Chapter VII: Part 7

Though we were both very much touched by the kind generosity of this stranger in a strange land, my Soldier was firm in his refusal.

"Well, good-bye and good luck to you," he said. "You are as obstinate as an 'allegory on the banks of the Nile.' Here it goes," putting the fifty dollars back into his pocket, and turning to me, with a tone I so well remembered, he wished me happiness.

"Good-bye," I said; "may 'Our Father' who art in heaven and his little ones of whom he says 'suffer to come unto me,' keep your heart thoughtful for others, and gentle and kind all through this life. Believe in soul and be very sure of God."

In all the years that came afterward the friendship formed then between my husband and our first "Left-hander" was never broken--and to me it was a legacy.

The following week I noticed his rooms were taken by a lady and gentleman whose actions were very strange. I saw there were two of them this time. The second evening, as I was putting baby, who was unusually restless and fretful and would not be amused or comforted, to sleep, the queer lady, with a "Banquo-is-buried-and-can-not-come-out-of-his-grave" tone and manner, came in and said, "The child--is't ill, or doth it need the rod withal!" Whether the child needed "the rod withal?" or Mrs. Winslow's soothing syrup, he stopped crying at once and, while she talked on, he never took his startled eyes from her face till he wearily closed them, hypnotized to sleep.

"Hast thou a nurse--one that thou call'st trustworthy?" she asked, after I had put the baby in his little bed.

"Yes, madam," I answered, "one whose love makes her so."

"It is well" she said, "and if thou dost not fear to leave the watch with her, wilt thou and thy husband come as our guests to see our Hamlet as we have conceived him to be?"

It was the first of Shakespeare's plays I had ever seen, and my blood ran cold as I breathlessly watched the portrayal of it by these, the most celebrated actors of their day (Charles Kean and his wife, Ellen Tree), with talents so versatile that I cried over the tragedy as if my heart would break, and laughed with equal heartiness over "Toodles," the farce which followed.

At the close of the play the actress brought her husband into the box and introduced him. Unlike her, he did all his acting on the stage; she stabbed her potatoes and said, "What! no b-e-a-n-s?"

We accepted their kind invitation to share their carriage back to the house, and enjoyed, too, some of the delicious supper prepared for them. It was their last year on the stage, and I never saw them again, though I treasure their little keepsake, given me in exchange for one not half so pretty, and gratefully remember the pleasure they put into our lives during the days they were our "Left-handers."

Among others, there came in time that king of comedians, noble in mind as he was perfect in art, Joe Jefferson. This pleasant acquaintance did not end with our Canadian experience. The next time we saw Joe Jefferson he gave a performance in Richmond and turned over the whole proceeds to a war-ruined Confederate who had assisted him in early days, all in such a quiet manner as to fulfill the spirit of the Scriptural injunction regarding the right and left hands. The kindness which was shown by the wealthy tobacconist--the seeming favorite of fortune--to the poor lad in the beginning of that career the distinction of which, even then, could be foretold, was thus gracefully repaid a thousand times by the successful actor.

Our landlady made a tour of inspection of all the rooms every Friday, but to us she made her visits longer each time, showing a growing interest in our affairs. She could not solve the mystery of our having come from such a palatial home to her boarding-house. Then, too, one of my "shilling visitors" happening to be the Governor-General and another an English officer, they were also a cause of wonder. She was so insistent in this unbounded curiosity that we were compelled to seek a larger house where we should be more lost to sight, especially as just at this time two prominent Southern gentlemen, Mr. Beverly Tucker and Mr. Beverly Saunders, had been gagged and taken through the lines, though their release was immediately demanded by the English government.

Much to my husband's relief, I volunteered to assume the disagreeable task of notifying her, which notice she seemed intuitively to have anticipated and determined to thwart by telling of her troubles, all of which she laid at her husband's door.

"He is got so high-minded now," she said, "he refuses to blacken all the boots at night--leaves the top floor ones till morning. Wants to set upstairs with me and the girls, instead of staying down in the kitchen, looking for chaws and to be handy; expects us to hunt tins to shine and mend, and nails to drive; won't eat the boarders' leavings; reads the Stateser's newspaper that he sends to his girl; sets on it when he hears us coming; took money from Stateser, too, and was that sly he was going to spend it on himself, and I giving him all he needs."

Taking advantage of her pause for sympathy, I edged in my notice. She immediately put all the blame of our going on "that Johnson," and, though I assured her that he had nothing whatever to do with it, wailed:

"You can't fool us, you can't fool us--he drives every boarder out of the house."

Our next rooms opened on the Champs de Mars, the attractions of which in part made up for the loss of the veranda, but not for that of our "Left-handers," who had made oases in our lives.

XXIX

BORN WITH EMERALDS--NEMO NOCETUR

"Come, look at the soldiers," I said, as I saw a shadow in the General's smile and heard a sigh when the music, almost under our very windows, signaled the hour for dress-parade.

