Chapter IV: Their Pluck (2)

Between 11 and 12 that night, as we girls were undressing and chatting around the fire, we heard a gentle tapping on the window below, and immediately mother came up and whispering as softly and mysteriously as if she feared the walls, which they so closely watched, or the winds, that whistled so keenly around the corners of the house, and also their ears might repeat her words to the pickets, informed me that Colonel Mosby and a few of his men were in the yard and wished to see me. I put on the first dress I came to and crept down noiselessly, lest I should arouse our spy of a guard. The colonel wanted to know the exact position of the pickets and videttes. I told him as well as I could, and in order to give him a more correct idea, I offered to go with any of them whom he might select to a certain hill, where I could point out their positions more definitely. Capt. Wm. R. Smith begged leave to go with me. He led his horse and we walked along, talking in a low tone. There was a full moon, but she wore a veil of fleecy clouds.

When we had gone about two hundred yards, very unexpectedly there rode out from behind a tree a Yankee picket.

"Halt," he cried.

It was but the work of an instant for Captain Smith to spring on his horse, and with an effort of his strong arm, "Light to the croup the fair lady he swung." The next instant a bullet seemed to graze our ears; in quick succession six bullets came, but they soon fell far behind us. We heard the whole line take up the alarm. As we flew along, Captain Smith said, very calmly, "A little romance for you." We soon reached our reserve and after some further conversation, bade one another goodnight--they going forth to meet other adventures and I to my friends, who having heard the firing, were awaiting my return somewhat anxiously. When I took off the dress I had worn, I discovered a very jagged rent, evidently made by the spur of a cavalier. Brave, brave Captain Smith! soon he gave his young life to our cause.

"AIN'T YOU ASHAMED OF YOU'UNS?"

[Phoebe Y. Pember.]

Directly in front of me sat an old Georgia up-country woman, placidly regarding the box cars full of men on the parallel rails, waiting, like ourselves, to start. She knitted and gazed, and at last inquired "who was them ar' soldiers, and whar' was they a-going to?" The information that they were Yankee prisoners startled her considerably. The knitting ceased abruptly (all the old women in the Southern States knitted socks for the soldiers while traveling), and the cracker bonnet of dark brown homespun was thrown back violently, for her whole nervous system seemed to have received a galvanic shock. Then she caught her breath with a long gasp, lifted on high her thin, trembling hand, accompanied by the trembling voice, and made a speech:

"Ain't you ashamed of you'uns," she piped. "A-coming down here a-spiling our country, and a-robbing our hen-roosts? What did we ever do to you'uns that you should come a-killing our brothers and sons? Ain't you ashamed of you'uns? What for do you want us to live with you'uns, you poor white trash? I ain't got a single nigger that would be so mean as to force himself where he warn't wanted, and what do we-uns want with you? Ain't you--" but there came a roar of laughter from both cars, and, shaking with excitement, the old lady pulled down her spectacles, which in the excitement she had pushed up on her forehead, and tried in vain to resume her labors with uncertain fingers.

FALSE TEETH

[In Richmond During the War, pages 165-166.]

In connection with the battle of the Cross Keys, we are just here reminded of an amusing stratagem of a rebel lady to conceal her age and charms from the enemy, who held possession of her house. She says: "Mr. K., you know, was compelled to evacuate his premises when the Federals took possession, and succeeding in making good their escape, left me here, with my three children, to encounter the consequences of their intrusion upon my premises. Not wishing to appear quite as youthful as I really am, and desiring to destroy, if possible, any remains of my former beauty, I took from my mouth a set of false teeth, (which I was compelled to have put in before I was 20 years old,) tied a handkerchief around my head, donned my most sloven apparel, and in every way made myself as hideous as possible. The disguise was perfect. I was sullen, morose, sententious. You could not have believed I could so long have kept up a manner so disagreeable; but it had the desired effect. The Yankees called me 'old woman.' They took little thought I was not 30 years of age. They took my house for a hospital for their sick and wounded, and allowed me only the use of a single room, and required of me many acts of assistance in nursing their men, which under any circumstances my own heart-promptings would have made a pleasure to me. But I did not feel disposed to be compelled to prepare food for those who had driven from me my husband, and afterwards robbed me of all my food and bed-furniture, with the exception of what they allowed me to have in my room. But they were not insulting in their language to the 'old woman,' and I endured all the inconveniences and unhappiness of my situation with as much fortitude as I could bring into operation, feeling that my dear husband, at least, was safe from harm. After they left," she continued, "I was forced to go into the woods, near by, and with my two little boys pick up fagots to cook the scanty food left to me." This is the story of one of the most luxuriously reared women of Virginia, and is scarcely the faintest shadow of what many endured under similar circumstances.

EMMA SANSOM

[Gen. T. Jordan and J. P. Pryor, in Campaigns of General Forrest, pages 267-270.]

