we suffered terribly during the ensuing months for want of something in which we might occupy ourselves. we sat silently, looking out on a landscape marked here and there by chimneys standing sentinel over the blackened heaps where our neighbors had made happy homes. a few books had been saved, only those for which we had little use. a soldier walked in one day with a handsome volume which jefferson davis, after inscribing his name in it, had presented to the general. the soldier calmly requested the former owner to be kind enough to add to the value of the volume by writing beneath the inscription his own autograph, and, his request granted, walked off with it under his arm. "he has been at some trouble," said my husband, "and he had as well be happy if i cannot!"
as the various brigades moved away from our neighborhood a few plain articles of furniture that had been taken from the house were restored to us, but nothing handsome or valuable, no books, pictures, bric-à-brac, or house-furnishings of any kind—just a few chairs and tables. i had furnished an 391 itemized list of all the articles we had lost, with only this result.
we had news after a while of our blooded mare, lady jane. a letter enclosing her photograph came from a new england officer:—
"to mr. pryor,
"dear sir: a very fine mare belonging to you came into my camp near richmond and is now with me. it would add much to her value if i could get her pedigree. kindly send it at your earliest convenience, and oblige
"yours truly,
—— ——
"p.s. the mare is in good health, as you will doubtless be glad to know."
disposed as my general was to be amiable, this was a little too much! the pedigree was not sent.
a great number of tourists soon began to pass our house on their way to visit the localities near us, now become historic. they wished to stand on the site of general lee's headquarters, to pluck a blade of grass from the hollow of the crater, to visit the abattis, lunettes, and fortifications of both lines, especially fort steadman, fort gregg, and battery 45, where the lines were broken the last of march and on april 2.
these tourists, men and women, would pause at the well, some on horseback, others in the dilapidated landaus or buggies for hire in petersburg. uncle frank, with his flow of courteous language and his attractive manners, would usually meet and discourse to them, earning many a douceur by drawing 392 from the well the cold water for which it was famous. abram's family was abroad in the fields, where the old man had planted corn in june—too late to hope for other harvest than the fodder to feed the horse the quartermaster had given him at my earnest request. under the impression that we were still working our negroes, some of the tourists would dismount and harangue abram at length upon his "rights." the old man would listen respectfully, shaking his gray head dubiously as they rode off. "recollect, boy," said one of these travellers to alick, "the white woman in that house is now your slave!" alick was standing beneath my window, amusing himself by tying up a rosebush. he looked up, simply advising me,—"let 'em go 'long,"—and resumed his work in training the rosebush.
sometimes the tourists would ask permission to call on us, claiming some common acquaintance. my husband was inclined to resent this. their sympathetic attitude was offensive to him. like the douglas he had endured much, but—
"last and worst, to spirit proud
to bear the pity of the crowd:"—
this was more than he could endure.
we were perfectly aware that they wished to see us, and not to gain, as they affected, information about the historic localities on the farm. still less did they desire ignobly to triumph over us. a boy, when he tears off the wings of a fly, is much interested in observing its actions, not that he is cruel—far from 393 it! he is only curious to see how the creature will behave under very disadvantageous circumstances.
one day a clergyman called, with a card of introduction from mrs. hartsuff, who had, i imagine, small discernment as regards clergymen. this one was a smug little man,—sleek, unctuous, and trim, with pecksniffian self-esteem oozing out of every pore of his face.
"well, madam," he commenced, "i trust i find you lying meekly under the chastening rod of the lord. i trust you can say 'it is good i was afflicted.'"
having no suitable answer just ready, i received his pious exhortation in silence. one can always safely do this with a clergyman.
"there are seasons," continued the good man, "when chastisement must be meted out to the transgressor; but if borne in the right spirit, the rod may blossom with blessings in the end."
a little more of the same nature wrung from me the query, "are there none on the other side who need the rod?"
"oh—well, now—my dear lady! you must consider! you were in the wrong in this unhappy contest, or, i should say, this most righteous war."
