the South.</p>
<p>At home some features of the life amounted to more
than social equality. There was “mammy,” for instance,
the good old negro nurse, housekeeper, hospital matron,
superintending cook, boss of the whole family, and what
not. She was father’s friend to counsel and cheer him,
and she was mother’s staff and companion. To us children
she was just everything. Those strong old arms
supported us in babyhood and dandled us and fondled
us in childhood. Her old bosom was a city of refuge
from even the pursuing father and mother. How quietly
peach-tree switches dropped from parental hands when
Mammy begged for us. Mammy’s cabin was the white
children’s paradise. Well does the writer remember that
when his mother had to take a trip for her health away
from home, he and a sister a little older than himself were
left in the home of a neighboring kindred to be cared for.
Kinsfolk did very well till night approached, then our
poor little hearts sighed for home and we ran away to
Mammy Cynthia and remained in her cabin and slept in
her arms in her nice clean bed until mother’s return. The
most cruel work done by the reconstruction politics was
to enforce the orders of the carpet-baggers and scalawags
in compelling these “mammies” to forsake their
old “missus” and old homes. Many of them never could
be tempted or forced to leave the old home.</p>
<p>Then there was “Daddy Jacob,” the nabob of the farm.
Like “mammy” he was given just enough work to keep
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306' name='page_306'></a>306</span>
up appearances and keep him in practice. But it was
usually special work, like presiding at the gin or hauling
with the two-ox wagon. Many a meal has the little
white boy eaten from old daddy’s dinner bucket or from
the blue-edged plates in his cabin.</p>
<p>Then there was “Mandy,” the young girl given by the
parents to her young white mistress near her age. Mandy
caught Miss Mary’s manners, fell heir to her dresses and
bonnets, waited on the table, joined the children in their
sports, and felt that she was about as good as anybody.
And she was, until the devil came along with the bayonets
and brought the monster curse to the negro, the “Yankee
school marm.” These women were deluded, blind guides
of the blind Africans. Reconstruction work has left the
negro women, especially the young ones, the most giddy,
most idle and aimless and the least virtuous of any set
of women in any civilized country. The white Yankee
school teachers sent down South by the thousands, forty
years ago, sowed the seed of false notions of life and
duty and opportunity, and the country is now afflicted
with the harvest.</p>
<p>“Jere” was the negro boy companion of young “Mars
Henry.” He and Mars Henry played marbles together,
fished or swam the millpond, searched the woods for
chinquapins or hickory nuts. They rode on the same
lever at the old gin and leaped into the lint room together
to pack back the loose cotton, and then mounted the mules
and rode them to the barn. But the ’possum hunt was
the glory of Henry and Jere’s united life. After supper,
in which Henry had swapped biscuit from the table for
Jere’s pork and roasted potatoes or sweet ash cake, they
would put a few potatoes in their pockets, gather an axe,
whistle up old “Tige,” the dog, and were soon away in
the woods. When the game was captured, and a failure
was a rare thing, with the nocturnal Nimrods, a small
short hickory pole was split and the tail of the ’possum
inserted in the crack and soon each boy had a ’possum
pole on his shoulder. But a boy gets sleepy quickly.
Worn out with their ramble they would rake up a pile
of leaves on the south side of a big log, kindle a fire near
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307' name='page_307'></a>307</span>
their feet and put the potatoes to roasting. “Tige” knew
what it all meant and he enjoyed the camping too. He
would lie next to the ’possums so that he could keep an
eye on them. (The writer’s Tige had but one eye.) A
’possum is the meekest of all animals, when you get his
tail in a vice and a dog in three feet of him. Jere would
lie next to Tige, close enough to get some of his warmth,
and Mars Henry would lie close to Jere. With their feet
to the fire they got a few hours of the sweetest sleep the
world ever gave. It was Mars Henry’s active, rollicking,
rough and tumble open-air life with Jere that gave
such vigor, in camp and on the march, to the Confederate
soldier.</p>
<p>The only man who has understood the negro, knew
his wishes and his failings, knew how to be kind to him
when a slave, and a safe counsellor now that he is free,
is the man who, when a boy, played with Jere and slept
by his side in the midnight campfire. It is mammy’s people,
and daddy Jacob’s and Mandy’s and Jere’s people,
that understand the negro and have always been his best
friends. Had the country abided by Grant and Sherman
and Lincoln and Johnson as to the status of the restored
Union and left the rights of the emancipated slaves in the
hands of their old owners and their interests to be regulated
by the Mars Henrys of the South how much better
it would have been for the poor negro and infinitely
better for the white people. Southern people know best
how far the negro may go and where it is best for him
to stop. Now when the fearful problems which have
been brought about by vindictive politics, personal demoralization
and fanatical race prejudices, for which the
people of the South are not responsible, the whole country
is beginning to realize that if these problems are to be
solved in the negro’s favor he himself is to do the solving.