The Federal column under Colonel Streight was again overtaken by 10 A. M., on the 2d; and the Confederate general selected fifty of the best mounted men, with whom his escort charged swiftly upon its rear in the face of a hot fire. For ten miles now, to Black Creek, an affluent of the Coosa, a sharp, running conflict occurred. The Federals, however, effected the passage of the stream without hindrance, by a bridge, which, being old and very dry, was in flames and impassable as the Confederates approached; besides which it was commanded by Streight's artillery, planted on the opposite bank. Black Creek is deep and rapid, and its passage in the immediate presence of the Federal force was an impossibility before which even Forrest was forced to pause and ponder. But while reflecting upon the predicament, he was approached by a group of women, one of whom, a tall, comely girl of about 18 years of age, stepped forward and inquired, "Whose command?"

The answer was, "The advance of General Forrest's cavalry."

She then requested that General Forrest should be pointed out, which being done, advancing, she addressed him nearly in these words:

"You are General Forrest, I am told. I know of an old ford to which I could guide you, if I had a horse. The Yankees have taken all of ours."

Her mother, stepping up, exclaimed:

"No, Emma; people would talk about you."

"I am not afraid to trust myself with as brave a man as General Forrest, and don't care for people's talk," was the prompt rejoinder of this Southern girl, her face illuminated with emotion.

The general then remarked, as he rode beside a log nearby: "Well, Miss ----, jump up behind me."

Quickly or without an instant of hesitation, she sprang from the log behind the redoubtable cavalry leader, and sat ready to guide him--under as noble an inspiration of unalloyed, courageous patriotism as that which has rendered the Maid of Zaragossa famous for all time. Calling for a courier to follow, guided by Miss Sansom, Forrest rode rapidly, leaping over fallen timber, to a point about half a mile above the bridge, where, at the foot of a ravine, she said there was a practicable ford. There, dismounting, they walked to the river-bank, opposite to which, on the other side, were found posted a Federal detachment, who opened upon both immediately with some forty small arms, the balls of which whistled close by, and tore up the ground in their front as they approached. Inquiring naively what caused the noise, and being answered that it was the sound of bullets, the intrepid girl stepped in front of her companion, saying, "General, stand behind me; they will not dare shoot me." Gently putting her aside, Forrest observed he could not possibly suffer her to do so, or to make a breastwork of herself, and gave her his arm so as to screen her as much as possible. By this time they had reached the ravine. Placing her behind the shelter afforded by the roots of a fallen tree, he asked Miss Sansom to remain there until he could reconnoitre the ford, and proceeded at once to descend the ravine on his hands and knees. After having gone some fifty yards in this manner, looking back, to his surprise and regret, she was immediately at his back; and in reply to his remark that he had told her to remain under shelter, replied: "Yes, General, but I was fearful that you might be wounded; and it is my purpose to be near you."

The ford-mouth reached and examined, they then returned as they came, through the ravine, to the crown of the bank, under fire, when she took his arm as before--an open mark for the Federal sharpshooters, whose fire for some instants was even heavier than at first; and several of their balls actually passed through her skirts, exciting the observation, "They have only wounded my crinoline." At the same time, withdrawing her arm, the dauntless girl, turning round, faced the enemy, and waved her sun-bonnet defiantly and repeatedly in the air. We are pleased to be able to record that, at this, the hostile fire was stopped; the Federals took off their own caps, and, waving them, gave three hearty cheers of approbation. Remounting, Forrest and Miss Sansom returned to the command, who received her with unfeigned enthusiasm.

The artillery was sent forward, and with a few shells, well thrown, quickly drove away the Federal guard at the ford, which Major McLemore was directed to seize with his regiment. The stream was boggy, with high, declivitous banks on both sides, and it was necessary to take the ammunition from the caissons by hand, and to force the animals down the steep slopes, and to take the ford, but, nevertheless, the passage was successfully effected in less than two hours. Meantime, the Confederate general delivered his fair, daring young guide back safely into the hands of her mother, took a knightly farewell, inspired by the romantic coloring of the occurrence, and dashed after his command to resume the chase, as soon as the passage of the creek was effected.

PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT'S MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER

[By J. L. Underwood.]

The story has often been told of Mrs. Roosevelt, formerly Miss Bulloch, of Georgia, and mother of President Roosevelt, that early in the war between the States, when a regiment of Federal soldiers was marching past her residence in New York, she displayed a Confederate flag at her window and refused to take it down when ordered to do so.

In October, 1905, a similar story was told by the Philadelphia correspondent of the Richmond _Times-Dispatch_ that Mrs. Bulloch, the grandmother of the President, at some period of the war did the same thing in that city. The author of this volume was about to insert both incidents when a moment's reflection caused him to hesitate. He remembered that both the ladies mentioned were typical Southern women, of one of the best and most knightly families. The stories lack _vraisemblance_. Whatever may have been their sympathies during the war between the States, such a needless display as that indicated in the stories does not sound like the Bullochs of Georgia. Southern women were not given to showing their patriotism by waving flags. It is rather too cheap. Southern women of the best type, while members of Northern families or guests of Northern friends, during the war, would not volunteer to flaunt before the public a family division of political sentiment under such sad circumstances. In addition to this, the author has too much regard for the sanctity of home, be it ever so humble or so highly exalted, to enter its portals for a striking story without knocking for admission. Under the circumstances he felt it due to consult our magnanimous President himself as to the authenticity of either or both incidents. President Roosevelt kindly forwarded the following reply:

"THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, D. C., _Nov. 20, 1905_.
Personal.

