A Virginia Girl in the Civil War, 1861-1865

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.”

CHAPTER XXII

WITH DAN AT CHARLOTTESVILLE

Milicent always came as a soul comes.

The day after we got the batch of letters the door opened softly, and there she stood, holding Bobby by the hand. She had come so quietly that we did not know it until she stood in our midst. But Bobby was a veritable piece of flesh and blood. As soon as he saw it was grandma and auntie, he made a bound for us, and overwhelmed us with his noisy and affectionate greetings, while his mother submitted to being loved and kissed, and in her quiet way loved and kissed back again. Then she told us how she had come from Norfolk to Petersburg. It was a long, dreary trip.

“I went on a flag-of-truce train to Suffolk. Dr. Wright’s family were on the train, and I spent the night with them. Bobby burned his throat at supper by swallowing tea too hot for him, and he did not rest well in the early part of the night and slept late the next day, and I was very anxious about him. This, and the difficulty in getting a conveyance, kept me at Dr. Wright’s until the afternoon. By that time I had secured a mule-cart to take me to Ivor Station, on the Norfolk and Petersburg Railroad. Ivor, you know, is not more than twenty-five miles from Suffolk by the direct route, but the route we had to take for safety, as far as the Yankees and mud were concerned, was longer, and our one mule went slowly.

“The first afternoon we traveled till late in the night. Bobby would insist on driving the mule, and the driver humored him. In spite of the pain in his throat, he stood up against my knee and held the lines until, poor little tired fellow! he went to sleep holding them. I drew him on to my lap, covered him up, and we went on, the old negro, old mule, and baby all asleep. At last we stopped at a farmhouse to feed the mule. The woman who lived there asked me in. I laid Bobby down on her bed, dropped across it, and in five minutes was asleep myself. I don’t know how many other people slept in that bed that night, but I know that the old woman, Bobby, and I slept in it. When I woke up it was several hours after daylight. Our breakfast the next morning was a typical Confederate breakfast. My hostess gave me a drink made of parched wheat and corn which had been ground, a glass of milk, and some corn bread and bacon, and I enjoyed the meal and paid her cheerfully.

“We reached Ivor late that afternoon, my driver got his fee and departed, and Bobby and I were left to wait for the train. But we were not the only persons at the station; two other women were waiting at Ivor. If those two women could have had their way there would never have been another sunset on this earth. Their two sons were to be shot at sundown – they were watching for the sun to go down. Up and down, up and down, they walked in front of a tent where their sons under military guard awaited execution, and as they walked their eyes, swift and haggard, shifted from tent to sky and back again from sky to tent. As my train moved out of the station I glanced back. They were walking with feverish haste, and the sun hung low in the heavens.”

“Hush, hush!” I cried, “I can’t stand another word – I shall dream of those women all night. Tell me how you got here at last!”

“When I reached Pocahontas I meant to go to Jarrett’s, and stop until I could find out where you were, but while I was looking around for a carriage who should I come upon but John, our old hackman. He told me that you were both out here at Uncle William’s, and I made him drive me out.”

Soon after my sister’s arrival we moved into town and boarded at Miss Anne Walker’s, an old historic house then facing Washington Street, which runs east and west, paralleling the railroad at Jarrett’s Hotel – or rather where Jarrett’s used to stand – an ugly old hotel in the heart of the town. It was beside this railroad that I ran bareheaded along Washington Street some months later to get out of the way of the Yankee cannon. I was at Miss Anne’s when Dan gave me leave to visit him at Charlottesville. His headquarters was a small cottage in sight of the university and of my window. He came home every night – home was a student’s room in the university – and very often I went with him in the morning to his cottage.

One morning as I sat in the cottage, turning a pair of Dan’s old trousers, the door opened, and a fine-looking cavalry officer entered. Surprised to find a lady in occupation, he lifted his hat and started to withdraw. Then he hesitated, regarding me in a confused, doubtful fashion. Whereupon I in my turn began to stare at him.

“Isn’t this John – John Mason?” I asked suddenly.

“That is my name,” with a sweeping bow. “And are you not my old friend, Miss Nellie Duncan, of Norfolk?”

“Yes,” I answered smiling, “but you know I have a third name now.”

“Of course. Unpleasant facts are always hard to remember. I heard of your marriage, certainly, but for the moment the remembrance of it escaped me. You are here with the major?”

