CHAPTER III

THEIR TRIALS

OLD MAIDS

[J. L. Underwood.]

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.

"It matters little now, Lorena; The past is the eternal past. Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena; Life's tide is ebbing out so fast But, there's a future--oh, thank God-- Of life this is so small a part; 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, But there--up there,--'tis heart to heart."

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 _Journal_:

SUGAR VALLEY, GA.

DEAR MISS THOMAS:

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?

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

With best wishes for the household,

W. H. ANDREWS.

A MOTHER'S LETTER

[From a dying soldier boy.]

The Alabama papers in 1863 published the following letter from Private John Moseley, a youth who gave up his life at Gettysburg:

BATTLEFIELD, GETTYSBURG, PA., _July 4, 1863_.

DEAR MOTHER:

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 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.

Your unfortunate son,

JOHN.

TOM AND HIS YOUNG MASTER

[In Richmond During the War, pages 178-179.]

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.

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 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.

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.

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!"

"I KNEW YOU WOULD COME"

[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 58-59.]

Col. W. R. Aylett tells the following tender story:

Once during the war, when the lines of the enemy 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.

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.

LETTERS FROM THE POOR AT HOME

[Phoebe Y. Pember.]

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. 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.

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.

LIFE IN RICHMOND DURING THE WAR

[Southern Historical Papers, Volume 19. From the _Cosmopolitan_, December, 1891; by Edward M. Alfriend.]

For many months after the beginning of the war between the States, Richmond was an extremely gay, 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.

_Happy Phases_

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."

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.

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.

_The Dress of a Grandmother_

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.

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 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."

_Frightful Contrasts_

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?

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.

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.

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 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.

_General Lee Kissed the Girls_

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.

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.

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.

Mr. Davis, at the executive mansion, held weekly receptions, 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.

_John Wise and His Big Clothes_

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.

_Contrasts That Were Pretty_

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.

I am sure that this phase of social life in Richmond during the war is without parallel in the world's history. 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.

_Loyalty of the Slaves_

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.

These are memories of a dead past, and thank God! 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.

THE WOMEN OF NEW ORLEANS

[J. L. Underwood.]

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.

President Davis in his proclamation said:

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.

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.

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:

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.

By Command of Major General Butler.

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.

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.

"INCORRIGIBLE LITTLE DEVIL"

[Eggleston's Recollections, pages 65-66.]

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.

"What is that?" I asked of the young gentlewoman I was visiting.

"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 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.

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.

THE BATTLE OF THE HANDKERCHIEFS

We are indebted to the Honorable W. H. Seymour for the following very interesting story:

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.

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.

The affair was called the Pocket Handkerchief War and has been put in verse, as follows:

_The Greatest Victory of the War--La Battaille des Mouchoirs._

[By Capt. James Dinkins, in New Orleans _Picayune_; Southern Historical Papers, Volume 31.]

[Fought Friday, February 20, 1863, at the head of Gravier Street.]

Of all the battles modern or old, By poet sung or historian told; Of all the routs that ever was seen From the days of Saladin to Marshall Turenne, Or all the victories later yet won, From Waterloo's field to that of Bull Run; All, all, must hide their fading light, In the radiant glow of the handkerchief fight; And a paean of joy must thrill the land, When they hear of the deeds of Banks's band.

'Twas on a levee, where the tide of "Father Mississippi" flows, Our gallant lads, their country's pride, Won this great victory o'er her foes, Four hundred rebels were to leave That morning for Secessia's shades, When down there came (you'd scarce believe) A troop of children, wives, and maids, To wave their farewells, to bid God-speed, To shed for them the parting tear, To waft their kisses as the meed of praise to soldiers' hearts most dear.

They came in hundreds; thousands lined The streets, the roofs, the shipping, too; Their ribbons dancing in the wind, Their bright eyes flashing love's adieu. 'Twas then to danger we awoke, But nobly faced the unarmed throng, And beat them back with hearty stroke, Till reinforcements came along. We waited long; our aching sight Was strained in eager, anxious gaze, At last we saw the bayonets bright Flash in the sunlight's welcome blaze. The cannon's dull and heavy roll, Fell greeting on our gladdened ear, Then fired each eye, then glowed each soul, For well we knew the strife was near.