DEAR SIR: It is always a pleasure to hear from an old Confederate
soldier, and I thank you for your letter and for the kind way in
which you speak of me; but that incident about my mother never
took place. This is the first time I ever heard the story about my
grandmother and I am sure it is equally without basis. My
grandmother was very infirm during the war and I do not believe
she ever lived at Philadelphia. She was with us in New York.

Sincerely yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

REV. J. L. UNDERWOOD,
_Kellam's Hospital, Richmond, Va._"

Elsewhere in this volume it is shown that John G. Whittier's famous story of Barbara Freitchie and the Federal flag is a myth, pure and simple. This letter of the President consigns the two stories above mentioned to a similar fate. The Southern people will thank him for it. They desire nothing but simple truth about their honored President and his family.

THE LITTLE GIRL AT CHANCELLORSVILLE

General Fitz Hugh Lee loved to tell of the little girl in the house where Stonewall Jackson breathed his last, who said to her mother that she "wished that God would let her die instead of the general, for then only her mother would cry; but if Jackson died all the people of the country would cry."

SAVED HER HAMS

In Mississippi a farmer's wife heard that a regiment of Federal cavalry was coming. She had a smoke-house full of fine hams and shoulder meat. Immediately she went to work, and when the soldiers came they found the meat lying all about the yard with a knife hole stuck deep into each piece. The Yankees rushed in and began to pick it up.

"What's the matter with this meat, madam? How came these holes in it?"

"Now, look here," said she, "you know the Confederate cavalry has just been here, and if you all get poisoned by that meat you must not blame me."

They left the meat.

HEROISM OF A WIDOW

[Mrs. Allie McPeek, in Southern Historical Papers, Volume 23, page 328; from the Atlanta (Ga.) _Constitution_, November 9, 1905.]

It was on the first and second days of September, 1864, General Hardee of the Southern forces was sent to Jonesboro from Atlanta with 22,000 men to head off a formidable flank movement of the enemy, which had for its purpose to cut off Southern communication and thereby compel the evacuation of the city of Atlanta. The flank movement consisted of 40,000 men, and was commanded chiefly by Major-General John M. Schofield, together with General Sedgwick, who was also a corps commander, and consisted of the best fighters of the Federal army.

As the two armies confronted each other two miles to the north and northwest of Jonesboro, it so happened that the little house and farm of a poor old widow was just between the two lines of battle when the conflict opened, and, having nowhere to go, she was necessarily caught between the fire of the two commanding lines of battle, which was at comparatively close range and doing fierce and deadly work. The house and home of this old lady was soon converted into a Federal hospital, and with the varying fortunes she was alternately within the lines of each contending army, when not between them on disputed ground.

During the whole of this eventful day this good and brave woman, exposed as she was to the incessant showers of shot and shell from both sides, moved fearlessly about among the wounded and dying of both sides alike, and without making the slightest distinction. Finally night closed the scene with General Schofield's army corps in possession of the ground, and when the morning dawned it found this grand old lady still at her post of duty, knowing, too, as she did, the fortunes, or rather misfortunes, of war had stripped her of the last vestige of property she had except her little tract of land which had been laid waste. Now it was that General John M. Schofield, having known her suffering and destitute condition, sent her, under escort and arms, a large wagon-load of provisions and supplies, and caused his adjutant-general to write her a long and touching letter of thanks, and wound up the letter with a special request that she keep it until the war was over and present it to the United States government, and they would repay all her losses.

She kept the letter, and soon after the Southern Claims Commission was established she brought it to the writer, who presented her claim in due form, and she was awarded about $600--all she claimed, but not being all she lost. The letter is now on file with other proofs of the exact truth of this statement with the files of the Southern Claims Commission at Washington. Her name was Allie McPeek, and she died several years ago.

WINCHESTER WOMEN

[Fremantle's Three Months in Southern Lines.]

Winchester used to be a most agreeable town, and its society extremely pleasant. Many of its houses are now destroyed or converted into hospitals, the outlook miserable and dilapidated. Its female inhabitants (for the able-bodied males are all absent in the army) are familiar with the bloody realities of war. As many as 5,000 wounded have been accommodated here at one time. All the ladies are accustomed to the bursting of shells and the sight of fighting, and all are turned into hospital nurses or cooks.

SPARTA IN MISSISSIPPI

[Gen. J. B. Gordon.]

The heroines of Sparta who gave their hair for bow-strings have been immortalized by the muse of history; but what tongue can speak or pen indite a tribute worthy of the Mississippi woman who with her own hands applied the torch to more than half a million dollars' worth of cotton, reducing herself to poverty rather than have that cotton employed against her people. The day will come, and I believe it is rapidly approaching, when in all will be seen evidences of appreciation of these inspiring incidents; when all lips will unite in expressing gratitude to God that they belong to such a race of men and women.

