History Of Serbia

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History Of Serbia

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.
Duncan to consult you.”

“Your best plan is to go by Harper’s Ferry. It is a difficult matter to

get through anywhere now, but if you get to Virginia at all I think it
must be by way of Harper’s Ferry.”

Major Brooks and Colonel Whipple joined us, and the matter ended
as on the previous day, by Captain Locke and Colonel Whipple
walking off down the street together.

“Moore is a splendid fellow,” Captain Hosmer said to me, when we

had the sofa to ourselves. “I am glad you introduced us. Your not
doing so looked suspicious, and I was troubled for fear he would get
you into some scrape or other.”

Dear, generous fellow, how I hated to deceive him, and how it was
on the tip of my tongue to tell him who Captain Locke was, until I
remembered what his duty would be if I told him! And Captain
Locke’s secret was mine to keep. He had been ready to risk his life
rather than leave me alone at Berlin! Then, too, poor fellow, he had
such a slender chance, I thought, of getting home alive that not
even an enemy would care to make it worse. I used to look at his
bonnie white throat and shudder.

“God bless you,” he said to me once, “for all your goodness to a

poor, lonely, stray fellow! You shouldn’t be afraid for me. You say
your ‘Hail Marys’ for me, you know.”

I had been telling him I was afraid for him, and he had, as usual,
tried to reassure me and to laugh me out of it. He was never afraid
for himself—I believe he would have stood up to be shot with a
laugh on his lips. I wonder if he was laughing when they shot him—
my dear, brave friend!

In the meantime we had heard that Mr. Holliway had been arrested
in West Virginia, was lying in prison somewhere, and that his friends
were trying to get him out, and before I left Baltimore we heard that
he had died in prison just as an exchange had been arranged.

My return to Virginia was the subject of daily discussions between

me and my two captains, and in this way Captain Locke continued to
find out ways that he must not go, and eventually that we must not
go together. It was he who first said it.

“I should be no earthly good, but a disadvantage to you, little

madam. Hosmer is going to see you through this thing all right.”

Then, seeing my downcast look, he went on cheerily: “I’ll get

through somehow all right, sooner or later, and we’ll meet in Old
Virginia. Don’t bother your dear little head about me.”

Captain Hosmer tried in vain to dissuade me from going. He felt that

the journey under present conditions would be uncomfortable and
unsafe, and that it was in every way advisable for me to stay where
I was. But I was beginning to be very uneasy about Dan. I had
heard from him only once since reaching Baltimore. Then his letters
came in a batch, and I received them through the kindly agency of
Mr. Cridland, British consul at Richmond, who had been my father’s
personal friend and frequent guest, and who had dandled a small
person named “Nell” on his knee many times. Captain Hosmer still
insisted that I must go by Harper’s Ferry if I went at all, and he said
that a pass was necessary.

“How on earth am I to get it?” I asked.

“I must arrange that for you,” he said.

I think one reason that Captain Hosmer was so good to me was

because his wife was a Southern woman. Her parents were
Southern, her brothers were in the Southern army, and her husband
was a Federal officer. They loved each other, but somehow they
were separated, she living South with her parents. Under the
pressure of the times there was a sectional conscience, and people
did things which they did not wish to do, because they thought it
was right. I don’t know what I should have done then if I had been
situated as Mrs. Hosmer was, but I know that at the present time I
should stick to Dan, no matter what flag he fought under. Perhaps
we are not as great or good in peace as in war times.

The captain had a beautiful country-seat several miles out of town.

We had heard much of this place and its old-time hospitalities; and
we also heard that it had been virtually closed since Captain
Hosmer’s separation from his wife. The captain went there
frequently alone, and occasionally with a few friends, but the place
had known no festivity since its mistress had gone away on that visit
from which, by the way, she returned before we left Baltimore.

But before she came back there was a stag party at the captain’s
country place, given in honor of General Fish, the provost marshal at
Baltimore, and other prominent officers.

The next time I saw Captain Hosmer he had a smile for me.

“You will get your passes,” he said. “I have spoken to General Fish
for them.”

Milicent had decided that she could not risk little Bobby on such a
journey and at this season, but mother was to go with me. The day
before we were to start she and I went down to General Fish’s
office. He was out, but an orderly told us rather rudely to sit down
and wait, which invitation or command we humbly acted upon.
Presently General Fish entered. We stated our case.

“We are Southerners, general, and we wish to go south by way of

Harper’s Ferry.”

“Mrs. and Miss Duncan, I think you said?”

“Yes, general.”
“You are the ladies I heard of from Captain Hosmer, then?”

We gave him a note from Captain Hosmer.

“Excuse me, ladies, while I read this, and I will see what I can do for
you.”

He finished the note and then said:

“That’s all right. I will make out your passes, ladies,” and in a few
minutes the important papers were in our hands.

“These will take you to General Kelly at Harper’s Ferry. There my

power ends. You will find General Kelly courteous and considerate,
though I make no promises for him, understand. I will furnish you
an escort to Harper’s Ferry, and an officer will be sent to your
boarding-house this afternoon to examine your baggage. Your
address, please.” He wrote a few words rapidly, and called the
orderly:

“Take that order,” he said.

The orderly saluted and got as far as the door, then he turned.

“Do these women go?” he asked of the general.

“These ladies go. Obey my order, sir!”

Upon which the orderly went quickly about his business.