The shadowy ghost of despair vanished with my entreaties, as we stood at the window and watched the soldiers, keeping time with them to step and tune outwardly, while hiding the muffled sound within, each playing we were enjoying it, without one marring thought of the crumpled-browed past, trying to fool each other till we really fooled ourselves. It was with thankfulness that I saw my Soldier watch with unfeigned interest the maneuvers of the troops day after day, and pleasantly welcome reveille and tattoo. Our baby learned to march almost before he walked.

While we were enjoying our congenial surroundings and each other, spite of poverty, fears for the future, and grief for the past, my husband became very ill. In the crisis of his illness, when he required all my attention, our baby was seized with croup. The kind old Englishman, recommended by my good friends, was very attentive, but failed to inspire me with my wonted faith. The chief reason, I think, must have been that he was not called "Doctor," but "Mister." For two weeks he came once, and sometimes twice a day, going first to see and bring me news of the baby, who had been kindly taken by our friends to their home to be cared for. I was a source of unending amusement, an unsolvable mystery to the English doctor, though we were very good friends.

During all this long illness I never once stopped to consider the cost of anything, whether it were food, medicines or delicacies of any kind, if prescribed or suggested, but purchased regardless of expense. When the danger was past, and our board bill was sent up, I counted over our little store and found there was not enough left to meet it.

My husband was still too ill to be annoyed or troubled about anything, and with the bill hidden away in my pocket, I was making a plan of battle and maneuvering how I could fight my way out of the intrenchments, when he noticed that I was looking pale, and suggested that I go out for a little fresh air.

Eagerly taking advantage of the excuse thus offered, I put on my bonnet and went down to the office and took from my box in the safe an old-fashioned set of emeralds and, asking the proprietor to direct me to the most reliable jeweler and to send some one to sit with my husband until my return, went out.

I had had very little experience in buying of merchants, and none whatever in selling to them, but I feigned great wisdom and dignity as I told the young man who stepped forward to wait upon me that my business was with the head of the firm. He took me back to an inner office, where an old man with grizzly-gray hair and a very moist countenance was looking intently, through something which very much resembled a napkin-ring screwed into his right eye, at some jewels lying on a tray before him. He wore his teeth on the outside of his mouth, and his upper lip was so drawn, in the intensity of his look, as to be almost hidden under his over-reaching nose. His face, too, was wrinkled up into a thousand gullies in his concentration upon his work.

"We don't hemploy young women 'ere," he said, looking up and frowning as he suddenly became aware of my presence.

"I came," I explained, taking out my emeralds and handing them to him, "to ask you if you would not, please, sir, kindly buy some of these stones from me, or, at least, advance me some money on them."

"This is not a pawnbroker's shop, heither, mum," he replied, as he carefully examined the jewels, and then, suddenly popping the napkin-ring out of his eye, turned both of the piercing little gray twinklers upon me and said:

"Where did you get these hemeralds from, miss?"

"I was born with them, sir," I said indignantly.

Either from my appearance, or for some other cause, he became suddenly suspicious, and not only would not purchase them of me, but refused to let me have them till I could prove my right to them. I was too young and inexperienced to be anything but furious, and the bitter, scalding tears that anger sometimes unlocks to relieve poor woman's outraged feelings, were still falling fast when I reached the hotel with the clerk whom the jeweler had sent back with me that I might prove by the proprietor my ownership of the jewels with which I was born.

He, in his sympathy, shared my anger and, after expressing his sincere regret that I should have been subjected to such an indignity, advised, as he snatched the case from the clerk with a withering look of scorn translated into more emphatic language, that I should look carefully over them to be sure that neither this hireling nor his master had abstracted any of the stones, for his experience had been that suspicion was born of guilt.

As he again locked up my emeralds in his safe he kindly asked how much money I needed and begged that in the future I would permit him to advance for me if I should need any, and furthermore, "as to the board and expenses here," he said, "Mr. Edwards and I will arrange all that when he is well--entirely well." My friends would have been glad to advance me the money but I did not wish to trouble them.

Through the goodness of God and the skill of my kind physician, my loved ones were spared to me, and one day, some time after they were well, as I was reading the paper to my husband, I chanced across an advertisement for a teacher of Latin in Miss McIntosh's school. The professor was going abroad and wanted some one to take his place during his absence. The chuckle of delight which I involuntarily gave as I read it, provoked from my Soldier the remark that I was keeping something very good all to myself. I slyly determined that this little suspicion should be verified and that I would make an application at once for the position; then, if I should fail, I alone would suffer from the disappointment. So, just as soon as I could arrange it, I donned my best clothes, assumed a most dignified mien, went to the number advertised and asked for the professor.

I was shown into the primmest of parlors--the kind of room one feels so utterly alone in, without even the suspicion of a spirit around to keep your own spirit company. Each piece of furniture was placed with mathematical precision, and all was ghost-proof. The proprietress, who came in response to my call, seemed put up in much the same order. She was tall and angular, and her grizzly-red hair was arranged in three large puffs (like fortifications, I thought) on each side of her long, thin face, high cheek-bones, Roman nose, and eyes crowded up together under gold-rimmed spectacles. As she held my card in her hand and looked at me with a narrow-gauge gaze, piercing my inmost thoughts, and with that discouraging "Well!-what-can-I-do-for-you?" expression, I felt all my courage going. My necessities aroused me from my cowardice, and I said as bravely as I could:

"I have had the good fortune to read your advertisement, madam, in the paper this morning, and have come in answer to it. May I see the professor?"