"WOMAN'S DEVOTION"--A WINCHESTER HEROINE

[Gen. D. H. Maury, in Southern Historical Papers.]

The history of Winchester is replete with romantic and glorious memories of the late war. One of the most interesting of these has been perpetuated by the glowing pencil of Oregon Wilson, himself a native of this valley, and the fine picture he has made of the incident portrayed by him has drawn tears from many who loved their Southern country and the devoted women who elated and sanctified by their heroic sacrifices the cause which, borne down for a time, now rises again to honor all who sustained it.

That truth, which is stranger than fiction, is stronger, too. The simple historic facts which gave Wilson the theme of his great picture gains nothing from the romantic glamour his beautiful art has thrown about the actors in the story.

In 1864, General Ramseur, commanding a Confederate force near Winchester, was suddenly attacked by a Federal force under General Averell, and after a sharp encounter was forced back through the town. The battlefield was near the residence of Mr. Rutherford, about two miles distant, and the wounded were gathered in his house and yard. The Confederate surgeons left in charge of these wounded men appealed to the women of Winchester (the men had all gone off to the war) to come out and aid in dressing the wounds and nursing the wounded. As was always the way of these Winchester women, they promptly responded to this appeal, and on the ---- day of July more than twenty ladies went out to Mr. Rutherford's to minister to their suffering countrymen. There were more than sixty severely wounded men who had been collected from the battlefield and were lying in the house and garden of Mr. Rutherford. The weather was warm, and those out of doors were as comfortable and as quiet as those within. Amongst them was a beardless boy named Randolph Ridgely; he was severely hurt; his thigh was broken by a bullet, and his sufferings were very great; his nervous system was shocked and unstrung, and he could find no rest. The kind surgeon in charge of him had many others to care for; he felt that quiet sleep was all important for his young patient, and he placed him under charge of a young girl who had accompanied these ladies from Winchester; told her his life depended on his having quiet sleep that night; showed her how best to support his head, and promised to return and see after his condition as soon and as often as his duties to the other wounded would permit.

All through that anxious night the brave girl sat, sustaining the head of the wounded youth and carefully guarding him against everything that could disturb his rest or break the slumber into which he gently sank, and which was to save his life. She only knew and felt that a brave Confederate life depended on her care. She had never seen him before, nor has she ever seen him since. And when at dawn the surgeon came to her, he found her still watching and faithful, just as he had left her at dark--as only a true woman, as we love to believe our Virginia women, can be. The soldier had slept soundly. He awoke only once during the night, when tired nature forced his nurse to change her posture; and when after the morning came she was relieved of her charge, and she fell ill of the exhaustion and exposure of that night. Her consolation during the weary weeks she lay suffering was that she had saved a brave soldier for her country.

In the succeeding year, Captain Hancock, of the Louisiana Infantry, was brought to Winchester, wounded and a prisoner. He lay many weeks in the hospital, and when nearly recovered of his wounds, was notified that he would be sent to Fort Delaware. As the time drew near for his consignment to this hopeless prison, he confided to Miss Lenie Russell, the same young girl who had saved young Ridgely's life, that he was engaged to be married to a lady of lower Virginia, and was resolved to attempt to make his escape. She cordially entered into his plans, and aided in their successful accomplishment. The citizens of Winchester were permitted sometimes to send articles of food and comfort to the sick and wounded Confederates, and Miss Russell availed herself of this to procure the escape of the gallant captain. She caused him to don the badge of a hospital attendant, take a market basket on his arm and accompany her to a house, whence he might, with least danger of detection and arrest, effect his return to his own lines. Captain Hancock made good use of his opportunity and safely rejoined his comrades; survived the war; married his sweetheart, and to this day omits no occasion for showing his respect and gratitude for the generous woman to whose courage and address he owes his freedom and his happiness.

SPOKEN LIKE CORNELIA

[From The Gray Jacket, page 529.]

A young lady of Louisiana, whose father's plantation had been brought within the enemy's lines in their operations against Vicksburg, was frequently constrained by the necessities of her situation to hold conversation with the Federal officers. On one of these occasions, a Yankee official inquired how she managed to preserve her equanimity and cheerfulness and so many trials and privations, and such severe reverses of fortune. "Our army," said he, "has deprived your father of two hundred negroes, and literally desolated two magnificent plantations."

She said to the officer--a leader of that army, which had, for months, hovered around Vicksburg, powerless to take it with all their vast appliances of war, and mortified by their repeated failures: "I am not insensible to the comforts and elegances which fortune can secure, and of which your barbarian hordes have deprived me; but a true Southern woman will not weep over them, while her country remains. If you wish to crush me, take Vicksburg."

A SPECIMEN MOTHER

[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers' Memories, pages 208-209.]

At the commencement of the war there lived in Sharon, Miss., Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary, surrounded by a family of five stalwart sons. Mrs. Catherine O'Leary was a fond and loving mother, but also an unfaltering patriot, and her heart was fired with love for the cause of Southern liberty. Therefore when her brave sons, one after another, went forth to battle for the right, she bade them God-speed. "Be true to your God and your country," said this noble woman, "and never disgrace your mother by flinching from duty."