When the officer came to examine our baggage I was on thorns. I

had come north intending to make certain purchases, and I had
made them, and the fruit of my money and labors was in those two
trunks of mother’s and mine. Mother’s trunk was quite a large one,
and both of those honest-looking trunks to which I yielded the keys
so freely were crammed with dishonest goods—that is, dishonest
according to blockade law. I had paid good gold for them, and
anxiety enough, Heaven knows, for them to be properly mine.

I had shoes in the bottom of those trunks, and on top of the shoes
cloth made into the semblance of female wear and underwear; and,
lastly, I had put in genuine every-day garments. There were
handkerchiefs, pins, needles, gloves, thread, and all sorts of odds
and ends between the folds of garments, here, there, and
everywhere in those trunks. They were as contraband trunks as ever
crossed into Dixie. But, again, my Yankee was a gentleman.

“This is an unpleasant duty, miss,” he said when I handed him my

keys, “but I will disarrange your property as little as possible. It is
only a form.”

The orderly lifted the trays and set them back again, scarcely
glancing underneath. What a dear, nice Yankee, I thought! He locked
the trunks and sealed them.

“Will those seals be broken anywhere, and my trunks examined

again?” I asked in some trepidation—this examination was so
satisfactory to me that I wanted it to do for one and all.

“I can not tell, miss. They may be at Harper’s Ferry. But I hardly
think so. I think this seal will carry you through.”
 CHAPTER XVII

PRISONERS OF THE UNITED STATES

The officer who had examined our trunks the previous day took the
trunks to the depot in a wagon, mother and I going in a hack. After
we got on the train, our officer, Lieutenant Martin, joined us, and
made himself very agreeable. The beginning of that journey was
most pleasant. The scenery along the road to Harper’s Ferry is at all
times beautiful, and as we drew nearer to the ferry our car ran by
the side of the Potomac, so that from one window we looked across
the river to the Virginia Heights, and from the other to the Heights
of Maryland. It was afternoon and growing dark when we reached
Harper’s Ferry.

There we found something like a riot going on, shouting and noises
of all sorts, and the town full of drunken soldiers. We were told that
there had been fighting in the valley, that the Federals had won, and
that the men had just been paid off, and were celebrating victory
and enjoying pay and booty in regular soldier fashion. Through this
shouting, rowdy mob mother and I passed under our Federal escort
to the tavern.

When we reached the tavern, a miserable little place full of drunken

soldiers, our kind escort told us that his duty was at an end, and that
he must take the return train to Baltimore. I think he hated to leave
us under such unsafe circumstances, but he scarcely had time to
settle us in the reception-room, shake hands, and catch his train.
Here mother and I sat, debating what we should do. Of course, we
were extremely anxious to get out of the place. We called a waiter
and asked him if he could tell us where we could hire a vehicle to
take us a part of our journey, or the whole of it. He knew of nothing
that we could get. Then we went out on the porch, disagreeable as
this was, and made inquiries of everybody who seemed sober
enough to answer, but to no purpose. We could find no way of
getting out of Harper’s Ferry that night.

Thoroughly frightened, we asked to be shown to the commanding

officer of the place, and were ushered into General Kelly’s office,
which, fortunately, was attached to the tavern—really a part of it.

General Kelly rose when we entered, saw us seated, and was as

courteous as possible, while we stated the case and asked his
advice. He heard us patiently, and was very sympathetic.

“I don’t know what to say, ladies. I have no authority to send you

on.”

“Then what will we do, general?”

“I can not say. I can, of course, give you passes, but you will find it
impossible to hire anything here to travel in just now. The best you
could get would be an ox-cart or a broken-down wagon, and the
roads are almost impassable for good strong vehicles. And, besides,
it is not safe for you to travel except under military escort, which, as
I have said, I have no authority to furnish. There has been a great
deal of fighting in the valley, and the roads are lined with stragglers.
If you were prisoners now I could put you under escort and send
you through our lines easy enough, but as it is I don’t see what I
can do.”

We felt inclined to cry.

“And this is not a fit place for you to spend the night in, as you can
see for yourselves,” he pursued, very much in the manner of a Job’s
comforter. “The tavern is thronged with drunken men, and the whole
town is overrun with them.”

“Would it not be best for us to return to Baltimore?” we asked

humbly. We had almost made up our minds to going back.

“That would be best, certainly—if you can.”

“Why, can’t we go back? We had no idea that we wouldn’t be

allowed to go back if we wanted to.”

“Well, you see, ladies, you are in the position of Southerners sent
south. The policy of the Government encourages the sending of all
Southerners in Maryland south to stay. I am only explaining, that
you may understand that it may be difficult for me to assist you, in
spite of my willingness to do so. I can not send you back without
authority from General Fish. I will telegraph to him at once, and do
my best for you. My orderly will see you back to the tavern. And I
will notify you when I hear from General Fish.”

So we returned to the reception-room of the tavern. Among the

groups thronging the tavern were a few graycoats who had been
captured the day before. One of these prisoners, a tall, handsome
man, walked restlessly up and down the room where we sat, his
guard keeping watch on him. As he passed back and forth I looked
at him sorrowfully, putting into my eyes all the sympathy and
encouragement I dared.

There was something in his look when he returned mine that made
me think he wanted to speak to me. Every time he passed I thought
I saw his eyes growing more and more wistful under their drooping
lids.