Looking curiously at my card and then over her glasses at me, she said:

"The advertisement was for a teacher, not for a pupil."

"I am perfectly aware of that," I answered, "and came in response, to offer the professor my services as a teacher."

A most quizzical expression bunched up the corners of her mouth and wiggled across her little colorless eyes as she said:

"I will send the professor down to you."

Looking over her spectacles again, as if for a verification of her first impression of me, she left the room.

Returning after a little while, she said:

"The professor requested me to ask if you would be so good as to come up into the recitation room."

I saw as soon as I had entered that a description of me had preceded my coming, and not a very flattering one, either, I judged, from the faces of the professor and the pupils.

The class consisted of fourteen young ladies, all of them apparently older than I was. The professor finished the sentence he was translating on the board, rubbed it out, wiped his hands on the cloth, replaced it, came forward and was duly presented by Miss McIntosh, who remained in the room. He had a pleasant, round, smooth face, a bald head and large gray eyes, was short and stout, with a sympathetic, cultured voice and manner.

"Miss McIntosh tells me you came in reply to my advertisement. I have been forced to advertise in order to save time, as my going abroad is unexpected and brooks no delay."

"I am very glad you had no option but to advertise, else it might not have been my good fortune to know of, and respond to, your wants, sir."

"And you have really come to apply for the position?" he asked.

"I have, sir."

The expression on Miss McIntosh's face, the nudging and suppressed titter among the pupils which this answer brought forth was not calculated to lessen my embarrassment.

"Have you had any experience in teaching?"

"No, sir," I said.

"May I ask where you were educated?"

"I was graduated at Lynchburg College."

"Is that in England?"

"Oh, no, sir," said I, with astonishment at his ignorance, and then recollecting myself just as I was about to inform him that Lynchburg was the fifth town in population in Virginia, was on the south bank of the James River, one hundred and sixteen miles from the capital of the State, and within view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and Peaks of Otter, I stopped short, embarrassed by my imprudence. The professor, taking no notice of my confusion, went on to say:

"And so you were graduated there? My class here has just finished Cæsar. Do you remember how Cæsar commences?"

"Yes, sir," I said, and repeated: "Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres."

"You have the Continental pronunciation, I see."

He gave me several sentences to translate; then an ode from Horace and some selections from Catullus and Tibullus. By this time the pupils were silent, and Miss McIntosh's expression was changed.

He then asked me to write and parse a sentence, which I did, saying _sotto voce_ as he took the chalk from me:

"That was a catch question."

"Please translate and parse this," said he, without noticing my aside, and he wrote in Latin, "The late President of the United States said 'nobody is hurt----'"

Before he wrote any further, instead of translating, I looked up at him and said:

"But, oh, sir! somebody was hurt."

Quickly he cleared the board, put down the cloth, wiped his hands, turned his face to me and offering his hand, said, not to my surprise, because I had faith in prayer, but rather to that of Miss McIntosh and the young ladies:

"I will engage you, Mrs. Edwards, and will be responsible for you."

We went down to the parlor, and I gave him the names of the only friends I had in Montreal of whom he could make inquiries regarding me. The next day I gave my first lesson to the class. I became very fond of them all and, after my embarrassment of the first few days, got along very well with them.

My Soldier was curious to know where I went every day, but, knowing it gave me great pleasure to be thus mysterious, humored me and asked no questions.

My first month's salary was spent in part payment on an overcoat for him, and only Our Father and the angels know what joy filled my heart, that with the work of my hands I could give him comfort. Then my secret was out.

I was sorry when the cold weather came. The snows not only put an end to the military reviews, but covered up the beautiful green. There were very few diversions for us, but I was just as happy as it was possible for me to be. Indeed, those were the very happiest days of my whole life and I was almost sorry when General Rufus Ingalls wrote to my Soldier, inclosing a kind personal letter from General Grant, together with the following official assurance of his safety:

"HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMIES OF THE UNITED STATES

Washington, D. C, March 12th, 1866.

Geo. E. Pickett, a paroled officer of the Southern Army, is exempt
from arrest by Military Authorities, except directed by the
President of the United States, Secretary of War or from these Hd.
Qrs. so long as he observes the conditions of his parole.

The restriction requiring paroled officers to remain at their homes
is removed in this case, and he, Pickett, will be allowed to travel
unmolested throughout the United States.

U. S. Grant,
Lt. Gen."

General Grant also wrote that it had not been at all necessary for us to go away in the first place, and that the terms of his cartel should have been respected, even though it had necessitated another declaration of war.

