Kitabı oku: «A Virginia Girl in the Civil War, 1861-1865», sayfa 10

Then came upon us that awful July of 1863, and the battle of Gettysburg, the beginning of the end. Virginians fell by hundreds in that fight, and Pickett’s charge goes down to history along with Balaklava and Thermopylæ. There were more vacant chairs in Virginia, already desolate – there were more broken hearts for which Heaven alone held balm. “When Italy’s made, for what good is it done if we have not a son?” Again the angel of death had passed me by. But my heart bled for my friends who were dead on that red field far away – for my friends who mourned and could not be comforted.

One of our wounded, whose father brought him home to be nursed, bore to me a letter from my husband and a package from General Stuart. The package contained a photograph of himself that he had promised me, and a note, bright, genial, merry, like himself. That picture is hanging on my wall now. On the back is written by a hand long crumbled into dust, “To her who in being a devoted wife did not forget to be a true patriot.” The eyes smile down upon us as I lift my little granddaughter up to kiss my gallant cavalier’s lips, and as she lisps his name my heart leaps to the memory of his dauntless life and death.

He was shot one beautiful May morning in 1864 while trying to prevent Sheridan’s approach to Richmond. It was at Yellow Tavern – a dismantled old tavern not many miles from the Confederate capital – that he fell, and Colonel Venable, who was serving with him at the time and near him when he fell, helped, if I remember aright, to shroud him. When he told me what he could of General Stuart’s last hours, he said:

“There was a little Catholic medal around his neck, Nell. Did you give him that? We left it on him.”

And so passes from this poor history my beloved and loyal friend, my cavalry hero and good comrade. Virginia holds his dust sacred, and in history he sits at the Round Table of all true-souled and gentle knights.

CHAPTER XXI
RESCUED BY THE FOE
Milicent’s arrest in Washington as related by herself

I passed May and a part of the summer of 1863 in fruitless efforts to get a pass to Virginia. This was when the Civil War was at its whitest heat, and I was in the city of Baltimore, where a word was construed into treason, and messages and letters were contrived to and from the South only by means of strategy. One by one my plans failed. Then came the battle of Gettysburg, and as I heard of our reverses I felt an almost helpless lethargy stealing over me – as if I should never see Nell or mother again. How long the war would last, and what would be the end of it none could tell. Nell and mother were in a besieged country, and the blockade between us seemed an impassable wall. The long silence was becoming unbearable as I slowly realized that it might become the silence of death and I not know.

At last came news which I thought affected them, and which startled me into instant energy.

One morning my friend, Miss Barnett, a beautiful girl, rushed into my room, and, throwing herself on the floor beside me, began telling me with sobs and tears that my brother-in-law, Major Grey, or his brother Dick, was a prisoner in the Old Capitol at Washington. She begged me to go at once and see what I could do. If I could not find some way of helping the prisoner to freedom, I could at least add to his comfort in prison.

“You could at least show him that he was remembered,” she said. “You could take some little delicacies which would be grateful to a prisoner. I will help you to get them up.”

Poor Isabelle! It was one of the tragedies of the war. She was too wretched to attempt any concealment.

“You see, if I had any right to go myself I would not ask you to go for me. If I were even engaged to him – but I am not. You see, it couldn’t be. But, O Millie! I wish there wasn’t any war that I might be my love’s betrothed and go to him!”

For a minute her proposition daunted me. To rush into Washington, a Southern woman, alone and unprotected; to be surrounded on all sides by the Government officials and spies whose business it was to watch and report every careless word and act of any one who was known to be interested in the South or in Southerners – the undertaking seemed desperate. But there were Isabelle’s tearful eyes, and there was the fear that Nell’s husband might be the prisoner. I determined to make the trip at all hazards.

Together we made purchases of what we considered the most tempting delicacies to take to an invalid or prisoner. There were cheeses, crackers, oranges, lemons, jellies; and we did not forget to add to our stock wine, whisky, pipes, and tobacco. Isabelle herself sent a box of fine cigars, a costly gift, for the war with the Southern States affected the price of tobacco.