Without seeming to notice him I moved about the room until I got to
a window which was in the line of his restless beat. I stood there,
my back turned to him, apparently looking out of the window, until I
disarmed the suspicion of the guard. Then I settled down into a
seat, my side to the window, my back to the guard, my face to the
prisoner when the turn in his beat brought him toward me. A swift
glance showed him that I was on the alert. Not a muscle of his face
changed—he was facing the guard—but when he turned and came
back, as he passed me he dropped these words.

“Going south?”

He walked to the end of the room and turned. Coming back, he

faced me and the guard. As he passed I said:

“Yes.”

When he came back, he said—always with his head drooped and

speaking below his breath and so that his lips could hardly be seen
to move:

“Take a message?”

When he passed back I said:

“Yes.”

Returning: “Get word to Governor Vance of North Carolina——”

To the end of his beat, turning and passing again in silence, then as
he walked with his back to the guard:

“You saw Charlie Vance here——”

To the end of beat one way, to the end another, and back again:

“Prisoner—captured in fight yesterday——”

Several beats back and forth in silence, then:

“Carried north——”
Again:

“Don’t know where.”

This was the last he had opportunity to say. I saw the orderly
coming in. Before Lieutenant Vance was near enough to catch
another word from me, the orderly stood before me, a telegram in
his hand. It was from General Fish to General Kelly:

“The ladies were sent south at their own request. I decline further
connection with the matter.”

“Why—why,” I cried in desperation, “we can’t go south, we can’t go

north, and we can’t stay here!”

There was a pert little Yankee in the room who had been watching
us for some time. He, like everybody else around us, understood by
this time our dilemma.

“I’ll tell you how to get sent on, if you will listen,” he said.

“I will,” I said clearly and firmly, and looking straight into the eyes of
Lieutenant Vance, who was then passing close by me.

The little Yankee was staggered by the unnecessary amount of

resolution expressed in my reply. I kept my eyes focused on the spot
where Mr. Vance had been for some seconds after he had passed.
Then I turned to my little Yankee. I had snubbed him severely
heretofore, but I was humbled by extremity, and willing enough now
to listen if he could tell us how to get away from this place.

“Tell us how we can get sent on,” I asked.

“Just step out there in the street and holler for Jeff Davis, and you’ll
get sent on quick enough!”

We withered him with a stare, and then turned our backs on him,
and at the same moment two ladies entered the room whom we
recognized. They were Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby, whose
acquaintance we had made in Baltimore, and they, too, were going
south. They explained that they had been in this wretched place
since yesterday, and that they were not allowed to return to
Baltimore and were unable to go home. They had been out trying to
find a conveyance of some sort, but had been able to secure only
the promise of an ox-cart, and hearing that we were here had come
in to consult with us. During all this time the orderly, whom I had
detained, was waiting impatiently. We decided to go with him and
make another appeal to General Kelly. Accordingly the whole party
filed into General Kelly’s office again.

“What are we to do, general?” I cried out in desperation. “We can’t

go back, we can’t go on, and we can’t stay here!”

The kindly general did honor to the stars he wore—he was a

gentleman, every inch of him. It happened later that he was
captured and held in Libby Prison in Richmond, and I was in
Richmond and didn’t know it. I have held a grudge against fate ever
since. If I had only known, he would have been reminded by every
courtesy that a Southern woman could render of how gratefully his
kindness was remembered.

“I hardly hoped for a different answer from General Fish, ladies. The
regulations on this point are very stringent. And I can not return you
to Baltimore unless you take the oath of allegiance.”

“What?” we asked eagerly.

“If you take the oath of allegiance, I can send you back.”

We decided to do this.
We didn’t know exactly what the oath was, but we thought we could
take anything to get us out of our scrape. We told General Kelly we
would take it, and we were conducted into another room, which I
can only remember as being full of Federal soldiers. We were
marched up to a desk where a man began reading the oath to us. It
was the famous “ironclad.” We did not wait for him to get through.
Without a word each of us turned and marched back into General
Kelly’s office, as indignant a set of women as could be found.

He was looking for us—doubtless he knew by previous experience

the effect the reading of that oath produced upon Southern women
—and he burst out laughing as our procession filed back into his
room.

“Why, general,” we began, “we couldn’t take that horrid thing! We

are Southerners, and our kinsmen and friends are Southern
soldiers.”

“I almost knew you wouldn’t take that oath, ladies, when I sent you
there.”

“General,” I said, “this is the most remarkable position I ever knew

people to be in—where you can’t go back, and can’t go forward, and
can’t stay where you are. I don’t know what you are to do with us,
general, unless you hang us to get us out of the way.”

He laughed heartily.

“I must do something a little better than that for you. My orderly will
take you back to the tavern, and you will hear from me in an hour.”

We went with Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby to their room.

Before the hour was up we were escorted to another interview with
General Kelly. The general beamed on us.

“Here is a telegram I received in your absence,” he said, handing it

to us:
“Mrs. and Miss Duncan are dear friends of mine. Can you see them
through? If not, tell them I will be in Harper’s Ferry to-night. Answer.

“Hosmer.”

“Here is my answer,” said the general:

“Stay where you are. Will see them through all right.

“Kelly.”

“How could he have found out the trouble we were in?” we asked in
wonder.

“I don’t know. News of the fighting in the valley and the condition of
things here reached Baltimore soon after you left there. Hosmer
perhaps got an idea of your situation through General Fish. He may
have gone to Fish’s office to inquire. Hosmer is a capital fellow and
an old friend of mine. I had about determined on what to do for you
before I heard from him, but I thought it would please you to know
of his message. I will ask you to return to the tavern, ladies, and
exercise a little further patience. You will hear from me soon.”