Her youngest and, perhaps, dearest, was at that time only 14. For a while she felt that his place was by her side; but in 1863, when he was barely 17, she no longer tried to restrain him. Her trembling hands, having arrayed the last beloved boy for the sacrifice, rested in blessings on his head ere he went forth. Repressing the agony which swelled her heart, she calmly bade him, also, "Do your duty. If you must die, let it be with your face to the foe." And so went forth James A. O'Leary, at the tender age of 17, full of ardor and hope. He was at once assigned to courier duty under General Loring. On the 28th of July, 1864, at the battle of Atlanta, he was shot through the hip, the bullet remaining in the wound, causing intense suffering, until 1870, when it was extracted, and the wound healed for the first time. Notwithstanding this wound, he insisted upon returning to his command, which, in the mean time, had joined Wood's regiment of cavalry. This was in 1865, and, so wounded, he served three months, surrendering with General Wirt Adams at Gainesville. A short but very glorious record. Mrs. O'Leary still lives in Sharon. The old fire is unquenched.

MRS. ROONEY

[Mrs. Fannie A. Beers' Memories, pages 217-220.]

There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted Confederate women. I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company K, Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861, and never deserted the "b'ys" for a day until the surrender.

She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm, Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to risk the dangers of every battlefield where the regiment was engaged, unheeding havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely succor to the wounded or comfort the dying. When in camp she looked after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one escaped being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so well. She managed to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying at times $35 per pound for it. The surrender almost broke her heart. Her defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner. I will give in her own words an account of what followed:

"Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest. The next day, when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I asked them what they would do with me. They tould me to 'go to the devil.' I tould them, 'I've been long in his company; I'd choose something better.' I then asked them where any Confederates lived. They tould me about three miles through the woods. On my way I met some Yankees. They asked me, 'What have you in that bag?' I said, 'Some rags of my own.' I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new dresses at the bottom; and sure, I got off with them all. Then they asked me if I had any money. I said no; but in my stocking I had two hundred dollars in Confederate money. One of the Yankees, a poor devil of a private soldier, handed me three twenty-five cents of Yankee money. I said to him, 'Sure, you must be an Irishman.' 'Yes,' said he. I then went on till I got to the house. Mrs. Crump and her sister were in the yard, and about twenty negro women--no men. I had not a bite for two days, nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness. Mrs. Crump said, 'Don't cry; you are among friends.' She then gave me plenty to eat,--hot hoecakes and buttermilk. I stayed there fifteen days, superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men. One half of the house was full of Confederates and the other of Yankees. They then brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees were gathered together. There was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me, and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners. I tould him, 'And what have you to say to what you done to our poor fellows?' He tould me to shut up, and sure I did. They asked me fifty questions after, and I never opened me mouth. The next day was the day when all the Confederate flags came to Petersburg. I had some papers in my pocket that would have done harrum to some people, so I chewed them all up and ate them; but I wouldn't take the oath, and I never did take it. The flags were brought in on dirt-carts and as they passed the Federal camps them Yankees would unfurl them and shake them about to show them. My journey from Burkesville to Petersburg was from 11 in the morning till 11 at night, and I sitting on my bundle all the way. The Yankee soldiers in the car were cursing me, and calling me a damn rebel, and more ugly talk. I said, 'Mabbe some of you has got a mother or wife; if so, you'll show some respect for me.' Then they were quiet. I had to walk three miles to Captain Buckner's headquarters. The family were in the house near the battle-ground, but the door was shut, and I didn't know who was inside, and I couldn't see any light. I sat down on the porch, and thought I would have to stay there all night. After a while I saw a light coming from under the door, and so I knocked; when the door was opened and they saw who it was, they were all delighted to see me because they were afraid I was dead. I wanted to go to Richmond, but would not go on a Yankee transportation. When the brigade came down, I cried me heart out because I was not let go on with them. I stayed three months with Mrs. Cloyd, and then Major Rawle sent me forty dollars and fifty more if I needed it, and that brought me home to New Orleans."

Mrs. Rooney is still cared for and cherished by the veterans of Louisiana. At the Soldiers' Home she holds the position of matron, and her little room is a shrine never neglected by visitors to "Camp Nichols."

WARNING BY A BRAVE GIRL

[Our Women in the War, pages 63-64.]

I know of a girl who rode through the storm of a winter's night, many miles, to give information to our soldiers when Sherman was on his way to Atlanta. The country far and wide was filled with soldiers, and skirmishing was of constant occurrence. By her efforts many lives were saved, and as she returned homeward the shot and shell were falling thick and fast around her. Later, a desperate encounter took place in her father's yard between contending armies, and her courage was wonderful in assisting the wounded and baffling inquiries from the Yankee officers, who made headquarters in her home. She still managed to give important information, and defied detection. This girl is of an ancient family, and soldier blood is in her veins. Her grandfather was a general in the United States army before her mother was grown.