We stopped in New York en route to Virginia, expecting to remain there only three or four days, but we found that our board had been paid in advance for two weeks, that a carriage had been put at our service for that length of time, and that in our box was a pack of wine-cards marked "Paid." To this day I do not know how many people's guests we were, for a great many of my Soldier's old army friends were there at the time, and they all vied with each other in making us happy.

XXX

TURKEY ISLAND

As soon as we could make our plans we returned to our ruined home on Turkey Island by the James River, where we built a small cottage in the place of the colonial mansion which had been burned by Butler.

The ancestral trees had all been cut, even the monuments in the family cemetery had been broken, but it was home and we loved it. The river and the woods and our own garden supplied our table. We planted vines to wind lovingly around the melancholy stumps of the old oaks and elms which had fallen victims of the vandalism of war. In our own flowers my Soldier found the perfumes that he loved. He gathered geranium leaves to keep around him, scattered rose-petals through his bureau drawers, and put fragrant blossoms into bags and laid them in the folds of his clothing. In war-time a friend going North asked him, "What shall I bring you!"

"A bottle of new-mown hay and a bottle of heliotrope," was the reply.

Turkey Island, called by the Federal soldiers Turkey Bend, is in Henrico County, which is one of the original shares into which Virginia was divided in 1634. Historic Richmond, the State capital, a town established in the reign of George II, on land belonging to Colonel Byrd, is its county-seat. Brandon, the home of the Harrisons; Shirley, the home of the Carters; and Westover, the home of the Byrds, where Arnold landed on the 4th of January, 1781, and proceeded on his march toward Richmond, are neighboring plantations. Malvern Hill, where one of our internecine battles was fought, adjoins Turkey Island.

Not far distant is the famous Dutch Gap Canal, the useful legacy which Butler left to the State of Virginia, and which, in the advantages it gave the commonwealth, to some extent atoned to my Soldier for the destruction of the Pickett home.

Diverting his troops for a time from wanton spoliation, Butler set them to digging a canal at Dutch Gap to connect the James and Appomattox, thereby shortening by seven miles the road to Richmond, and placing the State traffic under a permanent obligation to his memory. To protect his men while they worked he stationed his prisoners in the trench beside them, in order that the Confederates might not yield to the otherwise irresistible temptation to fire upon them.

Butler may not have been gifted with that fascinating suavity of demeanor which renders a man an ever-sparkling ornament to society, but from a practical business point of view he was not wholly destitute of commendable qualities. His Dutch Gap Canal is not only a lasting monument to his progressive spirit, but a benefit to commerce and an interesting feature which has attracted visitors from many nations.

Out on a point of the plantation, back from the river in a clump of trees--the beginning of the big woods--is still standing a most interesting monument. The top of it was broken off by Butler's troops in a search for hidden treasure. It was erected by William and Mary Randolph in 1771. The following is a copy of the inscription on one of its sides:

"The foundation of this pillar was laid in 1771, when all the great
rivers of this country were swept by inundations never before
experienced; which changed the face of nature and left traces of
their violence that will remain for ages."

My first visit to this monument is one of the sweetest memories of my Turkey Island life. I had gone with my husband to hunt rabbits and birds--a hunt more for the meat than the sport in those poverty-stricken days when our larders were greatly dependent upon the water and the woods.

The day was fine and the dew was yet glistening as we came suddenly and without warning within touch of the gray broken monument shut in and surrounded by the great forest trees. In silence and solemn awe, in the strange light and sudden coolness beneath the shadows my hero-soldier stacked his gun and, raising his hat, gently and silently reached for my hand. I slipped it into his and drew close to him. Birds were singing in the distance.

"God's choir," he said, and in his beautiful voice sang his favorite hymn, "Guide me, oh, thou great Jehovah." Then he taught me these lines:

"The groves are God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed
The lofty vault to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication."

"Is not that monument one of the oldest in Virginia?" I asked my Soldier.

"No," he said. "There are many older, but the oldest one in the United States, I believe, is one erected to a poor fellow who died on what was to be your birthday in the centuries to come. It is on the banks of Neabsco Creek in Fairfax County. Once when I was on furlough Snelling and I came across it and copied the epitaph. The poor fellow was a companion of John Smith. The inscription on the monument simply said:

"'Here lies ye body of Lieut. William Herris, who died May 16,
1608, aged 65 years; by birth a Briton; a good soldier, a good
husband and neighbor.'"

These rambles over the fields and woods, through the clover and sweetbrier, keeping step and chattering with my Soldier where he, as a boy, had often tramped with his father, are among the blessedest of my blessed memories. My Soldier's classic taste and perfect harmony and simple, pure heart made him a true lover of nature and the trees and the plants, the stones, the sod, the ground, the waters, the sky, and all living animals were his kin.

Though my warrior was a lion in battle, he was gentle, amiable, good-humored, affectionate and hospitable in his home. The same exuberant and hopeful spirit which cheered and encouraged his soldiers in the field was felt in his home life. All the world is witness to his patriotism and unselfishness, as he offered his life for the success of the cause in which he had faith. He was never disheartened by the most complicated difficulties. Unspoiled by fame, just and loyal, he deserved the love he received, for he was worshipped by his family, idolized by his soldiers, honored by all parties and all nations--my brave warrior, as simple as a child, as high-minded as he upon whom the word-magician said, "Every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man."