"Charge!" rang the cry, and on we dashed Upon our female foes, As seas in stormy fury lashed, Whene'er the tempest blows. Like chaff their parasols went down, As our gallants rushed; And many a bonnet, robe, and gown Was torn to shreds or crushed; Though well we plied the bayonet, Still some our efforts braved, Defiant both of blow and threat, Their handkerchiefs still waved. Thick grew the fight, loud rolled the din, When "charge!" rang out again And then the cannon thundered in, And scoured o'er the plain. Down, 'neath the unpitying iron heels of horses children sank, While through the crowd the cannon Wheels mowed roads on either flank, One startled shriek, one hollow groan, One headlong rush, and then "Huzza!" the field was all our own, For we were Banks's men.

That night, released from all our toils, Our dangers passed and gone, We gladly gathered up the spoils Our chivalry had won! Five hundred 'kerchiefs we had snatched From rebel ladies' hands, Ten parasols, two shoes (not matched), Some ribbons, belts, and bands, And other things that I forgot; But then you'll find them all As trophies in that hallowed spot-- The cradle--Faneuil Hall!

And long on Massachusetts' shore And on Green Mountain's side, Or where Long Island's breakers roar, And by the Hudson's tide, In times to come, when lamps are lit, And fires brightly blaze, While round the knees of heroes sit The young of happier days, Who listen to their storied deeds, To them sublimely grand, Then glory shall award its meed Of praise to Banks's band, And Fame proclaim that they alone (In Triumph's loudest note) May wear henceforth, for valor shown, A woman's petticoat.

THE WOMEN OF NEW ORLEANS AND VICKSBURG PRISONERS

[By J. L. Underwood.]

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

"IT DON'T TROUBLE ME"

[Phoebe Y. Pember.]

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.

"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.

"Don't make no sort of difference to me; they dies all around me in the field and it don't trouble me."

SAVAGE WAR IN THE VALLEY

[In the Rise and Fall of Confederate Government, Volume 2, pages 700-709.]

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:

"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 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."

MRS. ROBERT TURNER, WOODSTOCK, VA.

[J. L. Underwood.]

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 the pistol up and shot the ruffian, who proved to be the one who had killed the guard of the home.

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.

HIGH PRICE OF NEEDLES AND THREAD

[By Walter, a Soldier's Son; from Mrs. Fannie A. Beer's Memoirs, pages 293-295.]

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,

"Ask your mother how much change she wants?"

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,

"Did you say you wanted ten dollars or ten cents, my boy?"

"Why, father," said I, "who ever heard of paying ten dollars for needles and thread?"

"I have," said he. "I once heard of a paper of needles, and a skein of silk, worth more than ten dollars."

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.

We liked it so well that I got mother to write it down for the _Bivouac_.

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 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,

"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!"

Cindy declared she was in the same fix, and couldn't finish her new homespun dress for that reason.

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."

"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."

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.

DESPAIR AT HOME--HEROISM AT THE FRONT

[Major Robert Stiles, in Four Years Under Marse Robert, pages 349-350.]

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.

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.

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 was great enough to unsettle a man's reason and to break a man's heart strings these men were subjected to that strain.

THE OLD DRAKE'S TERRITORY

[J. L. Underwood.]

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.

"What's the matter, man?" said the soldiers, as he passed on by them, his face all flushed with excitement.

"Where's the General?"

"Yonder he is, sitting on that black horse."

Everybody stood still to hear the breathless message.

"Oh, General!"

"Well, what's the trouble, sir?"

"General, your men have been yonder to my house and literally ruined me. They have taken everything I have 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."

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.

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.

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 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.

"But the whole world was against us; We fought our fight alone; To the Conquerors Want and Famine, We laid our standard down."

THE REFUGEE IN RICHMOND

[By A Lady of Virginia, in Diary of a Refugee, pages 252-254.]

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.

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 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."

"But do they satisfy their hunger?" said I.

"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."

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.