A PLUCKY GIRL WITH A PISTOL

[Our Women in the War, pages 37-39.]

Charleston was under an iron heel, the heel of despair. Every house had its shutters closed and darkened; all the rooms overlooking the streets were abandoned; the women endeavored to give a deserted and dreary aspect to every mansion, and lived as retiringly as possible in the back portions of their dwellings, hoping that the Northern soldiery in the city would suppose such houses to be deserted and therefore would not search them.

But this did not save Mr. Cunningham's house. By a strange coincidence it was again a company of black Michigan troops, with a negro in command, that burst open the locked gate, tore up the flower garden, and finally streamed up the back piazza steps, armed with muskets and glittering bayonets that shone in the noonday sun, their faces blacker than ink, their eyes red with drink and malice. The three girls saw them from the dining-room and shivered, but not one moment was lost. Cecil pushed the other two into the room, saying, "Stay here, I will go close this door and meet them," and advancing quickly she reached the entrance to the piazza just as the captain set his foot on the last step, and would have entered, but that her slight person filled up the narrow space.

"What do you want here?" she asked. "Why do you and your troops rush into my house?"

"We want quarters here, and quarters we will have. Move aside and let us in."

"I shall not; we don't take boarders, and I have not invited you as guests. Go away at once, or I will report you to the general in command."

"D----n you, move aside, or I will throw you down."

"Keep your hands off if you are wise," said Cecil, instantly placing one of her own in her pocket, and never removing her steady eyes from his face.

"By God! I believe you have got a pistol; let's search her person for arms."

"I have a pistol and shall shoot the first person that touches me, even if you all strike and kill me afterwards. Leave this yard, and do it at once. By 3 o'clock I will give you an answer if you come here for quarters then; now go!"

"You little rebel devil! We will be back, and we will stay next time, be sure; and will take that same pistol from you, too."

With an extra volley of fearful curses they departed and the girls rushed to Cecil, who, after the excitement was over and nerve no longer needed, turned white and faint. Then they all sat down and cried, feeling like desolate orphans.

MOSBY'S MEN AND TWO NOBLE GIRLS

[In Wearing of the Gray, pages 545-547.]

The force at Morgan's Lane was too great to meet front to front, and the ground so unfavorable for receiving their assault, that Mountjoy gave the order for his men to save themselves, and they abandoned the prisoners and horses, put spurs to their animals, and retreated at full gallop past the mill, across a little stream, and up the long hill upon which was situated the mansion above referred to. Behind them the one hundred Federal cavalrymen came on at full gallop, calling upon them to halt, and firing volleys into them as they retreated.

We beg now to introduce upon the scene the female _dramatis personae_ of the incident--two young ladies who had hastened out to the fence as soon as the firing began, and now witnessed the whole. As they reached the fence, the fifteen men of Captain Mountjoy appeared, mounting the steep road like lightning, closely pursued by the Federal cavalry, whose dense masses completely filled the narrow road. The scene at the moment was sufficient to try the nerves of the young ladies. The clash of hoofs, the crack of carbines, the loud cries of "halt! halt!! halt!!!"--this tramping, shouting, banging, to say nothing of the quick hiss of bullets filling the air, rendered the "place and time" more stirring than agreeable to one consulting the dictates of a prudent regard to his or her safety.

Nevertheless, the young ladies did not stir. They had half mounted the board fence, and in this elevated position were exposed to a close and dangerous fire; more than one bullet burying itself in the wood close to their persons. But they did not move--and this for a reason more creditable than mere curiosity to witness the engagement, which may, however, have counted for something. This attracted them, but they were engaged in "doing good," too. It was of the last importance that the men should know where they could cross the river.

"Where is the nearest ford?" they shouted.

"In the woods there," was the reply of one of the young ladies, pointing with her hand, and not moving.

"How can we reach it?"

"Through the gate," and waving her hand, the speaker directed the rest, amid a storm of bullets burying themselves in the fence close beside her.

The men went at full gallop towards the ford. Last of all came Mountjoy--but Mountjoy, furious, foaming almost at the mouth, on fire with indignation, and uttering oaths so frightful that they terrified the young ladies much more than the balls or the Federal cavalry darting up the hill.

The partisan had scarcely disappeared in the woods, when the enemy rushed up, and demanded which way the Confederates had taken.

"I will not tell you," was the reply of the youngest girl. The trooper drew a pistol, and cocking it, levelled it at her head.

"Which way?" he thundered.

The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said: "How do I know?"

"Move on!" resounded from the lips of the officer in command, and the column rushed by, nearly trampling upon the ladies, who ran into the house.

Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic. Before the door, sitting on his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue--and at sight of him the ladies shrunk back. A second glance showed them that he was bleeding to death from a mortal wound. The bullet had entered his side, traversed the body, issued from the opposite side, inflicting a wound which rendered death almost certain.

"Take me from my horse!" murmured the wounded man, stretching out his arms and tottering.

The young girls ran to him.

"Who are you--one of the Yankees?" they exclaimed.