"v? victis!" i exclaimed. "our homes were invaded. we are on our own soil!"
my reverend brother grew red in the face. rising and bowing himself out, he sent me a parthian arrow:—
"no thief e'er felt the halter draw
with good opinion of the law."
394
on the afternoon of a sultry day, a black cloud suddenly darkened the sky, thundered, lightened, and poured down a pelting storm of hailstones and rain. a party of young people galloped up to the gate, hastily dismounted, and ran for the shelter of our porch. there were half a dozen or more young girls and men. the small roof affording them scant shelter, i invited them into the parlor, where they stood dripping and shivering until a fire was kindled. a sudden cold wind came on with the hail. it had been a long time since i had seen happy, cheerful young girls in their riding-habits, and i fell in love with them at once, putting them at ease, chafing their hands, and drying their little coats. i never saw young folk so much embarrassed. they were northern tourists, and felt the full force of our relative positions. when hot tea was brought in, they were overwhelmed. i was loath to give them up—these pretty girls. when they bade me good-by and thanked me for my nice tea and fire, the black eyes of one little beauty snapped with an unmistakable expression—"for your coals of fire!"
such incidents as these were our only events. our friends in town were in too much poverty and sorrow to visit us. a deadly silence and apathy had succeeded the storm. it was a long time before the community waked up from this apathy—not, indeed, until the cool, invigorating weather of autumn. the blood-soaked soil and the dead animals emitted sickening odors until the frosts came to chain them up.
a bachelor friend occasionally visited us and 395 invited the little boys to accompany him upon relic-hunting expeditions to the narrow plain which had divided the opposing lines on that fateful april morning, just three months before. ropes were fastened around extinct shells, and they were hauled in, to stand sentinel at the door. the shells were short cylinders, with one pointed end like a candle before it is lighted. numbers of minie balls were dug out of the sand.
one day mr. kemp brought in a great curiosity—two bullets welded together, having been shot from opposing rifles.
twenty years afterward i showed this twin-bullet to general grant, not long before his last illness. with mrs. grant, he had called at my home in brooklyn to inquire if i had good news of general pryor, who was in england, having been sent by irish americans to see what could be done for o'donnell, the irish prisoner. general grant was much interested in this case. he found me at my late breakfast of tea, toast, and a dozen oysters, which were divided among the three of us. after breakfast i brought out the bullet. he laid it on the palm of his hand and looked at it long and earnestly.
"see, general," i said, "the bullets are welded together so as to form a perfect horseshoe—a charm to keep away witches and evil spirits."
but the general was not interested in amulets, charms, or evil spirits. after regarding it silently for a moment, he remarked:—
"those are minie balls, shot from rifles of equal caliber. and they met precisely equidistant to a 396 hair. this is very interesting, but it is not the only one in the world. i have seen one other, picked up at vicksburg. where was this found and when?" he asked, as he handed the relic back to me. "at petersburg, possibly."
"yes," i answered, "but not when you were shelling the city. it was picked up on our farm after the last fight."
he looked at me with a humorous twinkle in his eye. "now look here," he said, "don't you go about telling people i shelled petersburg."
met bullets found near fort gregg, 1865.
a short time before his death, just before he was taken to mount mcgregor, he dictated a note to me, sending his kind regards to my general, and saying he remembered with pleasure his talk with me over a cup of tea.
but we must return (and i am sure i am pardoned for this digression) to the weary life of enforced idleness at the cottage.
i had no garments to mend or to make, no household to manage. the sultry days were begun and rounded by hours of listless endurance, 397 followed by troubled sleep. a bag of army "hardtack" stood in a corner, so the children were never hungry. presently they, too, sat around us, too listless to play or talk. a great army of large, light brown norway rats now overran the farm. they would walk to the corner before our eyes and help themselves to the army ration. we never moved a finger to drive them away. after a while alick appeared with an enormous black-and-white cat.