This time we waited only a little while before an orderly rapped at

the door to say that an ambulance was in waiting for us below. We
hurried down with him, and in ten minutes were inside the
ambulance, and prisoners of the United States.

Behind us into the ambulance stepped a dashing young officer, all

brass buttons and gold lace.
“I am Captain Goldsborough,” he said, saluting, “commissioned by
General Kelly to attend you.”

Our escort consisted of five soldiers who followed us, sitting in a

wagon on our baggage. That afternoon we passed through
Charleston, and Captain Goldsborough pointed out to us the house
in which John Brown had lived—an ordinary two-story frame house.

As well as I can remember we reached Berryville about nine o’clock.

Our ambulance drew up in front of the tavern, and Captain
Goldsborough went in to see about getting accommodations for us.
He came out quickly and said, “This is no fit place to-night for you,
ladies. I am informed that there is an old couple on the hill who may
take us in. I hear, too, that they are good Confederates,” he added
mischievously. Of course lights were out and everybody asleep when
we drove up, but our driver went in and beat on the door until he
waked the old people up. They received us kindly, and the old lady
got a supper for us of cold meats and slices of loaf bread, butter,
milk, preserves, and hot coffee which she must have made herself
as no servants were in the house at that hour; and we had a
comfortable room with two beds in it. The old lady came in and
chatted with us awhile, telling us all she knew about our army’s
movements, and listening eagerly to what people in Maryland had to
say about the war. We were very tired, but I am sure it must have
been one o’clock when we went to sleep. At daybreak there came a
great banging at the front door. Mother put her head out of the front
window and inquired who was trying to break the door down.

It was our driver, and there at the gate stood our ambulance. The
driver hurried us desperately, saying we had not a moment to lose.
The noise had aroused our hosts, and when we got down the old
lady had spread us a cold lunch and made us a cup of coffee.

“I was hoping to have you a nice hot breakfast,” she said, “but since
you must go in such a hurry this is the best I can do. If I had known
you were going to make such an early start I would have got you a
hot breakfast somehow.”

We swallowed our food hurriedly, but this did not satisfy our driver.
Every few minutes he came down on the door with the butt end of
his whip. Finally we left off eating, ran up-stairs, and gathered up
our bags. As we hurried down, almost falling over each other in our
haste, we saw a magnificent-looking soldier standing in the hall. He
was in the full uniform of a colonel of cavalry, glittering with gold
lace, with gauntlets reaching his elbows, and high military boots.

“Mrs. Duncan and Miss Duncan, I suppose,” he said with a sweeping

bow, “and——”

“Mrs. Drummond and Miss Oglesby,” we said of the ladies who came
behind us.

“I am Colonel McReynolds, commandant at this place, and at your

service, ladies,” he continued. “I have to apologize for not paying my
respects to you last night upon receipt of General Kelly’s letter
asking me to take charge of you. The lateness of the hour must be
my excuse. At the time Captain Goldsborough presented it I had a
number of important despatches to attend to, and I supposed you
were tired out and in need of rest.”

We expressed our appreciation of his courtesy and General Kelly’s

thoughtfulness.

“What is all this?” he asked, pointing to our ambulance, baggage

wagon, and impatient driver.

We explained that they were the conveniences furnished us by

General Kelly.

“But you surely do not propose starting off in such weather as this,
ladies?”
I have neglected to say that it had been storming since daybreak.

“The driver has been beating on the doors since before day,”
somebody said.

“He has, has he? Then he has exceeded his instructions. He had no
right whatever to disturb you, ladies. I will see that he is reported.”

He called the driver and reprimanded him sharply.

“Pray don’t feel that you must leave us in such weather as this,
ladies,” he continued with the utmost kindness. “Stay here a week if
you like. That ambulance and wagon and those men and horses are
at your service as long as you choose to keep them here, and we
will be glad to do whatever we may for your comfort or pleasure
until it suits your own convenience to leave us.”

We hardly knew how to thank this princely young enemy, but we

insisted that the driver should not be punished, and that we should
be allowed to proceed on our journey, as we were anxious to reach
our friends and kindred.

He rode in our ambulance with us to his headquarters, where we

were joined by our other charming enemy, and, making our adieux
to the gallant and handsome colonel, continued our journey.

During the day something happened to Captain Goldsborough’s

watch, and it stopped running, much to his annoyance.

“I should like to know what time it is,” he said.

I pulled my watch out and held it open for him to see the time. I
could have told him what hour it was. I don’t know what made me
such a reckless little creature in those days. The watch I held to him
had a tiny Confederate flag pasted inside. My companions had either
secreted their watches or were not traveling with them. I had been
urged to do the same, but had openly worn my watch ever since
leaving Baltimore. Captain Goldsborough saw the hour, and he saw
the flag also. He stared at me in utter amazement.

“You are brave—or reckless,” he said.

“I know this is contraband goods, and, according to your ideas,

treasonable. Will you confiscate it?” quietly holding it out again.

His face flushed.

“Not I! but some one else might. You are not prudent to wear that
openly.”

And I was so ashamed of myself for hurting his feelings that I made
amends in rather too warm terms, I am afraid, considering that he
didn’t know I was married and a privileged character.

“You are traveling in the wrong direction, I think, Miss Duncan,” he

ventured to say after awhile. “You shouldn’t leave the North and go
south now.”