"Oh, no!" was the faint reply. "I am one of Mountjoy's men. Tell him, when you see him, that I said, 'Captain, this is the first time I have gone out with you, and the last!'"

As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured: "My name is William Armistead Braxton. I have a wife and three little children living in Hanover--you must let them know--"

The poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were compelled to carry him in their arms into the house, where he was laid upon a couch, writhing in agony.

They had then time to look at him, and saw before them a young man of gallant countenance, elegant figure--in every outline of his person betraying the gentleman born and bred. They afterwards discovered that he had just joined Mosby, and that, as he had stated, this was his first scout. Poor fellow! it was also his last.

A SPARTAN DAME AND HER YOUNG

[From The Gray Jacket, page 488.]

"We were once," says General D. H. Hill, "witness to a remarkable piece of coolness in Virginia. A six-gun battery was shelling the woods furiously near which stood a humble hut. As we rode by, the shells were fortunately too high to strike the dwelling, but this might occur any moment by lowering the angle or shortening the fire. The husband was away, probably far off in the army, but the good housewife was busy at the wash-tub, regardless of all the roar and crash of shells and falling timber. Our surprise at her coolness was lost in greater amazement at observing three children, the oldest not more than 10, on top of a fence, watching with great interest the flight of the shells. Our curiosity was so much excited by the extraordinary spectacle that we could not refrain from stopping and asking the children if they were not afraid. 'Oh, no,' replied they, 'the Yankees ain't shooting at us, they are shooting at the soldiers.'"

SINGING UNDER FIRE

[A Rebel's Recollections, pages 72-73.]

They [the women of Petersburg] carried their efforts to cheer and help the troops into every act of their lives. When they could, they visited camp. Along the lines of march they came out with water or coffee or tea--the best they had, whatever it might be; with flowers, or garlands of green when their flowers were gone. A bevy of girls stood under a sharp fire from the enemy's lines at Petersburg one day, while they sang Bayard Taylor's "Song of the Camp," responding to an encore with the stanza:

"Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,
Your truth and valor bearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring!"

Indeed, the coolness of women under fire was always a matter of surprise to me. A young girl, not more than 16 years of age, acted as guide to a scouting party during the early years of the war, and when we urged her to go back after the enemy had opened a vigorous fire upon us, she declined, on the plea that she believed we were "going to charge those fellows," and she "wanted to see the fun." At Petersburg women did their shopping and went about their duties under a most uncomfortable bombardment, without evincing the slightest fear or showing any nervousness whatever.

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 225-227.]

The city of Richmond was in flames. We were beginning that last terrible retreat which ended the war. Fire had been set to the arsenal as a military possession, which must on no account fall into the enemy's hands. As the flames spread, because of a turn of the wind, other buildings caught. The whole business part of the city was on fire. To make things worse, some idiot had ordered that all the liquor in the city should be poured into the gutters. The rivers of alcohol had been ignited from the burning buildings. It was a time and scene of unutterable terror.

As we marched up the fire-lined street, with the flames scorching the very hair off our horses, George Goodsmith--the best cannoneer that ever wielded a rammer--came up to the headquarters squad, and said: "Captain, my wife's in Richmond. We've been married less than a year. She is soon to become a mother. I beg permission to bid her good-bye. I'll join the battery later."

The permission was granted readily, and George Goodsmith put spurs to his horse. He had just been made a sergeant, and was therefore mounted. It was in the gray of the morning that he hurriedly met his wife. With caresses of the tenderest kind, he bade her farewell. Realizing for a moment the utter hopelessness of our making another stand on the Roanoke, or any other line, he said in the bitterness of his soul: "Why shouldn't I stay here and take care of you?"

The woman straightened herself and replied: "I would rather be the widow of a brave man than the wife of a coward."

That was their parting, for the time was very short. Mayo's bridge across the James River was already in flames when Goodsmith perilously galloped across it.

Three or four days later--for I never could keep tab on time at that period of the war--we went into the battle at Farmville. Goodsmith was in his place in command of the piece. Just before fire opened he beckoned to me, and I rode up to hear what he had to say.

"I'm going to be killed, I think," he said. "If I am, I want my wife to know that she is the widow of a--brave man. I want her to know that I did my duty to the last. And--and if you live long enough and this thing don't kill Mary--I want you to tell the little one about his father."

Goodsmith's premonition of his death was one of many that were fulfilled during the war. A moment later a fearful struggle began. At the first fire George Goodsmith's wife became the "widow of a brave man." His body was heavy with lead.

His son, then unborn, is now a successful broker in a great city. There is nothing particularly knightly or heroic about him, for this is not a knightly or heroic age. But he takes very tender care of his mother--that "widow of a brave man."

TWO MISSISSIPPI GIRLS HOLD YANKEES AT PISTOL POINT

[In Richmond Enquirer, July 22, 1862, page 3.]

