Part 9

The most revolting revelation was the amount of provisions, shoes and clothing which had been accumulated by the speculators who hovered like vultures over the scene of death and desolation. Taking advantage of their possession of money and lack of both patriotism and humanity, they had, by an early corner in the market and by successful blockade running, bought up all the available supplies with an eye to future gain, while our soldiers and women and children were absolutely in rags, barefoot and starving. Not even war, with its horrors and helplessness, can divert such harpies from their accustomed methods of accumulating wealth at the expense of those who have spent their lives in less self-seeking ways.

About nine o'clock Monday morning a series of terrific explosions startled our ears, inured as they were to every variety of painful sounds. Every window in our house was shattered and the old plate-glass mirrors built into the walls were broken. We felt as if called upon to undergo a bombardment, in addition to our other misfortunes, but it was soon ascertained that the explosions were from the Government arsenal and laboratory, now caught by the flames. Fort Darling and the rams were blown up.

Every bank was destroyed, the flour-mills had caught fire, the War Department was in ruins, the offices of the _Enquirer_ and _Dispatch_ had been reduced to ashes, the County Court-House, the American Hotel, and most of the finest stores of the city were ruined. The Presbyterian Church had escaped. The flames had passed by Libby Prison, as if even fire realized that it could not add to the horrors of the gloomy place.

While the flames were raging the colored troops of General Weitzel, who had been stationed on the north side of the James a few miles from Richmond, entered the city. As I saw their black faces shining through the gloom of the smoke-shrouded town I could not help thinking that they added the one feature needed, if any there were, to complete the demoniacal character of the scene. They were the first colored troops I had ever seen, and the weird effect produced by their black faces in that infernal environment was indelibly impressed upon my mind.

General Weitzel sent Major E. E. Graves, of his staff, and Major A. H. Stevens, of the Fourth Massachusetts Cavalry, at the head of a hundred mounted men, to reconnoiter the Richmond roads and works. At the fortifications beyond the junction of the Osborne turnpike and New Market road they were met by a flag of truce waved from a dilapidated, old-fashioned carriage drawn by a pair of skeleton-like horses. The truce party consisted of the Mayor of Richmond, Colonel Mayo; Judge Meredith, of the Supreme Court; Mr. James Lyons, one of our most eminent lawyers, and a fourth, whom I do not now recall.

The carriage was probably in the early part of the century what might have been called, if the modern classic style of phraseology had prevailed at that time, a "tony rig." At the period of which I write it had made so many journeys over the famous Virginia roads that it had become a sepulchral wreck of its former self.

There may have been a time when the reminiscences of animals that dragged out from the burning Capital the ruins of the stately chariot were a span of gay and gallant steeds, arching their necks in graceful pride, champing their bits in scorn of the idea that harness made by man could trammel their lofty spirits, pawing the earth in disdain of its commonplace coarseness. If so, the lapse of years and an extended term of Confederate fare had reduced those noble coursers to shambling memories.

What of it? The chariot of state might be the wreck of former grandeur, the horses might be the dimmest of recollections, but was not Mr. Lyons still Mr. Lyons--in all circumstances, the most dignified member of Old Dominion aristocracy? The Mayor turned over the keys of the city and in recognition of the pre-eminence of Mr. Lyons, deputed to him the performance of further ceremonies. With cold and stately formality Mr. Lyons "had the honor" to introduce his companions and to present a paper on which was inscribed:

"It is proper to formally surrender to the Federal authorities the City of Richmond, hitherto Capital of the Confederate States of America, and the defenses protecting it."

Major Stevens courteously accepted the surrender on behalf of his Commanding General, to whom the document was transmitted, and proceeded to reduce the newly acquired property to possession by fighting the flames which disputed ownership with him.