DESOLATIONS OF WAR

[Diary of a Refugee, page 283-284.]

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, 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.

DEATH OF A SOLDIER

[Diary of a Refugee, pages 311-313.]

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 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.

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.?"

Taken by surprise, the man answered hesitatingly, "Captain T. is dead, madam, and was buried to-day."

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 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?"

They told her where.

"I must go there; he must be taken up; I must see him."

"But, madam, you can't see him; he has been buried some hours."

"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.

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.

MRS. HENRIETTA E. LEE'S LETTER TO GENERAL HUNTER ON THE BURNING OF HER HOUSE

[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 8, pages 215-216.]

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:

JEFFERSON COUNTY, _July 20, 1864_.

GENERAL HUNTER:

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 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.

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.

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.

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!

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 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!

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?

SHERMAN'S BUMMERS

[E. J. Hale, Jr.]

FAYETTEVILLE, N. C., _July 31st, 1865_.

MY DEAR GENERAL:

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 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.

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.

REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR TIMES--A LETTER

[B. Winston, in Confederate Scrap-Book.]

SIGNAL HILL, _February 27th_.

MY DEAR ----:

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.

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 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.

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.

AUNT MYRA AND THE HOE-CAKE

[In Our Women in the War, pages 419-420.]

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 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."

"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."

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."

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."

"THE CORN WOMAN"

[Our Women in the War, page 276.]

"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."

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 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.

GENERAL ATKINS AT CHAPEL HILL

[In Last Ninety Days of the War, page 33.]

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.

TWO SPECIMEN CASES OF DESERTION

[Heroes in the Furnace; Southern Historical Papers.]

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 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.

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.

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.

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."

The other incident which we shall give was related by General C. A. Battle, in a speech at Tuscumbia, Ala., and is as follows:

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."

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?"

He replied, "I have no counsel."

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.

The prisoner was then told to introduce his witnesses.

He replied, "I have no witnesses."

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?"

He replied, "There was a reason, but it will not avail me before a military court."

I said, "Perhaps you are mistaken; you are charged with the highest crime known to military law, and it is your duty to make known the causes that influenced your actions."

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.

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:

MY DEAR EDWARD: 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.

YOUR MARY.

Turning to the prisoner, I asked, "What did you do when you received this letter?"

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 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."

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:

HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA.

The finding of the court is approved. The prisoner is pardoned, and will report to his company.

R. E. LEE, _General_.

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.

SHERMAN IN SOUTH CAROLINA

[Cornelia B. Spencer, in Last Days of the War, pages 29-31.]

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. So much as relates to the march of Sherman's army through parts of the State is here presented:

"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 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."

OLD NORTH STATE'S TRIALS

[Cornelia P. Spencer, in Last Ninety Days of the War, pages 95-97.]

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, 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.

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.

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 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.

SHERMAN IN NORTH CAROLINA

[Cornelia P. Spencer, in Last Ninety Days of the War, pages 214-215.]

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 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.

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:

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.

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.

MRS. VANCE'S TRUNK--GENERAL PALMER'S GALLANTRY

[Cornelia B. Spenser, in Southern Historical Papers.]

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.

THE EVENTFUL THIRD OF APRIL

[Correspondent of New York _Herald_, Southern Historical Papers.]

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.

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:

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.

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.

"Old Mammy" replied: "Dis is de only white lady; 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.

_Spartan Richmond Ladies_

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.

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:

"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."

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."

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

But we entered the city safely just as the moon was 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.

THE FEDERALS ENTER RICHMOND

[Phoebe Y. Pember.]

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.

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 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.

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 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.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING

[In Richmond During the War, pages 152-154.]

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:

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and dying lay; Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face, Soon to be laid in the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mould, Somebody's darling is dying now! Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, Brush the wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now-- Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once, for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer, soft and low. One bright curl from its fair mates take, They were somebody's pride, you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there, Was it a mother's, soft and white; Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! He has somebody's love, Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand! Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting, and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart, And there he lies--with his blue eyes dim, And his smiling, child-like lips apart! Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop o'er his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head, "'Somebody's darling' is lying here!"