“Mars Henry” and “Jere” would once have died
for each other. But “Mars Henry” can’t help “Jere”
much now. Reconstruction politics led “Jere” too far
away from “Mars Henry” and kept him too long. In a
very few years there will be no “Mars Henry,” no “Jere.”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308' name='page_308'></a>308</span>
“Mars Henry’s” children know how to take care of themselves.
May God teach poor “Jere’s” children to work
out their own good.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='DREAM_OF_RACE_SUPERIORITY' id='DREAM_OF_RACE_SUPERIORITY'></a>
<h3>DREAM OF RACE SUPERIORITY</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>In a previous article the author has given an account
of what was nearer social equality between the white and
black races than will ever again be seen in the South or
anywhere else. But the deluded negro has been led to
look for something higher than social equality. The
most awfully destructive work done by the Northern attempt
to reconstruct Southern society has been seen in
the complete demoralization of the generation of the
negroes succeeding the playmates of the young Southerners
of 1861-1865. They were thrown directly under
Northern teachers profoundly ignorant of the negro race,
their condition, and their danger; but teachers supremely
bent on injury, as far as possible, to the white people
of the South. From them and the literature which they
circulated, and his own folly, the young negroes became
imbued with the idea, not of social equality with the white
people, but of social superiority to them. They themselves
were heralded in the highest places as the “wards
of the nation;” the white people were branded as its
enemies; they were the lions and the heroes of the revolution,
the white people were its victims. They were the
acknowledged pets of the triumphant Northern people,
while the whites were their doomed enemies. They were
to have offices, endowments, and bounties from the government.
This government gave them a Freedmen’s
Bank and a Freedmen’s Bureau and they saw no bank
nor bureau for white people. They saw the white people
to whom nothing was promised with no prospect but that
of poverty and degradation. The North gave them colleges
and the South taxed itself to give them schools.
They were lauded in Congress, on the hustings, in the
Northern pulpits, and in the party newspapers, as the innocent
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309' name='page_309'></a>309</span>
Uncle Tom-like, angelic people who were to redeem
the South and glorify America, while the white people,
only living by Northern sufferance, were branded as
traitors and rebels and enemies of the government. To
insure the triumph of the negro and the degradation of
Southern whites Congress kept the ominous Force Bills
before the public. Who can wonder that the heads of
these poor ignorant people were turned and their moral
natures poisoned?</p>
<p>Then, with all this, came the awful lawlessness under
which this young generation grew up. There was no
longer “old massa and old missus” to see that they were
controlled. Their parents gave way to delusive dreams
and devoted their energies to “going to town” by day
“going to meetin’” by night. Home life in the family
was, and is to this day, almost a thing unknown. There
was no parental control whatever. When undertaken
much of it was so childish or so brutal as to do more
harm than good. Some of these boys went to school
enough to learn to read a little and sign their names, and
right there the most of them graduated. A large portion
cannot read now. They seldom went to church, except
just enough to be baptized and to join in a special revival
shout of</p>
<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'>
<p>“We are all going to heaven,</p>
<p class='indent4'>Hallelujah!”</p>
</div></div>
<p>At other times when they did go they stood out on the
church grounds and smoked cigarettes. The negro
preachers, in nine cases out of ten, knew nothing and
could teach nothing. The aim of most of them seemed
to be to have a happy Sunday religion and enjoy the
honor of religious office and prominence. What a
passion this has been with the free negro. Then the
inevitable collection of the preacher, and all would scatter
without a thought of a religion to make good their lives
through the remaining six days of the week. Mrs.
Stowe’s Topsy said she did not know anything about herself
except, “I specs I growed.” Those young reconstruction
negroes just “growed.” They “growed” without
law at their so-called homes; they “growed” ignorant of,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310' name='page_310'></a>310</span>
or defiant of the laws of the State, and they “growed”
without any aim except self-indulgence in ease and pleasure.</p>
<p>Then there before their eyes rose the Paradise tree of
the forbidden fruit—the white women beyond their reach.
There was in every State the law against intermarriage
of the white and black races which stood and will stand
in Median and Persian unchangeableness. Then came,
wherever these young negroes were scattered, at the
North as well as the South, the mighty resolve of passion,
pride, and revenge—“these white women are ours, we are
better than they are, they shall not be monopolized by
white men.”</p>
<p>The record is awful and the blackest page of American
history. This is the saddest chapter the author has ever
written. He has been all his long life known and recognized
by the negroes as one of their best friends. There
is nothing but sorrow in his heart over the wide-spread
demoralization of the negro race. He and all other true
Southern men rejoice over the great progress of the few.