Having utilized to good effect what little remnant of the fire department he could find, Major Stevens ordered the Stars and Stripes to be raised over the Capitol. Two soldiers of the Fourth Massachusetts Cavalry, one from Company E and one from Company H, mounted to the summit of the Capitol, and in a few moments, for the first time in more than four years, the National Flag fluttered unmolested in the breezes of the South. The stars of the Union were saluted, while our "warrior's Banner took its flight to meet the warrior's soul."

That flag which almost a century before had risen from the clouds of war, like a star gleaming out through the darkness of a stormy night, with its design accredited to both Washington and John Adams, was raised over Virginia by Massachusetts, in place of the one whose kinship and likeness to the old banner had never been entirely destroyed.

In March, 1861, the Confederate Congress adopted the Stars and Bars--three horizontal bars of equal width, the middle one white, the others red, with a blue union of nine stars in a circle. This was so like the National Flag as to cause confusion. In 1863 this flag was replaced by a banner with a white field, having the battle-flag (a red field charged with a blue saltier on which were thirteen stars) for a union. It was feared that this might be mistaken for a flag of truce, and was changed by covering the outer half of the field with a vertical red bar. This was finally adopted as the flag of the Confederate States of America.

Richmond will testify that the soldiers of Massachusetts were worthy of the honor of first raising the United States flag over the Capitol of the Confederacy, and will also bear witness to the unvarying courtesy of Major Stevens and the fidelity with which he kept his trust.

The day after the fire there was a rap at our door. The servants had all run away. The city was full of northern troops, and my environment had not taught me to love them. With my baby on my arm I answered the knock, opened the door and looked up at a tall, gaunt, sad-faced man in ill fitting clothes, who asked with the accent of the North:

"Is this George Pickett's place?"

"This is General Pickett's home, sir," I replied, "but he is not here."

"I know that, ma'am, I know where George Pickett is," he answered, "but I just wanted to see the place. Down in old Quincy, Illinois, where I used to hear George Pickett whistle the songs of Virginia in his bird-like notes, I have heard him describe his home till in spirit I have been here many a time. I have smelled the multi-flora roses and the Lady Bankshire roses and the golden cluster roses and those great cabbage roses. I have seen the borders of hyacinths in the springtime and the lilies-of-the-valley blooming in the chimney corner, the beds of violets, the rows of beehives and the lily-beds that the bees knew were theirs, had been planted just for them. I have stood under the arbor and gathered those strange green looking grapes that are like the Virginia aristocracy, growing each one on its own individual stem. I think he called them scuppernongs. I have sat on that back porch and listened to the music as his sister Virginia, of whom he was so proud, sang in that glorious voice he told me about, and I have swung in this old swing here while the moon and I watched and waited for the old cat to die. So I wanted to see the place."

I, listening, wondered who he could be, till he finished and then he said:

"I am Abraham Lincoln."

"The President!" I gasped.

"No--no,--just Abraham Lincoln; George Pickett's old friend."

"I am George Pickett's wife and this is his baby," was all I could say.

The baby reached out his arms and Mr. Lincoln took him, a look of tenderness almost divine glorifying that sad face. I have never seen that expression on any other face. My little one opened his mouth and insisted upon giving his father's friend a dewy baby kiss. As he handed my baby back to me Mr. Lincoln shook his long hand at him and said:

"Tell your father, the rascal, that I could almost forgive him anything for the sake of those bright eyes and that baby kiss."

The tones of his deep voice touched all the chords of life to music, and I marveled no more at my Soldier's love for him even through all the bitterness of the years. He turned and went down the steps and out of my life forever, but in my memory that wonderful voice, those intensely human eyes, that strong, sad, tender face have a perpetual abiding place. He seemed to have a cast in his eye that reminded me of the glass eye of Mr. Davis, but as no one has ever mentioned it in describing him it may be that his likeness to Jefferson Davis made me think so, yet I always see that look in his pictures.

Among my treasured possessions are some old letters, written by Mr. Lincoln when practicing law in Springfield, to George Pickett, then a cadet at West Point, where he was placed at the request of Mr. Lincoln. The homely and humorous philosophy of these letters, the honesty which breathes through them, the cheerful outlook upon life, and the ready sympathy of the experienced professional man with the boy just on the threshold of life, looking down the vista of the future to the flashing of swords and the thunder of guns, all bring him before me as a friend.