“Why?”

“I—I shouldn’t think you would receive the attention there just now
that is your due. You are young and fond of society, I imagine. And
—there are so few beaux in the South now—I shouldn’t think you
would like that.”

“Really?”

“I mean that I wish you would stay up North where it is pleasanter.

It’s so—uncomfortable down South. You are so young, you see, you
ought to have a chance to enjoy life a little. I—I wish you were up
here—and I could add a little to your happiness. I—I mean,”
catching a glance which warned him, “it is must be dull for you in
the South—no beaux—no nothing.”
“All the beaux are in the field,” I retorted, “where they ought to be. I
wouldn’t have a beau who wasn’t, and if I were a Northern girl I
wouldn’t have a man who didn’t wear a uniform—though, I think, it
ought to be gray.”

“I expect you have a sweetheart down South whom you expect to

see when you get home. That is why your heart has been so set on
getting back.”

“If I had a sweetheart down South I couldn’t see him when I got
back home, for he would be in the field.”

“So, your sweetheart is a Southern soldier?” wistfully.

“I wouldn’t have a sweetheart who wasn’t a soldier—a Southern

soldier.”

In the other side of my watch I had pasted a small picture of Dan in

uniform. I opened this side and held it out to my companion.

“That’s my sweetheart’s picture.”

He looked at it long and hard. “A good-looking fellow,” he said, “and

I have no doubt a gallant soldier. If I ever meet him in battle—he
will be safe from my bullet.”

Behind our wagon all the way from Harper’s Ferry had come a party
equipped like ourselves. They were Jews, and, as we were informed,
were prisoners of the United States. They had an ambulance like
ours, a baggage wagon like ours, and a similar escort of five infantry
perched on trunks. Their escort who rode inside, however, was not
so attractive as ours. We felt and expressed much commiseration for
them because they were prisoners—“those poor Jews,” we called
them.

We were all suffering the consequences of late and early hours, and
of the worry and excitement at Harper’s Ferry. I felt almost ill, and
when Miss Oglesby, whose home was in Winchester, invited us to
spend a week with her, we concluded that we would accept her
hospitality until better able to continue our journey.

Winchester was the most difficult of all places for Southerners to

pass through at this time, and we could not possibly have gotten
through if we had been left to our own resources. Milroy was
commandant, and his name was a terror. He belonged to the Ben
Butler of New Orleans type. Some time near the middle of the day
we drew up in front of Milroy’s headquarters. Immediately behind us
came the Jews and their belongings. They did not go in with us, and
I supposed they were awaiting their turn. General Milroy was absent,
off on a fight, and we fell into the hands of his adjutant, a dapper
little fellow. We heard him talking to Goldsborough of the recent
fight and victory, and heard him making arrangements for our
transportation.

Here we thought it proper to inform him that we were going to

remain a week in Winchester.

“You can not remain here,” he said. “You go on immediately.”

“Oh, no!” we said, “we’re not going on now. We are going to stop
here for a visit and until we are rested.”

“You are prisoners and under orders. You go at once—” he began

bruskly.

“Oh, no!” we interrupted, eager to enlighten him, for we saw he had

made a very natural mistake. “We are not prisoners. Those poor
Jews out there, they are prisoners. We are going to stop here on a
little visit.”

“You don’t stop here an hour. This is Miss Oglesby’s destination, and
she stops, but the rest of you go on—now.”
He looked as if he thought us demented. Goldsborough kept making
faces at us, but we were so anxious to correct the adjutant’s mistake
that we had no attention to bestow elsewhere. We thought we had
never seen so stupid a man as that adjutant.

“We are not the prisoners,” we insisted. “Those Jews out there——”

Here he told Captain Goldsborough to conduct “these prisoners”

down-stairs and into the ambulance provided for them. “You will not
go far before you meet a detachment of cavalry on their way to this
place,” he informed Captain Goldsborough, and then instructed him
to turn back of these a sufficient escort for our party.

We were in a perfect rage as Captain Goldsborough led us down-

stairs. We thought Milroy’s adjutant the very rudest and stupidest
person we had ever seen.
 CHAPTER XVIII

WITHIN OUR LINES

After leaving the saucy and peremptory adjutant we were shown

into the handsomest ambulance I have ever seen. I suppose the one
we had been using was returned to Harper’s Ferry or left at
Winchester for the horses to rest until Captain Goldsborough’s
return. At any rate, we were in new quarters, and very elegant ones
they were. The sides and seats were cushioned and padded, and it
was really a luxurious coach. It was drawn by four large black horses
with coats like silk. There was a postilion on the seat, and beside
him sat a small boy who kept peeping behind us and into the woods
on all sides, and as far ahead as possible. I didn’t know what he was
trying to see or find out, but I came to the conclusion that he was
there to “peep” on general principles.

As soon as we were seated we asked Captain Goldsborough what

upon earth that impertinent adjutant meant by referring to us as
“prisoners,” and ordering us about so.

Whereupon he explained with much embarrassment and many

apologies that we were really prisoners—that General Kelly could not
have sent us through without the formality of putting us under
arrest.

“I wish,” he said in an aside to me, “that I didn’t have to release

you.”
Of course we were perfectly satisfied to be General Kelly’s prisoners
under such circumstances. In fact, we charged Captain
Goldsborough to tell him how nice we thought it was to be put under
arrest by him.