The next morning I started off by myself to Washington in fear and trembling. Taking a hack there, and trusting to a kind Providence for guidance and protection, I drove first to the office of the provost marshal for a permit. On entering his office, to my consternation I recognized in him the judge-advocate under whose protection our truce boat had gone to Richmond not many months before with the distinct understanding that her passengers were not to return from Dixie while the war lasted. But it was too late to retreat. Rallying all my courage and self-control I greeted him as a stranger, asking whether or not I was addressing Judge Turner. Answered in the affirmative, I requested permission to visit the prisoners in the Old Capitol.

While I was talking he looked up and a glance almost of recognition lighted his face. It was succeeded by a more scrutinizing regard as I stood in perfectly assumed unconsciousness before him. Bowing, he asked me to be seated, and to repeat my petition. Others were waiting their turn, and his answer was prompt:

“Certainly, madam. You can see the two prisoners mentioned, or any one you wish, and take with you what you please.”

An easy job certainly!

My heart grew light; I arose to go, thanking the judge cordially.

He said: “One moment, madam.”

I went back, and he handed me a pen, ink, and slip of paper, saying:

“Just sign this, please. It is of no consequence at all – a mere matter of form – only you can not see your friends without it.”

There spread out before me was the ironclad oath!

Without a moment’s hesitation I replied:

“The oath, Judge Turner! Am I to sign that? I can not! and never will!”

He smiled apologetically and said:

“It is of no consequence – only a little form that we have to insist on. Sign it, and you can go to your friends.”

“If it is of no consequence to your side, provost, why should it be of so much to mine that I can not see my friends without it?”

He smiled, and still held the pen out to me.

“No! never!” I said.

“Then I can not help you. I am sorry. You must apply at military headquarters.”

He kindly directed me to the same. I hurried down the steps, jumped into my hack, and drove quickly to the War Department. Here I made my request again and again met with the same polite consent backed with the oath. Again I refused and turned to go, when one of the officers kindly suggested:

“Make application to the officer at the Old Capitol. He may permit you to see the prisoners without oath, though I fear not.”

As there was not much time left before my train would start for Baltimore, I urged my driver to do his best, and we sped on in haste until we stopped before the gloomy, formidable-looking prison of the Old Capitol. With the permission of the guard I entered. The officer in command received me with kindness and courtesy, and with his consent I was about to ascend the stairs when he extended his hand, saying:

“The oath, if you please. I presume you took it at the War Department, and have your pass.”

Again I was foiled. This was my last chance. There was no use pleading, and I was in despair. I leaned on a chair to rest a moment before leaving the room, defeated. I had not a word to say, and I did not say a word. I suppose my deep dejection touched him. I was about to go when he said with great kindness:

“Wait here near these steps. I will send up an order, and if he is there, he can come to the railing and you can speak to him, and send him anything you wish. But you can not go up.”

An orderly ascended with the message, and I waited at the steps, watching anxiously for Dan or Dick to appear at the railing. I did not have many minutes to wait. The orderly returned with the reply that Lieutenant – not Major – Grey had been exchanged that very morning, and was now on his way home. Happy for Nell and Isabelle and myself, I poured out my thanks to the officer in command for helping me to such good news, and asked his permission to send the large basket of good things I had brought to the other prisoners. He gave it, and I saw the orderly again mount the stairs, burdened this time with good wishes and my still more substantial and acceptable offering. As I went out, passing again through the prison gates, my driver whispered in the most excited manner:

“Lady! lady! do take care! The prisoners are all at the windows, and if you look up or speak to them we will both be arrested instantly.”