The last time I had seen John was on that day which closed the chapter of my happy girlhood in Norfolk. He had been with me when the telegram came telling us that father could not live, and from that day to this I had never seen him until he surprised me patching Dan’s old trousers in the cottage at Charlottesville.

He took the chair opposite, and began talking about the work I was doing and the evidence it bore to my being a good wife. But so far from being pleased I was very much mortified, for the old trousers were in a dreadful state of wear and tear, and he was resplendent in a new uniform. But after a while we dropped the trousers, and got on the subject of Norfolk and old times, and had quite a pleasant chat till my husband came in and he and John turned their attention to business.

I was seeing more of my husband than at any previous or later period of the war, and having altogether a delightful time. One of the things I enjoyed most were our horseback rides.

Dan had two horses for his own use – Tom Hodges, his old army horse, and Nellie Grey, a fine new mare that he had christened for me. When his horse was shot under him in that charge which has been mentioned before, the people of his native town had sent him Nellie Grey in its stead. Nellie was a beautiful creature, docile but very spirited, and I was not often trusted to ride her unless Dan himself was along. Tom Hodges was not so handsome, but he was a horse of decorous ideas and steadfast principles.

I remember well my first ride on Nellie Grey. I had the reputation of being an excellent horsewoman, and Dan wanted to show me off. He was inordinately proud of me, to my great delight, but I could have dispensed with the form his vanity took on that day.

As we rode in an easy canter down University Avenue he gave Nellie Grey a cut, without my knowledge, that sent her off like the wind in a regular cavalry gallop.

Well, I kept my seat – somehow – and I brought her to her senses and a standstill, and then I looked back to see Dan beaming with pride and pleasure.

“What is the matter with this horse?” I asked. “She’s a fool!”

Then Dan told me of that secret cut.

“I knew just what she would do,” he said, “and I knew what you’d do. I wanted to show the boys over there what pluck my wife’s got.”

“Dan,” I said solemnly, “it’s not Nellie Grey that’s the fool.”

I was breathless and vexed, and I had to use the strongest language at my command to express my opinion of Nellie Grey, but it wasn’t strong enough to express my feelings toward Dan! I simply had to look my thoughts!

“You see, wifie,” he went on apologetically, “you did look so pretty and plucky that you ought to have seen yourself.”

Sam had gone home on a furlough, and in his place Dan had a very magnificent body-servant named Napoleon Bonaparte, and an under-boy named Solomon. Napoleon Bonaparte brushed the major’s boots, and Solomon brushed Napoleon’s. Napoleon Bonaparte was a bright mulatto, Solomon was as black as tar. It was Napoleon Bonaparte’s business to supply my room with wood, but this task he delegated to Solomon. Whatever menial work the major ordered Napoleon Bonaparte to do, Napoleon turned over to Solomon. “Solomon,” he said, “was nothin’ but a free nigger nohow.” It came to pass finally that Solomon, ostensibly hired to one master, in reality served two. Of course, Napoleon Bonaparte feathered his own nest and worked things so that the major was really paying two men to do the work of one. When the major could not ride with me, he sent Napoleon Bonaparte to act as groom. This Napoleon Bonaparte esteemed an honor, and he only appointed Solomon in his stead when he himself was in demand as equerry for the major. Napoleon always elected to follow the major in such case, as that was higher employment in his eyes than riding behind me. One morning I stood waiting in my habit a long time for the horses. At last when they appeared Solomon came on a sorry mount, leading Tom Hodges. The procession moved at a snail’s pace, and Solomon looked dreadfully glum.

“What makes you so late?” I asked impatiently.

“Dunno ’zackly, marm. Evvybody in de camp got de debbul in ’em. Major, he got de debbul in him! ’Poleon Bonaparte, he got de debbul in him. An’ evvybody got de debbul in ’em!”

“There seem to have been a great many devils in camp. Wasn’t there one to spare for you, Solomon?”

“Nor’m, I ain’t had no debbul in me – me an’ Tom Hodges. We’s been de onliest peaceable people in camp. Ef I hadn’t er kep’ de peace, me an’ ’Poleon Bonaparte would ha’ fit, sho!”

“I should think you would like to fight Napoleon – I should, if I were you.”

“Nor’m, I don’ b’lieve in no fightin’ – ’cep’in’ ’tis ter fit de Yankees. I’m er peaceable man, I is.”