We withdrew our charges against the adjutant, and even

acknowledged that there was kindness in the pert little Yankee’s
telling us to “holler for Jeff Davis and we’d get sent on quick
enough.”

Six miles from Winchester we met the detachment of cavalry to

which Milroy’s adjutant had referred. It was a magnificent-looking
body of men, handsomely uniformed and mounted. As they were
about to dash past us Captain Goldsborough halted them, gave an
order, and instantly thirty riders wheeled out of line and surrounded
the ambulance, the others riding on without a break in their
movements. Captain Goldsborough had gotten out of the ambulance
some minutes before we met the detachment of cavalry, and was
sitting with the driver, having sent the little boy inside. It sounds
rather a formidable position for a Southern woman, a blockade-
runner, in a Yankee ambulance, and surrounded by thirty Yankees
armed to the teeth; but I was never safer in my life. The little boy
was in a state of terror that would have been amusing if it had not
been pitiful.

“What are all these men around the ambulance for?” I asked. He
didn’t look as if he could get his wits together at once.

“Are they afraid we will get away?” I continued.

“Oh, no’m! no’m!” he answered, his eyes as big as saucers. “There’s

been lots of fightin’—an’ there’s rebels all along here in the woods—
and they’d come out and take this here ambulance an’ these here
horses—an’ we all, an’ you all, an’ all of us!”

A novel position, truly, Yankees protecting us against our own

soldiers! We met another company of soldiers, and alas! we could
turn back none of them. They were not mounted, they were not
handsomely uniformed. From the windows of our ambulance we
looked out on them with tearful eyes, and waved our handkerchiefs
to them; but their heads were bowed, and they did not see us. They
would hardly have believed we were prisoners if they had seen us,
for our escort of Union cavalry the whole time they guarded us
treated us as if we were queens. Not one profane word did we hear
—not a syllable that breathed anything but respect and kindly
feeling.

At Newtown we were released and were Union prisoners no longer,

but Southern travelers close to the Southern lines and on our own
responsibility. Captain Goldsborough bade us adieu, saying that he
was sorry he could not take us farther, but that his orders compelled
him to turn back here, and we poured out our gratitude to him and
to Colonel McReynolds and General Kelly by him. He put a little
sentiment into a farewell pressure of my hand, and I am afraid I put
a great deal too much gratitude and penitence into my eyes. My
genius for friendship had asserted itself, and I was fast learning to
give him a companion niche in my heart with Captains Hosmer and
Locke. Another day with him, and I would have told him I was
married, showed him Dan’s picture, bored him with Dan, and found
in him all the better friend and good comrade.

Our hearts sank as our gallant bluecoat, our cozy ambulance, and
our cavalry guard left us, three lonely women in the tavern at
Newtown. We spent the night there, and the next morning secured,
with much difficulty, a small, uncovered, one-horse wagon to take us
on our journey. We were very much crowded. Our trunks were piled
up in it—mother’s, Mrs. Drummond’s, and my own. I made mother
as comfortable as possible, and Mrs. Drummond carefully made
herself so, while I sat on the seat with the driver, a trunk sticking in
my back all the way. I had to sit almost double because of the trunk,
the wagon being so small that no other arrangement was possible.
Rain had fallen plentifully here. The day was one of fogs and mists
with occasional light showers, the roads were, muddy and seamed
with ruts, over which the wagon jogged up and down, and I jogged
with it, feeling as if my back would break in two and almost wishing
it would and end my misery. About nine of that miserable wet night
we hailed with eager, glad, tired hearts and eyes the lights of
Woodstock. Here we knew we should find Southern forces
encamped, here we knew we should be at home among our own
people. Just outside the town a voice rang through the darkness:

“Halt!”

A sentry stood in our path.

“We are Southerners,” we said. “Let us pass.”

“Where are your papers?”

“Papers? We haven’t any papers. We are Southerners, we tell you—

Southern ladies, and we are in a hurry, and you must let us pass
right now.”

“I can’t do it. Show your papers or turn back.”

We set up a wail.

“Here, we’ve come all the way from Baltimore, and the Yankees have
sent us and have brought us all the way in a fine ambulance and
cavalry escorts and big horses and gold lace and everything, and
now we’ve got home, and our own people won’t let us in! tell us to
turn back!”

The sentry seemed impressed. Rags and musket, he was a pathetic

if stern figure as he stood in that lonely, muddy road in the glare of
our driver’s lantern.
But he was firm. He told us that he was obeying orders and could
not let us by since we had no passes.

“I’m so tired, and my back is almost broken with this trunk sticking
into it,” I moaned.

“That ain’t comfortable,” he admitted, but his resolute position in the

middle of the road showed that we couldn’t pass, all the same.

“Look here,” I said, plucking up some of my accustomed spirit, “do

you know that my husband is an officer in the Confederate army? My
husband is Captain Grey.”

“Can’t help it. Got to obey orders.”

“And my brother,” said Mrs. Drummond, “is a colonel in the

Confederate army. To think that I—I, the sister of Colonel ——, am
told that I can’t pass here!”

“Law, ma’am! that’s my colonel!” said the man. “I tell you what I’ll
do, ladies. I’ll send a note in to the colonel and see what he says
about it.”

So we waited till he found a passer-by who would be a messenger;

and then we waited until the messenger replied to the note, and we
were permitted to pass.