I look beyond the description he once gave of himself, "Height, six feet, four inches, nearly; lean in flesh, weighing on an average one hundred and eighty pounds; dark complexion, with coarse black hair and gray eyes."

A free-hand sketch like that is easy, but my memory fills the outlines with the subtle beauty of soul, the sunny view of life, the deep, tender sympathy that made up a face of infinite charm which puzzled all artists but revealed itself to the intuitions of a child, causing the babe to raise its little arms to be taken up and its lips to be kissed.

The ways of Abraham Lincoln and George Pickett were widely separated for a time, but were never so far apart that the old love had not full sway. I marveled over it once, but after my own picture of the man was filled out I wondered no more. I think no one who knew and loved Lincoln could be estranged from him, whatever tides of political hostility might roll between.

One afternoon, as we were reading "Les Miserables" upon the veranda, our attention was distracted by a number of soldiers below who were discussing the Emancipation Proclamation and saying all manner of discrediting things about Mr. Lincoln, censuring him as ignorant and despotic, and bringing other unfounded accusations against him. After they were gone my Soldier walked up and down the veranda, whistling "When other friends are 'round thee." Presently, coming back, sitting beside me and taking hold of my hand, he said:

"Years ago there was a very lonesome, dispirited, disappointed, heart-broken boy away off in Quincy, Illinois. He had received letters, not in envelopes as they come now, for that was a long time ago when the letter made its own envelope; paper was scarcer then than now, and one had to be careful in opening the letter. It was fastened with sealing wax and in breaking the wax it often happened that a word was broken off. He had opened three of those letters and found that four of his cousins had been appointed to West Point, three from Virginia and one from Kentucky, and _he_ was compelled to study law, a subject which he did not like, but which his family did and had chosen for him. His uncle with whom he was studying had no sympathy with his ambition to be a soldier and his disappointment in not being of the fortunate number.

"That night when this lonesome boy was leaning on the gate still brooding over his disappointment but obediently trying to memorize the Rule in Shelley's Case a tall man, for whom he was waiting, came up the street and asked, 'What is the matter? Holes in your pocket and your marbles and knife all dropped out?' 'Yes,' said the boy, 'I have lost my knife and my marbles and there are big holes in my pockets.' 'Well,' replied the man, 'you must have strong pockets like mine. I have marbles and a knife but my pockets are so strong now that they do not make holes in them, as they used to do. Come, sit down on the grass and let's have a game of mumble-de-peg.' The man played so badly on purpose that it was he who had to mumble the peg, but his playmate insisted that he should mumble it. 'No, you have been mumbling the peg all day, my boy. I want to keep you from mumbling pegs.'

"The next morning the boy was awakened by a handful of gravel thrown against the window. He looked out and saw his friend with saddle-bags in his hand. 'Going up the road a piece,' he called out. It took the man a long time to go up the road and the boy waited for him week after week to come down the road. After a long time there came instead a letter from which the following is an extract:

I never encourage deceit, and falsehood, especially if you have got a bad memory, is the _worst_ enemy a fellow can have. The fact is, truth is your truest friend, no matter what the circumstances are. Notwithstanding this copy-book preamble, my boy, I am inclined to suggest a _little prudence_ on your part. You see I have a congenital aversion to failure, and the sudden announcement to your Uncle Andrew of the success of your "lamp-rubbing" might possibly prevent your passing the severe _physical_ examination to which you will be subjected in order to enter the Military Academy. I should like to have a perfect soldier credited to dear old Illinois--no broken bones, scalp wounds, etc. So I think perhaps it might be wise to hand this letter from me in to your good uncle through his room-window _after_ he has had a _comfortable dinner_, and watch its effect from the top of the pigeon-house.