Soon after the surrender the Khedive of Egypt offered my Soldier the position of General in his army, which he declined. After he had refused a second invitation the Khedive cabled to Mr. Mott asking if there was any way of inducing General Pickett to accept the commission. My Soldier replied:

"I fight only for my country. Nothing would induce me to enter a foreign war."

He tried to turn his sword into a plowshare, but he was not expert with plowshares and, worse, he constantly received applications for employment from old comrades no more skilled than he. All were made welcome, though they might not be able to distinguish a rake from a rail fence or know whether potatoes grew on trees or trellised vines. They would get up when they felt like it, linger over breakfast, go out to the fields, and if the sun was too hot or the wind too cold they would come back to sit on the veranda or around the fire till dinner was ready. Then they would linger at table telling war stories until it was unanimously decided to be too late for any more work that day. There were Generals, Colonels, Majors, Captains, Lieutenants, privates, all of one rank now, and he who desired a graphic history of the four years' war needed only to listen to the conversation of the agricultural army at Turkey Island. The inevitable soon came. Resources were exhausted and proprietor and guests were forced to seek other fields.

One of our friends was a veteran who had lost an eye in the Mexican war and had served in the Confederate Army. All that was left of his magnificence was his pride, which had grown strong and rugged on misfortune. It was difficult to do anything for him. He would never admit his needs and any reference thereto was likely to give offense. He had visited us for a time and when urged to stay had resolutely declined. My Soldier was very anxious to help him, but fearful of wounding him. Walking down with him to take the steamer to Richmond my Soldier, unobserved, took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and dropped it in the road, hoping that the old Major would find it. But the veteran walked by without seeing it. So his friend was compelled to find it himself. Three times the ruse was played and at last the Major saw the coin and, picking it up, offered it to his companion. "No, it belongs to you," said the General. "You must have dropped it," urged the Major. "I?" was the query. "How could I have a gold piece? The Yankees are about the only people who have been down in this country with gold, and now that you have found it, it belongs to you." After a long discussion the Major was induced to accept the law that "finders is owners," and he put the gold in his pocket.

When a number of his Virginians wished to make my Soldier Governor he said that he never again would hold any office, but he would be glad to have the valor of his soldiers at Gettysburg recognized and he and the men would like to see his old Brigadier, Kemper, elected Governor. General Kemper was the only one of Pickett's Brigadiers who came out of the battle of Gettysburg, and he was maimed for life. He was elected Governor, and, as he was a bachelor, my Soldier and I often assisted at his receptions.

At a dinner given by the Governor to George Augustus Sala, the English correspondent, Mr. Sala asked:

"General Pickett, whom do you regard as the hero of the battle of Gettysburg, on the northern side?"

"Mr. Sala," was the reply, "the hero of Gettysburg on both the northern and southern side was the private soldier."

I had often heard him say that not the Generals but the men in the ranks fought the battles.

This reminded me of a story, which I told them:

"At a dinner in Canada, given to General Magruder's niece, who had married an English officer, the conversation turned upon the battle of Gettysburg and my Soldier was asked by the Governor-General and General Magruder if he would tell them, now that the war was over, whom he considered responsible for the loss of the battle; who was to blame. With a twinkle in his eye he replied:

"'Well, Governor-General and General Magruder, I think the Yankees had a little something to do with it.'"

Among the visitors at our home at Turkey Island was Mr. R. M. T. Hunter. I well remember his grave but genial face, beardless, marked with deep lines wrought by years of study and care. Those who do not recall him may look at the pictured face of former Senator John W. Daniel, of Virginia, and gain an idea of his appearance. His long hair, almost touching his shoulders, gave him an air that would seem quaint to one accustomed to the closely cropped heads of the present day. His extensive acquaintance with public life, formed in the Congress of the United States and that of the Confederacy, had secured for him an inexhaustible fund of anecdote which his ready wit displayed to good effect, and his vein of humor made him always a welcome companion. His ability to deal with weighty subjects is indicated by the remark of Senator Wigfall, "I don't know what we Southern men would do without Hunter; he is the only one among us who knows anything about finance." As a child his gravity and fondness for books led his old mammy to say, "Li'l Marse Robert gwine ter be a gre't man; he's so lonesome in his ways."

Mr. Hunter knew men, and was the first to discover the genius of Stonewall Jackson. In a letter written to my Soldier near the beginning of the war he congratulated the South on the possession of so great a military man as General Jackson. He was one of those whom Mr. Lincoln wished to see in Richmond after the surrender, expressing confidence in his honesty and his influence with the Southern people, a meeting which was prevented by the absence of Mr. Hunter from Richmond at the time, and for which there was no later opportunity because of the tragic end of the President's great life.