"dis is jest a leetle mo'n i can stand," said alick. "de yankees has stole ev'rything, and dug up de whole face o' the yearth—and de jews comes all de time and pizens de well, droppin' down chains an' grapplin'-irons to see ef we all has hid silver—but i ain' obleedged to stan' sassyness fum dese outlandish rats."
alick had to surrender. the very first night after the arrival of his valiant cat there was a scuffle in the room where the crackers were kept, a chair was overturned, and a flying cat burst through the hall, pursued by three or four huge rats. the cat took refuge in a tree, and, stealthily descending at an opportune moment, stole away and left the field to the enemy.
of course there could be but one result from this life. malaria had hung over us for weeks, and now one after another of the children lay down upon the "pallets" on the floor, ill with fever. then i succumbed and was violently ill. our only nurse was my dear general; and not in all the years when he never shirked duty, or lost a march, 398 or rode on his own horse when his men had a toilsome march or if one of them failed by the way, and never lost one of the battles into which he personally led them,—not in all those trying times was he nobler, grander, than in his long and lonely vigils beside his sick family. and most nobly did the aged negress in the kitchen stand by us. my one fevered vision was of an ebony angel!
after we recovered, my dear husband was ill—ague and fever had fastened on him. when he, too, grew better, he would sit for days in hopeless despair, looking out on the desolate landscape.
general hartsuff and his wife often visited us. they were terribly afraid of fever, and would send in messages from the gate while we were all so ill. but after we had recovered, general hartsuff came himself—and finally sent captain gregory, the commissary-general, to see me, and to reason seriously with me about the necessity of sending general pryor away. he had never been pardoned. there were men in power who constantly hinted at punishment and retribution. general pryor would die here. he should go to new york, go by sea, shake off the chills that shook him so relentlessly every third day, meet friends (many southerners were in new york), and something might result for his benefit.
this idea grew in our minds as feasible, if only we had the money. it had never occurred to me to make a second attempt (one had failed) to sell my watch. i now took it to a banker in petersburg, added to it a cherished antique cameo set in 399 diamonds which had never left my finger since it was given me, like shylock's turquoise from his leah, when my husband "was a bachelor." leaving these in pledge, i received three hundred dollars. i bought some quinine forthwith, ordered a suit of clothes to replace the threadbare confederate gray, and sent roger a. pryor, the sometime "rebel," to new york, upon an experiment of which the most sanguine imagination could not have foreseen the successful result.
a difficult task lay before him. ruined in fortune, his occupation gone, his friends dead or impoverished, his health impaired, his heart broken, he had yet to win support for a wife and seven children, and that in a hostile community. only two things were left to him—the ability to work and the willingness to work. with what courage he commenced the study of his profession, what difficulties he surmounted, what rebuffs he bore with fortitude, i can give here no adequate idea. he labored incessantly, often breaking down and fainting, at his task. in one of his early letters he says, "sometimes i sink in despair; but then i rally and press on. don't you think heaven will prosper me for your sake? the obstacles to the success of 'a rebel' in this city are almost insurmountable."
he accepted a position on the daily news which yielded him twenty-five dollars a week. meanwhile he must learn new york law.
there has been too much sorrow already in this story. why tell of all the anguish, all the suffering of the next years? during the long, lonely winter 400 of 1865 my husband nobly strove to sustain my hopes, and for his sake i would not allow my heart to break.
early in february old abram, the faithful servant in whose care my husband left me, announced that we had reached the end of all our resources at cottage farm. rose, the little cow, had died, the turnips and potatoes abram had raised were all gone, the two pigs he had reared had fulfilled their destiny long ago, and the government rations had ceased. he "could scuffle along himself, but 't wa'n't no use to pertend" he could "take care of mistis an' the chilluns, not like they ought to be took care of."
"we must not despair, abram," i said. "we'll feed the children, never fear! i must plan something to help."
