BELLE BOYD,
IN
CAMP AND PRISON.

With an Introduction
BY A FRIEND OF THE SOUTH.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO.,
66 BROOK STREET, W. 1865.
[All rights reserved.]

LONDON
WILLIAM STEVENS, PRINTER, 37 BELL YARD,
LINCOLN'S INN.

CONTENTS
OF VOLUME THE FIRST.

• INTRODUCTION . . . . . 1
• CHAPTER I. Home - Glimpse at Washington City . . . . . 33
• CHAPTER II. Political Contest - Commencement of the Great Struggle in America - Secession of the Southern States - We hear of the Fall of

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  Page vi

  Fort Sumter - Call for Troops - The Stars and Bars - Volunteers - Enlistment of my Father - Patriotism of the Southern Women - Harper's Ferry - Visit to Camp Picnics, Balls, &c., &c., . . . . . 43

• CHAPTER III. Fourth of July - The Yankee Flag is hoisted in Martinsburg - Great Excitement - My first Adventure - An Article of War is read to me - - Miss Sophia B.'s Walk . . . . . 62
• CHAPTER IV. Battle of Manassas - Establishment of a Hospital at Front Royal (Virginia) - A Runaway Excursion - Capture of Federal Officers . . . . . 76
• CHAPTER V. Advance of the Federal Army - I leave Home

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  with my Father - Battle of Kearnstown - I am Arrested and carried Prisoner to Baltimore - Released and sent to Martinsburg - I attempt to go South to Richmond - Shields' Army at Front Royal - Incidents, &c., &c. . . . . . 93

• CHAPTER VI. My Prisoner - Battle of 23rd May - My Share in the Action - The Federals Fire upon me - The Little Note once more - The Confederates are Victorious - Letter from General "Stonewall" Jackson. . . . . 122
• CHAPTER VII. Tone of the Northern Press towards me - General Banks refuses to pass me South - How I procure Passes - The two Confederate Soldiers - I write to "Stonewall" Jackson - Novel Method of conveying Information - My Letter

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  is Intercepted - I am warned to depart South without delay - I prepare to leave . . . . . 146

• CHAPTER VIII. I am Arrested by order of Mr. Stanton, Federal Secretary of War - My Room and Trunks are closely searched - Yankee disregard for the rights of Personal Property - My Departure for Washington - My Escort - I arrive at General White's Head - quarters in Winchester. . . . . 157
• CHAPTER IX. A false Alarm - Arrival at Martinsburg - My Mother and Family visit me - Departure for Washington - My Reception at the Dépot - The "Old Capitol" - My Prison Room - My Treatment - Interview with the Chief of Detectives - Offers of Liberty - My Reply - A Pleasing Reminiscence of my Captivity . . . . . 181

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• CHAPTER X. My First Night in Prison - The Secret Telegraph - An Incident in connection with President Davis's Portrait - I am punished for my Indiscretion - I am permitted to walk in the Prison Yard, where I meet with a Relation - I am informed I am to be exchanged - Departure from Washington . . . . . 207
• CHAPTER XI. Arrival at Fortress Monroe - Passage up the James River - Arrival at Richmond - "Home again" - Interview with General "Stonewall" Jackson - A Refugee once more - Review of the Confederate Army under General Lee - I receive my Commission - Flying Visit to my Home - Letter from "Stonewall" Jackson - My Reception by the People of Knoxville - I hear of the Death of General Jackson - Battle of Winchester - At Home once more. . . . . 229

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• CHAPTER XII. Invasion of Pennsylvania - Panic in the Northern States - General Lee issues an Order respecting Private Property - Battle of Gettysburg - The Retreat of Lee's Army - How I occupied my time with other Ladies - I receive a call from Major Goff - Am held a Prisoner in my own Home - Again come to Washington a Prisoner - New Quarters - The Carroll Prison - How Ladies and Gentlemen were treated who recognised us in passing the Carroll - The "Old Familiar Sound" once more - The Bayonet - Our Mail Communication is again established . . . . . 253
• CHAPTER XIII. A very Romantic Way of Corresponding - The Prison Authorities for once are at a loss - My Confederate Flags - The wave over Washington

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  in spite of Yankee assertions to the contrary - I become very ill - Mr. Stanton in an unfavourable light once more - My Prisoner of Front Royal in her true Character - Sentence of Court-martial is announced to me - A Relapse of my former Illness - I am banished - The cry of "Murder" raised round the Corner - Incidents in my Prison Life. . . . . 271

INTRODUCTION.
BY A FRIEND OF THE SOUTH.

        This was the somewhat startling question put to me by Mrs. Hardinge - better known as Belle Boyd - on my recent introduction to her in Jermyn Street.

        "Madam," said I, "a sprite like you, who has so often run the gauntlet by sea and land, who has had so many hair-breadth escapes by flood and field, must bear a 'charmed life:' I dare not attempt it." Then, placing in my hands a roll

of manuscript, she said, "Take this; read it, revise it, rewrite it, publish it, or burn it - do what you will. It is the story of my adventures, misfortunes, imprisonments, and persecutions. I have written all from memory since I have been here in London; and, perhaps, by putting me in the third person you can make a book that will be not only acceptable to the public and profitable to myself, but one that will do some good to the cause of my poor country, a cause which seems to be so little understood in England."

        I took the manuscript, promising to look it over, and return it with an estimate of its merits. I have done so; and hence the publication of "Belle Boyd, in Camp and Prison." The work is entirely her own, with the exception of a few suggestions in the shape of footnotes - the simple, unambitious narrative of an enthusiastic and intrepid schoolgirl, who had not yet seen her seventeenth summer

when the cloud of war darkened her land, changing all the music of her young life, her peaceful "home, sweet home," into the bugle blasts of battle, into scenes of death and most tumultuous sorrow.

        Believing, with all the people of the South, in the sovereignty of the States, and the absolute political and moral right of secession, our young heroine, like Joan of Arc, inspired and fired by the "tyranny impending," resolved to devote her hands, and heart, and life if need be, to the sacred cause of freedom and independence. How much she has done and suffered in the great struggle which has crimsoned the "sunny South" with the "blood of the martyrs," we shall leave the reader to gather from the narrative itself.

        But, by way of introduction, I have a few incidental facts to relate; and it is proper to add that I do it entirely on my own responsibility,

and without consulting "our heroine" in the matter.

        At the time of my presentation to Mrs. Hardinge, above alluded to, I found the lady in very great distress of mind and body. She was sick, without money, and driven almost to distraction by the cruel news that her husband was suffering the "tender mercies" of a Federal prison. Lieutenant Hardinge was in irons; and his friends were prohibited from sending him food or clothing! Letters addressed to his young wife, containing remittances, were intercepted; and thus I found her, not quite friendless, in this great wilderness of London, but, what is worse, absolutely destitute of that indispensable and all-prevailing friend - MONEY.

        The sight of a pair of flowing eyes, that for thirteen long months had refused to weep in a Northern prison, were enough to call forth the following communication, addressed to the

"Morning Herald," that able and consistent defender of the Southern cause: -

"A WORD TO CONFEDERATE SYMPATHIZERS.

        Alas, poor Belle! Her bridal bliss was 'like the snow-fall on a river.' Her husband of a day is now tasting the sweets of a Yankee prison, and she (who 'was made his wedded wife yestreen') all the bitterness of poverty and exile. After enduring for many a long and weary month the insults, sufferings, and persecutions of the 'Old Capitol Prison,' I heard the afflicted lady say yesterday that she 'had rather be there as she was than here as she is.' And why? Cut off from all pecuniary resources at home, she has

had to part with her jewellery piece by piece, including her 'wedding presents,' to pay her weekly bills.

        "We can well understand how trouble like that would smite the heart of a high-toned woman, the daughter of affluence and luxury, even more cruelly than the tortures of a Federal prison.

        "Without further comment, I will only add that Madame Hardinge (Belle Boyd) has prepared for publication a narrative of her adventures, imprisonment, and sufferings, for which there are no lack of publishers ready to advance a handsome sum; but she has recently received threatening intimations that her husband's life depends upon the suppression of her story!

        "The father of 'Belle Boyd,' a most respectable Virginian gentleman, has lately died, at the age of forty-six, from a disease induced by his daughter's sufferings. These are the sad, simple facts of the case, and I commend them to the kind consideration

of Confederate sympathizers in England. Surely poverty, in a young and accomplished woman, is not only a sacred claim to the protection of society - it is also the very highest credential of honour."

        The above was copied by one of the London morning papers, with the following sympathetic comments: -

        "We are in a position to verify all that is here stated, and a great deal more. Probably the history of the world does not contain a parallel case to that of this newly married lady, who has just only emerged from her teens. Her adventures in the midst of the American war surpass anything to be met with in the pages of fiction. Her great beauty, elegant manners, and personal attractions generally, in conjunction with her romantic history before her marriage, which took place only three months ago at the West End, in the presence of a fashionable assemblage of

affectionate and admiring friends, concur to invest her with attributes which render her such a heroine as the world has seldom, if ever, seen in a lady only now in her twentieth year."

        Several of the New York journals also copied the above, and one of them, "The World," published the following communication: -

        "I would respectfully ask the use of a small space in the columns of 'The World' to say a word regarding these statements.