I seated myself quickly, and then, in spite of all fears and warnings, glanced up, to see the windows filled with faces, and hands and handkerchiefs waving to me inside the bars. As we dashed forward, I leaned out of the window waving my handkerchief in vigorous response. In the excitement, the enthusiasm of the moment, I lost all sense of fear or danger – my whole heart was with those desolate, homesick Confederates behind the bars. Fortunately the driver was frightened out of his wits and drove like mad, or we should never have gotten to the train in time.

I had been fortunate enough to find in my driver a strong, if secret, sympathizer with the South. As I bade him good-by, and thanked him for the care and promptness with which he had carried me about, and for his unheeded warning as well, he said:

“Oh, lady, lady, you ran a great risk when you waved that handkerchief! I saw it and drove as fast as I could to get you away from there. It is a wonder we were not arrested.”

I stepped on the car, and was taking my seat, when a hand lightly touched my shoulder from behind, and I heard myself arrested by a name that was not mine. Behind me stood a sergeant in the United States uniform, who informed me that I was his prisoner.

I tried to shrink away from him.

“That is not my name,” I said.

Still he kept that light grip on my shoulder. I felt sick. The day had been a long one of exercise and excitement. I had eaten nothing since my early breakfast of a cracker and a cup of coffee, and I was physically weak. The terror of the situation, the full foolhardiness of my undertaking flashed upon me. Alone in Washington, not a friend near, and under arrest! For an instant everything whirled around me, and I fell back against the breast of the sergeant; but as instantly I pulled myself together and stood erect.

“You are mistaken,” I said quietly, “I am not the person you have mentioned.”

And I threw back my heavy mourning veil and looked my captor full in the face.

“Ain’t you? It’s widow’s weeds this time!”

These words were spoken sarcastically by a man in civilian dress who was with the sergeant – a detective, I suppose.

“I am Mrs. Milicent Duncan Norman, of Baltimore,” I said firmly. “You can telegraph to No. – Charles Street and see. You will please remove your hand,” I continued. “If necessary I will go with you, but I am not the person you wish to arrest. You are making a mistake.”

I turned my face full to the light, and stood, calm and composed, though my knees were trembling under me, and I felt as if I should faint. I saw Bobby at home waiting for me!

“I must stay over if you insist,” I repeated, “but I hope you will permit me to convince you of your mistake. It would be extremely inconvenient to me to be detained here. I left Baltimore this morning, and my little boy has been without me all day. He will cry himself sick if I don’t get home to-night.”

In spite of all I could do my lips quivered.

“I am sorry, madam,” said my sergeant, more respectfully than he had hitherto spoken, “but you will have to come with me. If it is as you say, you can telegraph and satisfy the authorities very quickly.”

My arrest had attracted some attention. I saw that people in the car were gathering around me, and I saw curiosity in some faces, sympathy in some, but among all those faces none that I knew. This was my first visit to Washington, and there was not a soul to identify me. There was nothing to do but to go and telegraph – if they would let me. I would have to miss my train. Bobby was watching from the window for me this very minute – Bobby would cry all night. I told the sergeant that I would go, and tried to follow him, and then everything grew dark around me, my head whirled, and I dropped across the seat nearest me.

I could not have been unconscious more than a second. The kind gentleman over whose seat I had fallen had caught me, and was slapping my face with a wet handkerchief, and assuring the sergeant that he knew by my face that I was perfectly harmless and ought not to be arrested, that he would bet anything on it, when a new passenger hurriedly entered the car and brushed squarely up against us.

The sergeant was saying: “We must hurry,” and offering me his arm very courteously. “You will feel better when you get out in the air. And you will perhaps come out all right, and be able to go on to-morrow.”

The newcomer looked over the sergeant’s shoulder and saw me.

“Milicent!” he said, and clasped my hands.

It was a dear friend whom I had known in my girlhood days as Captain Warren.

“What is all this?” he asked quickly of the sergeant.

The sergeant was staggered, the little man in civilian’s clothes cringed, the old man who had offered to bet on me was in the majority.

“We must get out of this, commodore,” said the sergeant quickly, “the car is moving.”