"plannin' ain't no 'count, mistis, less'n you got sump'n to work on. what we all goin' to do for wood?"
"what you have done all along, i suppose."
"no'm. dat's onpossible. we done burn up fort gregg an' battery 45. der ain' no mo' fortifications on de place as i knows of."
"fortifications!" i exclaimed. "why, abram! you surely haven't been burning the fortifications?"
"hit's des like i tell you, mistis. de las' stick's on yo' wood-pile now."
"well, abram," i said gravely, "if we have destroyed our fortifications—burned our bridges—the time has come to change our base. we will move into town." 401
of course, without food or fuel, and without abram, we could not live in the country. the fields were a desolate waste, with no fences to protect a possible crop or to keep cattle within bounds. abram saw no hope from cultivation—nothing to "work on." he had been a refugee from a lower plantation, and he was now inclined to put out his children to service, and return in his old age to his old home and to his old master, who longed to welcome him. he was a grand old man. i doubt not he has a warm place in the bosom of that other abram, the faithful, but no whit more faithful than he.
the afternoon before our departure from cottage farm, the weather was so deliciously balmy that i walked over the garden and grounds, thinking of the great drama that had been enacted on this spot. the spring comes early in the lower counties of virginia. already the grass was springing, and on the trees around the well which had so often refreshed general lee, tender young leaves were trembling. our old friends the tourists now appeared at intervals, taking in this historic ground on their return from florida or south carolina, where they had spent the winter.
the garden, which at this season had always blossomed with early hyacinths, daffodils, snowdrops, and the rosy spikes of the flowering almond, was now a ploughed and trampled waste of weeds. under the iron-clad hoofs of the cavalry horses, and the heavy wheels of the gun-carriages, the life had been crushed out of the tender bulbs. spring 402 had come to touch all scars with her gentle finger-tips. over all the battle-torn ground, over the grave of the young soldier who had lain so long under my window, over the track ploughed by shot and shell, she had spread a delicate bloom like a smile on the lips of the dead. a bit of color attracted my attention, and stooping over a bramble-bush i found, under its protection, a single spike of pink hyacinth. when i arose with the treasure in my hand, i saw that an elderly gentleman had alighted from his "buggy" and was gravely considering me. he bared his head and introduced himself. "madame, i am a northern traveller. will you give me that little flower as a souvenir?"
"take it!" i said; there was nothing else left, his people had all the rest—and with effusive bows and thanks he stumbled over the briers and uneven ground to secure his delicate souvenir of a battle-ground.
much of my last night at cottage farm was spent at the window from which i had watched on that anxious night of my first home-coming. the home had been polluted, sacked, desecrated—and yet i was leaving it with regret. many a hard battle with illness, with want, with despair, had been fought within those walls. it seemed like a long dark night in which neither sun nor moon nor stars had appeared; during which we had simply endured, watching ourselves the while, jealous lest the natural rebound of youthful hope and spirit should surprise us, and dishonor those who had suffered and bled and died for our sakes. 403
but now the night was gone, the hour of awakening had come. there was work for me to do in the world; the world in which i had been divinely taught i should "have tribulation" with the command and promise, "fear not! i have overcome the world." and so, as i sat again in the darkness, and kept my midnight vigil:—
as of old when the fire and tempest had passed,
and an earthquake had riven the rocks, the word
in a still small voice rose over the blast,
the voice of the lord.
and the voice said—"take up your life again,
quit yourself manfully, stand in your lot;
let the fever, the famine, the peril, the pain,
be all forgot."
that i might aid my husband to mend our fortunes, i persuaded seven of my neighbors' children to take music lessons from me. i had been carefully instructed in music, having been taught by a pupil of liszt's, brought over by the hon. william c. rives at the close of his second term as minister to the court of louis philippe, to teach his own daughter amélie. so i was well equipped for my new duties, upon which, despite my own persistent chills and fevers, i entered with enthusiasm.