Soon after we reached the tavern the news of our arrival and
exploits got abroad and soon the little tavern parlor was filled with
people listening to the tales of the blockade-runners who were just
from Yankeeland, bringing a trunk or two full of clothes. The news of
our doughty deeds spread from house to house, and soldiers
gathered in front of the tavern and gave us ringing cheers, and
welcomed us home with all their lung power. Poor, ragged fellows!
how I did wish that mother and I had worn home a hundred or two
more Balmorals!
The next morning we left Woodstock.

We were traveling now in a comfortable spring wagon, and made

good time, reaching Harrisonburg in time to take the train for
Staunton.

As we sat in the parlor of the hotel in Staunton who should walk in

but an old friend and cousin of Dan’s, Lieutenant Nelson! But he
could tell me nothing about Dan—he did not even know where he
could be found. This was just before the second battle of the
Wilderness, and the cavalry was being shifted constantly from place
to place. But if Lieutenant Nelson could tell us nothing, he was
greatly interested in our exploits. We told him of the Balmorals with
pride.

“And here are two shirts for Dan,” I said, pulling at our long scarfs.
“Just think of our getting through with a full uniform—cloth, brass
buttons, gold lace, and all!”

As at Woodstock, the story of our prowess spread. It went from one

person to another until the soldiers got hold of it, and gathered
around the hotel and more ringing cheers were given us.

The next morning we took the train for Richmond—but we did not
get there.

At Lindseys Station, just before we reached Gordonsville, a man in

the uniform of the Thirteenth got on.

I called him to me.

“Can you tell me where the Thirteenth is?”

“Yes’m. We lef’ ’em ’bout the aige of Culpeper, yistiddy. Lor’m! we’ve
had times!”

“What was the matter?”

“We been havin’ a heap o’ fightin’. The kurnel, he warn’t thar at
Beverly Ford, an’ we didn’t have but one squadron, an’ the adjutant,
he led the charge an’ he sholy come mighty nigh gittin’ killed. Lor’m!
what’s the matter with ye?”

“Nothing! Go on! Make haste, tell me—make haste. The adjutant

——”

“His horse got shot under him, an’ his courier ridin’ right ’longside o’
him got killed, an’ the adjutant warn’t hurt, not a mite. But, Lor’m!
that was sholy a narrer escape! An’ they say that the adjutant’ll git
promoted.”

Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I think of that when I got the uniform?

“Thank you,” I said to the man. “You bring me the first news I have
had of my husband for a long time.”

“Good gracious! you ain’t our adjutant’s wife?”

“Yes, I am. And I am glad to meet one of his soldiers. And you are
the first to tell me good news.”

“Lor’m, now, ain’t I proud o’ that! An’ you our adjutant’s wife. You
don’t say! An’ I jes been a-tellin’ you how it was a’mos’ a mi-racle
that you warn’t a widder ’oman! An’ you never let on! But I see you
changed your face, marm, when I tole ’bout his pretty nigh gitting
shot. Yes, marm; the adjutant charged beautiful! he jes rid right
squar into ’em, an’ he made the Yankees git!”

“How long do you think the Thirteenth will remain in Culpeper?”

“That I couldn’t say for certain, marm. They mought be thar for a
day or two, an’ they mought be thar longer. You can’t always tell
much ’bout what the cavalry gwine to do. But we’s sho proud o’ the
adjutant, marm. Ginral Lee an’ Ginral Stuart an’ Kunnel Chambliss all
give him the praise.”
It was after this battle that Dan was promoted to the rank of major,
“for gallant conduct.”

I bade the soldier a hurried good-by and went to the conductor.

“My husband’s regiment is in Culpeper,” I said; “I have just heard it

from one of his men, and I want you to put me off at Gordonsville. I
have decided not to go on to Richmond, but to take the next train to
Culpeper.”

“The next train to Culpeper, ma’am—I think the next train for
Culpeper passes Gordonsville at four in the afternoon. There’s no
train before that, I know, and I am not sure that there’s one at four.
There’s no tavern nor anything to put you down at—I’ll just have to
set you out on the roadside.”

And it was on a red roadside that we and our baggage were set
down, on a bank of red mud, and there sat we on top of them as
the train rolled away. The conductor left us regretfully.

“Maybe you might get accommodations at that house up there,

ma’am,” he had said, pointing to the only house in sight, a two-story
white dwelling about a quarter of a mile distant. “I don’t know what
else you’ll do if that train don’t come along at four.”

This was ten o’clock in the morning. Four o’clock came, but no train.
We waited faithfully for it, but it did not come at all. At last we gave
up hope and paid a boy to carry our trunks to the house on the hill.
I shall never forget our reception at that house. At first they refused
to take us at all. After arguing the point with them and placing our
necessities before them, and promising to pay them anything they
might wish, we were thankful to get a gruff:

“Come in.”

We were shown to a room and shut in like horses. There was not
even a fire made for us. We had been warmer sitting on the
roadside in the sunshine. I will pass over the supper in silence. We
had had no dinner and were hungry, and we ate for our part of that
supper the upper crust of a biscuit each. A hard bed, the upper
crusts of two biscuits, no fire—this was what we got at that house.
The next morning we left before breakfast and went back to our
mud-bank in the sun, first asking for our bill and paying it. It was
two dollars apiece in gold!

The train came along early, however, and we were on it, and off to
Culpeper, all our troubles forgotten, for every mile was bringing us
nearer to Dan. As soon as we got off I saw quite a number of
soldiers belonging to Dan’s command. Many of them were known to
me personally. They came up and welcomed me back to Dixie, and
congratulated me on my husband’s gallantry and probable
promotion, and I sent word to Dan by them that I was there.