"Inclosed in this letter was one from Mr. John G. Stuart, Representative in Congress of the Third Illinois District, together with an appointment to West Point."

My Soldier was silent for a moment, then continued:

"That man is the one we have just heard maligned; the man to whom I, your Soldier, owes his profession, the one to whom he is indebted for the garlands that were hung around his horse all along the road as he came from Gettysburg, the one whose honesty and courage enabled your Soldier to defy the British fleet at San Juan, and to whom he owes the gratitude of the people of Petersburg who say that he saved their town--that man was Abraham Lincoln."

Months afterward, when the awful news of Lincoln's death came to us, my Soldier exclaimed:

"My God! My God! The South has lost her best friend and protector in this, her direst hour of need!"

XX

SUSPENSE

My Soldier left me in Richmond when he went away to fight the last battles of the war, telling me to stay until he returned or sent for me. "Now, remember, I shall surely come back," he said. So, like Casabianca, I waited, and not even "the flames that lit the battle's wreck" should frighten me away.

General Breckenridge, our Secretary of War, had, in his thoughtfulness, offered me an opportunity of leaving the Confederate Capital, but remembering that my Soldier had left me there I obediently determined to remain until he came or sent for me. Thanking the Secretary I said:

"I cannot go until the voice that bade me stay calls me."

The days were filled with fear and anguish unspeakable. The clock struck only midnight hours for me.

Rumors of the death of my Soldier were credited (I saw by the look on everybody's face, though no word was said), and I would not ask a question nor let anybody speak to me of him lest an effort be made to prepare me for the sad tidings. The last letter I had received from him was dated the 30th of March, at Hatcher's Run, the extreme right of the Confederate line, most of the letter being written in Chinook, that I only might understand. It contained the following paragraph:

Heavy rains; roads and streams almost impassable. While General Lee was holding a conference with his chiefs this morning a message came from General Fitz Lee, stating that through a prisoner he had learned that the Federal cavalry, fifteen thousand strong, supported by heavy infantry, were at or near Dinwiddie Court-House. This decided the General's plans, and he has placed General Fitz Lee in command of the whole cavalry, Rosser's, W. H. F. Lee's and his own, with orders to march upon Five Forks. I am to support with my small force of artillery and infantry this movement and I take command of the whole force.

He wrote in full faith of a short separation, saying that all would be well, that he would surely return, imploring me not to listen to or credit any rumors to the contrary, and urging me in an added line to be brave and of good cheer--to keep up a "skookum tum-tum." (Chinook for "brave heart," always his last words to me in parting). This letter was brought to me by Jaccheri, a daring, fearless Italian in my Soldier's employ as headquarters postmaster. He was sagacious and loyal, perfectly devoted to the General and his cause, and was trusted with letters of the strictest confidence and greatest importance all through the war.

As I said before, our people were on the verge of starvation. For weeks before we left camp the army had been living on rations of corn and beans, with "seasonings" of meat. The game had been trapped and killed throughout the whole country, and my breakfast that morning had consisted of a few beans cooked in water, no salt, for salt had long been a luxury in the Confederacy. All the old smokehouses had been moved, that the earth might be dug up and pulled down to recover the salt which in the many years it had absorbed.

John Theophelas, my dear little brother, nine years old, was a great comfort to me in these days of trial. He had just brought my beans and was lovingly coaxing me to eat them when Jaccheri came, and a plate was filled for him. After Jaccheri had finished his meager breakfast, seasoned with his adventures on the road, swimming the river at one place carrying his clothes in a bundle on his head, he said he must go. I added a few lines to my diary, which I always kept for my Soldier, and gave it to our faithful letter-carrier to take back to him.

"Ina da days to come," said Jaccheri in his soft Italian voice "ina all lands, no matter, mucha people, mucha gloly, nadie money, no matter, you find Jaccheri here--and here--" first putting his hand over his heart and then drawing from his boot and gracefully brandishing a shining blade. "Gooda-bye."