        "Within the past few months Mrs. Hardinge's agent in the United States has sent her bills of exchange on London bankers to the amount of eight hundred pounds sterling, or nearly ten thousand dollars in greenbacks. She has never received a sou of this money. Her letters have been opened here and the drafts extracted before going on to her, and this is the reason she is in distress. Too proud to beg, too honourable to borrow, she pawned her jewels and wedding

presents, piece by piece, until her situation became known to her friends. Cut off from pecuniary resources, a stranger in a strange land, her husband in a Northern prison, what could she do? 'Surely poverty in a young and accomplished woman is not only a sacred claim to the protection of society, but is also the very highest credential of honour.'

        "I received during the week a letter from this poor lady; and she says, 'I think it is so cruel in the Yankees to intercept my letters and stop my money, and I don't know why I am thus persecuted.' It is cruel, and it is beneath the dignity of any Government to stoop to such means of revenge. Such things in the dark ages would be called unchivalrous. Good God! can this be the nineteenth century?

        "Mr. Hardinge came here, as a peaceable citizen would come, to attend to his private business and return to England. He had no Confederate duties. Having nearly completed his labours, he went to Martinsburg to see his wife's mother, and, while returning thence, with all the necessary papers and passes in his possession, was arrested this

side of Harper's Ferry. Confined in nondescript guard-houses, in jails, and dragged about like a convicted felon, he was finally lodged in the Carroll Prison at Washington, and from thence taken to Fort Delaware. After suffering two months' confinement, he was unconditionally released, and sailed for Europe on the 8th February. She will not be in want or distress when he arrives in London. For what he was arrested and confined is to him yet a mystery.

        "The intimation to Mrs. Hardinge that the publication of her work would endanger the life of her husband was not without foundation, as there are officials high in power at Washington of whom she knows more than is generally known, and who will be shown up in their true light and colours in her book. They fear the truth."

        It is pleasant to add, that the moment Belle Boyd's necessities became known in London the most generous offers of assistance were literally showered upon her by ladies and gentlemen of

the highest and best classes in England. And here I cannot refrain from saying that, after several years of observation and experience, I cannot but regard the real nobility of England as the noblest and most hospitable people in the world. The Southern planters rank - or, alas! did rank - next.

        But this is a digression. Let us glance a moment at Belle Boyd in prison, sketched by other hands than her own.

        In the month of August, 1862, the editor of the "Iowa Herald," D. A. Mahony, Esq., a strong Anti-Black Republican, but an able and eloquent supporter of the Constitution and the Union, was taken from his bed, and, without arraignment or trial, and without even being informed of "the things whereof he was accused," hurried away to Washington, and thrust into the "Old Capitol Prisons." What he saw and suffered there he has already told the world, in words that ought to

burn and brand for ever his lawless and infamous persecutors.

        The following extracts from Mr. Mahony's journal, published by Carleton, of New York, give us characteristic glimpses of Belle Boyd in prison: -

        "Among the prisoners in the Old Capitol when I reached there was the somewhat famous Belle Boyd, to whom has been attributed the defeat of General Banks, in the Shenandoah Valley, by Stonewall Jackson. Belle, as she is familiarly called by all the prisoners, and affectionately so by the Confederates, was arrested and imprisoned as a spy....

        "The first intimation some of us new-comers in the Old Capitol had of the fact of there being a lady in that place was the hearing of "Maryland, my Maryland," sung the first night of our incarceration, in what we could not be mistaken was a woman's voice. On inquiry, we were informed that it was Belle Boyd. Some of us had never heard of the lady before; and we were all

inquiring about her. Who was she? where was she from? and what did she do?....

        "Belle was put in solitary confinement, but allowed to have her room-door open, and to sit outside of it in a hall or stair-landing in the evening. Whenever she availed herself of this privilege, as she frequently did, the greatest curiosity was manifested by the victims of despotism to see her. Her room being on the second story, those who occupied the third story were civilians from Fredericksburg.....

        "But we must not lose sight of Belle Boyd. I heard her voice, my first night in prison, singing 'Maryland, my Maryland,' the first time I had ever heard the Southern song. The words, stirring enough to Southern hearts, were enunciated by her with such peculiar expression as to touch even sensibilities which did not sympathize with the cause which inspired the song. It was difficult to listen unmoved to this lady, throwing her whole soul, as it were, into the expression of the sentiments of devotion to the South, defiance to the North, and affectionately confident appeals to Maryland, which form the burden of that

celebrated song. The pathos her voice, her apparently forlorn condition, and, at those times when her soul seemed absorbed in the thoughts she was uttering in song, her melancholy manner, affected all who heard her, not only with compassion for her, but with an interest in her which came near, on several occasions, bringing about a conflict between the prisoners and the guards.

        "Fronting on the same hall or stair-landing on which Belle Boyd's room-door opened, were three other rooms, all filled to their capacity with prisoners, mostly Confederate officers. Several of these were personally acquainted with Belle, as she was most of the time, and by nearly every one, called. In the evenings these prisoners were permitted to crowd inside of their room-doors, whence they could see and sometimes exchange a word with Belle. When this liberty was not allowed, she contrived to procure a large marble, around which she would tie a note, written on tissue-paper, and, when the guard turned his back to patrol his beat in the hall, she would roll the marble into one of the open doors

of the Confederate prisoners' rooms. When the contents were read and noted a missive would be written in reply, and the marble, similarly burdened as it came, would be rolled back to Belle. Thus was a correspondence established and kept up between Belle and her fellow-prisoners, till a more convenient and effective mode was discovered. This occurred soon after some of us were transferred from room No. 13 to No. 10.

        "One day Mr. Sheward and I were rummaging in an old, dirty, doorless closet in No. 10, when we discovered an opening in the floor, and, looking down, perceived the light in the room below, which happened to be that occupied by Belle Boyd. Here was a discovery! No sooner was it made, than we set to writing a note, which was tied to a thread and dropped down through the discovered aperture. It happened to be seen by Belle, who soon returned the compliment. Thenceforth a regular mail passed through the floor in No. 10; and though Lieutenant Miller and Superintendent Wood prided themselves on being well informed of every occurrence which

took place in prison contrary to the rules, with all their vigilance, aided by the presence, as they admitted, of a detective in every room of the prison, except that of Belle Boyd, they never discovered this through-the-floor mail. It would not be the least interesting chapter in the history of the Old Capitol to give in it these letters of Belle Boyd. But the time is not yet."

        These last words of Mahony remind me of the fact that Belle Boyd, the "rebel spy," is in possession of a vast amount of information implicating certain high officials at Washington, both in public and private scandals, which she deems it imprudent at present to publish. "The time is not yet."

        "Belle usually commenced her evening entertainment," writes Mahony, "with 'Maryland.' " Up to this time this patriotic and spirit-stirring song, written by young Randall, of Baltimore, must be regarded as the "Marseillaise" of the

South. As it is as yet but little known in England, I will here quote it entire -

AS SUNG BY BELLE BOYD IN PRISON.

                        "The despot's heel is on thy shore,
                        Maryland!
                        His torch is at thy temple door,
                        Maryland!

                        Avenge the patriotic gore
                        That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
                        And be the battle queen of yore,
                         Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Hark to a wandering son's appeal,
                        Maryland!
                        My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
                        Maryland!
                        For life and death, for woe and weal,
                        Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
                        And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
                         Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
                        Maryland!
                        Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
                        Maryland!
                        Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
                        Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
                        And all thy slumberers with the just,
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
                        Maryland!
                        Come with thy panoplied array,
                        Maryland!
                        With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
                        With Watson's blood at Monterey,
                        With fearless Lowe, and dashing May,
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Dear mother! burst the tyrant's chain,
                        Maryland!
                        Virginia should not call in vain,
                        Maryland!
                        She meets her sisters on the plain:
                        Sic semper, 'tis her proud refrain,
                        That baffles minions back amain.
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
                        Maryland!
                        Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
                        Maryland!
                        Come to thine own heroic throng,
                        That stalks with Liberty along,
                        And gives a new Key to thy song,
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "I see the blush upon thy cheek,
                        Maryland
                        And thou wert ever bravely meek,
                        Maryland!

                        But, lo! there surges forth a shriek,
                        From hill to hill, from creek to creek:
                        Potomac calls to Chesapeake.
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
                        Maryland!
                        Thou wilt not crook to his control,
                        Maryland!
                        Better the fire upon thee roll,
                        Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
                        Than crucifixion of the soul,
                        Maryland! my Maryland!

                        "I hear the distant thunder hum,
                        Maryland!
                        The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
                        Maryland!
                        She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb.
                        Hurrah! she spurns the Northern scum!
                        She breathes, she lives; she'll come, she'll come!
                        Maryland! my Maryland!"

        "The singing of this song," says Mahony, "often brought Belle in collision with the guard who passed to and fro in front of her room door. It was, of course, provoking; but was such a place a proper one in which to imprison a female, and especially one who, whatever may have been

her offence, was in the estimation of the world, a lady?"....