Some of the Northern officers who had seen little, if any, of Southern plantation life, visited us and were deeply interested in the characteristic features of our domestic circle. They found much amusement in the original repartee of the negroes, liking to ask them questions and discuss with them subjects of everyday life. General Ingalls saw an old negro coming in with a large number of terrapin.

"What a lot of terrapin and what immense ones, Uncle Tom! How much do you get for them, and where do you sell them?"

"Yas, suh; dey is 'mense 'case dey's fresh water tarepin; salt water ones is littler. I gits ober en above a couple er ninepences apiece fer 'em, en I sells 'em up in Richmon' ter Mr. Montero, de gambler gemman. You mus' 'scuse me, Marsa, fer answerin' you in retail."

"Why, Uncle Tom, you could get over a dollar apiece for these terrapin in New York," General Ingalls replied.

Uncle Tom pointed to a bucket of water and looking at the General said:

"Yas, suh, Marsa; I spec' dat's so. En, suh, ef I had dat pail er water in hell I could git a million er dollars fer it."

The visitors were also amused by the division of the plantation property, as explained by the servants.

"Whose horse is that?" asked General Tom Pitcher of one of the boys "mindin' de cows."

"Dat hawss? W'y, Marsa, hawsses allers b'longs ter de men-folks, so cou'se dat hawss b'longs ter Marse George."

"And whose cows are those?"

"De woman-folks allers owns de cows, so cou'se dey's Miss Sally's cows."

"Whose chickens are those in the yard?"

"Dey's woman's t'ings, too, en cou'se dey's Miss Sally's."

"To whom do those mules belong?"

"Dey's jest only mules en dey don' hab no owners. Dey don' b'long ter nobody 'specially, en don' nobody want 'em 'specially cep'n fer ter wu'k. Dey's dif'unt fum udder prop'ty; dey ain' one t'ing ner de udder."

Looking up General Pitcher saw a flock of wild ducks flying across the river in delightful irresponsibility.

"Whose ducks are those?" he asked.

The boy looked up and turned toward the General with an expression of scorn.

"Dey's dey own ducks," he asserted emphatically. "Lawd, Marsa, whar you been all yo' life not ter know dat wile ducks is dey own ducks?"

Going down the river one day with my Soldier, his brother Charlie, and their sister, in a boat rowed by the overseer, I had what I thought an interesting illustration of the tenacity of childish habits of thought. Mr. Sims had been overseer on the Pickett plantation in the childhood of the two sons of the family, who used to follow him around and absorb knowledge from what they looked upon as fathomless depths of intellect and experience. They were catching terrapin and my Soldier looked at the catch in the bottom of the boat.

"Mr. Sims, why is it that these terrapin are of such different markings?" he asked with a recurrence of the old-time attitude of mental dependence. "They come from the same water, are grown in the same conditions, and seem in every way alike except that the color markings are different. There is a reason; what is it?"

"Yas, George," said the old man, "of course there is a reason for it, it's jest this way with them tarepins; I've allers noticed they are different. I've been catchin' tarepins off an' on all my life an' I've allers seen 'em that way. Some's streaked an' some's criss-crossed an' some's plain an' some has diamon's on 'em an' that's jest the reason. They's jest made that way."

"I see now," said my Soldier in all seriousness and good faith. "I suppose that is the reason. I have often wondered about it and this is the first time I ever understood it."

After all the years and the wars and the foreign travel and the changes he had unconsciously gone back to the blind confidence of childhood.

Adjoining Turkey Island was the plantation of Colonel William Allen (Buck Allen), Curl's Neck. General Schofield and some other officers of the United States Army, among them Colonel Day, drove down from Richmond, visiting old battlefields and shooting ducks and partridges, and were guests at Curl's Neck. At the invitation of my Soldier they came to our home. Colonel Day had never before seen my Soldier and he afterward thus expressed his feeling upon first meeting the warrior whom he had hitherto known only by reputation:

"Imagine my surprise when, instead of the dashing, rollicking fire-eater whom I expected to see in the hero of the greatest charge in modern history, I touched glasses of apple-toddy with the gentle George Pickett. I was impressed above all with his quiet demeanor, his warm-hearted hospitality and gentleness. I stood in speechless wonder, trying to reconcile the man before me with my preconceived idea of the great warrior. It might all be summed up in the explanation that 'the bravest are the tenderest.'"

XXXI

AT THE WHITE HOUSE

Not long after General Grant became President he sent an order to my Soldier and Mrs. Grant extended an invitation to me and our little ones to visit them at the White House. The Southern train, usually late, was on time for once, and we came out of the station just as the President's carriage appeared.

"Hello, Pickett!" he called out. "Up to your old war tricks, coming in ahead of the train!"

The President referred to an incident of the war; my Soldier, wishing to go from Hanover Junction to Richmond, applied to General Lee for a pass. At that time the cars were so crowded that travel by rail was not permitted except on official business or by special permission. General Lee, just boarding the train from Richmond on military duty, referred him to the Adjutant-General. As there was not time to visit the Adjutant and be in Richmond at the desired hour, my Soldier mounted his horse, Lucy, and rode into the city, waiting at the station to salute General Lee as he stepped from the train.