I told Dan what a bad report Solomon had made out against him.

He laughed. “Solomon has the grumps this morning. He seemed to have quite a time with your namesake, as well as with the rest of us. Napoleon Bonaparte sent him to rub Nellie Grey down and saddle her for me. The mare threw her head up and jerked him about a little, and we could hear him saying: ‘Whoa! Nellie Grey, whoa! You got de debbul in you too! Who-a, Nellie Grey!’ Between the two of them I am having rather a hard time lately,” said Dan. “Solomon blames ’Poleon Bonaparte directly for all the hard times he has, and me indirectly. If something isn’t done as it should be, and I take Napoleon to task, he lays it thick and hard on Solomon. Solomon did have a time of it at camp this morning. You see, ’Poleon Bonaparte is very particular about the way the horses are kept, but he makes Solomon do all the rubbing down, and Solomon doesn’t understand how to manage horses and is a little afraid of them. ’Poleon Bonaparte found fault with his job this morning, and made him rub Nellie Grey down twice. It naturally occurred to Nellie that so much rubbing meant an opportunity for playing. Black Solomon really was the good angel at camp, for before he and Nellie Grey got us to laughing, swearing had been thick enough to cut with a knife. I had turned loose on ’Poleon, and ’Poleon had turned loose on Solomon.”

“Dan, what makes you keep them both?”

“Keep them both! I don’t. I don’t want either of them, but I can’t get rid of them.”

“Make Napoleon do his work and send Solomon off.”

“Make! Nell, how you talk! And ’Poleon’s got just as much right to hire a nigger as I have to own one.”

And during our stay in Charlottesville Dan’s servants gave him “more trouble,” he said, “than fighting the Yankees.” But it was a very happy time in my life.

The late springtime of ’64 found me again in Petersburg.

More vacant chairs, more broken hearts, more suffering, and starvation nearer at hand was what I found there. Milicent was spending her time in nursing the sick and wounded in the hospital, and winning from them the name that has clung to her ever since. There are old white-haired men in the South who still call her “Madonna.”

CHAPTER XXIII

“INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH”

One lovely morning mother sat at an upper window shelling peas for dinner. The window commanded a view of the Petersburg heights and beyond. Presently she stopped shelling peas, and gazed intently out of the window.

“What is that on the heights, Nellie?” she asked, and then, “What men are those running about on the hill beyond?”

I came to the window and looked out. The hills looked blue.

With a sinking heart I got the field-glass and turned it southeast. The hills swarmed with soldiers in Federal uniforms! Men in gray were galloping up to the Reservoir and unlimbering guns. We heard the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry. The heavens were filled with fire and smoke. Men in blue were vanishing as they came; they thought Reservoir Hill a fort. That was the ninth of June, when 125 old men and boys saved the town by holding Kautz’s command, 1,800 strong, at bay on the Jerusalem Plank Road as long as they could and long enough to give Graham’s and Studivant’s batteries and Dearing’s cavalry time to rush to the front. The Ninth of June is Petersburg’s Memorial Day, her day of pride and sorrow.

A few days after – mother was shelling peas again – whiz! whack! a shell sung through the air, striking in Bolling Square. Whiz! whack! came another, and struck Mrs. Dunlop’s house two doors from us. Mrs. De Voss, our neighbor on one side, and Mrs. Williams and her two daughters who lived on the other, ran in, pale with terror, and clamored to go down into our cellar. We were like frightened sheep. I half laugh, half cry now with vexation to think how calmly and stubbornly mother sat shelling peas in that window. She was bent on finishing her peas before she moved. Finally we induced her to go with us, and we all went down into the cellar. There we huddled together for the rest of the day, and until late into the night, not knowing what went on above or outside, little Bobby asleep in his mother’s lap, and the rest of us too frightened to sleep. At last, when we had heard no guns for a long time, we crept upstairs and lay down on our beds and tried to sleep. The next morning the shelling began again. Shells flew all around us. One struck in the yard next to ours; another horrid, smoking thing dropped in our own yard. We decided that it was time to abandon the house.

As the firing came from the south and the east, and the Appomattox was on the north of the city, we could only turn to the west. Any other direction and we would have run toward the guns or into the river. With no more rhyme or reason than this in our course we started up Washington Street, running west, but without regard to the order of our going.