        Many a patriotic lady of Baltimore has been arrested by Federal officers for singing the patriotic song of "Maryland." But what will the English reader say when he learns the following fact? At one of the most celebrated eating, drinking, and singing saloons in London, the classical resort of authors, actors, poets, and wits, for these hundred years at least, the famous band of boys, who sing better than any choir outside the Sistine chapel in Rome, after having got "the words and air of 'Maryland' by heart," are not allowed to sing it, for fear of giving offence! OFFENCE TO WHOM? It might possibly "offend"somebody were they to chant the "Marseillaise."

        To return again to our caged bird: -

        "Belle was allowed to go in the yard on Sundays, when there was preaching there. On

these occasions she wore a small Confederate flag in her bosom. No sooner would her presence be known to the Confederate prisoners, than they manifested towards her every mark of respect which persons in their situation could bestow. Most of them doffed their hats as she approached them, and she, with a grace and dignity that might be envied by a queen, extended her hand to them as she moved along to her designated position in a corner near the preacher. We Northern prisoners of State envied the Confederates who enjoyed the acquaintance of Belle Boyd, and who secured from her such glances of sympathy as can only glow from a woman's eyes.

        "Belle's situation was a peculiarly trying one. If she kept her room, a solitary prisoner, her health, and probably her mind, would become affected by the confinement and solitude; and if she indulged herself by sitting outside her room door, she became exposed to the gaze of more than a hundred prisoners, nearly all of them strangers to her, and many of them her enemies by the laws of war. Nor was this all.

She could not help hearing the comments made on her, and the opinions expressed of her, by passers-by; some of them complimentary and flattering, it is true, but oftentimes couched in expressions which were not what she should hear. The guards, too, were sometimes rude to her both by word and action. One time, especially, one of the guards presented his bayoneted musket at her in a threatening manner. She, brave and unterrified, dared the craven-hearted fellow to put his threat into execution. It was well for him that he did not, for he would have been torn into pieces before it could be known to the prison authorities what had happened.

        "Belle was subjected to another worse annoyance and indignity than even this. Her room fronted on A Street, and, as usual with all the prisoners whose rooms had windows opening towards the street, Belle would sit at her window sometimes, and look abroad upon the houses, streets, and people of the city named after Washington. It happened frequently that troops were moving to and fro, and it was on such occasions especially that Belle, prompted by

that curiosity which seems to be a law of nature in mankind, would look through her barred window at the soldiers. No sooner would they perceive her than they indulged in coarse jests, vulgar expressions, and the vilest slang of the brothel, made still more coarse, vulgar, and indecent by the throwing off of the little restraint which civilized society places upon the most abandoned prostitutes and their companions....

        "Did the officers of the troops passing by permit the soldiers to thus insult a female, and subject themselves to such scornful and contemptuous reproof? the reader will be apt to inquire. Yes; and participated with the soldiers in uttering the most vulgar language and indecent allusions to the imprisoned woman; and that, too, without having the remotest idea of who she was, or of what she was accused. It was enough for them that she was a defenceless woman, to insult and outrage her by such language as they would not dare to apply in the public streets to an abandoned woman who had her liberty. And these men were going forth to fight the battles of the Union! They had just parted with mothers,

wives, and sisters. It would seem that, in doing so, they turned their backs upon the virtues which give beauty to woman and dignity to man....

        "At the general exchange of prisoners which took place in September Belle Boyd was sent to Richmond. As soon as it became known in the 'Old Capitol' that she was about to leave, there was not one, Federalist or Confederate, prisoner of state, officer of the 'Old Capitol,' as well as prisoner of war, who did not feel that he was about to part with one for whom he had, at least, a great personal regard. With many it was more than mere regard.

        "Every inmate of the 'Old Capitol' tried to procure some token of remembrance from Belle, and there was scarcely one who did not bestow on her some mark of regard, esteem, or affection, as their sentiments and feelings influenced them severally, and as the means of their disposal afforded them an opportunity to manifest their sensibility. While every man who had any delicacy of feeling for the apparently forlorn prisoner rejoiced at her release from such a loathsome place, and from being subjected, as she continually was, to insult and contumely, there

was not a gentleman in 'Old Capitol' whose emotions did not overcome him as he saw her leave the place for home."

        Thus kindly and warmly writes the veteran editor of the "Iowa Herald," one of the victims of Seward's "little bell," for whose imprisonment and release the "Powers" at Washington, "clothed with a little brief authority," have given no reason or explanation. But was not Mr. Mahony "guilty" of being the Democratic nominee for Congress?

        A somewhat more poetic picture of "La Belle Rebelle" is given by the accomplished author of "Guy Livingstone," in his "Border and Bastille," written while tasting the sweets of Federal tyranny in that same "Old Capitol" Prison: -

        "Through the bars of a second-story window that fronted each turn of my tramp, I saw - this: a slight figure, in the freshest summer-toilette of cool pink muslin; close braids of dark hair

shading clear pale cheeks; eyes that were made to sparkle, though the look in them was very sad; and the languid bowing down of the small head told of something worse than weariness.

        "Truly a pretty picture, though framed in such a rude setting; but almost startling, at first, as the apparition of the fair witch in the forest to Christabelle....

        "No need to ask what her crime had been: aid and abetment of the South suggested itself before you detected the ensign of the South that the démoiselle still wore undauntedly - a pearl solitaire, fashioned as a Single Star. I may not deny that my gloomy 'constitutional' seemed thenceforward a shade or two less dreary; but, though community of suffering does much to abridge ceremony, it was some days before I interchanged with the fair captive any sign beyond the mechanical lifting of my cap, when I entered and left her presence, duly acknowledged from above. One evening I chanced to be loitering almost under the window. A low, significant cough made me look up; I saw the flash of a gold bracelet, and the wave of a white hand; and there

fill at my feet a fragrant, pearly rose-bud, nestling in fresh green leaves. My thanks were, perforce, confined to a gesture and a dozen hurried words; but I would the prison-beauty could believe that fair Jane Beaufort's rose was not more prized than hers, though the first was a love-token to a king, the last only a graceful gift to an unlucky stranger. I suppose that most men, whose past is not utterly barren of romance, are weak enough to keep some withered flowers till they have lived memory down; and I pretend not to be wiser than my fellows. Other fragrant messengers followed in their season; but if ever I 'win hame to my ain countrie,' I make mine avow to enshrine that first rose-bud in my reliquaire with all honour and solemnity, there to abide till one of us shall be dust."

        With this explanatory introduction, I have now only to commend "La Belle Rebelle" to the kindly sympathies of her readers - not as an authoress (to this she makes no pretensions); nor as a partisan soldier, although as such she

has done good service in the cause; nor even as a freed bird from the "Old Capitol" cage; but simply as a woman - a warm-hearted, impulsive, heroic woman of the South, who, maddened by the wrongs and cruelties inflicted upon her people, and exalted, by the love she bore them, above the common cares and considerations of life, dashed into the field, bearing more than a woman's part in her country's struggle for liberty.

        Like the flashing of the plume in the helmet of Navarre, the glancing of the Confederate ensign, when waved by a woman's hand, has never failed to fire the soldier's heart to "lofty deeds and daring high;" and on more than a hundred Southern battle-fields that proud banner, consecrated by prayers and kisses, baptized in tears and blood, has been greeted by the closing eyes of its dying defenders as the oriflamme of victory. Though lost for the moment in clouds and darkness, prophetic Hope, the last solace of the unfortunate,

still waits and watches for its re-appearance as the harbinger of Southern liberty and independence: -

                        "For the battle to the strong
                        Is not given,
                        While the Judge of Right and Wrong
                        Sits in heaven!
                        And the God of David still
                        Guides the pebble with his will.
                        There are giants yet to kill,
                        Wrongs unshriven!"

        Since the above was written the Southern people have suffered a heavy calamity in the assassination of the President of the United States. Not that Mr. Lincoln was their friend: on the contrary, every man and woman in the South, and every child born within the last four years, regarded him as the official head and personal embodiment of all their enemies. But, by the removal of the Commander-in-Chief of the great army and navy with which they were contending, a far more vindictive and unrelenting man is invested with the supreme power of the nation.

Abraham Lincoln, -with all his faults and fanaticism, his angularities of character and vulgarities of manner, had a sunny side to his nature; and there is every reason to believe that, with his idol Union once nominally restored, he would have adopted an indulgent, humane policy towards the brave and vanquished South, believing, with the great poet, that -

                        "Earthly power cloth then show likest God's,
                        When mercy seasons justice."

        The suspicion which has been officially and wickedly thrown upon an honourable and heroic people, touching "the deep damnation of his taking off," is sufficiently answered by the universal regret expressed throughout the Confederacy at President Lincoln's death, the public denunciation of his murderer, and the horror everywhere felt at the idea of being "ruled with a rod of iron" by such an unprincipled demagogue as Andrew Johnson! It is usual in cases of murder to look for the

criminal among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the death of Lincoln his immediate successor in office alone receives "the benefit of his dying."