He deplores the enslavement and degradation of the many
by whiskey, idleness, and lust. The strong, young African
tiger has been found lurking, not in American
jungles, but in American homes, highways, barns and
fields. His arch crime woman cannot hear named. And
to mention it to Southern men is to make their blood
boil in their veins and their brains to reel.</p>
<p>The heroism of Southern women cannot be told without
this dark page. The trials of the war were nothing
compared to the ordeal through which Southern women
have just passed. In the wreck of the South brought on
by Northern ballots and bayonets, the culminating damage
is the demoralization of the generation of negroes
now recently grown. In the face of the worse than
Gorgan horrors our women have borne themselves with
a courage, a patience, and fortitude that are sublime. But
let friends of the negro and friends of our women hope.
Thank God, the crime is on the decrease. White men
somehow will protect such women as God has given our
sunny land. The tiger is on the retreat, and thousands
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311' name='page_311'></a>311</span>
of the negro race are awakening to the fact that there
must speedily be another emancipation, a redemption of
their sons and daughters from their new slavery. The
negro has had race emancipation; he needs family
emancipation and personal emancipation from the
chains of sense and appetite. Good negroes are working
and praying for it. The negroes must break their own
chains this time. But let patriotic and Christian white
men help them everywhere.</p>
<div class='chsp'>
<a name='ROOSEVELT_AT_LEES_MONUMENT' id='ROOSEVELT_AT_LEES_MONUMENT'></a>
<h3>ROOSEVELT AT LEE’S MONUMENT</h3>
</div>
<p class='center'>“<i>Come Closer, Comrades!</i>”</p>
<p class='center'>[J. L. Underwood.]</p>
<p>When the victorious Federal army marched home, at
the close of the war between the States, the famous
Brooklyn preacher, Henry Ward Beecher, said that in
twenty-five years any man in America would be ashamed
to admit that he was ever a Confederate soldier. And
yet in twenty-five years half of the Cabinet at Washington
was composed of Confederate soldiers. In little more
than twenty-five years the country sees William McKinley,
the Republican President of the United States, himself
a veteran of the Federal army, down among the Confederate
veterans in Georgia, wearing the Confederate
badge, and otherwise fraternizing as a soldier with those
who wore the gray, and in his official capacity calling
upon Congress to care for the graves of the dead Confederate
soldiers just as the Government provides for the
dead who wore the blue. And the whole country, North
and South, applauded the noble McKinley.</p>
<p>Here is President Roosevelt, forty years after the war,
making the same recommendations and Congress actually
restoring the captured battle flags to the several Southern
States. It is a pity Beecher didn’t live to be in Richmond,
Va., on the 18th of October, 1905, and see President
Roosevelt by special appointment meet the Confederate
Veterans at the foot of the monument of General Robert
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312' name='page_312'></a>312</span>
E. Lee. When he began his talk he said, “Come closer,
comrades.” The President of the United States calling
those old “rebels” of Beecher his comrades and all the
way on his long Southern tour, having at his own request
a voluntary escort at every point composed of the
veterans from both armies!</p>
<p>Shade of Beecher! Come back to Washington and see
President and Cabinet and Congress and Army and Navy
gather in tears around the coffin and do the grand honors
at the grave of the Confederate General Wheeler!</p>
<p>The truth is the true comrades from both sides have
been coming “closer” to each other ever since the bloodshed
at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, whenever the politicians
would let them. The old “vets” understand each
other whether other people do or not. We are “comrades”
indeed. Now, comrades of the North, let an old “Confederate
vet” who has gloried in the privilege of frequently
grasping your hands for forty years, say a parting
word to you. Your country is our country. Your
heroes are our heroes. We claim the honor of having
such patriotic countrymen as Lincoln, such heroes as
Thomas, Meade and Hancock, and McClellan and Grant,
and McPherson and Farragut. If there were such men
as Butler and Milroy and Hunter, they were our countrymen,
too, and if they did things worthy of condemnation,
let Southerners condemn them with a feeling of sorrow
over the failings of erring countrymen—just as Northern
men should look truthfully at the lives of Southern leaders
and condemn, when it is just, but condemn in sorrow
our erring countrymen.</p>
<p>But, comrades, “come closer.” Read the humble
tribute of this book to the memory of Southern women
of 1861-1865. They were your countrywomen. Their
virtues are the glory of all America. We have tried to
help you and the world to know them better. We have
all come forth from the ashes now. We are rejoicing in
a prosperous South and a prosperous North. Our
women nobly did their part in the war and nobly have
they helped to rebuild the South, not only for our children,
but for your sons and your daughters. Our sunny
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313' name='page_313'></a>313</span>
South belongs to the whole country. Our noble women
and their children love their whole country. They have
shown themselves true to principle and true to duty.
“Come closer, comrades,” and study these Southern
women. If you find anything wrong in their spirit or
conduct, hold it up to just retribution. If they have set
a glorious example of courage, of sacrifice and of patriotism,
help your children and our children to “come closer”
in following their example.</p>
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<!-- timestamp: 2011-08-03 16:07:20 -0500 -->
<pre>
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