The commodore got out with us, lifted me bodily off the train, and then, as we stood together, while the sergeant explained, supported me with his arm. I was too weak and ill to hear their talk. I think I was very nearly in a faint while I stood, or tried to stand upright beside him.

He told me afterward that I had been arrested by mistake for some famous political spy in petticoats. He answered for me, made himself responsible in every way, lifted me into a carriage, and told the driver where to take us. I was too nearly dead to listen to what he said. As the carriage whirled along I tried to sit up, to lift my head, but every time I attempted it I grew blind and sick.

“I would not try to sit up just yet, Mrs. Norman,” he said very kindly. “In a few minutes, perhaps, you can do so without risk, but I’d be very quiet now. In a little while I will hand you over to my wife – she is a wonderful nurse.”

“My little boy is looking out of the window for me, waiting for me; he has been by himself all day,” I sobbed.

“Ah! I am so sorry you have had this annoyance and detention. I wish I had boarded the car earlier; you should have gone on if I had. I was outside talking with some friends, and I did not jump on the train until she was about to move off, but I can telegraph to your friends, and you can go on to-morrow.”

The ride in the open air had revived me, and I found now that I could sit up without fainting.

“You were going to Baltimore to-night,” I said. “I am putting you to so much trouble.”

“None at all. And if you were” – with a tremor in his voice – “I should be glad of it. Can you sit up? Ah! I am so glad you are better. When I first took you into this carriage I was afraid I would have to stop with you at the first doctor’s office. We are nearly home now.”

“You are very good,” I said, still too weak not to speak with tears in my voice.

“I am fortunate – but too much at your expense, I am afraid. You forget how large my debt is. I shall never forget the old days in Norfolk and the kindness that was shown me by you and yours. I owe you a great deal, Mrs. Norman, as yourself and as your father’s daughter. I shall never forget his charming hospitality. I am sorry you can’t go on to Baltimore, but I am glad of my opportunity.”

“That is a nice way to put it, commodore.”

“A true way to put it, Mrs. Norman. Please don’t be too sorry. Where is Nell? – Mrs. Grey, I suppose I should say. I can’t think of the saucy little fairy who used to sit on my knee as a madam.”

“I don’t know just where Nell is, or how. The fortunes of war have separated me from her, and mother as well.”

“And you are alone, without kindred, in Baltimore?”

“Yes, except my baby. I wish you could see Bobby – he is so sweet!”

“He must be.”

“He has Nell’s eyes and her golden curls – you remember?”

“Too well!”

“And her saucy sweet ways – wilful and almost bad – if he were not so sweet and true. But I tire you. Mothers who talk about their babies bore people. I make many good resolves not to talk Bobby, and, break every one.”

“You could never tire me. I am charmed to hear about your boy. Maybe you can find him a little sweetheart in my house. Here we are.”

He lifted me out of the carriage and led me into the house.

“This is an old friend of mine, dear,” he said to his wife. “She is sick and in trouble, and I have brought her to you. Her father’s home used to be my home in Norfolk. Mrs. Norman is Miss Duncan that was.”

She had heard of me. He began to explain how he had met me, but she interrupted.

“I will come back and hear,” she said, “when I have made Mrs. Norman comfortable. She looks worn-out. I must take her to her room and see what I can do to make her more at ease.” While she was talking she had me in a chair, holding my hand, and giving me a glass of wine.

Commodore Warren took my Baltimore address, and went out saying he would send the telegrams at once – a special one to Bobby all by himself.

Then Mrs. Warren saw me to my room. As we passed through hallways and up the stairs, our feet sank into soft, thick carpets that gave back no sound. Through an open doorway I caught a glimpse of her own exquisite chamber and of a cozy nursery where children’s gowns were laid out for the night. Everywhere around me were evidences of wealth, luxury, and refinement.

After a little rest I felt better.

As I went down to dinner I heard the street door open, and Commodore Warren’s voice in the hall.

Then children’s voices:

“Papa! papa!”

He was taking his children in his arms and kissing them, and I heard the glad murmur of his wife’s welcome.

Together they took me in to their table, and showered upon me courtesies and loving-kindness. Such a delightful dining-room it was – such lovely appointments and such perfect serving! and such charming hosts they made! The children are beautiful and well trained. They were brought into the parlor after dinner, and made great friends with me. You know children always like me, Nell. This trio took possession of me. They hovered around me, leaned against me, climbed into my lap, and the youngest went to sleep in my arms, her soft golden head nestled under my chin. We decided that she is to be Bobby’s sweetheart. Their parents were afraid that I was not strong enough for such demonstrations, but I begged that they would not interrupt the little people, whose caresses really did me a world of good. But the commodore called the nurse when the baby dropped to sleep, and she took it to the nursery, the other children following her. By this time I was quite myself. A telegram had come from Isabelle, saying she was with Bobby and that Bobby was comforted.

Commodore and Mrs. Warren suggested that we should go to the opera. It was rather late to start, but the carriage would take us in a few minutes, and we should not miss more than the first act. A great singer was to be heard, and the commodore remembered that I was fond of music. When I objected on the score that I was not in opera dress and that my wardrobe was in Baltimore, they explained that they kept a private box, and that I could hear without being distinctly visible – if I was not too fatigued to think of going.

“Oh, no!” I said. “You know I love opera, and, thanks to you both, I am entirely rested and comfortable about Bobby.”

Mrs. Warren ran up-stairs to dress while the carriage was being made ready. As for me, there was nothing to do but to put on my bonnet and cloak, so I sat still, and Commodore Warren drew up a chair in front of the sofa where I sat.

“This is like old times,” he said.

I tried to keep them back, but somehow I felt the tears starting to my eyes.

He got up and walked to the other end of the room, and brought a book of drawings of queer places and people he had seen in his journeys around the world. While he was showing them to me he remarked:

“I’ve a box somewhere of curious toys picked up in various parts of the world at different times, and I think Master Bobby would be interested in them. We’ll get Mrs. Warren to look it up, and I’ll ask you to be kind enough to take it to him with my compliments. It may – in a measure – recompense him for his mother’s absence to-night.”

“Bobby will be delighted – if he is not robbing your children.”

“My children,” he laughed, “have a surfeit of toys from the four corners of the earth. They have almost lost appreciation of such things. By the way, has Nell” – he caught himself with a laugh – “Mrs. Grey, I should say, any little ones of her own?”

“Bobby is the only baby in the family; but he is enough to go around.”

“I remember with profound gratitude the many expressions I used to receive of Nell’s regard in those old days, and seeing you brings them back. Oh, forgive me – I know there have been many changes.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said, smiling; “I am always glad to have old days and old friends recalled. Usually it does not shake me even to talk about father – it’s a pleasure to think people remember him. In the first part of this evening I had not quite recovered from my arrest. But Richard is himself again now. I haven’t forgotten how to be happy, and I’m going to enjoy this opera.” And I did enjoy it.

Mrs. Warren took me to my train in her carriage; and there he met us to say good-by to me, and to tell me that he would see that I had a pass to Norfolk in a day or two. They both saw me comfortably seated, and after farewells were said and he had seen his wife to her carriage he stepped back on the cars with a handful of flowers for me.

“Is there nothing,” he asked, “nothing that I can do for you? If you are ever in any trouble when I can help you, won’t you let me know?”

I bowed my head.

“And Bobby – if there is ever anything I can do for your child, you will let me know?”

“Good-by,” he said, “it is good to meet old friends and find that neither time nor war changes them. Good-by – we shall see you again some day.”

Isabelle was very happy when I told her that Dick was safe, and now that it was over she regretted having sent me into such dangers and tribulations.

“I ought to have gone,” she said. “I could have taken the oath, you see, if they had asked me. And then, well, papa is known there, but – I couldn’t ask papa to help Dick. He wouldn’t have done anything for him.”