        While deploring the event which places the reins of power in the hands of one as unfit to control the destinies of a great nation as was the reckless youth to guide the chariot of the Sun, there can be no injustice in alluding to the fact that the Northern Powers and the Northern Press have much to answer for on the head of assassination. I have yet to learn that the written programme of Colonel Dahlgren, which designed the burning of Richmond, the ravaging of its women, and the murder of President Davis and all his cabinet, has ever been disavowed or denounced by the Washington Government, or by the newspapers that support it. Philosophy and religion alike teach us that, while crime only belongs to the act, the sin of murder consists in the intent. In the light of this

judgment, faint in comparison with that "awful light" yet to be thrown, not only upon all human actions, but upon "the very thoughts and intents of the heart," both North and South, friend and foe, rebel and loyalist, the victim and the victor, the living and the dead, must all be tried and sentenced by ONE who "judgeth not as man judgeth."

        In the meantime, let us pray, and hope, and labour for liberty, love, and peace.

London, May 17th, 1865.

BELLE BOYD.

CHAPTER I.

Home - Glimpse at Washington City.

        MY English readers, who love their own hearths and homes so dearly, will pardon an exile if she commences the narrative of her adventures with a brief reminiscence of her far-distant birthplace -

                        "Loved to the last, whatever intervenes
                        Between us and our childhood's sympathy,
                        Which still reverts to what first caught the eye."

        There is, perhaps, no tract of country in the world more lovely than the Valley of the Shenandoah. There is, or rather I should say, there was, no prettier or more peaceful little village than Martinsburg, where I was born, in 1844.

        All those charms with which the fancy of Goldsmith invested the Irish hamlet in the days of its prosperity were realized in my native village. Alas! Martinsburg has met a more cruel fate than that of "sweet Auburn." The one, at least, still lives in song, and will continue to be a household word as long as the English language shall be spoken: the other was destined to be the first and fairest offering upon the altar of Confederate freedom; but no poet has arisen from her ruins to perpetuate her name.

        While America was yet at peace within itself, while the States were yet united,

many very beautiful residences were erected in the vicinity of Martinsburg, which may be said to have attained some degree of importance as a town when the large machinery buildings were raised, at a vast outlay, by the Baltimore and Ohio Railway Company. They were not destined to repay those who designed them.

        While they were yet in course of construction their doom was silently, but rapidly approaching. They were destroyed, as the only means of averting their capture by the advancing Yankees, by that undaunted hero, that true apostle of Freedom, "Stonewall" Jackson.

        Reader, I must once again revert to my home, which was so soon to be the prey of the spoiler.

        Imagine a bright warm sun shining upon a pretty two-storied house, the walls of which are completely hidden by roses

and honeysuckle in most luxuriant bloom. At a short distance in front of it flows a broad, clear, rapid stream: around it the silver maples wave their graceful branches in the perfume-laden air of the South.

        Even at this distance of time and space, as I write in my dull London lodging, I can hardly restrain my tears when I recall the sweet scene of my early days, such as it was before the unsparing hand of a ruthless enemy had defaced its loveliness. I frequently indulge in a fond soliloquy, and say, or rather think, "Do my English readers ever bestow a thought upon that cruel fate which has overtaken so many of their lineal descendants, whose only crime has been that love of freedom which the Pilgrim Fathers could not leave behind them when they left their island home? Do they bestow any pity, any sympathy, upon us homeless, ruined, exiled

Confederates? Do they ever pause to reflect what would be their own feelings if, far and wide throughout their country, the ancestral hall, the farmer's homestead, and the labourer's cot were giving shelter to the licentious soldiers of an invader or crackling in incendiary flames? With what emotions would the citizens of London watch the camp-fires of a besieging army?

                        " 'Say with what eye along the distant down
                        Would flying burghers mark the blazing town -
                        How view the column of ascending flames
                        Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames.' "

        Much has lately been written of the comfort of our Southern homesteads; and now, though so many of them are things of the past, while those that remain are no longer what they were, I may safely say that not even English homes were more comfortable, in the true sense of the word,

than ours; while, for hospitality, we have never been surpassed.

        I passed my childhood as all happy children usually do, petted and caressed by a father and mother, loving and beloved by my brothers and sisters. The peculiarly sad circumstances that attended my father's death will be found recorded at a future page. Where my mother is hiding her head I know not: doubtless she is equally ignorant of my fate. My brothers and sisters are dispersed God knows where.

        But to return to my narrative. I believe I shall not be contradicted in affirming, that nowhere could be found more pleasant society than that of Virginia. In this respect the neighbourhood of Martinsburg; was remarkably fortunate, populated as it was by some of the best and most respectable families of "the Old Dominion" -

respectable, I mean, both in reputation and in point of antiquity - descendants of such ancestors as the Fairfaxes and Warringtons, upon whom Mr. Thackeray has lately conferred immortality.

        According to the custom of my country, I was sent at twelve years of age to Mount Washington College, of which Mr. Staley, of whom I cherish a most grateful recollection, was then principal. At sixteen my education was supposed to be completed, and I made my entrée into the world in Washington City with all the high hopes and thoughtless joy natural to my time of life. I did not then dream how soon my youth was to be "blasted with a curse" - the worst that can befall man or woman - the curse of civil war.

        Washington is so well known to English people that I need not pause to describe the city, its gaities and pleasures. In the

winter of 1860-1, when I made my first acquaintance with it, the season was pre-eminently brilliant. The Senate and Congress halls were nightly dignified by the presence of our ablest orators and statesmen; the salons of the wealthy and the talented were filled to overflowing; the theatres were crowded to excess, and for the last time for many years to come the daughters of the North and the South commingled in sisterly love and friendship.

        I am inclined to think that at the time of which I speak the city of Washington must have very nearly resembled that of Paris during those few years which immediately preceded 1789, while the elements of a stupendous revolution were yet hidden beneath a tranquil and deceitful surface. Like the Parisians of that memorable epoch, we were wilfully or fatally

blind to the signs of the times; we ate and drank, we dined and danced, we went in and came out, we married and were given in marriage, without a thought of the volcano that was seething beneath our feet.

        Who can predict what will be the end and issue of our revolution, when we consider that the effects of that which burst forth seventy-five years ago, wrapped all Europe in flames, and hurled kings from their thrones, are even now but partially developed? How many thousands of our sons have fallen in battle, against oppressors who would not confess that our freedom was beyond their power! How many hapless women and children have perished miserably, or been driven forth to beg their bread in foreign countries, before enemies who with heavy hands have sought to rivet our chains - enemies who could not discern

the truth of the Irish orator's memorable axiom, and acknowledge that the genius of Liberty is universal and irresistible!

CHAPTER II.

Political Contest -Commencement of the Great Struggle in America - Secession of the Southern States - We hear of the Fall of Fort Sumter - Call for Troops - The Stars and Bars - Volunteers - Enlistment of my Father - Patriotism of the Southern Women - Harper's Ferry - Visit to Camp - Picnics, Balls, &c., &c.

        THE gaities of Washington, to which I alluded in my first chapter, were soon eclipsed by the clouds that gathered in the political horizon.

        The contest for the presidentship was over and the men of the South could no longer hide it from themselves that

the issue of the struggle must determine their fate.

        The secession of the Southern States, individually or in the aggregate, was the certain consequence of Mr. Lincoln's election. His accession to a power supreme and almost unparalleled was an unequivocal declaration, by the merchants of New England, that they had resolved to exclude the landed proprietors of the South from all participation in the legislation of their common country.

        I will not attempt to defend the institution of slavery, the very name of which is abhorred in England; but it will be admitted that the emancipation of the negro was not the object of Northern ambition; that is, of the faction which grasps exclusive power in contempt of general rights. Slavery, like all other imperfect forms of society, will have its

day; but the time for its final extinction in the Confederate States of America has not yet arrived. Can it be urged that a race which prefers servitude to freedom has reached that adolescent period of existence which fits it for the latter condition? Meanwhile, which stands in the better position, the helot of the South, or the "free" negro of the North - the willing slave of a Confederate master, or the reluctant victim of Federal conscription?

        And here I must take leave to ask a question of two great authors, both formerly advocates of an instantaneous abolition of slavery. Is the ghost of Uncle Tom laid? Has the slave dreamed his last dream? Will Mrs. H. B. Stowe and Mr. Longfellow admit that in either instance the hero owes his reputation for martyrdom to a creative genius and to an exquisite fancy? or will they still contend

that the negro slave of the Confederate States is, physically and morally, a real object of commiseration?

        The first champion of freedom - I speak advisedly, and in defiance of a seeming paradox - was South Carolina. She was a slave-holding State, but she flung down the gauntlet in the name and for the cause of liberty. Her bold example was soon followed. State after State seceded, and the Union was dissolved. It was now that we heard of the fall of Fort Sumter and Mr. Lincoln's demand upon the State of Virginia. He called upon her to furnish her quota of 76,000 recruits, to engage in battle with her sister States. He sowed the dragon's teeth, and he soon reaped the only harvest that could spring from such seed.

        Virginia promptly answered to the call, and produced the required soldiers; but

they did not rally under the Stars and Stripes. It was to the Stars and Bars, the emblem of the South, that Mr. Lincoln's Virginian soldiers tendered the oath of military allegiance. The flag of the once loved, but now dishonoured Union was lowered, and the colours of the Confederacy were raised in its place.

        Since that memorable epoch those colours have been baptized with the blood of thousands, to whose death in a cause so righteous the honour and reverence that wait upon martyrdom have been justly awarded: -

                        "Oh, if there be in this earthly sphere
                        A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
                        It is the libation that Liberty draws
                        From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause."

        The enthusiasm of the enlistment was adequate to the occasion. Old men with gray hairs and stooping forms, young boys

just able to shoulder a musket, strong and weak, rich and poor, rallied round our new standard, actuated by a stern sense of duty, and eager for death or victory. It was at this exciting crisis that I returned to Martinsburg; and, oh! what a striking contrast my native village presented to the scenes I had just left behind me at Washington! My winter had been cheered by every kind of amusement and every form of pleasure: my summer was about to be darkened by constant anxiety and heart-rending affliction.

        My father was one of the first to volunteer. He was offered that grade in the army to which his social position entitled him; but, like many of our Virginian gentlemen, he preferred to enlist in the ranks, thereby leaving the pay and emoluments of an officer's commission to some other, whose means were not so ample,

and whose family might be straitened in his absence from home, an absence that must of course interfere with his avocation or profession.

        The 2nd Virginian was the regiment to which my father attached himself. It was armed and equipped by means of a subscription raised by myself and other ladies of the Valley. On the colours were inscribed these words, so full of pathos and inspiration: -

                        "Our God, our country, and our women."

        The corps was commanded by Colonel Nadenbush, and belonged to that section of the Southern army afterwards known as "the Stonewall Brigade." "The Stonewall Brigade!" - the very name now bears with it traditions of surpassing glory; and I seize this opportunity of assuring English readers that it is with pride we Confederates

acknowledge that our heroes caught their inspiration from the example of their English ancestors. When our descendants shall read the story of General Jackson and his men, they will be insensibly attracted to those earlier pages of history which record the exploits of Wellington's Light Division.

        My father's regiment was hardly formed when it was ordered to Harper's Ferry; for the sacred soil of Virginia was threatened with invasion, and it was thought possible to make a stand at this lovely spot, to see which is "worth a voyage across the Atlantic." At the outbreak of the war Harper's Ferry could boast of one of the largest and best arsenals in America, and of a magnificent bridge, which latter, spanning the broad stream of the Potomac, connected Maryland with Virginia. Both arsenal and bridge were

blown up in July, 1861, by the Confederate forces, when the Federals, pressing upon them in overwhelming numbers, compelled a retreat.

        My home had now become desolate and lonely: the excitement caused by our exertions to equip our father for the field had ceased, and the reaction of feeling had set in. A general sadness and depression prevailed throughout our household. My mother's face began to wear an anxious, careworn expression. Our nights were not passed in sleep, but in thinking painfully of the loved one who was exposed to the dangers and privations of war.

        My mother, the daughter of an old officer, was left an orphan when very young; she had married my father just as she entered upon her sixteenth year; and now, almost for the first time, they were parted, under

circumstances which made the separation bitter indeed. For myself, I endeavoured to while away the long hours of those sunnier days by the aid of my books, and in making up different kinds of portable provisions for the use of my father, to whom I knew they would, in his novel position, be a luxury.

        But, notwithstanding all the restrictions I laid upon myself, and all the self-control I endeavoured to exert, I soon found these employments too tame and monotonous to satisfy my temperament, and I made up my mind to pay a visit to the camp, coûte qui coûte. I had no difficulty in prevailing upon some of my friends to accompany me in an expedition to head-quarters. Like myself, they had friends and relations to whom they felt their occasional presence would be a source of encouragement and solace; and we all knew that such a goodly

company as we formed could return safely to Martinsburg at almost any hour of the day or night.

        The camp at Harper's Ferry was at this time an animated scene. Officers and men were as gay and joyous as though no bloody strife awaited them The ladies, married and single, in the society of husbands, brothers, sons, and lovers, cast their cares to the winds, and seemed, one and all, resolved that, whatever calamity the future might have in store for them, it should not mar the transient pleasures of the hour. Since then I have had occasion to observe that such a state of feeling is not unnatural or unusual in the minds of men standing, as it were, on the brink of a precipice, or walking, as it were, over the surface of a mine. "Perils commonly ask to be paid in pleasures," and the payment is doubly

sweet when it is taken in anticipation of the debt.

        I fear that at this time many fond vows were exchanged and many true hearts pledged between the girls of the neighbourhood and the occupants of the camp; but it may be pardoned to beauty and innocence if they are not insensible to the virtues of courage and patriotism.

        A true woman always loves a real soldier. In the earliest ages poets and philosophers foretold that the Goddess of Love and Beauty would ever move in the same orbit and in close conjunction with the God of Battles, and the experience of ages has confirmed the judgment of antiquity. Alas! the loves of Harper's Ferry were in but too many instances buried in a bloody grave. The soldier who plighted his faith to his ladye-love was not tried in a long probation, but canonized by an

early death. War will exact its victims of both sexes, and claims the hearts of women no less than the bodies of men.

        To return from this digression. Our insouciance was not of long duration. The advance of a Federal army was reported; and General Jackson, with a force amounting to 5000 men, marched out to reconnoitre, and, if possible, to check their aggressive movement. Our people encamped at "Falling Waters," a romantic spot, eight miles from Martinsburg and four from Williamsport; for at this point of the river, it was rumoured, the Yankees had resolved to force a passage.

        It was early in the morning of the 3rd July that we "gude folks" of dear Martinsburg were startled by the roar of artillery and the rattle of musketry; and the intelligence was presently circulated that the

Yankees were advancing upon us in force, under the command of Generals Patterson and Cadwallader. It turned out, however, that, at the moment of which I speak, their advanced guard only was in motion; but the skirmish between our people and the enemy was sustained during nearly five hours. On both sides some fell, and, besides the casualties of the Federals in killed and wounded, we took about fifty of them prisoners.

        About ten o'clock General Jackson's army, in admirable array, marched through Martinsburg. They were in full retreat, their object being to effect a junction with the main body, under General J. E. Johnston, who had evacuated Harper's Ferry, and was falling back, by way of Charlestown, upon Winchester.

        Jackson's retreat was covered by a few horsemen under the gallant Colonel Ashby;

and scarcely were these latter disengaged from the streets of the town, when the shrill notes of the fife and the roll of the drum announced the approach of a Federal army, which proved to be 25,000 strong.

        It was to us a sad, but an imposing sight. On they came (their colours streaming to the breeze, their bayonets glittering in the sunlight) with all the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." We could see from afar the dancing plumes of the cavalry -

                        "the glittering files,
                        O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles;"

        we could before long hear the rumbling of the gun-carriages, and, worse than this, the hellish shouts with which the infuriated and undisciplined soldiers poured into the town.

        At the time of their entry I was in the hospital, with my negro maid and some ladies of my acquaintance, in attendance upon two of our Southern soldiers, who had been stricken down with fever and were lying side by side. These were the sole tenants of the hospital: all the others had been borne off by the retreating army.

        I was standing close by the side of one of these poor men, who was just then ranting in a violent fit of delirium, when I was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps behind me; and, turning round, I confronted a captain of Federal infantry, accompanied by two private soldiers. He held in his hand a Federal flag, which he proceeded to wave over the bed of the sick men, at the same time calling them " - rebels."

        I immediately said, with all the scorn I

could convey into my looks, "Sir, these men are as helpless as babies, and have, as you may see, no power to reply to your insults."

        "And pray," said he, "who may you be, miss?"

        I did not deign to reply; but my negro maid answered him, "A rebel lady."

        Hereupon he turned upon his heel and retired, with the courteous remark that "I was a - independent one, at all events."

         I hope my readers will pardon my quoting his exact words: without such strict accuracy I should fail to do justice to his gallantry.

         Notwithstanding this interruption to our "woman's mission," the ladies to whom I have before alluded and myself were not discouraged; and before long we contrived

to get our patients moved to more comfortable quarters. They were taken away on litters; and, while they were in this defenseless condition, a condition which would have awakened the sympathy and secured the protection of a brave enemy, the Federal soldiers crowded round and threatened to bayonet them.

        Their gesticulations and language grew so violent, their countenances, inflamed by drink and hatred, were so frightful, that I nerved myself to seek out an officer and appeal to his sense of military honour, even if the voice of mercy were silent in his breast. Let me do him the justice to say, he restrained his turbulent men from further molestation, and I had the unspeakable satisfaction of conveying my sick men to a place of safety. The satisfaction was immeasurable; for I never for one moment forgot that insults such as I

had just seen offered to defenceless men might at any moment be heaped upon my own father.

CHAPTER III.

Fourth of July - The Yankee Flag is hoisted in Martinsburg - Great Excitement - My first Adventure- An Article of War is read to me - Miss Sophia B.'s Walk.

         THE morning of the 4th of July dawned brightly.

        I need hardly say, for it is well known, that the Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence has, in each succeeding year from that of its birth, been hailed with triumphant acclamations by a nation still too young to moderate its transports and lend its ear to the voice of reason rather than to the impulse of passion.

        The Yankees were in undisputed possession of Martinsburg; the village was at their mercy, and consequently entitled to their forbearance; and it would at least have been more dignified in them had they been content to enjoy their almost bloodless conquest with moderation; but, whatever might have been the intentions of the officers, they had not the inclination, or they lacked the authority, to control the turbulence of their men.

        The severance of the North from the South had now become in feeling so complete, that we Martinsburg girls saw the Union flag streaming from the windows of the houses with emotions akin to those with which the ladies of England would gaze upon the tricolour of France or the eagle of Russia floating above the keep of Windsor Castle. Those hateful strains of "Yankee Doodle" resounded in every

street, with an accompaniment of cheers, shouts, and imprecations.

        Whisky now began to flow freely; for, amid the motley crowd of Americans, Dutchmen, and other nations, the Irish element predominated. The sprigs of shillelahs were soon at work, and the "sons of Erin" proved that they could use their sticks with no less effect in an American town than at an Irish fair. They set at defiance the authority of those among their officers who vainly interposed to quell the tumult and restrain the lawless violence that was offered to defenceless citizens and women.

        The doors of our houses were dashed in; our rooms were forcibly entered by soldiers who might literally be termed "mad drunk," for I can think of no other expression so applicable to their condition. Glass and fragile property of all kinds was

wantonly destroyed. They found our homes scenes of comfort, in some cases even of luxury; they left them mere wrecks, utterly despoiled and mutilated. Shots were fired through the windows; chairs and tables were hurled into the street.

        In some instances a trembling lady would make a timid appeal to that honour which should be the attribute of every soldier, or, with streaming eyes and passionate accents, plead for some cherished object - the portrait, probably, of a dead father, or the miniature her lover placed in her hand when he left her to fight for his freedom and hers - upon which many a secret kiss had been pressed, many a silent tear had fallen, before which many an earnest prayer had been breathed.

        To such supplications the reply was invariably a volley of blasphemous curses

and horrid imprecations. Words from which the mind recoils with horror, which no man with one spark of feeling would utter in the presence even of the most abandoned woman, were shouted in the ears of innocent, shrinking girls; and the soldiers of the Union showed a malignant, a fiendish delight in destroying the effigies of enemies whom they had not yet dared to meet upon equal terms in an open field of battle.

        Surely it is not strange that cruelties such as I have attempted to describe have exasperated our women no less than our men, and inspired them with sterner feelings than those which inflame the bosoms of ladies who know nothing of invasion but its name, who have never at their own firesides shuddered at the oaths and threats of a robber disguised in the garb of a soldier.

        Shall I be ashamed to confess that I recall without one shadow of remorse the act by which I saved my mother from insult, perhaps from death - that the blood I then shed has left no stain on my soul, imposed no burden upon my conscience?

        The encounter to which I refer was brought about as follows: - A party of soldiers, conspicuous, even on that day, for violence, broke into our house and commenced their depredations; this occupation, however, they presently discontinued, for the purpose of hunting for "rebel flags," with which they had been informed my room was decorated. Fortunately for us, although without my orders, my negro maid promptly rushed upstairs, tore down the obnoxious emblem, and, before our enemies could get possession of it, burned it.

        They had brought with them a large

Federal flag, which they were now preparing to hoist over our roof in token of our submission to their authority; but to this my mother would not consent. Stepping forward with a firm step, she said, very quietly, but resolutely, "Men, every member of my household will die before that flag shall be raised over us."

        Upon this, one of the soldiers, thrusting himself forward, addressed my mother and myself in language as offensive as it is possible to conceive. I could stand it no longer; my indignation was roused beyond control; my blood was literally boiling in my veins; I drew out my pistol * and shot him. He was carried away mortally wounded, and soon after expired.

        Our persecutors now left the house, and

we were in hopes we had got rid of them, when one of the servants, rushing in, cried out -

        "Oh, misses, missus, dere gwine to burn de house down; dere pilin' de stuff ag'in it! Oh, if massa were back!"

        The prospect of being burned alive naturally terrified us, and, as a last resource, I contrived to get a message conveyed to the Federal officer in command. He exerted himself with effect, and had the incendiaries arrested before they could execute their horrible purpose.

        In the meantime it had been reported at head-quarters that I had shot a Yankee soldier, and great was the indignation at first felt and expressed against me. Soon, however, the commanding officer, with several of his staff, called at our house to investigate the affair. He examined the witnesses, and inquired into all the

circumstances with strict impartiality, and finally said I had "done perfectly right." He immediately sent for a guard to head-quarters, where the élite of the army was stationed and a tolerable state of discipline preserved.

        Sentries were now placed around the house, and Federal officers called every day to inquire if we had any complaint to make of their behaviour. It was in this way that I became acquainted with so many of them; an acquaintance "the rebel spy" did not fail to turn to account on more than one occasion.

        When the news reached the Confederate camp at Darksville, seven miles from Martinsburg, on the Valley Road, that I had shot a Yankee soldier in self-defence, together with the false report that for so doing I had been thrown into the town gaol, the soldiers with one accord volunteered

to storm the prison and rescue me, or die to a man in the attempt. It is with pride and gratitude that I record this proof of their esteem and respect for what I had done. It is with no less pleasure I reflect that their devotion was not put to the test, and that no blood was shed on my account.

        And now, for seven consecutive days, General Jo. Johnston sent in a flag of truce offering battle to General Patterson: this challenge Patterson persistently declined. I am not so ignorant of warfare as not to know that strategic reasons justify the most daring general in refusing battle whenever and wherever he pleases.

        "If thou art a great soldier, come and fight." "If thou art a great soldier, make me come and fight."

        But, though the Federal commander had a perfect right to choose his own

battle-field, he had, in my opinion, no right to couple his refusal of the challenge with a threat that, as soon as Johnston should think fit to make an aggressive movement, he would at once shell Martinsburg, which sheltered the non-combatants, the women and the children, the sick and the infirm.

        Meanwhile, my residence within the Federal lines, and my acquaintance with so many of the officers, the origin of which I have already mentioned, enabled me to gain much important information as to the position and designs of the enemy. Whatever I heard I regularly and carefully committed to paper, and whenever an opportunity offered I sent my secret despatch by a trusty messenger to General J. E. B. Stuart, or some brave officer in command of the Confederate troops. Through accident or by treachery one of

these missives fell into the Yankees' hands. It was not written in cipher, and, moreover, my handwriting was identified. I was immediately summoned to appear before some colonel, whose name I have forgotten; but I remember it was Captain Gwyne who escorted me to head-quarters. There I was alternately threatened and reprimanded, and finally the following "Article of War" was read to me in a most emphatic manner' and with the caution that it would be carried out in the spirit and the letter: -

"ARTICLE OF WAR.

        in any manner whatever, shall suffer death, or whatever penalty the honourable members of the Court-martial shall see fit to inflict."

        I was not frightened, for I felt within me the spirit of the Douglas, from whom I am descended. I listened quietly to the recital of the doom which was to be my reward for adhering to the traditions of my youth and the cause of my country, made a low bow, and, with a sarcastic "Thank you, gentlemen of the Jury," I departed; not in peace, however, for my little "rebel" heart was on fire, and I indulged in thoughts and plans of vengeance.

        From this hour I was a "suspect," and all the mischief done to the Federal cause was laid to my charge; and it is with unfeigned joy and true pride I confess that the

suspicions of the enemy were far from being unfounded.

        On one occasion a friend of mine, Miss Sophia B-, of Martinsburg, a lovely girl, slipped away with a lettre de cachet, walked seven miles to the camp of Stonewall Jackson, and handed him important information, which was productive of much good. She, like myself, had brothers enrolled in that band of heroes.

CHAPTER IV.

Battle of Manassas - Establishment of a Hospital at Front Royal (Virginia) - A Runaway Excursion - Capture of Federal Officers.

        THROUGHOUT the North the utmost confidence was felt that the subjugation of the rebels would be rapid and complete. "Ninety days!" "On, on to Richmond!" was the cry; but the shout was changed to a wail, on Manassas plains, where the first great battle of the war was fought.

        The action was precipitated by Patterson's attempt to prevent Johnston from erecting a junction with Beauregard at

Manassas. In this he failed, and the result of the movements and countermovements was the battle of "Bull Run." * This great Confederate victory has become an historical fact; I shall therefore pass it by in silence, and proceed to the narrative of my own personal adventures.

        At the time in question I was at Front Royal (Virginia), on a visit to my uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. S-. I wish it were in my power to give my readers some faint idea of this picturesque village,

which nestles in the bosom of the surrounding mountains, and reminds one of a young bird in its nest. A rivulet, which sometimes steals round the obstacles to its course, sometimes bounds over them with headlong leap, at last finds its way to the valley beneath, and glides by the village in peace and beauty.

        The scene is far beyond my powers of description. It is worthy of the pencil of Salvator Rosa, or the pen of the author of "Gertrude of Wyoning," and I only wish the great landscape-painter had been given to our age and had wandered to the hills and valleys of Virginia.

        To this romantic retreat my uncle and aunt had fled, as deer fly for safety to the hills. They had resided in Washington, but their Southern sympathies were too strong and too openly expressed to allow of their remaining unmolested in

the Northern capital. They left a magnificent house, replete with handsome furniture, a prey to the Yankees, who converted it into barracks.

        Orders now came from the battle-field of Bull Run to the effect that the General in command had fixed upon Front Royal for the site of an extensive hospital, for the wounded Confederate soldiers. Every one in the village and the neighbourhood showed the greatest alacrity - I should say, enthusiasm - in preparing, in the shortest possible time, all that our suffering heroes could require. I bore my part, and before long was duly installed one of the "matrons."

        My office was a very laborious one, and my duties were painful in the extreme; but then, as always, I allowed but one thought to keep possession of my mind - the thought that I was doing all a woman

could do in her country's cause. The motto of my father's regiment was engraven on my heart, and I trust that I have always shown by my actions that I understood its significance.

        After six or eight weeks spent in incessant nursing, I was forced to return to my home at Martinsburg, in order to recruit my health, which had suffered severely; and I leave my readers to imagine with what joy I heard my dear mother's praises of actions which she, in her fond affection, styled heroic.

        In October my mother and myself resolved upon a short visit to my father at Manassas. We stayed at a large house, situated in the very centre of the camp. This tenement was then the temporary abode of several other ladies, wives and daughters of officers.

        During this period I had frequently the

honour of acting the part of courier between General Beauregard, General Jackson, and their subordinates.

        This was a happy time, but it did not last long; and, after a few weeks spent as above described, my mother and I returned to Martinsburg. The winter passed very quietly, and brought me but a single adventure worth recording.

        I was riding out one evening with two young officers, * one a cousin and the other a friend, when my horse, a young and high-spirited creature, took fright, and ran away with me. Notwithstanding all my efforts, I failed to stop him until he had carried me within the Federal lines, a goal to which my companions could not venture to follow me.

        I felt rather uncomfortable, not knowing exactly how to act; but I soon made up my mind that, for this once, at all events, valour would be the better part of discretion, if not prudence itself; so, riding straight up to the officer in command of the picket, I said -

        "I beg your pardon - you must know that I have been taking a ride with some of my friends; my horse ran away with me, and has carried me within your lines. I am your captive, but I beg you will permit me to return."

        "We are exceedingly proud of our beautiful captive," replied one of the officers, with a bow, "but of course we cannot think of detaining you." Then, after a moment's pause, he added -

        "May we have the honour of escorting you beyond our lines and restoring you to the custody of your friends? I suppose

there is no fear of those cowardly rebels taking us prisoners?"

        "I had scarcely hoped," I replied, "for such an honour. I thought you would probably have given me a pass; but, since you are so kind as to offer your services in person, I cannot do otherwise than accept them. Have no fear, gentlemen, of the 'cowardly rebels.'"

        They little thought how those words, "cowardly rebels," rankled in my heart.

        Off we started; and imagine their blank looks when, soon after they had escorted me beyond their lines, my Confederate friends, who had been anxiously waiting for me, rode out from their ambush and joined the party. All four looked surprised and embarrassed. I broke the general silence, by saying, with a laugh, to the Confederates, "Here are two prisoners that I have brought you."

        Then, turning to the Federal officers, I said -

        "Here are two of the 'cowardly rebels' whom you hoped there was no danger of meeting!"

        They looked doubtfully and inquiringly at me, and, after a short pause, exclaimed almost simultaneously -

        "And who, pray, is the lady?"

        "Belle Boyd, at your service," I replied.

        "Good God! the rebel spy!"

        "So be it, since your journals have honoured me with that title."

        After this short colloquy we escorted them, without any attempt at resistance on their part, to head-quarters, and related all the circumstances of the adventure to the officer in command, who ordered them to be detained.

        The Yankees reproached us bitterly with

our treachery; but when it is considered that their release followed their capture within an hour, that they had in the first instance stigmatized the rebels, when none were near, as cowards, that they had immediately afterwards yielded without a blow to an equal number of these self-same cowards, I think my readers will admit their spirit of bravado well merited a slight humiliation. Let us hope they have profited by the lesson. I consoled myself that "all was fair in love and war."

        Although Bull Run had been fought, and I had witnessed the outrages of July 4th at Martinsburg, we had hardly yet realized the horrors of war, or, to speak more correctly, we did not allow ourselves to believe in their continuance. We hoped that enough had been done to pave the way for reconciliation. Winter set in and

closed the campaign, and, with a cessation of active hostilities, our apprehensions for the future were forgotten in our enjoyment of the present.

        It was only when spring returned, and brought with it no sign of a dove from the ark, that we realized how far the waters of the deluge were from subsiding. Balls and sleighs, mirth and laughter, vanished with the last snows of winter; and it was with sad and sickening hearts we saw Colonel Ashby and his cavalry evacuate the town.

        But a very few years since, Henry, afterwards Colonel Ashby, was one of those young men whose characters have been so often imagined by writers of romance, but are so rarely met with in real life. He united in himself all those qualifications which justly recommend their possessor to the love of the one sex and to the esteem

of the other. At once tender and respectful, manly and accomplished, animated and handsome, he won without an effort the hearts of women. Brave and good-humoured, he combined simplicity with talents of the highest order. He entertained a strict sense of honour, and never forgot what was due to himself; and he was ever wont to forget an injury, and even to pardon an insult, upon the first overture of the offender.

        Endowed with such qualities, it is not surprising he was a universal favourite; and, indeed, it was commonly said the spirit of Admirable Crichton had revisited the world in the person of Henry Ashby.

        Such a man was sure to be among the first to draw his sword in the cause of independence.

        At an early period of the war he was appointed to the command of a regiment

of cavalry, in which capacity he displays an unusual degree of vigilance and alacrity in the arduous service of outpost duty.

        On one occasion his regiment was drawn up at some distance from a railroad which passed directly across his front. On the farther side was broken ground, well calculated to conceal a large body of men. Colonel Ashby, therefore, ordered out a small party to reconnoitre, putting them under command of his younger brother, between whom and himself there subsisted an affection warm, genuine, almost romantic.

        Unfortunately "Dick Ashby's" impetuosity overlaid his judgment, and, exceeding the instructions he had received from his brother, he passed some distance beyond the railway, and suddenly found himself in presence of a large body of the enemy.

        He retreated in admirable order; but the Yankees pressed hard upon him, and he and his little band were overtaken upon the railroad.

        Here a fatal accident befell poor Dick Ashby. His horse stumbled and fell at one of the cuts. * In this defenseless condition he was set upon without mercy, without even quarter being offered, by five Yankees at once.

        In spite of these odds, and the disadvantage at which he was taken, he sold his life so dearly that his five assailants were all killed or wounded. By this time Colonel Ashby, leading on his regiment at a gallop, had reached the scene of action,

and, the contest being now pretty equal, the Federals soon fled, and were pursued as far as the nature of the ground would permit. The victors then returned to the railway, and hastily dug a shallow grave, into which all that remained of Dick Ashby was consigned.

        Colonel Ashby dismounted, and, kneeling by the mutilated body, gently disengaged the sword from his dead brother's hand; then, breaking it into pieces, he cast them into the grave, and on that solemn spot vowed to avenge his brother's murder and to consecrate the remainder of his life to the service of his country.

        This vow he faithfully kept. His character underwent a change as instantaneous and enduring as that of Colonel Gardiner. All his gaiety and high spirits forsook him. In society he was rarely heard to speak, never seen to smile, and, after a

brief, but glorious career, he fell in an unequal and desperate struggle, cheering on his men with his dying breath.

                        "The bravest are the tenderest:
                        The gentle are the daring."

        I shall conclude this chapter with another short episode, which proves how suddenly national disorders discover the hidden force of individual character.

        Miss D., at the outbreak of the war, was a lovely, fragile-looking girl of nineteen, remarkable for the sweetness of her temper and the gentleness of her disposition.

        A few days before the battle of Bull Run a country market-cart stopped in the Confederate lines, at the door of General Bonham's tent. A peasant-girl alighted from the cart and begged for an immediate interview with the General.

         It was granted.

        "General Bonham, I believe?" said the young lady, in tones which betrayed her superiority to the disguise she had assumed. Then, tearing down her long, black hair, she took from its folds a note, small, damp, and crumpled; but it was by acting upon this informal despatch that General Beauregard won the victory of Bull Run.

        Miss D. had passed through the whole of the Federal army. I dare not now publish her name; but, if ever these pages meet her eye, she will not fail to recognize her own portrait, nor will she be displeased to find that her exiled countrywoman cherishes the remembrance of her intrepidity and devotion.

CHAPTER V.

Advance of the Federal Army - I leave Home with my Father - Battle of Kearnstown - I am Arrested and carried Prisoner to Baltimore - Released and sent to Martinsburg - I attempt to go South to Richmond - Shields' Army at Front Royal - Incidents, &c., &c.

        WITH the first genial days of spring the Federal troops broke up their winter quarters, and advanced again upon the devastated village of Martinsburg, which had been held during the winter by the Confederates. Martinsburg, situated as it was on the border of the State, was incessantly a bone of contention, and its capture

and recapture were of frequent recurrence.

        My father, who had been at home on sick-leave for several weeks, was now able to resume his military duties, and he decided upon removing me farther south, as our home was in constant peril, and I had gained a notoriety which would hardly recommend me to the favourable notice of the Federals in the event of their shortly reoccupying Martinsburg, which seemed only too probable.

        Accordingly I was again sent to Front Royal, there to remain until our home should once more be secure.

        A few days after my arrival at Front Royal a battle was fought close by, at Kearnstown. The Confederates, vastly overmatched in numbers, were forced to retreat, and Front Royal became the prize of the conquerors. Thus, to use a homely

adage, "out of the frying-pan into the fire" had been my fate.

        Upon the approach of the enemy my uncle and aunt, taking with them one daughter, quitted home with the intention of reaching Richmond, leaving their other daughter, Alice S-, a beautiful girl about my own age, our grandmamma, Mrs. Glynn and myself, to take charge of the house and servants, and act in all contingencies to the best of our ability.

        When I found that the Confederate forces were retreating so far down the Valley, and reflected that my father was with them, I became very anxious to return to my mother; and, as no tie of duty bound me to Front Royal, I resolved upon the attempt at all hazards.

        I started in company with my maid, and had got safely without adventure of any kind as far as Winchester, when some unknown

enemy or some malicious neutral denounced me to the authorities as a Confederate spy.

        Before, however, this act of hostility or malice had been perpetrated, I had taken the precaution of procuring a pass from General Shields; and I fondly hoped that this would, under all circumstances, secure me from molestation and arrest; for I was not aware that, while I was in the very act of receiving my bill of "moral health," an order was being issued by the Provost-Marshal which forbade me to leave the town.

        When the hour which I had fixed for my departure arrived I stepped into the railway- cars, and was congratulating myself with the thought that I should ere long be at home once more, and in the society of those I loved, when a Federal officer, Captain Bannon, appeared. He was in charge

of some Confederate prisoners, who, under his command, were en route to the Baltimore prison.

        I was more surprised than pleased when, handing over the prisoners to a subordinate, he walked straight up to me, and said -

        "Is this Miss Belle Boyd?"

        "Yes."

        "I am the Assistant-Provost, and I regret to say orders have been issued for your detention, and it is my duty to inform you that you cannot proceed until your case has been investigated; so you will, if you please, get out, as the train is on the point of starting."

        "Sir," I replied, presenting him General Shields' pass, "here is a pass which I beg you will examine. You will find that it authorizes my maid and myself to pass on any road to Martinsburg."

        He reflected for some time, and at last said -

        "Well, I scarcely know how to act in your case. Orders have been issued for your arrest, and yet you have a pass from the General allowing you to return home. However, I shall take the responsibility upon my shoulders, convey you with the other prisoners to Baltimore, and hand you over to General Dix."

        I played my rôle of submission as gracefully as I could; for where resistance is impossible it is still left to the vanquished to yield with dignity.

        The train by which we travelled was the first that had been run through from Wheeling to Baltimore since the damage done to the permanent way by the Confederates had been repaired.

        We had not proceeded far when I observed an old friend of mine, Mr. M.,

of Baltimore, a gentleman whose sympathies were strongly enlisted on the side of the South. At my request he took a seat beside me, and, after we had conversed for some time upon indifferent topics, he told me in a whisper that he had a small Confederate flag concealed about his person.

        "Manage to give it me," I said: "I am already a prisoner; besides, free or in chains, I shall always glory in the possession of the emblem."

        Mr. M. watched his opportunity, and, when all eyes were turned from us, he stealthily and quickly drew the little flag from his bosom and placed it in my hand.

        We had eluded the vigilance of the officer under whose surveillance I was travelling; and I leave my readers to imagine his surprise when I drew it forth from my pocket, and, with a laugh, waved it

over our heads with a gesture of triumph. It was a daring action, but my captivity had, I think, superadded the courage of despair to the hardihood I had already acquired in my country's service.

        The first emotions of the Federal officer and his men were those of indignation; but better feelings succeeded, and they allowed it was an excellent joke that a convoy of Confederate prisoners should be brought in under a Confederate flag, and that flag raised by a lady.

        Upon our arrival at Baltimore I was taken to the Eutaw House, one of the largest and best hotels in the city, where, I must in justice say, I was treated with all possible courtesy and consideration, and permission to see my friends was at once and spontaneously granted.

        As soon as it was known that I was in Baltimore, a prisoner and alone, I was

visited not merely by my personal friends, but by those who knew me by reputation only; for Baltimore is Confederate to its heart's core.

        I remained a prisoner in the Eutaw House about a week; at the expiration of which time General Dix, the officer in command, having heard nothing against me, decided to send me home. I arrived safely at Martinsburg, which was now occupied in force by the Federal troops.

        Here I was placed under a strict surveillance, and forbidden to leave the town. I was incessantly watched and persecuted; and at last the restrictions imposed upon me became so irksome and vexatious that my mother resolved to intercede with Major Walker, the Provost-Marshal, on my behalf. The result of this intercession was that he granted us both a pass, by way of Winchester, to Front Royal, with a view

to my being sent on to join my relations at Richmond.

        Upon arriving at Winchester we had much difficulty in getting permission to proceed; for General Shields had just occupied Front Royal, and had prohibited all intercourse between that place and Winchester. However, Lieutenant-Colonel Fillebrowne, of the 10th Maine Regiment, who was acting as Provost- Marshal, at length relented, and allowed us to go on our way.

        It was almost twilight when we arrived at the Shenandoah River. We found that the bridges had been destroyed, and no means of transport left but a ferry-boat, which the Yankees monopolized for their own exclusive purposes.

        Here we should have been subjected to much inconvenience and delay, had it not been for the courtesy and kindness of

Captain Everhart, through whose intervention we were enabled to cross at once.

        It was quite dark when we reached the village, and, to our great surprise, we found the family domiciled in a little cottage in the courtyard, the residence having been appropriated by General Shields and his staff.

        However, we were glad enough to find ourselves at our journey's end, and to sit down to a comfortable dinner, for which fatigue and a long fast had sharpened our appetite. As soon as we had satisfied our hunger I sent in my card to General Shields, who promptly returned my missive in person. He was an Irishman, and endowed with all those graces of manner for which the better class of his countrymen are justly famous, nor was he devoid of the humour for which they are no less notorious.

        To my application for leave to pass instanter through his lines, en route for Richmond, he replied that old Jackson's army was so demoralized that he dared not trust me to their tender mercies, but that they would be annihilated within a few days, and after such a desirable consummation I might wander whither I would.

        This of course was mere badinage on his part; but I am convinced he felt confident of immediate and complete success, or he would not have allowed some expressions to escape him which I turned to account. In short, he was completely off his guard, and forgot that a woman can sometimes listen and remember.

        General Shields introduced me to the officers of his staff, two of whom were young Irishmen; and to one of these, Captain K., I am indebted for some very remarkable effusions, some withered

flowers, and last, not least, for a great deal of very important information, which was carefully transmitted to my countrymen. I must avow the flowers and the poetry were comparatively valueless in my eyes; but let Captain K. be consoled: these were days of war, not of love, and there are still other ladies in the world besides the "rebel spy."

        The night before the departure of General Shields, who was about, as he informed us, to "whip" Jackson, a council of war was held in what had formerly been my aunt's drawing-room. Immediately above this was a bedchamber, containing a closet, through the floor of which I observed a hole had been bored, whether with a view to espionage or not I have never been able to ascertain. It occurred to me, however, that I might turn the discovery to account; and, as soon as the council of war had

assembled, I stole softly up-stairs, and, lying down the floor of the closet, applied my ear to the hole, and found, to my great joy, I could distinctly hear the conversation that was passing below.

        The council prolonged their discussion for some hours; but I remained motionless and silent until the proceedings were brought to a conclusion, at one o'clock in the morning. As soon as the coast was clear I crossed the courtyard, and made the best of my way to my own room, and took down in cypher everything, I had heard which seemed to me of any importance.

        I felt convinced that to rouse a servant, or make any disturbance at that hour, would excite the suspicions of the Federals by whom I was surrounded; accordingly I went straight to the stables myself, saddled my horse, and galloped away in the direction of the mountains.

        Fortunately I had about me some passes which I had from time to time procured for Confederate soldiers returning south, and which, owing to various circumstances, had never been put in requisition. They now, however, proved invaluable; for I was twice brought to a standstill by the challenge of the Federal sentries, and who would inevitably have put a period to my adventurous career had they not been beguiled by my false passport. Once clear of the chain of sentries, I dashed on unquestioned across fields and along roads, through fens and marshes, until, after a scamper of about fifteen miles, I found myself at the door of Mr. M. s house. All was still and quiet: not a light was to be seen. I did not lose a moment in springing from my horse; and, running up the steps, I knocked at the door with such vehemence that the house re-echoed with the sound.

        It was not until I had repeated my summons, at intervals of a few seconds, for some time, that I heard the response, "Who is there?" given in a sharp voice from a window above.

        "It is I."

        "But who are you? What is your name?"

        "Belle Boyd. I have important intelligence to communicate to Colonel Ashby: is he here?"

        "No; but wait a minute: I will come down."

        The door was opened, and Mrs. M. drew me in, and exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment -

        "My dear, where did you come from? and how on earth did you get here?"

        "Oh, I forced the sentries," I replied, "and here I am; but I have no time to tell the how, and the why, and the wherefore. I must see Colonel Ashby without the loss

of a minute: tell me where he is to be found."

        Upon hearing that his party was a quarter of a mile farther up the wood, I turned to depart in