My first view of Washington was from the President's carriage, though it could scarcely be called a view of the city, as the carriage contained all my world and my attention was more particularly centered therein.

We were received with warm hospitality by Mrs. Grant, who proved to be a charming hostess, and all went well until night came, when I was so afraid my baby would cry that I could hardly sleep. The next day when my Soldier spoke of my uneasiness the President, putting his hat on the boy's head and his stick between his legs, said:

"There, ride your horse and tell them you'll cry as much as you please; that you own this house."

One evening when we were reminiscing I told Mrs. Grant of the first time I had seen her, and my Soldier, who loved to tease me, repeated, much to my dismay, my belligerent remarks on that occasion and the argument he had used to curb my hostile demonstrations.

"And do you know, Pickett," the President replied, relieving my embarrassment, "that once we were foolish enough to think seriously of having an operation performed on her dear eyes? We had consulted the best surgeons and had been assured that it was a very simple thing and not at all dangerous, so we decided to have it done. As the time grew near I got to worrying over it, and the more I thought of it the more I did not want my wife's eyes changed even the least little bit from what they had always been. Arrangements had been made; the hour for the operation was almost at hand. We were alone. I stood watching her collecting the last little odds and ends and stealing my pictures and the children's and putting them into her handbag under her shawl. Everything was ready and we started from the room. My hand was on the knob of the door, when I stopped and said:

"'My dear, I am very selfish and ought not to say this; but I don't want your eyes changed. They look just as they did the first time I ever saw them--the same eyes I looked into when I fell in love with you--the same that looked up into mine and told me that my love was returned. I have seen that expression in them through all the years and I don't want it to be lost. You might look better to other people, but to me you are prettier as you are. So, if you don't mind, please let's keep your dear eyes just as they always have been.'

"She looked up in joyful surprise and replied:

"'Why, it was only for your sake that I was even thinking of having anything done, and if you feel in that way about it I--I----'

"Well, Pickett, I was glad and she was glad. I untied the bonnet-strings, threw the bonnet onto the floor, I think, and took her by the hand and we turned and walked back into the room as light-hearted as a pair of children on their first picnic."

"Untied the bonnet-strings!" exclaimed Mrs. Grant. "You just pulled them into a hard knot, then broke them and threw the bonnet onto the floor."

He reached over and patted her hand, and the President of the United States gazed upon the same eyes that had looked their love into those of the young captain in the years agone and had become more precious to him with the passing of time.

Mrs. Grant's morning receptions in the blue room, in which she was assisted by the President, were very popular, chiefly because of her unfailing good nature, which had the effect of putting others in a good humor with themselves and the world. It may be that you have met people whose apparently permanent condition of mind led you to think that they were averse to being put into a good humor and would prefer to avoid the society of those who could effect such a revolution. That is a delusion. There is no one who does not like to be in a good temper or fails to experience a pleasant glow in the society of those who can produce that novel condition.

The weakness of Mrs. Grant's eyes compelled her to carry on her correspondence with the aid of a secretary, one of the soldiers usually being sent to her aid when she desired clerical assistance. It was before the day of the White House "social secretary," writing to the first Lady of the Land not being at that time so popular a diversion as it has since become.

The charities and generous deeds of Mrs. Grant were so quietly effected that the world never knew of the good she accomplished. A friend who was very close to her said that her work ought to be made known to the public after she was gone, that it might live in memory without wounding her modesty.

A home-like atmosphere pervaded the White House, due to the President's habit of keeping his official existence and his home life separate and to the determination of Mrs. Grant to provide him with a place where official duties might fall from his brain and pleasure and content fill his heart. Here he was "Ulys" to "Mrs. G.," as he called his heart-companion of many years. Here he listened to the confidences of his children, happy that they brought to him even their inmost thoughts. At that time Fred was a cadet at West Point and the younger children were attending Washington schools.

Colonel Dent did his part toward keeping the White House cheerful with the original of that smile which has since been utilized for commercial purposes. General Babcock could more easily have passed for a politician than a soldier. General Porter's funereal face covered a fountain of wit that was constantly bubbling up, to the surprise and delight of those who had been deceived by the preternatural gravity of his expression. The President was criticized by his opponents for keeping officers about the White House, but when their martial phase was so slightly in evidence I could not see why anyone should object.

Though General Grant was the soul of geniality with his intimate friends, to the public generally his reticence had made him known as "The Sphynx," or "the Great Unspeakable." If one chanced to appeal to "the Sphynx" on a subject in which he was interested he became as fluent as the most loquacious of men. When he was Commander of the United States Army a gentleman who called upon him with a letter of introduction from a friend of both, tried him upon two apparently interesting subjects without leading anywhere. As the visitor was about to retire in despair it occurred to him to mention a fine horse owned by their friend. The "Great Unspeakable" immediately became a fountain of eloquence and an animated conversation followed, to the delight equally of the General and his caller.