A Memphis correspondent of the _Appeal_, in referring to the bad treatment of citizens by the Federal soldiers, related the following:

The most unmanly and brutal act that I know of is their treatment of two Misses Coe. Levin Coe, their brother, was at home, discharged from the army. They surrounded the house before the family knew they were on the place. Fortunately young Coe had gone fishing, and two of his sisters escaped to the garden and ran to warn him not to come home. The Yankees saw the way they went, and followed them, but the sisters outran them and gave their brother the information of their coming. They came up with the ladies at a house in the vicinity of the creek, and attempted to arrest them, but they were both armed and dared the six big, strapping Yankees to lay their hands on them. One would say to another, "She's got a pistol; take it away from her." And she, a weak woman, stood at bay and told them to touch her at their peril. And the craven wretches dared not do it. At last, to get them from the neighborhood of their brother, they agreed to go to headquarters with them. It was then noon, and these girls had run two miles, and then these scoundrels marched them off on foot four miles to town. At every step they tried to get their pistols from them, threatening them with instant death if they did not give them up. Three times they placed their pistols at the girls' hearts with them cocked and their fingers on the trigger, telling them they would kill them. Each time the girls replied, "Shoot; I can shoot as quick as you can." And they never did give them up until their brother-in-law came up with them and told them to do so, and he gave himself up in their place. Levin Coe escaped.

"WAR WOMEN" OF PETERSBURG

[Southern Soldier Stories, pages 72-73.]

During all those weary months the good women of Petersburg went about their household affairs with fifteen-inch shells dropping occasionally into their boudoirs or uncomfortably near to their kitchen ranges. Yet they paid no attention to any danger that threatened themselves. Their deeds of mercy will never be adequately recorded until the angels report. But this much I want to say of them--they were "war women" of the most daring and devoted type. When there was need of their ministrations on the line, they were sure to be promptly there; and once, as I have recorded elsewhere in print, a bevy of them came out to the lines only to encourage us, and, under a fearful fire, sang Bayard Taylor's "Song of the Camp," giving as an encore the lines:

"Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest,
Your truth and valor bearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring."

With inspiration such as these women gave us, it was no wonder that, as I heard General Sherman say soon after the war: "It took us four years, with all our enormous superiority in resources, to overcome the stubborn resistance of those men."

JOHN ALLEN'S COW

While General Milroy was in possession of Winchester he was extremely harsh and vindictive towards the people. A great many of them were reduced to the borders of starvation. Miss Allen, a 15-year-old Southern girl, was a member of a family almost absolutely dependent on a good cow's milk for sustenance. In a short time the cow's food was exhausted and the prospect looked dark indeed. There was a good pasturage just outside the town, beyond the guard lines of the Federal troops. The brave girl volunteered to lead the cow out and attend her while grazing. A permit to pass the lines from General Milroy was necessary. She went to the general and laid her case before him and asked for a permit. He flatly refused her request and rudely insulted the poor girl.

"I can't do anything for you rebels and I will not let you pass. The rebellion has got to be crushed," said he.

"Well," answered the girl, "if you think you can crush the rebellion by starving John Allen's old cow, just crush away."

THE FAMILY THAT HAD NO LUCK

[Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 23-24.]

At the battle of Fredericksburg, as we tumbled into the sunken road, an old man came in bearing an Enfield rifle and wearing an old pot hat of the date of 1857 or thereabouts. With a gentle courtesy that was unusual in war, he apologized to the two men between whom he placed himself, saying: "I hope I don't crowd you, but I must find a place somewhere from which I can shoot."

At that moment one of the great assaults occurred. The old man used his gun like an expert. He wasted no bullet. He took aim every time and fired only when he knew his aim to be effective. Yet he fired rapidly.

Tom Booker, who stood next to him, said as the advancing column was swept away: "You must have shot birds on the wing in your time."

The old man answered: "I did up to twenty years ago; but then I sort o' lost my sight, you know, and my interest in shootin'."

"Well, you've got 'em both back again," called out Billy Goodwin, from down the line.

"Yes," said the old man. "You see I had to. It's this way: I had six boys and six gells. When the war broke out I thought the six boys could do my family's share o' the fightin'. Well, they did their best, but they didn't have no luck. One of 'em was killed at Manassas, two others in a cavalry raid, and the other three fell in different actions--'long the road, as you might say. We ain't seemed to a had no luck. But it's just come to this, that if the family is to be represented, the old man must git up his shootin' agin, or else one o' the gells would have to take a hand. So here I am."

Just then the third advance was made. A tremendous column of heroic fellows was hurled upon us, only to be swept away as its predecessors had been. Two or three minutes did the work, but at the end of that time the old man fell backward, and Tom Booker caught him in his arms.

"You're shot," he said.

"Yes. The family don't seem to have no luck. If one of my gells comes to you, you'll give her a fair chance to shoot straight, won't you, boys?"

BRAVE WOMEN AT RESACA, GA.

[By J. L. Underwood.]

In a letter to Mrs. E. J. Simmons, of Calhoun, Ga., dated June 7, 1896, Rev. Jno. C. Portis, of Union, Miss., formerly of the Eighteenth Mississippi Regiment, and now a Congregational Methodist minister, writes: