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Title: A woman's war record, 1861-1865

Author: Septima M. Collis

Release date: September 28, 2024 [eBook #74491]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: G. P. Putnam's Sons

Credits: Carla Foust and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN'S WAR RECORD, 1861-1865 ***


[Illustration: Septima M. Collis.]




  A

  WOMAN’S WAR RECORD

  1861-1865

  BY

  SEPTIMA M. COLLIS

  (MRS. GENL. CHARLES H. T. COLLIS)

  NEW YORK AND LONDON
  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
  The Knickerbocker Press
  1889




  COPYRIGHT BY
  SEPTIMA M. COLLIS
  1889


  The Knickerbocker Press
  Electrotyped and Printed by
  G. P. Putnam’s Sons




DEDICATION.


  TO HER WHOSE TEACHINGS AND EXAMPLE MOULDED MY
  CHILDHOOD, WHOSE BLESSINGS AND WHOSE PRAYERS
  FOLLOWED AND SUSTAINED ME IN MATURE LIFE,
  AND WHOM GOD I HOPE WILL SPARE FOR
  MANY AND MANY A YEAR THAT I MAY
  HAVE TIME TO PAY HER A TITHE OF
  THE GRATITUDE AND LOVE I OWE
  HER,--MY DEAR SWEET MOTHER,--I
  DEDICATE THESE
  FEW BRIEF INCIDENTS
  OF MY ARMY LIFE.

  JULY, 1889.           SEPTIMA M. COLLIS.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                PAGE

  Septima M. Collis                                   _Frontispiece_

  A Few of our Zouaves in Camp. Taken in the field, 1863          17

  Camp of 114th Penna. Vols. (Collis Zouaves) near Culpeper,
  Va., 1863-4                                                     29

  An Officers’ Mess, Cook, and Chambermaid--Collis Zouaves,
  1863-4                                                          33

  Genl George G. Meade, Commanding Army of the Potomac. Taken in
  the field, 1863-4                                               39

  Genl Grant and Staff--City Point, 1864-5. Taken in the field    49

  The Field Line and Staff of our Regiment. Taken in front of
  Petersburg, Va.--Before the fight                               53

  After the Battle of Petersburg, Va., April, 1865                57




A WOMAN’S WAR RECORD.

BY MRS. GENERAL CHARLES H. T. COLLIS.


I have no hesitation in calling what I am about to write a “war
record,” for my life was “twice in jeopardy,” as will be seen later on,
and I served faithfully as a volunteer, though without compensation,
during the entire war of the Rebellion. It is true I was not in the
ranks, but I was at the front, and perhaps had a more continuous
experience of army life during those four terribly eventful years than
any other woman of the North. Born in Charleston, S. C., my sympathies
were naturally with the South, but on December 9, 1861, I became a
_Union_ woman by marrying a Northern soldier in Philadelphia. The
romance which resulted in this desertion to the enemy would perhaps
interest the reader, yet I do not propose to tell it; for I am sure
the very realistic life which it enabled me to experience for three
winters in camp at army head-quarters will interest him more. My first
commander was Gen. Nathaniel P. Banks, to whom I reported on December
11, 1861, at Frederick, Md., where my bridegroom was then a captain
of an independent company, which he named and equipped as “Zouaves
d’Afrique.” The army being in winter quarters, a general disposition
prevailed among officers and men to make the season pass merrily.
Though the war had by this time assumed serious proportions and the
battle of Bull Run had been fought, yet there were many who still
believed that the counsels of peace and forbearance would prevail
and that the conflict would be of short duration; and this I remember
was the daily theme of discussion. Frederick had become a garrisoned
town, every train bringing troops and supplies; army wagons and their
four-mule teams had possession of the streets, while the sidewalks
and shop windows were monopolized by the volunteer officers in their
bright buttons and gold lace, who permitted themselves to be disturbed
only by the appearance of a pretty face, or by the steady tread of
the patrol with their white gloves and polished rifles. My apartments
in Frederick consisted of two very modest third-story rooms, sparsely
furnished, with the use of a kitchen, at a cheap rent, for we neither
of us had any money; yet we indulged in the luxury of the best cook
in the army, no other than Nunzio Finelli (one of our zouaves), who
was afterwards the steward of the Union League of Philadelphia, and
a renowned restaurateur in the same city. Finelli was then a very
young man, with a face as handsome as the famous “Neapolitan boy” in
the picture, and a voice as sweet and sympathetic as Brignoli’s. A
most obliging disposition and a fondness for operatic music made him
therefore a great acquisition to our little household,--and many an
omelette soufflé was first beaten into snowflakes, while the dulcet and
plaintive notes of “_Ah che la morte_” or “_Spirito gentil_,” reaching
the street, detained the spellbound passers-by; and sometimes when his
friend and compatriot, Constantino Calarisi (another zouave), joined
him in the kitchen, we were treated to a duet which even Patti would
have applauded, for they were both very remarkable singers. Poor
Finelli! a few months later a bullet at the battle of Cedar Mountain
terribly disfigured him, and when I next saw him the shape of his
injured nose reminded me of the inhabitants of the Ghetto.

That winter of 1861-2 will be remembered in Frederick till those who
enjoyed its “spirit-stirring drum and piercing fife” by day and its
“sound of revelry by night” have passed away. There were the swell
Bostonians of the Second Massachusetts Regiment, the Hortons, Shaw,
Quincy, Choate, and others whose names but not their handsome faces now
escape me, and whose waltzing was as gallant then as was their fighting
afterwards; and there were the jovial roysterers of “the Twelfth,”
who from Colonel Fletcher Webster (Daniel’s son) down to the humblest
subaltern could find in every deed of mischief “a hand to resolve,”
“a hand to contrive,” and a “hand to execute”; and, above all, giving
license and encouragement to the playful side of the soldier’s life,
but presiding over it with a dignity which would brook no violation of
discipline or decorum, was the urbane and genial General Banks. Among
the ladies who spent the winter with us were Mrs. Banks, Mrs. Holabird,
Mrs. Abercrombie, Mrs. Copeland, and Mrs. Scheffler, the wife of one
of those German staff officers who had come over to teach our officers
the art of war, but who went back home with improved educations. Mrs.
Scheffler was a charming woman, thoroughly _naïve_, but could not speak
a word of English, and depended much upon me as her interpreter. Upon
one occasion, in General Banks’ presence, she was fluently expressing
to me her views in very complimentary terms regarding his personal
appearance, when, to her horror, the General, laughing heartily,
thanked her in a very excellent specimen of her native tongue, and
we then learned for the first time, and to our discomfiture, that
the General was, besides his other accomplishments, an excellent
German scholar. Of those ladies who were residents of Frederick and
contributed to the general joy, I remember the names of Cooper, Maltby,
Schley, McPherson, Goldsborough, and Shriver. There were dress parades
of regiments and imposing reviews of brigades and divisions whenever
the weather would permit, and to these we women cantered in the saddle,
and stood beside the generals while the troops marched by in their
picturesque uniforms to splendid music, for at this time every regiment
had its special uniform and a brass band, all of which had changed
when I witnessed the grand review in Washington at the close of the
war, where all were dressed in blue, regiments had been thinned down
to companies, and bands of music were few and far between. It seems
to me that every Union citizen of Frederick gave a ball or some other
entertainment that winter, and many of the regiments returned the
courtesy by such improvised hospitality as the scanty accommodations of
the camp would afford.

Even thus early in the campaign I came near losing my life. While
crossing a ford of the Monocacy River in a light wagon which my husband
was driving, we suddenly became aware that the heavy rains had raised
the stream to a torrent, and, it being almost dark, we lost our way
in mid stream. If you have never been in a wagon in a river when the
water became so deep that your horse commenced to swim, you can have no
proper appreciation of my sensations. To this day I hardly know how we
escaped, but I remember the soldiers on the far-off bank of the stream
shouting to us and preparing to leap in to our rescue when our wagon
should overturn, which seemed inevitable. It kept its equilibrium,
however, and our horse was wheeled around and found a footing, where we
remained until the gallant boys in blue waded waist high to our relief.

The _pièce de résistance_ of the season, in the way of amusement, was
a ball given by Colonel and Mrs. Maltby, who lived in the suburbs
of the town. The Colonel, if I remember rightly, then commanded a
Maryland regiment or brigade. Their very large and well appointed
residence was admirably adapted to gratify the desire of our hostess
to make the occasion a memorable one; the immense hall served as the
ballroom; the staircases afforded ample sitting room for those who did
not participate in, or desired to rest from, the merry whirl, while
the ante-rooms presented the most bountiful opportunities of quenching
thirst or appeasing appetite. I shall never forget one little French
lieutenant who divided his time with precise _ir_regularity between the
dance and the punch-bowl, and whose dangling sabre, in its revolutions
in the waltz, left as many impressions upon friends as it ever did
upon foes; yet it had the happy effect of giving the gentleman and his
partner full possession of the field, whenever he could prevail upon
some enterprising spinster to join him in cutting a swath through the
crowd. Perhaps never did grim War appear to smooth his wrinkled front
and yield himself to the _divertissement_ of the hour as he did in this
charming town in that memorable winter, yet he was really marshalling
his hosts for the deadly combat which was to open in the spring.
Alas! how soon it came! On Washington’s birthday, by express command
of President Lincoln (who was chafing under the tardiness of our
generals), the army of which my husband and his hundred zouaves were a
part, crossed the Potomac River at Harper’s Ferry, and we poor women,
who would willingly have followed, were ordered home.

Extraordinary as it may appear, I did not fully realize that we were
in the midst of a great war until I returned to Philadelphia. In camp
the constant round of pleasurable excitement and the general belief
that hostilities would be of short duration presented a bright picture
without a sombre shadow, and as we bade our loved ones adieu we had
few misgivings for their safe return. But at home all was bustle
and excitement; a dozen large stores on Chestnut Street had become
recruiting stations; public meetings were being held every night to
encourage enlistment; politicians were shouting: “On to Richmond!”;
young girls were declaring they would never engage themselves to a
man who refused to fight for his country, and the fife and drum were
heard morning, noon, and night. Yes, indeed, we realized what war meant
then much more than we had when among the light-hearted soldiers in
the field. The Girard House had, for the time being, been converted
from a fashionable hotel into a vast workshop, where the jingle of the
sewing-machine and the chatter of the sewing girl, daytime, nighttime,
and Sundays gave evidence that the government was in earnest. Every
woman who could use her needle found employment, and those who did not
need compensation worked almost as assiduously. About this time some
well meaning woman discovered that General Havelock had provided his
troops in India with a cotton cap-cover and neck-protector to shield
them from the sun of the tropics, and the manufacture of “havelocks”
became the ruling mania of the hour. The sewing societies made nothing
but havelocks; the shop windows were full of them, and the poor fellows
in the army were so inundated with them that those who had the fewest
relatives and sweethearts were much the best off.

Vague rumors reached Philadelphia in the early summer of 1862 that
General Banks’ army had had several day’s severe fighting with
Stonewall Jackson, and had been defeated, and the tension to which
our nerves were wrought in our restless anxiety for fuller news was
terrible. Upon one of those ever memorable days I had great difficulty
in procuring my favorite newspaper, and was compelled to gather what
meagre intelligence I could from other sources. It was not until some
time afterwards that I learned that the newspaper had been purposely
kept from me. It contained a message from General Banks himself to the
Secretary of War, in which he said “Captain Collis and his company
of Zouaves d’Afrique were taken prisoners,” while an enterprising
correspondent of the same paper reported that they had been “cut to
pieces.” My husband, however, turned up all right. He had covered the
retreat of the army, and, being cut off by the enemy, found his way
with his zouaves through the mountains of West Virginia to the Upper
Potomac. My friends--and thank Heaven I had some good and tried ones
(among them a judge of the Supreme Court of the State, whose portrait
will always find as choice a place in my home as his memory does in
my heart)--brought me the glad intelligence at midnight, and shortly
afterwards Mr. Collis was ordered to Philadelphia to increase his
command from a company to a regiment. Thus sooner than I expected, my
camp life was resumed; but instead of Frederick, Md., with its dances
and routes, I found my husband hard at work enlisting men in the city
in the morning, and drilling them in Germantown in the afternoon,
where he had a charming camp, which he retained until, with a thousand
men, early in August of the same year, he once more returned to the
field. Antietam, Fredericksburg, Burnside’s muddy march, now came on
in quick succession, and my husband was kept so busy with his enlarged
command, that although he gladly allowed others a leave of absence,
he hesitated to leave the front himself. The suspense in these days
was something dreadful--at times, letters arrived quite regularly, and
then there followed the long silence and the great anxiety, for we knew
when our letters failed us that “the army was moving.” Things were very
expensive too, especially the necessaries of life; common muslin, I
remember, which is now ten cents a yard, then cost a dollar, and the
pay of an officer was very small with gold at an enormous premium, so
that after he had paid for his “mess” and his servant there was little
left for his family at home, though he sent them every dollar he could
spare.

[Illustration: A FEW OF OUR ZOUAVES IN CAMP. TAKEN IN THE FIELD,
1863.]

What better illustration of the abnormal condition of society in those
days can be given than a statement of the fact that my daughter was
born on September 25, 1862, and that her father, although within twelve
hours’ reach of us, did not see her until June, 1863;--and he would
not have seen her then, but that he was brought home, it was believed,
to die. Careful nursing and desperate fighting by myself and one or
two faithful allies restored him soon to health, and he returned to
the front,--to find himself at twenty-five years of age in command of
a brigade. This promotion was of course gratifying to my pride, but
how much more did I value it when I learned that brigade commanders
could have their wives with them in camp during the winter, while the
unfortunate officers below that rank could not. Yet with all my joy
at God’s mercy to me, some days came to me laden with great sorrow.
My brother, David Cardoza Levy, a handsome, gallant lieutenant in the
Southern army commanded by General Bragg, was about this time killed
at the battle of Murfreesborough; seen by his companions to fall, his
remains were never afterwards found, though General Rosecrans, to
oblige my husband, made every effort to discover them. He lies to-day,
God only knows where.

 “Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.”

This was the horrible episode of the civil war to me, and although I
had many relatives and hosts of friends serving under the Confederate
flag all the time, I never fully realized the fratricidal character
of the conflict until I lost my idolized brother Dave of the Southern
army one day, and was nursing my Northern husband back to life the
next.

I very often went to Washington while the Army of the Potomac was lying
along the Rappahannock River, and my husband would manage to run up
for a few hours to see me. On one of these visits I was presented to
President Lincoln, and had a private audience. I shall never forget
that wonderful man, and the pressure of the immense hand which grasped
mine, so fervent, true, and hearty was his manner. I was very young,
and was dressed in such height of fashion as my means afforded--and how
strange that fashion seems to me a quarter of a century later. It was
forenoon, and yet my out-of-door costume consisted of a pale-pearl silk
dress, trimmed with cherry color, immense hoops, and a long train, such
as is now very rarely worn even in a ballroom; a black lace shawl,
and a little pearl-colored bonnet, with a white illusion veil tied in
a tremendous bow under my chin. There were no bustles in those days,
except the one worn under the back-hair to support the chignon, which
was more commonly called the “waterfall,” and though our foreheads were
innocent of bangs or crimps, yet, equally absurd, we twisted our hair
around pliable little cushions, which were known as rats and mice.
What would a tailor-made girl think if she ran across such an outfit
on Fifth Avenue to-day? Mr. Lincoln wore a dress suit, I remember, his
swallow-tailed coat being a terrible misfit, and it puzzled me very
much to tell whether his shirt-collar was made to stand up or to turn
down--it was doing a little of both. He was entirely at his ease, and
impressed me as being pleased with the diversion which my visit gave
him. He referred in complimentary terms to my husband’s services,
and to the requests of his superior officers for his promotion to
Brigadier-General, adding, in a quaint and earnest way, “but he is too
young.” I replied promptly: “He is not too young to be killed in the
service, and make me a widow.” “Well,” said he, with the _bonhomie_ of
a courtier, “you would have no trouble in finding promotion _then_,”
which, for Mr. Lincoln, was, I presume, quite a flirtatious remark.
Perhaps he thought that, under the circumstances, I might agree with
Madame de Sévigné, who said (with great provocation, it is true):
“Would to God we were born widows.” While we were thus chatting
pleasantly, the door-keeper handed him a card with a woman’s name upon
it, and whispered a few words to the President as he was putting on his
eye-glasses. Mr. Lincoln uttered a long and agonizing sigh--perhaps I
should call it a groan,--and then, turning to me, in a tone of voice
as full of sadness as, a moment before it had been full of mirth,
said: “This poor woman’s son is to be shot to-morrow.” I confess I
was so overpowered by his distress that I had hardly the strength to
speak, but, by way of comfort, I ventured the opinion that I presumed
such things were inevitable in time of war. “Yes,” said he, slowly and
pensively, as he threw his head far back and pressed his brow with
his hand, “that’s so; but there’s so many on ’em, so many on ’em.” Of
course this brought our interview to a close, and I gave way to the
broken-hearted mother, who, I am sure, left that great presence as full
of hope as I did of love and reverence for this remarkable man. I never
again saw him until I met him at City Point, Va., a few days before
the assassination.

In the autumn of 1863 I received a telegram that my husband was very
ill with pneumonia, in camp near Culpeper, Va. Major-General Meade
happened to be in Philadelphia at the time, and I took the telegram
to him and begged him to give me a pass to visit the army at once.
There existed at that time a positive order against ladies going to
the front, but General Meade, whom I had known intimately for many
years, made an exception in my case, and with his autograph passport I
started at once, leaving my baby to the tender care of devoted friends
(the Misses C----), whose kindness in this emergency I shall never
forget. But my troubles only commenced when I reached Alexandria. Such
a place as it was there--a perfect Bedlam; all confusion; no hotel
(the one where Col. Ellsworth had been shot being then used as a
hospital or storehouse); the muddy streets thronged with lazy negroes
and affrighted cattle; wounded soldiers staring with amazement at the
young woman in civilized attire who seemed to have dropped among them
from the clouds, I suppose; and drunken recruits and conscripts singing
ribald songs. But for the ever-present call of duty which impelled
me to go to the bedside of my suffering husband, I would have turned
back, as Gen. Meade told me I would; but my eyes and my heart were
looking southerly, and to the south I was determined to go at any risk.
My life has not been without adventure: I have crossed the Atlantic
a dozen times; have been in a collision in mid-ocean, and will carry
to my grave the recollection of the agonizing cries of the drowning
victims; have stood upon the crater of Vesuvius during an eruption;
have lived in a railroad construction camp on the Rocky Mountains, with
its ruffians, its gamblers, and its Chinamen; have made an ascent in a
balloon; have seen a Cinnamon bear shot within fifty yards of me; have
for nights slept upon the bare floor of an isolated log-hut amidst the
geysers of the Yellowstone; have had a volley of rifle-balls whistle
around my ears; yet never in my experience did my heart throb as
nervously as when I stood alone in the streets of Alexandria waiting to
be lifted into a cattle-train which was soon to start for the army at
Brandy Station, near Culpeper. The officers who had charge of the train
remonstrated with me, and endeavored to detain me with the promise
that, if I waited an hour or so, I should have a special car. Little
did they know the woman they were dealing with. I was even then very
decisive and quite skeptical, traits which were not so well developed
as they are to-day. In the first place, I knew the necessity for my
immediate presence in camp, and, in the second, I didn’t believe a
word in their promise that I would be any better off by waiting. So,
armed with Gen. Meade’s pass and a determined and perhaps petulant
will, I was lifted into a dirty cattle-car, and sat, not on a lounge,
but on the head of a barrel amidst the soldiers, who were drinking,
smoking, and singing. They were not in any way rude, but their guns
were all loaded and while they slept and snored at my feet, I feared a
sudden movement would set off a gun, and that of course _I_ would be
the victim. I didn’t sleep a wink; the night was very cold but I was
warmly wrapped up and cared less for my discomfort than I did for the
snail’s pace at which we were travelling. It was the gray of the dawn
when we reached Brandy Station, where a staff-officer with an ambulance
met me and took me a long ride to the house of Mr. Yancey, where I
found my husband in a comfortable room, being well cared for. For the
second time in twelve months I became an army nurse, but it took all
my skill and watching to counteract the blunders of the so-called army
surgeons. The day after my arrival one of these incompetents blistered
his patient’s chest until it was raw, and then made a plaster of cold
cream, which he carried in the open air from his tent to the sick
chamber, a distance of several hundred yards, on a freezing cold night,
and clapped it on the patient’s burning and lacerated flesh. It must
have been like the shock of an electric battery, for the air was
instantly blue with language which never before or since have I heard
pass my husband’s lips, and he himself was in the middle of the floor,
sick as he was, hurling the plaster into the doctor’s face. What part I
took in the scene it becomes me better to leave to the imagination of
those who know me, than to set down in print. Let it suffice that his
services were dispensed with, and General French sent us the medical
director of the corps, who soon had his patient fit for duty, and I
returned to Philadelphia. Yancey, by the by, was an awful rebel. He
prided himself that he had never been to Washington or Richmond and
had barely heard of New York and Philadelphia. “I’ve allas lived right
’round Culpeppa Sah” was his daily boast, and his only religion seemed
to be a hatred for the Yankees. It was therefore very unfortunate
that, upon the execution of the order that all persons within the lines
of the army should be vaccinated, some impure vaccine matter, by an
unforeseen accident, found its way into Yancey’s blood, or else that
he caught cold, for he had a terrible arm and was laid up for weeks,
thoroughly convinced that he had been purposely poisoned; and if he is
living to-day I don’t doubt that he often tells the story of the Yankee
effort to take his life.

[Illustration: CAMP OF 114TH PENNA. VOLS. (COLLIS ZOUAVES) NEAR
CULPEPER, VA., 1863-4.]

I next joined the army on January 1, 1864. It was still at Brandy
Station, but instead of Yancey’s house I found awaiting my arrival
the most picturesque home I have ever lived in; it will ever be
remembered as one of the brightest surprises of my life. Imagine two
ordinary army tents, set close together, one of them for a parlor and
dining-room, the other for a bedroom; both having chimneys of mud
and stone, presenting fine open fireplaces with _real_ mantel-pieces
on the inside; the bedstead was of plain pine timber, and the bedding
delicious, sweet, clean straw sewed up in sacks, the whole covered
with a layer of several brown woollen army blankets; there were, of
course, no pillows or pillow-cases, a couple of saddles answered for
the one, and I presume imagination had to do service for the other;
yet we were supremely happy. I was a soldier, and these were war
times, and I prided myself that I could dispense with luxuries and
yet be comfortable. [There is no woman who can, better than I, enjoy
beautiful surroundings, and who absolutely craves all the exquisite
_luxe_ that is obtainable, or can sleep more deliciously under the
light, warm, silken eider-down, but it is a great satisfaction that
these war experiences have fitted me to climb a mountain, sleep upon
a bare floor, or ride twenty miles in a rain storm, and overcome
situations which, without them, I never would have surmounted.] But
it was bitterly cold sometimes that winter in these canvas houses,
and I did not dare leave my bed in the mornings until our man, who
was maid-of-all-work, built a great big log fire and literally drove
us out of bed with the heat. And, oh! what a grandiose parlor did I
step into for breakfast the first morning I was there, with its works
of art cut from the illustrated newspapers of the day, framed with
strips of red flannel, while on my mantel were spread varieties of
bonbons imported expressly from Washington to celebrate my arrival.
Our table service was of pure tin, washed and burnished with sand
and water after every meal, and because our spoons were of the same
material our soup was not a jot the less savory; as we seldom indulged
in French peas our two-pronged forks answered every purpose, and as I
occasionally managed to borrow a table-cloth and sometimes a napkin
from our neighbor Yancey, our little _tête-à-tête_ dinners were quite
_recherché_, considering the surroundings. But my habitation was a gem,
worthy a place in any collection of “Happy Homes.” When, however, my
baby daughter and her nurse joined me I gave up my “open-air” life and
returned to the Yancey mansion, where I remained until General Grant,
fresh from his marvellous victories in the West, came among us and made
preparations for his advance to Richmond.

During this winter the different head-quarters were very gay, and
we wives who were so fortunate as to be with our husbands, instead of
spending our time alone and anxious at home, had plenty of enjoyment.
Of course, the officers were constantly inventing new schemes of
_divertissement_. What with dinners, balls, reviews, races, and
cavalcades, we had few idle moments. I was an excellent and fearless
rider, owning my own saddle and _borrowing_ my mount. It was no
uncommon thing for me to ride from our camp to the head-quarters of
General Meade, a distance of twenty miles, and return home to dinner
in the evening; and more than once I came to grief, always, of course,
through the fault of my horse and not of his rider (?). I pleasantly
remember one or two visits to Hon. John Minor Botts and his family,
whose residence was within our camp.

[Illustration: AN OFFICERS’ MESS, COOK, AND CHAMBERMAID--COLLIS
ZOUAVES, 1863-4.]

It was during this winter that the Fifth Corps, commanded by
Major-General Warren, gave a magnificent ball, quite unique as to
decorations, etc. The ballroom consisted of several hospital tents, and
the banquet hall of another. These were all smoothly floored; there
were several bands, so that the music was continuous; highly polished
rifles in ornamental groups; bright brass cannon, lots of drums, and a
sea of bunting; the whole illuminated with clusters of wax candles and
Chinese lanterns. The handsome uniforms of the officers, to say nothing
of their handsome faces and figures; the clashing of their sabres, the
jingle of their spurs, and the universal expression upon every face
and in every gesture to “be merry while we may,” made it a scene of
enchantment which was to me so novel and so suited to my years and my
tastes that I consider it a great privilege to have been a part of it.

Of course I received a great deal of attention. I expected it, and I
was not disappointed, and I confess that during those exhilarating
hours I don’t believe a thought ever entered my mind that many of these
splendid fellows were dancing their last waltz, and I am very sure such
gloomy forebodings never entered theirs; no, it was

    “A very merry, dancing, drinking,
    Laughing, quaffing, and _unthinking_ time.”

Indeed, it was “unthinking.” Well do I remember expressing my sympathy
to a very distinguished cavalry general for the loss of his only son;
to which the gallant sabreur responded: “Yes, madame, very sad! very
sad! he was the last of his race! Do you waltz?” and away he went to
the exhilarating music of a dashing galop, leaving all melancholy
far behind him. The very superb supper and the waiters, I remember,
came from Washington, and an express-train brought an immense number
of fashionable people from the North. The costumes of the women were
superb, quite as elegant and elaborate as displayed at any similar
entertainment in city life. The beautiful Miss Kate Chase was the
acknowledged belle of the occasion. The ball did not break up until
near morning, and then we poor, tired women, in all our finery, were
distributed to our respective tented homes in ambulances and army
wagons, and as we meandered through the little canvas villages, with
their smouldering fires and “fixed sentinels,” the serious aspect of
the epoch chased away the merry memory of mirth.

The winter of 1864-5 I passed at City Point, Va., the head-quarters of
General Grant. At first we lived in tents, but later, when my husband
became commander of the post, I lived most comfortably in a house.
These were the months immediately preceding the close of the war, and
were the most interesting, full of excitement and stirring events. I
had my little daughter with me, and we occupied a very cosy farm-house,
where for the first time in my army life I had female servants, one
of whom was an old colored woman I found on the premises, and she did
most excellent service as cook and maid-of-all-work. In real Southern
style we called her “Aunty” Miranda. Being a particularly crisp, dry
winter, I was constantly in the saddle, galloping to the different
head-quarters, and stopping on the way now and then to visit Generals
Meade, Burnside, Hancock, and other conspicuous men of that day,
all of whom I knew well, but, alas! nothing of whom now remains but
their fame. The army was then lying in the trenches around Petersburg.
General Meade’s camp was beautifully situated some miles from City
Point upon a knoll which had once been a pine grove, but the timber
had been cut down and up for firewood, leaving nothing but a barren
array of tents. Upon his staff were the hard-working Seth Williams;
General Hunt, who I saw recently at Gettysburg, very little changed
in appearance, and not at all changed in genial manner and urbanity,
yet who has since joined his departed comrades; Colonel Biddle, of
Philadelphia, ever in good spirits; the gallant Captain Cadwalader,
of the same city, and young George Meade then a mere lad. General
Burnside was encamped in quite a picturesque ever-green enclosure,
and was surrounded by a staff carefully selected from the choicest
of Rhode-Island’s sons, all of whom had distinguished themselves on
many hard-fought fields; and the superb Hancock, still suffering
occasionally from his Gettysburg wound, had possession of a farm-house,
where, from what I could see, he was well cared for by two young
Philadelphians, Bingham and Parker, of his staff. When my husband’s
duties prevented his accompanying me I frequently took these long rides
with an orderly, well mounted and armed, and more than once lost my
way and got outside the lines. In those days, however, I had no fear,
for I had a notion that if captured, being a Southern woman, I would
have found myself among friends. On one particular road I was several
times stopped by a Union picket, who demanded the countersign, which
I, of course, did not possess, but I paid little heed to the demand,
excepting to make some laughing remark to the effect that “I commanded
a brigade,” or was “Commander of the Post,” and always dashed on. My
orderly, however (David Smith, of the 114th Pennsylvania Volunteers),
took alarm and admonished me that I was running the risk of being shot
by some stupid sentinel, who might take me for a female spy, and as he
peached on me also to my commanding officer, I got a gentle reprimand,
which compelled me to abandon my favorite turnpike in the future. Our
_cuisine_ at City Point was superb. Being the rendezvous of the sutlers
and caterers of the army, we naturally had the best the Northern
markets could supply, and, of course, an abundance of turtle, fish,
and oysters from the James River. Mr. Maltby, now the proprietor of
the Lafayette Hotel in Philadelphia, was enterprising enough to erect
a hotel, which was well kept and well patronized, and the camp was
full of restaurants and oyster-houses, but the selling of intoxicating
beverages was under such strict surveillance that there was rarely a
case of drunkenness, and when there was, the punishment of one night in
the “bull pen,” presided over by Captain Savage, was worse than a month
in a house of correction.

[Illustration: GENL. GEORGE G. MEADE, COMMANDING ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.
TAKEN IN THE FIELD, 1863-4.]

Speaking of the “bull pen,” that was a horrid place. Originally the
“precincts of the jail” had been confined to the four walls of a
church, but as the number of prisoners increased, it became necessary
to make a large enclosure with a high board fence, but with only the
sky (and frequently a very damp sky) for a roof. In this pigpen, _I_
call it, in rain and snow and frost I have seen hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of men huddled together without a particle of shelter or
protection from the elements--perhaps there was no help for it,--at all
events its horror and its odor sicken me to think of, even a quarter of
a century later, and as I don’t like to write about it I will turn to
something pleasanter.

Returning one evening, just at dusk, from one of our long horseback
rides, Mr. Collis and myself were both very hungry, and a life among
soldiers having made me somewhat indifferent to conventionalities, I
threw a dozen James-River oysters on the embers of my wood fire, and
threw myself on the floor; got Aunty Miranda to furnish us with butter,
pepper, and salt; rolled up the sleeves of my riding habit, and was in
the act of devouring, while my husband in similar pose, was in the act
of opening, the succulent bivalves when I heard a knock at the door,
and in response to my “come in,” who _should_ come in but General and
Mrs. Grant, just to make a social call. Consternation is hardly the
word to express it. Just to think of it! this was the first time in my
grown-up life that I had ever eaten a meal in that position (picnics
excepted), and why on earth should General and Mrs. Grant come just at
that moment. How I got up and what I did with the oysters I do not know
and never shall, but I _do_ know that our guests enjoyed the situation
heartily, and were good enough to say they envied us, and when we
apologized for the tin teapot and pewter spoons which adorned the table
for our evening meal, the General said that we were just as well off as
he was, which we later found to be the fact when we visited his famous
log-cabin (now in Fairmount Park), though before the winter closed we
got to be quite luxurious with our white china plates, table-cloths,
and even napkins on swell occasions.

My husband was this winter kept busy every day as President of a
court-martial which was trying spies and deserters, the latter being in
those days, I remember, called “bounty-jumpers,” that is, they made it
a business to enlist in the North, receive the heavy bounties--which,
if I remember rightly, at that time amounted to upwards of a thousand
dollars,--and then, when they came to the army, they deserted to the
enemy, changed their clothing, and came back as rebels, were sent
North, again escaped, reënlisted and received another bounty, and so
on. It was a regular business, and General Grant became so incensed
when he discovered it that he determined to end it. As the result of
the trials the leaders were all shot, and the others sentenced to long
terms of imprisonment, and I believe the demoralization ceased. Still
it was terrible to see these poor wretches day after day manacled with
ball-and-chain, going in and out of the court-room; my heart bled for
them, it is true, yet I was told that the safety of the army depended
upon their summary punishment. There were some executions by hanging,
also, that winter, for crimes of a more heinous character, in several
instances of negro teamsters, and although, in my many rides, I tried
to avoid the sight of the gallows, they _would_ occasionally loom
up. After each execution they were kept standing, I suppose, as a
warning to other malefactors. Among the deserters who were tried were
many young foreigners who could not speak a word of English, but as
they were merely the tools of the leaders, who robbed them of their
bounties, they were more leniently dealt with.

One of the incidents of this winter was a visit I made to Dutch-Gap
Canal, which was nearly completed; and while looking across the river
at the enemy, our party was vigorously fired at by the Southern
artillery, forcing us (there were one or two other ladies in the party)
to huddle ourselves with the soldiers in a bomb-proof until the firing
ceased. We then scampered at a lively gait for our horses, and were
out of reach as fast as their hoofs would carry us. I was quite used,
however, to artillery-firing by this time, though I had never until
then been in any danger. Frequently, when I heard cannonading, I rode
out beyond the Avery House to an eminence overlooking the town of
Petersburg, and within perhaps two miles of it, and for hours watched
the “bombs bursting in air,” and saw wagon-loads of earth literally
ploughed up by cannon-balls. Upon another momentous occasion, all the
ladies in camp were peremptorily ordered on board a steamboat, which
immediately steamed down the river out of harm’s way, among the number
being Mrs. Grant herself. A rebel gunboat or ram, or something of the
kind, had forced its way down the river, and was throwing shells right
and left at a great rate, creating much alarm. The firing lasted all
day, and when we returned we found that General Grant’s head-quarters,
on the bank of the river, had been turned into a fortress, and was
mounted with heavy guns. It appeared that one of our monitors had
retreated upon the approach of the enemy’s vessel, and I have often
heard my husband relate that he had never seen General Grant lose his
temper excepting upon that occasion, when he soundly berated the naval
officer for not blowing up his ship or scuttling her in the channel in
preference to endangering the lives and valuable stores at City Point.

In the midst of these stirring events a terrible anxiety overcame
me--my child commenced ailing, and her disease rapidly developed into
scarlet-fever. What, however, with the skilful treatment of Dr. Dalton,
of Boston, then a medical director in the army, and of an excellent
army nurse, in a few weeks she was out of danger, but remained in
delicate health until I returned to Philadelphia. I mention this
circumstance because it prolonged my stay in the army long after all
other ladies had departed for home, hence my unexpected experiences at
the renewal of hostilities in the spring of 1865.

[Illustration: GENL. GRANT AND STAFF--CITY POINT, 1864-5. TAKEN IN THE
FIELD.]

It was on the memorable second of April, 1865 (Sunday), about daylight,
that my husband asked me whether I would not like to jump on my horse
and go to the front to see a battle, which he felt sure would take
place that day; he assured me that whatever might befall _him_, I would
not be in the slightest danger. It was a damp, disagreeable morning,
and, as my daughter was only convalescing, I said: “No, I am afraid to
leave the child.” Well! I slept on; when suddenly I heard such a roar
of cannon as made every timber in my little house tremble and vibrate
from cellar to roof. I dressed quickly, for my utter ignorance of what
was going on made me imagine all kinds of terrible things, and the
hospital nurse only served further to demoralize me, exclaiming every
moment: “I am not afraid, but we are not safe here.” From my front-door
I distinctly saw the flash of the cannon; and twenty-four eventful
years have not effaced from my memory those bursts of vivid lightning
and the continuous roar of angry thunder, while the whole air was black
with smoke from the burning tobacco-warehouses in Petersburg.

You can imagine that this was a day to me of great anxiety. I looked
out upon my husband’s camp, and found it was deserted. He had slipped
away with his brigade, gone to the front, and I had not known it.
He preferred that I should not know it. City Point had but a few
soldiers left to protect the government stores, and General Grant’s
head-quarters were occupied only by his Adjutant-General, Colonel
Bowers, and Mr. President Lincoln.[A] I got immediately into the
saddle, and, with my trusty orderly, was not long in placing myself
within view of the fighting. The cannonading was dying out, but the
small-arms kept up their fusillade; the black column of smoke was still
steadily ascending, several houses were in flames, and the whole town
seemed to be enshrouded in a white vapor cloud, common, I suppose,
to all battle-fields. Ambulances were coming to the rear laden with
the unfortunate wounded, and some who were _not_ wounded, I regret to
say, were also facing the wrong way; and of these cowards I was deadly
afraid, always changing my course to avoid them. I could learn nothing
more of our brigade, than that they had stormed the works early in the
morning, had been successful, and were still holding them. Evening
came! Night came! and in the shadow of the doomed city, with its glare
of smouldering ruins lit up occasionally by the flash from a cannon
or the explosion of a shell, sat two anxious figures on horseback,
hoping against hope for some word of comfort. Finally, I gave it up,
and returned to my sick child. Was I widowed? Was my husband lying
in the trenches suffering from some horrible wound, and I not near
him? Oh, what an anxious night! Colonel Bowers and Mr. Lincoln were
still at City Point. I could only learn from them that, so far, our
army had been victorious, but they knew nothing of what I wanted most
to hear. The few men in camp were in high glee, cheering and singing
and lighting bonfires, but my little household knew not whether to be
joyous or sad. Ours was an awful suspense, which seemed an eternity.
Daylight found me in the saddle again, and in half an hour I was at
the house of good old Mrs. Bott, whose property, near Petersburg, my
husband had always carefully protected, and from whom I frequently
purchased butter and eggs. If my husband was alive and well, I knew
he would stop here on his return, just as I knew he would expect to
find me there awaiting him. Here I learned that our brigade had made
a desperate charge, and that Mr. Collis’ own regiment, with which he
led the assault, had suffered severely, three of his favorite officers
having been killed, Captain Eddy and Lieutenants Cunningham and
Marion, all gallant soldiers who had risen from the ranks of his old
“independent” company, and all of whom on that fatal Sunday morning
had every reason to believe that the war was substantially over, and
that they would soon return to their homes. Poor Captain Eddy I saw
just before he died; the bullet had torn away a portion of his skull,
and he never recovered consciousness. Oh, how sickening, in these
days of peace, come the memories of those ensanguined hours! Learning
the direction in which the brigade was returning, I rode on at a rapid
pace, my young heart full of gratitude for God’s mercy to me while
others had been made to so severely suffer, when suddenly, just as the
troops came within sight, to my horror I found myself in the midst
of a shower of bullets, whizzing thick and fast around my ears like
the buzzing of angry wasps. Only the presence of mind of my faithful
orderly saved my life. “Follow me,” he cried, and, in less time than
it takes to write it, we and our horses were in a ravine or quarry at
the road-side, where we remained until the firing had ceased. Was it
the enemy? Was I to be captured? After all, were these rebels and not
Union soldiers whom I had seen as I looked through the strip of trees
which separated us? They proved to be my husband’s own men, firing into
the timber to empty their loaded muskets, and thus save the trouble of
drawing the loads. I will not repeat the elegant “army” language which
my spouse used on that occasion, but I assure you the firing promptly
ceased, and he galloped up to receive my congratulations on his safety.
But he was a sorry sight, literally covered from head to foot with
cakes of mud--his high top-boots full of it, and his hair matted with
it. His beautiful white horse, which he could not take with him into
the trenches, was the only clean thing in the entire command. The
brigade had lain literally “in the last ditch” the whole night, and the
ditch, he told me, had six inches of water in it.

[Illustration: THE FIELD LINE AND STAFF OF OUR REGIMENT. TAKEN IN FRONT
OF PETERSBURG, VA.--BEFORE THE FIGHT.]

Quite a humorous and yet pathetic incident occurred during our ride
back. We overtook a negro soldier very badly wounded in the arm,
but marching proudly erect to City Point, still carrying his gun,
cartridge-box, and haversack. Mr. Collis told him to throw these
encumbrances away, but he refused, and then upon being ordered to do
so, begged most earnestly to be permitted to retain them, because, as
he expressed it, “I don’t want de fellows at de hospital to mistake
me for a teamster.” We were soon home and in camp, and having eaten a
hearty breakfast, Mr. Collis donned his only remaining suit of clothes
and by direction of General Grant started for Richmond, which had been
evacuated by Jefferson Davis and was then being entered by our troops.
A little party of distinguished sight-seers had just come down from the
North, little anticipating the exciting scenes in store for them;
they consisted of “Prince” John Van Buren and his charming daughter,
Mrs. Stoughton and General and Colonel Stoughton, Mr. Arthur Leary,
Mrs. Paran Stevens, Miss Reed, and some others whose names I regret to
have forgotten. It did not take long to supply the entire party with
horses, saddles, and side-saddles, and getting aboard a steamer in the
harbor, we went as far up the river as the torpedoes would permit (I
think the place was called Rockett’s), and then rode with our cavalry
escort right into the city of Richmond, though the last mile was in
a drenching rain, which wet us all to the skin. The capital of the
Confederacy really did seem evacuated, and save for the fact that
every now and then there was a slamming of a door or shutter with an
unmistakable emphasis of the contempt in which we were held by the
lady on the other side, one would have supposed that the inhabitants
had entirely abandoned it. Riding at a quick canter, we did not rein
up until we reached the residence of Mr. Davis himself, where we found
some of the colored servants still in possession, who received us with
civility and helped us to dry our clothes. Having done this (to a
certain extent), we rode around to the Capitol, the horrible and filthy
Libby Prison, the burning district, and other places of interest and
returned home in the evening, quite proud of the fact that we were the
first Northern women to enter the beleaguered city.

[Illustration: AFTER THE BATTLE OF PETERSBURG, VA., APRIL, 1865.]

While the people of the North were celebrating with guns and brass
bands and bunting the capture of Petersburg and the evacuation of
Richmond, while every loyal city was dressed in its holiday attire,
and its inhabitants were intoxicated with joy, the chain of events at
City Point “all of which I saw, and part of which I was,” kept me still
within the gloom and shadow of the war, while those removed from its
actual presence were merry-making in the brilliance of the victory.
City Point became one vast hospital for suffering humanity. As far as
the eye could reach from the door-step of my humble home, the plain was
dotted with tents which were rapidly filled with wounded men, Northern
and Southern, white and black without distinction; army surgeons, and
volunteer physicians just arrived, were kept sleeplessly at work;
hospital nurses and the good Samaritans of the Sanitary Commission,
laden with comforts for the sick and wounded, were passing to and fro,
and amidst them all strode the tall gaunt figure of Abraham Lincoln,
his moistened eyes even more eloquent than the lips, which had a
kindly word of cheer for every sufferer. I had met Mr. Lincoln a few
days before the crisis of which I am writing arrived, and was glad to
know that he remembered me. My husband, who was present, asked him _en
passant_ how long he intended to remain with the army; “Well,” said
Mr. Lincoln, with as much caution as though he were being interviewed
for publication, “I am like the western pioneer who built a log-cabin.
When he commenced he didn’t know how much timber he would need, and
when he had finished, he didn’t care how much he had used up”; and then
added with a merry laugh: “So you see I came down among you without any
definite plans, and when I go home I sha’n’t regret a moment I have
spent with you.”

About this time a very touching incident occurred, which serves, as
well as any anecdote yet told, to illustrate that “charity for all and
malice toward none” were not mere “words” with Abraham Lincoln, but
that they were a part of his very nature and being.

It is a true story, told only once, in the initial number of _Once a
Week_, and I will insert it here in my husband’s own language.


LINCOLN’S MAGNANIMITY.

BY CHAS. H. T. COLLIS.

 During the few eventful days which immediately preceded the fall of
 Richmond, Abraham Lincoln tarried at City Point, Va., awaiting the
 news from Grant, Meade, and Sheridan, who were pulverizing Lee’s
 right wing, while Sherman was hurrying his victorious column toward
 Savannah. Time hung wearily with the President, and as he walked
 through the hospitals or rode amid the tents, his rueful countenance
 bore sad evidence of the anxiety and anguish which possessed him.
 Presently, however, squads, and then hundreds, and later thousands of
 prisoners, of high and low degree, came from the front, and we all
 began to realize, from what we saw of their condition, and what the
 prisoners themselves told us, that the Confederacy was crumbling to
 pieces.

 Among the captured were Generals Ewell, Custis Lee, and Barringer, who
 became the guests of myself and wife, I being at the time Commandant
 of the Post, and right well did they enjoy the only good square meal
 that had gladdened their eyes and their palates for many a long day.

 General Barringer, of North Carolina, was the first to arrive.
 He was a polished, scholarly, and urbane gentleman, scrupulously
 regarding the parole I had exacted from him, and deeply sensible and
 appreciative of my poor efforts to make him comfortable.

 Hearing that Mr. Lincoln was at City Point, the General one day begged
 me to give him an opportunity to see him as he walked or rode through
 the camp, and happening to spend that evening with the President in
 the tent of Colonel Bowers, Grant’s Adjutant-General, who had remained
 behind to keep up communication with the armies operating across
 the James River, I incidentally referred to the request of General
 Barringer. Mr. Lincoln immediately asked me to present his compliments
 to the General, and to say he would like very much to see him,
 whispering to me in his quaint and jocose way:

 “Do you know I have never seen a live rebel general in full uniform.”

 At once communicating the President’s wish to General Barringer, I
 found that officer much embarrassed. He feared I had overstepped the
 bounds of propriety in mentioning his curiosity to see the Northern
 President, and that Mr. Lincoln would think him a very impertinent
 fellow, besides which he was muddy, and tattered, and torn, and not at
 all presentable.

 Reassuring him as best I could, he at last sought those embellishments
 which a whisk, a blacking-brush, and a comb provided, and we walked
 over to head-quarters, where we found the President in high feather,
 listening to the cheerful messages from Grant at the front.

 I formally presented General Barringer, of North Carolina, to the
 President of the United States, and Mr. Lincoln extended his hand,
 warmly welcomed him, and bade him be seated. There was, however, only
 one chair vacant when the President arose, and this the Southerner
 very politely declined to take.

 This left the two men facing each other in the centre of the tent, the
 tall form of Mr. Lincoln almost reaching the ridge-pole. He slowly
 removed his eye-glasses, looked the General over from head to foot,
 and then in a slow, meditative, and puzzled manner inquired:

 “Barringer? Barringer? from North Carolina? Barringer of North
 Carolina? General, were you ever in Congress?”

 “No, Mr. Lincoln, I never was,” replied the General.

 “Well, I thought not; I thought my memory couldn’t be so much at
 fault. But there _was_ a Barringer in Congress with me, and from your
 State too!”

 “That was my brother, sir,” said Barringer.

 Up to this moment the hard face of the President had that thoughtful,
 troubled expression with which those of us who knew him were only too
 familiar, but now the lines melted away, and the eyes and the tongue
 both laughed. I cannot describe the change, though I still see it and
 shall never forget it. It was like a great sudden burst of sunshine in
 a rain storm.

 “Well! well!” exclaimed the great and good man, burying for the moment
 all thought of war, its cares, its asperities, and the frightful labor
 it had imposed upon him; his heart welling up only to the joyous
 reminiscence which the meeting brought to him.

 “Well! well!” said he; “do you know that that brother of yours was
 my chum in Congress. Yes, sir, we sat at the same desk and ate at the
 same table. He was a Whig and so was I. He was my chum, and I was very
 fond of him. And you are his brother, eh? Well! well! shake again.”
 And once more in the pressure of his great big hand his heart went out
 to this man in arms against the government, simply because his brother
 had been his chum and was a good fellow.

 A couple more chairs by this time had been added to the scant
 furniture of the Adjutant-General’s tent, and the conversation drifted
 from Mr. Lincoln’s anecdotes of the pleasant hours he and Barringer
 had spent together, to the war, thence to the merits of military and
 civil leaders, North and South, illustrated here and there by some
 appropriate story, entirely new, full of humor and sometimes of pathos.

 Several times the General made a movement to depart, fearing he was
 availing himself too lavishly of Mr. Lincoln’s affability, but each
 time was ordered to keep his seat, the President remarking that they
 were both prisoners, and he hoped the General would take some pity
 upon him and help him to talk about the times when they were both
 their own masters, and hadn’t everybody criticising and abusing them.

 Finally, however, General Barringer arose, and was bowing himself out,
 when Mr. Lincoln once more took him by the hand almost affectionately,
 placed another hand upon his shoulder, and inquired quite seriously:

 “Do you think I can be of any service to you?”

 Not until we had all finished a hearty laugh at this quaint remark did
 the President realize the innocent simplicity of his inquiry, and when
 General Barringer was able to reply that “If anybody can be of service
 to a poor devil in my situation, I presume you are the man,” Mr.
 Lincoln drew a blank card from his vest pocket, adjusted his glasses,
 turned up the wick of the lamp, and sat down at General Bowers’ desk
 with all the serious earnestness with which you would suppose he had
 attached his name to the emancipation proclamation.

 This was, however, all assumed. He was equipping himself and preparing
 us for one of his little jokes. While writing he kept up a running
 conversation with General Barringer (who was still standing and
 wondering) to this effect:

 “I suppose they will send you to Washington, and there I have no doubt
 they will put you in the old Capitol prison. I am told it isn’t a nice
 sort of a place, and I am afraid you won’t find it a very comfortable
 tavern; but I have a powerful friend in Washington--he’s the biggest
 man in the country,--and I believe I have some influence with him when
 I don’t ask too much. Now I want you to send this card of introduction
 to him, and if he takes the notion he may put you on your parole, or
 let up on you that way or some other way. Anyhow, it’s worth while
 trying.”

 And then very deliberately drying the card with the blotter, he held
 it up to the light and read it to us in about the following words:

  “This is General Barringer, of the Southern army. He is the brother
  of a very dear friend of mine. Can you do any thing to make his
  detention in Washington as comfortable as possible under the
  circumstances?

  “A. LINCOLN.

  “To HON. EDWIN M. STANTON,
  “Secretary of War.”

 Barringer never uttered a word. I think he made an effort to say
 “Thank you,” or “God bless you,” or something of that kind, but he was
 speechless. We both wheeled about and left the tent.

 After walking a few yards, not hearing any footsteps near me, and
 fearing Barringer had lost his way, I turned back and found this
 gallant leader of brave men, who had won his stars in a score of
 battles, “like Niobe, all tears,” audibly sobbing and terribly
 overcome.

 He took my arm, and as we walked slowly home he gave voice to as
 hearty expressions of love for the great Lincoln as have been since
 uttered by his most devoted and life-long friends.

 A few years afterwards I met the General socially in Philadelphia,
 and we went over this episode in his life, as I have narrated it, and
 then, for the third time, his eyes filled as he told me how he had
 wept and wept at “the deep damnation of his taking off.”

The “bull pen,” of which I have already spoken, was, in these early
days of April, so densely packed with prisoners of war that the
overflow were permitted to sleep outside the enclosure. Poor fellows,
there was little danger of their running away. Such a mass of hungry,
unshaven, ragged, and forlorn humanity was never seen before, and will,
I hope, never again be seen in our country. No wonder they looked
tattered and torn, fighting for days in the trenches, then driven from
pillar to post and hunted down till they fell by the road-side from
sheer exhaustion; then captured and hurried to City Point, several
miles distant, through rain and mud, with no shelter, no food, no
any thing, save the little which the Union soldier in mercy and pity
could spare from his own scanty supply. In the “bull pen,” however,
they had plenty of hot _real_ coffee (so long a stranger to their
lips), and good fresh bread and meat, and after a day’s rest they
were sent by the boat-load to the North. My husband did his best to
provide comfortable quarters for the Confederate officers, and brought
Generals Ewell, Barringer, and Custis Lee to our own little house.
The two former dined with us upon their arrival, but, if I remember
rightly, the latter went right on to Washington. It gave me great
pleasure to have these distinguished men as my guests, rebels though
they were, and I was glad to have it in my power to show them that
there was a disposition to welcome the prodigals’ return with the
fatted calf. Being quite a _cordon bleu_ myself, it was not difficult
to present an attractive _menu_, consisting of superb raw oysters,
green-turtle soup, a delicious James-River shad, and a fillet of army
beef. A bottle of whiskey and another of brandy, and a cup of good
black coffee constituted the dinner which, General Barringer was good
enough to say, and said it as if he meant it, was the first square
meal he had eaten in two years. The General was a charming gentleman,
appreciative, tolerant, and resigned. General Ewell was irritable,
disappointed, and disposed to be out of humor with every thing and
everybody; yet who could blame him in that hour of his culminating
misfortunes. The loss of a leg in battle appealed to my sympathy, the
loss of station, fortune, and the attainment of his ambition made me
pardon his irascibility. Among other things, he could not understand
how a Southern woman could espouse the Northern cause simply because
she had married a Northerner, but I forced him into a more cheerful
mood, I think, when I told him that I had only followed the example of
many other Southrons,--I had “gone with my State,” mine being the state
of matrimony.

General Grant at this time was in pursuit of Lee’s retreating army,
and my husband’s brigade was once more ordered on the march, while I,
with my sick child, remained at City Point. It was not until April
14th that I considered my daughter well enough to travel, and then,
without waiting for my husband’s return from Appomattox, I started
for Philadelphia, taking a steamboat as far as Baltimore. The war was
over; my husband was alive and well; my child was recovering; my life
was brimful of gladness. With such happy thoughts and in such a mood
I reached Baltimore, when I gradually became sensible of an abnormal
condition of things, which indicated some fresh outbreak, and I became
alarmed. People were hurrying through the streets, groups of men and
women were engaged in eager discussion; something had happened. There
were no cheers, no music; it was gloom! There had been a _calamity_.
What was it? “The President has been murdered,” whispered my orderly,
who had gone for information, “and nobody can go North to-day.” Oh,
horror! I had learned to love Mr. Lincoln then, as younger people
to-day love to read about him. I had seen him weep, had heard him
laugh, had been gladdened by his wit and saddened by his pathos. I
had looked up to him as one inspired. How glad I was afterwards to
know that his untimely death was the act of a mad fanatic, and that my
people who had fought a desperate but unreasonable war had no hand in
it.

When I could collect my thoughts I gathered up my sick child and the
little comforts I had brought with me to nourish and sustain her on the
journey, and took myself to the nearest hotel, where I remained until
the authorities permitted me to continue on my way the next morning.
Later I was among the sad and silent multitude who witnessed the
passing of the funeral cortége up Broad Street, in Philadelphia. There
were many joys in my life then which made me the happiest of women, but
I could willingly have sacrificed some of them to bring that best of
the very best back again into life.

In the middle of May, 1865, I was once more in camp, this time at
Arlington Heights, Va., and witnessed the magnificent reviews of
Meade’s and Sherman’s armies on Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington. I
shall never forget the dashing Custer, his sombrero, his flowing red
scarf, his long blond hair,--the _beau ideal_ of a cavalry leader, as
his charger reared and pranced and became almost unmanageable; nor am
I likely to forget that, for a better view, I was lifted above the
crowd by the strong arms of my escort (I was then quite _petite_), and
that at that moment the photograph fiend was on hand and secured the
lasting evidence of the fact that I was in the arms of a stalwart man
in broad daylight.

The continuous columns of these martial hosts, their victorious cheers,
their well-worn uniforms, ribboned battle-flags, fifes, drums, and
bands, seemed to give utterance to but a single thought, and that was:
“This is the Northern army returning from its victory over the South”;
but to-day, as I look back over twenty years of peace and prosperity,
I feel that there was victory for the South in the defeat. It cost the
lives of many dear ones, but this was the _only_ loss. We are to-day
one people--we might have been a dozen.

During this four-years’ drama I was sometimes in the audience, often
behind the scenes, and once or twice upon the stage itself. When the
curtain fell at last I did not appreciate the awful grandeur and moment
of the events, but now I realize that they stamped their impression
upon my young life. They strengthened me for undertakings for which I
otherwise would have lacked nerve and endurance, and they gave me a
fonder longing for the comforts of Peace than is entertained by those
who have never heard the wail of woful War.


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Generals Rawlins, Porter, Badeau, Dent, and the others of General
Grant’s staff were at the front.

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note


Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice.

In the original there were two footnotes. The first one which only
pointed to the second one has been removed.







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