The President told me in a gleeful way the story of his first purchase of a horse. Speaking of his early dislike of military life and his horror of war:

"I did not want to be a soldier. When my father came home from town one day and surprised me with the information that I had received an appointment to West Point I said, 'I am not going.' He looked at me and replied, 'I think you are.' Then I thought so, too. I don't know what else I could have been. I should probably not have succeeded in trade. My first purchase was made when I was seven. A neighbor had a horse which he was willing to sell for twenty-five dollars. My longing for that horse was so great that my father, though knowing the price was too high, told me that I might offer twenty dollars for it, and if the neighbor would not take that I could offer twenty-two and if that did not suffice I might pay the twenty-five. So I went to the man and told him what my father had said. It would not be difficult to solve the problem of the cost of that horse. The boys got wind of the story and you can imagine that for awhile life was not worth much to me.

"It may be that I lost money on that horse, but the first dollar I ever earned was on a mule; a circus mule. The ringmaster offered a dollar to anyone who should succeed in riding the mule once around the ring. My mind was made up to win that dollar. I promptly mounted the animal and was as promptly deposited upon the sawdust. Asking if I might have another trial I was told that I might have as many as I wanted. This time I mounted with my face toward the mule's tail, which so disconcerted him that he ambled peacefully around the ring and I got the dollar."

At West Point Cadet Grant took the highest leap recorded in the history of the Academy. One who witnessed the feat described the scene,--the clean-cut, blue-eyed young man who at the call of the riding-master dashed out from the ranks on a powerfully built chestnut sorrel horse and rode to the end of the hall. Turning he galloped down the center toward a bar placed higher than the head of a tall man standing. Within a short distance of the bar the horse paused and gathering all his strength for the mighty effort vaulted over. Forty years later Grant remembered the steed that had served him so well and said, "York was a wonderful horse." After the war, learning that his old riding-master was poor and helpless, General Grant sent him a cheque.

The old soldier never claimed to have distinguished himself in scholarship at West Point, but he must have made an impression of strength upon those around him, for one of his classmates, James A. Hardie, said, "If a great emergency arises in this country during our lifetime Sam Grant will be the man to meet it."

He had the simplicity characteristic of all really great minds, and the directness of a soldier, going straight to his aim; he never either overshot or undershot the mark. He spent a part of every day walking unattended along the streets enjoying exercise and open air unhampered by guards, and his daily rides were also usually solitary, for in his racing buggy behind his magnificent trotter, leaning over the dashboard to encourage his horse by a friendly word, there was scarcely anything in Washington that could have kept him in view. Only once was he passed in a race. His friend and clerk, Lieutenant Culver C. Sniffen, now a General on the retired list, owned a fine horse and the President challenged him to a race. The Lieutenant declined, not wishing either to beat the President or be beaten by him. The President, with the true sporting instinct, persisted until the Lieutenant, fired with like emulation, yielded and rode to win. He did win and the President was very fond of telling the story of the only time he had ever lost a race.

General Grant had one sad memory connected with a horse, dating back to the time when he was a young officer in Mexico. He rode a beautiful fierce untamable animal that in years past had killed a number of would-be riders. A Mexican officer who was a skilled and daring horseman had an ambition to mount the horse. Lieutenant Grant, fearing for the safety of his Mexican friend, would not consent to his riding so dangerous a beast. The Mexican would not let himself be dissuaded and the Lieutenant, fearing that the friend might think that he did not want him to ride his horse, ceased his opposition. The Mexican mounted and was thrown and killed.

Occasionally when it could not be avoided the President would curb his wild spirit sufficiently to take a leisurely drive in Mrs. Grant's easy carriage behind the tall and dignified black coachman, Hawkins, attended by the almost equally imposing footman, Jerry. Usually this stately equipage was left to the unshared enjoyment of Mrs. Grant and her guests. A number of pleasant drives I took with my hostess, sometimes into the country around Washington, and sometimes to the Soldiers' Home where the veterans bivouacked peacefully until they should be mustered out of the earthly army. The long rows of white wooden slabs with black lettered names upon them brought back vividly memories so new that they lay near the surface of my heart.

It may be that to one familiar with the Washington of to-day the views of the city at that time would have been marred by primitive architectural features, but Nature had so far done her best in the beginning that one might well accept the opinion of Humboldt who, after visiting all the cities of the known world, said that for a site the entire globe does not hold its equal. The youthful surveyor, long before he became the "Father of his Country," wrought well in fancy when gazing across the Potomac he viewed the fair prospect with prophetic eye and foresaw a stately capitol of a great nation rising from one of its green hills. So well had the capital city weathered the storm that had almost wrecked the Ship of State that one who had known it in war days might have found it beautiful in comparison.

Inside the White House the deft fingers of Martha Johnson Patterson had wrought miracles of adornment out of the web of her imagination, aided by a few simple materials which in less skillful hands would have been ineffective. Within its walls life went on to the time kept by Madison's clock that had ticked away all the decades since the "Father of the Constitution" held guardianship over that complicated child of many variegated phases.