He came—the raggedest, most widowed-looking officer! But weren’t

we happy!

“Oh, Dan!” I cried, after the first rapture of greeting, “I got it so it

would do for a captain or a major or a colonel or a general. Didn’t I
do right?”

“What are you talking about, Nell? Got what?”

He looked as if he feared recent adventures had unsettled my

intellect.

“Your uniform, Dan,” I answered, but my countenance fell.

“My—uniform.”

Just like a man! He had forgotten the principal thing—next to seeing

mother, of course—that I had gone to Baltimore for.

“Your uniform, Dan. I’ve got it on. Here it is,” and I lifted my skirt
and showed him my Balmoral. “Isn’t it a beautiful cloth? And I have
kept it just as nice—not a fleck of mud on it. And here are the
buttons on my cloak, and I have the gold lace in mother’s satchel,
and——”

“Nell, dear, I haven’t time to talk about uniforms now. You will sleep
here to-night. To-morrow I will try to get a room for you at Mr.
Bradford’s. I will come in the morning or send you word what to do.
I am so sorry to go, but I can’t stay a minute longer. Good-by, my
darling.”

I was waked the next morning by a voice under my window calling:

“Miss Nell! O Miss Nell!” and looking out I saw Dan’s body-servant,
Sam, successor to poor Josh, who had died of smallpox.

“Mars Dan say, I fotch his love to you, an’ tell you you git right on
dem nex’ kyars an’ go straight on ter Orange Court-house, case dar’s
too much fightin’ ’roun’ here. An’ he gwine notify you dar when you
kin come back. But he say dat if you hear dar’s fightin’ ’roun’ Orange
Court-house, den you go straight on ter Richmond, an’ don’t you
stop untwell you git dar.”

“But I don’t want to go, Sam.”

“But Mars Dan he say tell you p’intedly you mus’.”

“Ain’t he coming to tell me good-by, Sam?”

“Law, Miss Nell! how he gwine do dat when de Yankees is er—

overrunnin’ de whole yuth? What’s guine ter become uv de country
ef de major leave off fitten de Yankees to humorfy you?”

I could not for the life of me, sad as my heart was, keep from
laughing at being taken to task by Sam.

“Is it so bad as that, Sam?”

“Yes’m, dat ’tis! Mars Dan say he ’fraid de Yankees git in de town
hyer fo’ night. De Yankees is er pressin’ we all close.”

“I can’t see your master at all before I go, Sam?”

“Law, Miss Nell; ain’t I done tole you dat? De country will go to de
dawgs ef de major stop fitten de Yankees to humorfy you.”

“If your master gets hurt, Sam, will you get me word?”

“Law, yes, Miss Nell! I sholy will.”

“And you’ll take care of him, Sam?”

“Dat’s jes what I gwine to do, Miss Nell. Me lef’ de major ef he git
hu’t! shuh!”

“Good-by, Sam. Tell your master I’m gone.”

“Yes’m. He’ll sho be p’intedly glad ter heah dat!”

Just fifteen minutes in which to catch the train. We threw things

pell-mell into our trunks—there was no vehicle to be had—paid a
man to drag them to the depot, and were on our way to Orange in
less than half an hour. And I had seen Dan, all told, perhaps fifteen
minutes!

At Orange we found everything in confusion, and everybody who

could get out leaving the town. The story went that the Yankee
cavalry under Stoneman would soon be in possession of it. We were
glad enough to keep our seats and go straight through to Richmond,
and it was well that we did, for behind us came Stoneman’s cavalry
close on our heels and tearing up bridges as they came. The railroad
track at Trevillian’s was torn up just after we passed over it.
Richmond was in a state of great excitement. Couriers were passing
to and fro between the army and the executive offices, stirring news
kept pouring in, and the newspapers were in a fever. Tidings from
the first battle of the Wilderness began coming in. Lee’s army and
“Fighting Joe” Hooker’s were grappling with each other there like
tigers in a jungle. Stuart, our great cavalry leader, had caught up
Jackson’s mantle as it fell, and was riding around in that valley of
death, charging his men to “Remember Jackson!” and singing in that
cheery voice of his which only death could drown: “Old Joe Hooker,
won’t you Come Out of the Wilderness?” Then came news of victory
and Richmond was wild with joy and wild with woe as well. In many
homes were vacant chairs because of that battle in the Wilderness,
and from Petersburg, twenty miles away, came the sound of
mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be
comforted because they were not.

It was from Petersburg that I was summoned to Culpeper by Dan,

who felt that the army might have a long enough breathing spell
there for me to pay him at least a visit. When I got to Mr. Bradford’s,
where he had engaged board for me, I found General Stuart’s
headquarters in the yard. He and his staff were boarders at Mr.
Bradford’s, and I ate at the same table with the flower of the
Southern cavalry. Unfortunately for me, Dan’s command was
stationed at a distance of several miles, and I could not see as much
of him as I had hoped. He met me the day of my arrival, rode by
once or twice, took one or two meals with me, and then it seemed
that for all I saw of him I might as well have remained in Petersburg.

My seat at table was next to that of General Stuart, and for vis-à-vis
I had Colonel John Esten Cooke. Colonel Cooke was a glum old
thing, but General Stuart was so delightful that he compensated for
everything. In a short time I was completely at my ease with him,
and long before he left I had grown to love and trust him.