At the door he turned back, untied his cravat, and wiggled out five pieces of money, three gold dollars and two ninepences. He walked over on tiptoe to where the baby was sleeping, crossed himself and, kneeling by the cradle, slipped into baby's little closed hand two of the gold dollars and around his neck a much worn and soiled scapula.

"Da mon--Confed--noa mucha good, noa now mucha accountable--you mighta want some; want her vely bad before you nota get her. Gooda-bye, some moa."

Dear, faithful old Jaccheri, he would take no refusal, so I let baby keep the money. I was kneeling by the cradle crying and praying for my Soldier and thanking God that he had so good a friend as this poor camp postman, when the door opened softly and Jaccheri looked in.

"I know you cly and so I come back to say gooda-bye some moa, and God bless."

I was reading aloud lovingly and reverently the torn words on the ragged red-flannel scapula which Jaccheri had given to baby: "Cease, the heart of Jesus is with you," when the baby opened his sweet eyes and crowed over the little fortune which had come to him in his dreams, the first gold he had ever seen. Just then my little brother, who had gone downstairs with Jaccheri, came rushing back, his eyes wide open, all excitement, exclaiming:

"Sister! Sister! There's a Yankee down-stairs! Come to see you, but don't you go; hide, hide, sister! I'll stand by the door and he daresent pass by me. Quick, sister, hide! He said that he was one of brother George's friends, but I believe he has killed brother George, and now wants to kill you!"

In the light of the present day the terror of the child seems almost exaggerated, but in those days southern nurses kept children docile by warning them that the Yankees would get them if they did not behave, and the whole environment of childhood intensified the fear thus instilled.

"Oh, no, no, my child," I said reassuringly, trying to soothe and calm him. "No, no; don't be such a little coward, dear. If he is one of your brother George's friends he is mine, too, and he would not hurt me. I am not in the least afraid, and I will go down at once and see him."

"Please don't go, sister, you might be killed and I promised brother George to take care of you."

"That's a sweet boy; take care of the baby," I said and, kissing them both, closed the door behind me.

As I entered the parlor a tall, thin gentleman with the sweetest of smiles and the kindest of voices, dressed in the uniform of a United States surgeon, arose and said as he bowed, holding his hat against his breast, thus avoiding offering me his hand:

"My name is George Suckley, madam. I am one of George Pickett's friends, although, as soldiers, we have been enemies in the field for more than three years. That, however, does not interfere with us when we are not on duty. I have heard that you southern women are very bitter, and I did not know how you, his wife--you are Pickett's wife, are you not, madam?--would take a visit from me, but I came, nevertheless. Knowing and loving George Pickett as I do, I knew he would appreciate my motive in coming."

"Your name is a very familiar one, Dr. Suckley," I said. "I have often heard the General speak of you, and recall many stories of your adventures--your love for bugs and beetles, for all natural history, in fact." I wished him to know that I remembered him and had not mistaken him for another, and also that I had reason to wonder at seeing him in his present position. "He spoke of your having been with him at Fort Bellingham Bay, and knowing how you felt when he left the old army, he wondered at your remaining and going to the front."

"I am a surgeon in Grant's army," said Dr. Suckley, proudly, ignoring and, by his manner, almost resenting my reference to his former sympathy with the South. "I love _Pickett_, and came, as he would have come had our positions been reversed, to see his wife and offer her my services."

I thanked this kind-hearted gentleman and distinguished officer, but was too bitter to accept the smallest courtesy at his hands, even in my husband's name and offered for love's sake--so bitter that suffering was preferable to such obligation. He bowed and was going, when I said:

"Doctor, is there any news of the army?--ours, I mean."

"The war is over, madam. You have my address, if you should change your mind and will show me how I can serve you."

He bowed and left. He, too, had heard that my Soldier had been killed, and believed it, and I hated him worse because of his belief.

On the evening of the 3d of April I was walking the floor. Baby was asleep and my little brother was trotting behind me, when I heard from the street: