of a head of cabbage boiled in salt water and a pone of corn bread. Having invited a number of gentlemen to dine with him, General Lee, in a fit of extravagance, ordered a sumptuous repast of bacon and cabbage. The dinner was served, and behold, a great sea of cabbage and a small island of bacon, or 'middling,' about four inches long and two inches across. The guests, with commendable politeness, unanimously declined the bacon, and it remained in the dish untouched. Next day General Lee, remembering the delicate titbit which had been so providentially preserved, ordered his servant to bring that 'middling.' The man hesitated, scratched his head, and finally owned up:—

        " 'Marse Robert,—de fac' is,—dat ar middlin' was borrowed middlin'. We-all didn' have no middlin'. I done paid it back to de place whar I got it fum.'

        "General Lee heaved a sigh of disappointment, and pitched into the cabbage."

        Early in the autumn flour sold for $1500 a barrel, bacon $20 a pound, beef ditto, a chicken could be bought for $50, shad $5.50 a pair—the head of a bullock, horns and all, could be purchased, as a favor, from the commissary for $5. Groceries soared out of sight. I once counted in a soldier's ration eight grains of coffee! Little by little I drew from the belt of gold I wore around my waist, receiving towards the last one hundred dollars for one dollar in gold. These were anxious times, difficult times—but they were not the worst times! We still had hope. Any day, any hour might bring us victory and consequently relief. We had the blessed boon of comradeship. Una et commune periclum, una salus! Noble spirits were all

around us, strong in faith and hope. Discouraging words were never uttered when we talked together.

        My neighbor, Mrs. Meade and her daughters, were delightful friends, cheerful always. Soldiers were not allowed to wander about the streets, but one day I saw Mary Meade pause at her gate, just across the narrow street, and speak to one of them. "Do you know what he was asking me?" she ran over to say. "Isn't it too funny? A soldier with his gun on his shoulder wanted to know if we kept a dog, and if he could safely take a drink from the well!" A number of Englishmen hung about our camps near the close of the war. They were very agreeable, and while with us intensely Southern. I delighted in one who had hired rooms in Mrs. Meade's "office" opposite. He was so ardent a secessionist we honored him with the usual Southern title of "Colonel." He came over one morning in great indignation: "Oh, I say, it's a bit beastly of General Grant to frighten Mrs. Meade! It's a jolly shame to fire big shells into a lady's garden."

        "What would you do, Colonel, if your chimney should be knocked off as mine was last week?"

        "Well,"—thoughtfully,—"I guess I'd toddle."

        The time came when I felt that I could no longer endure the strain of being perpetually under fire, and to my great relief, my brother-in-law, Robert McIlwaine, removed his family to North Carolina, and placed Cottage Farm, three miles distant from the city, at my disposal. He had left a piano and some furniture in the house, and was glad to have me live in it.

        I had been in this refuge only a few days, happy in the blessed respite from danger, when I learned that General Lee had established his headquarters a short distance from us.

        The whole face of the earth seemed to change immediately. Army wagons crawled unceasingly in a fog of dust along the highroad, just in front of our gate. All was stir and life in the rear, where there was another country road, and a short road connecting the two passed immediately by the well near our house. This, too, was constantly travelled; the whir of the well-wheel never seemed to pause, day or night. We soon had pleasant visitors, General A. P. Hill, Colonel William Pegram, General Walker, General Wilcox, and others. General Wilcox, an old friend and comrade, craved permission to make his headquarters on the green lawn in the rear of the house, and my husband rejoiced at his presence and protection for our little family.

        In less than twenty-four hours I found myself in the centre of a camp. The white tents of General Wilcox's staff-officers were stretched close to the door. "We are here for eight years—not a day less," said my father, and he fully believed it. This being the case, we brought all our boxes from town, unpacked the library and set it up on shelves, unpacked and hung our pictures. I hung the "Madonna della Seggiola" over the mantel in the parlor and Guido's "Aurora" over the piano. There was a baby house in one of the boxes and a trunk of evening dresses at which I did not even glance, but stored in the cellar. Everything looked

so cosey and homelike, we were happier than we had been in a long time. That my infant should not starve, I bought a little cow, Rose, from a small planter in the neighborhood, for a liberal sum in gold from my belt. "We mus' all help one another these times," he observed complacently. Rose was a great treasure. My general's horse, Jubal Early, was required to share his rations with her— indeed, poor Jubal's allowance of corn was sometimes beaten into hominy for all of us. John at once built a shelter close to his own room for Rose, " 'cause I knows soldiers! They gits up fo' day and milk yo' cow right under yo' eyelids. When we-all was in Pennsylvania, the ole Dutch farmers used to give Gen'al Lee Hail Columbia 'cause his soldiers milked their cows. But Lawd! Gen'al Lee couldn' help it! He could keep 'em from stealin' horses, but the queen of England herself couldn' stop a soldier when he hankers after milk. An' he don't need no pail, neither; he can milk in his canteen an' never spill a drop."

        John and the boys were in fine spirits. They laid plans for chickens, pigeons, and pigs—none of which were realized, except the latter, which I persuaded a butcher to give me for one or two of the general's silk vests. As we were to be here "for eight years, no less," it behooved me to look after the little boys' education. School books were found for them. I knew "small Latin and less Greek," but I gravely heard them recite lessons in the former; and they never discovered the midnight darkness of my mind as to mathematics. As to the pigs, I had

almost obtained my own consent to convert them into sausages when I was spared the pain of signing their death warrant by their running away!

        I knew nothing of the strong line of fortifications which General Grant was building at the back of the farm, fortifications strengthened by forts at short intervals. Our own line—visible from the garden —had fewer forts, two of which, Fort Gregg and Battery 45, protected our immediate neighborhood. These forts occasionally answered a challenge, but there was no attempt at a sally on either side.

        The most painful circumstance connected with our position was the picket firing at night, incessant, like the dropping of hail, and harrowing from the apprehension that many a man fell from the fire of a picket. But, perhaps to reassure me, Captain Lindsay and Captain Clover, of General Wilcox's staff, declared that "pickets have a good time. They fire, yes, for that is their business; but while they load for the next volley, one will call out, 'Hello, Reb,' be answered, 'Hello, Yank,' and little parcels of coffee are thrown across in exchange for a plug of tobacco." After accepting this fiction I could have made myself easy, but for my constant anxiety about the safety of my dear general. He was now employed day and night, often in peril, gleaning from every possible source information for General Lee. While absent on one of these scouting trips, he once met a lady who, with her children, was vainly trying to pass through the lines that she might return to her home at the North. Two years ago he received the following pleasant letter:—

"REPRESENTATIVE HALL,
"29th SESSION
"NEBRASKA LEGISLATURE.

"LINCOLN, 3 / 19th, 1907.

"My dear Judge Pryor,
        "I cannot resist the desire I have to write you concerning an incident of the war, in which you played such a noble and splendid part. You may have forgotten Mrs. Mary C. Burgess, whom, with three little children, you escorted with much personal risk through from the Confederate picket line to the Union line. You took two scouts. Each took a child on his horse, Mrs. Burgess walking. You stopped in a ravine and told Mrs. Burgess to go into the open field to the right where she would see a man on a gray horse to the left, she to signal this man, who would command her to come to him. She did so, and then came back after the children. You bade Mrs. Burgess good-by. She took the children and went again to the man on horseback. He took her to General Meade's headquarters, where she got orders to go to City Point, where she was detained two weeks, General Grant being absent, and she could go no farther without General Grant's orders. You will remember how Mrs. Burgess was sent to Mrs. Cumming's house with an escort of cavalry and infantry with a flag of truce. They were suspicious of the attention paid Mrs. Burgess, and at first were inclined to treat her as a spy. But after many hardships Mrs. Burgess finally reached New York and friends. Mrs. Burgess is my mother-in-law; is living with me; is the same dignified, cultivated lady whom you may remember. She is now in her seventy-fourth year. The splendid acts of kindness shown by you to her and the three children no doubt saved their lives. Mother Burgess sits here and wants you to know you occupy a lifelong place in her memory. For myself and all the family, I

wish to say to you, Judge Pryor, that the English language does not contain words to express our admiration for your bravery, and our thankfulness to you for protecting the lone woman and children and the magnificent chivalry that prompted you like a true knight, which you are, to go to their rescue. I hope to have the honor and pleasure of seeing you and shaking your hand. With kindest of personal regard to you and all dear to you, I beg to remain,

"Yours sincerely,
"H. C. M. BURGESS,
"1568 South 20th St.
"Lincoln, Neb."

CHAPTER XXII

        THE morning of November 29, 1864, found me comfortably seated at my breakfast table with my little boys and my small brother, Campbell Pryor. My venerable father, Dr. Pryor, had departed on his daily rounds to visit the sick and wounded in the hospitals, and my husband was away on special duty for General Lee. John had reported early with one cupful of milk—all that little Rose, with her slender rations, was capable of yielding. This we had boiled with parched corn and sweetened with sorghum molasses. With perfect biscuits well beaten but unmixed with lard or butter we made a breakfast with which we were contented. I indulged myself in a long letter to my dear aunt, telling her of our comfortable home and the prospect of comparative quiet with the army soon to go into winter quarters. I had addressed my letter and was about to seal it when General Wilcox entered, and gently told me that my husband had been captured the day before!

        I remember perfectly that I sat for a moment stunned into silence, and then quietly stamped my letter! I would spare my aunt the sad news for a while. In a few minutes clanking spurs at the door announced the presence of a staff-officer.

        "Madam," he said respectfully, "General Lee sends you his affectionate sympathies."

        Through the window I saw General Lee on his horse, Traveller, standing at the well. He waited until his messenger returned—I was too much overcome to speak—and then rode slowly towards the lines.

        I had small hope of the speedy exchange promised me by General Wilcox. From day to day he reported the efforts made for my husband's release and their failure. General Lee authorized a letter to General Meade, detailing the circumstances of his capture and requesting his release. General Meade promptly refused to release him.

        We naturally looked to the enemy for all information, and although my husband had written me a pencilled note at City Point on the inside of a Confederate envelope, and had implored his guard (a Federal officer) to have it inserted in a New York paper, I did not receive it until thirty-one years afterward. We soon had news, however, through a despatch from the Northern army to the New York Herald. The paper of November 30, 1864, contained the following:—

        "Yesterday a rebel officer made his appearance in front of our lines, waving a paper for exchange. The officer in charge of the picket, suddenly remembering that Major Burrage, of the Thirty-sixth Massachusetts, was taken prisoner some time since by the enemy while on a similar errand, 'gobbled' the rebel, who proved to be the famous Roger A. Pryor, ex-member of Congress and ex-brigadier-general of Jeff Davis's army. He protested vehemently against what he styled 'a flagrant breach of faith' on our

part. He was assured he was taken in retaliation for like conduct on the part of his friends, and sent to General Meade's headquarters for further disposition."

        Press despatch to Herald, November 30, from Washington: "Roger A. Pryor has been brought to Washington and committed to the old Capitol Prison." Later a personal through the New York News reached me: "Your husband is in Fort Lafayette, where a friend and relative is permitted to visit him, (signed) Mary Rhodes." From an enormous quantity of letters, newspaper extracts, book notices, military reports, etc., describing his capture written by the men who made it and witnessed it, I select an interesting one, not hitherto published, which my husband received recently through my brother, the Mayor of Bristol.

"BRISTOL, TENN., July 10, 1908.

"HON. W. L. Rice,
"BRISTOL, VA.
"My dear Mayor: -
        "I very cheerfully comply with your request to give you a short sketch of the circumstances which led to my selection as the Officer to convey Gen. R. A. Pryor to Fort Warren, Mass., in 1864. As an aid to my memory I have hunted over my old Army papers, and have found the original Order from the Military Governor of Washington, D.C., and also the receipt given me by Gen. Pryor for money which I turned over to him, on delivering him to the Commandant of Fort Lafayette, N. Y. Harbor, to which place my orders were afterwards changed and which papers I herewith attach.

        "In November of 1864 my Regiment, the 38th Mass.,

was serving in the defences of Washington, and I had been detailed as an Aid on the staff of Gen. Martindale, then Commanding the Military District of Washington. Having received a Leave of Absence to visit my home in Mass., Col. T. McGowan, then Adjt. General of the District, kindly offered to place a prisoner in my charge and thus save to me my transportation. I did not know who my prisoner was to be, until my orders were received, and naturally felt pleased to find that my charge was to be Gen. Roger A. Pryor, whom I had known by reputation from my boyhood up.

        "Though my Orders read that I was to assist Brig. General Wessels, I saw nothing of that gentleman until after General Pryor and myself had reached and taken seats in the train. Then Gen. Wessels made himself known, and asked an introduction to Gen. Pryor.

        "It was 9.30 at night when left Washington, and we did not reach New York until daylight next morning. When I received my prisoner at the Old Capitol Prison, I recall that the Supt., one Colonel Wood advised me to iron my charge, alleging that he was a dangerous man; but this I refused to do, taking only Gen. Pryor's verbal parole that he would not attempt to escape while in my custody. This Gen. Pryor cheerfully gave, and religiously kept while with me. On arrival at Jersey City we became in some way separated from Gen. Wessels, and crossed over by the Cortlandt Street Ferry to New York. As the hour was early we stopped for breakfast at the Courtland Street Hotel, then quite a pretentious Hostelry. After breakfast, and while preparing to leave the Hotel for the Qr. Mas. Gen. Dept. where I was to find my orders and transportation, I was surprised to find that the Rotunda of the Hotel was packed, evidently with friends of Gen. Pryor and for a short time it looked as if my prisoner would be taken from me, but the Gen. directing me to take his arm, we passed through

without trouble. At the Quarter Master Genl's I found my orders changed, and I was directed to convey my prisoner to Fort Lafayette New York Harbor in place of Fort Warren Boston Harbor. On arrival at Fort Lafayette we found Brig. Gen. Wessels awaiting us, and with him we proceeded across the ferry turning over our prisoner to Major Burke, Commandant at that Fort, taking his receipt therefor.

        "At this distance of time (44 years) it would seem that these occurrences must have passed from my memory, but I remember with distinctness the appearance of the General, the incident at the Old Capitol, the crowd in the Rotunda of the Cortlandt Hotel, the miraculous passage through the sea of 'Red' faces therein, and the appearance of Major Paddy Burke (a very old Officer of the Old Army) to whose custody I transferred my charge. I recall also the kind expressions of regard uttered by General Pryor as we shook hands at parting and the promise he extracted that should it be my fate to be wounded or a prisoner in Richmond, during the war, that I would make myself known to his family there residing, who would respond to any appeal made by me. It was my fortune to pass through the remaining months of the war without being captured, and never severely wounded, so I did not have to call on the generosity of a gallant foe, and I presume the memory of that journey to New York, and the memory of the stripling Officer who accompanied him on that journey, long ago passed from Judge Pryor's memory, but I recall it as a pleasant episode in a boy's life and I would wish, that in writing to the Judge, you would kindly convey to him my sincere congratulations on the honors he has attained, and the respect and love which he has received in his declining years, and with kindest wishes to yourself, believe me,

"Very truly yours,
"WM. G. SHEEN."

WGS—OMH

        Mr. Sheen kindly sent my brother the order to which he alludes:—

"HEADQUARTERS MILITARY DISTRICT OF WASHINGTON

"PROVOST MARSHAL'S OFFICE
"WASHINGTON, D.C., Nov. 29th, 1864.

        "Special Orders
No. 217

        "Extract

        "It is hereby Ordered! That Brigadier Gen'l, H. W. Wessels assisted by Lieut. Wm. G. Sheen will proceed to Old Capital Prison and taken in charge the following named prisoner:

        "Roger A. Pryor 7th Va: Car

and deliver him together with the accompany papers to the Commanding Officer at Fort Warren Boston Harbor take a receipt therefore and report action at these Head Quarters.

        "The Quartermaster Department will furnish the necessary transportation.

"By Command of Col. M. N. WISERVELL,
"Military Governor.
"GEO. R. WALBRIDGE,
"Capt & Asst Pro. Marshal."

        It will be perceived by the above that the Federal officers granted their captured private the honor of escort by a Federal general—Brigadier-general H. W. Wessels—and were inclined to confer upon him the further distinction of "irons."

        While he was detained in Washington, Major Leary (or Captain) discovered a plot to assassinate him, which he revealed to the prisoner, arranging

for his greater safety. Before he reached Fort Lafayette it appears he was threatened with assassination and also rescue. Some kind friend in Washington thrust into his overcoat pocket a bottle of brandy. It was taken from him when his pockets were searched, along with his letters and pistols, but returned by a Federal officer, who remarked,— recognizing the touch of nature which establishes the kinship of all men in all nations,—"Keep it, General! There's an almighty sight of comfort in a bottle of brandy." The pistols were not returned and, along with an army cape, are preserved—I have understood—in a museum of war relics at Concord Mass.

        A month elapsed before all the forms required by military law could be observed in sending the letters of prisoners through the lines. At last Colonel Ould forwarded to me a brief assurance of my dear captive's welfare. He was confined in a casemate with twelve other prisoners. A grate held a small quantity of coal, and on this fire the captive soldiers cooked their slender rations of meat. Their bread was furnished them from a baker. They lay upon straw mats on the floor. They were glad of the rule compelling them to fetch up their fuel from the coal cellar, as it gave opportunity for exercise. Once daily they could walk upon the ramparts, and my husband's eyes turned sadly to the dim outlines of the beautiful city where he had often been an honored guest. The veil which hid from him so much of the grief and struggle of the future hid also the reward. Little did he dream he should administer

justice on the supreme bench of the mist-veiled city.

        The captives had no material except coal and water, but of the former they manufactured seal rings (to be set when they regained their liberty), inlaying a polished ebony surface with bits from a silver coin to represent tiny Confederate flags. One of these was given to my general, and lost in the great hour of losses. With the coal as a pencil, the prisoners indulged in caricatures of the commandant. Every morning a fresh picture on the whitewashed wall met his eye: "Burk as a baby," "Burk in his first pants," "Burk in love," etc., etc. The reward was the commandant's face when he saw them.

        After my husband's release, his place in the casemate was filled by a "stylish" young officer who refused, absolutely, to submit to the degradation of bringing up his quota of the coal.

        "And so," said "old Burk," "you are too great a man, are you, to fetch your coal? I had General Pryor here. He brought up his coal! I think, sir, you'll bring up yours!"

        Before I take leave of my dear captive for the winter, I must record his unvarying fortitude under much physical discomfort, cold, and food which almost destroyed him. On the 20th of December, I received a brief note from Fort Lafayette: "My philosophy begins to fail somewhat. In vain I seek some argument of consolation. I see no chance of release. The conditions of my imprisonment cut me off from every resource of happiness."

        I learned afterward that he was ill, and often

under the care of a physician during the winter, but he tried to write as encouragingly as possible. In February, however, he failed in health and spirits.

        "I am as contented as is compatible with my condition. My mind is ill at ease from my solicitude for my family and my country. Every disaster pierces my soul like an arrow; and I am afflicted with the thought that I am denied the privilege of contributing even my mite to the deliverance of—-. How I envy my old comrades their hardships and privations! I have little hope of an early exchange, and you may be assured my mistrust is not without reason. Except some special instance be employed to procure my release, my detention here will be indefinite. I cannot be more explicit. While this is my conviction, I wish it distinctly understood that I would not have my government compromise any scruple for the sake of my liberation. I am prepared for any contingency—am fortified against any reverse of fortune."

        The problem now confronting me was this: how could I maintain my children and myself? My husband's rations were discontinued. I sent my general's horse far into the interior, to be boarded with a farmer for his services, as I had no possible means of feeding him. My only supply of food was from my father's ration as chaplain. I had a part of a barrel of flour which a relative had sent me from a county now cut off from us. Quite a number of my old Washington servants had followed me, to escape the shelling, but they could not, of course, look to me for their support. My household included

Eliza Page, Aunt Jinny, and Uncle Frank (old people and old settlers), and our faithful John. I frankly told John and Eliza my condition, but they elected to remain.

        One day John presented himself with a heartbroken countenance and a drooping attitude of deep dejection. He had a sad story to tell. The agent of the estate to which he belonged was in town, and John had been commissioned to inform me that all the slaves belonging to the estate were to be immediately transferred to a Louisiana plantation for safety. Those of us who had hired these servants by the year were to be indemnified for our loss.

        "How do you feel about it, John?" I asked.

        The poor fellow broke down. "It will kill me," he declared. "I'll soon die on that plantation."

        All his affectionate, faithful service, all his hardships for our sakes, rushed upon my memory. I bade him put me in communication with the agent. I found that I could save the boy only by buying him! A large sum of gold was named as the price. I unbuckled my girdle and counted my handful of gold —one hundred and six dollars. These I offered to the agent (who was a noted negro trader), and although it was far short of his figures, he made out my bill of sale receipted. Remembered to-day, this seems a wonderful act on my part. At the time it was the most natural thing in the world!

        John soon appeared with smiling face and informed me with his thanks that he belonged to me!

        "You are a free man, John," I said. "I will

make out your papers and I can easily arrange for you to pass the lines."

        "I know that," he said. "Marse Roger has often told me I was a free man. I never will leave you till I die. Papers, indeed! Papers nothing! I belong to you—that's where I belong."

        All that dreadful winter he was faithful to his promise, cheerfully bearing, without wages, all the privations of the time. Sometimes when the last atom of food was gone, he would ask for money, sally forth with a horse and a light cart, and bring in peas and dried apples. Once a week we were allowed to purchase the head of a bullock, horns and all, from the commissary for the exclusive use of the servants—I would have starved first—and a small ration of rice was allowed us by the government. A one-armed boy, Alick, who had been reared in my father's family, now wandered in to find his old master, and installed himself as my father's servant.

        The question that pressed upon me day and night was: "How, where, can I earn some money?" to be answered by the frightful truth that there could be no opening for me anywhere, because I could not leave my children.

        One wakeful night, while I was revolving these things, a sudden thought darted, unbidden, into my sorely harassed mind:—

        "Why not open the trunk from Washington? Something may be found there which can be sold."

        At an early hour next morning John and Alick brought the trunk from the cellar. Aunt Jinny, Eliza, and the children gathered around. It proved

to be full of my old Washington finery. There were a half-dozen or more white muslin gowns, flounced and trimmed with valenciennes lace, many yards; there was a rich bayadere silk gown trimmed fully with guipure lace; a green silk dress with gold embroidery; a blue-and-silver brocade,—these last evening gowns. There was a paper box containing the shaded roses I had worn to Lady Napier's ball, the ball at which Mrs. Douglas and I had dressed alike in gowns of tulle. Another box held the garniture of green leaves and gold grapes which had belonged to the green silk, and still another the blue-and-silver feathers for the brocade. An opera cloak trimmed with fur; a long purple velvet cloak; a purple velvet "coalscuttle" bonnet, trimmed with white roses; a point-lace handkerchief; valenciennes lace; Brussels lace; and in the bottom of the trunk a package of ciel blue zephyr, awakening reminiscences of a passion which I had cherished for knitting shawls and "mariposas" of zephyr,—such was the collection I discovered.

        I ripped all the lace from the evening gowns and made large collars and undersleeves then in vogue. John found a closed dry-goods store willing to sell clean paper boxes.

        My first instalment was sent to Price's store in Richmond and promptly sold. I sold the silk gowns minus the costly trimming; but when I had stripped the muslin flounces of lace, behold raw edges that no belle, even a Confederate, could have worn. I rolled the edges of these flounces—there were ten or twelve on some of the gowns—and

edged them with a spiral line of blue zephyr. I embroidered a dainty vine of blue forget-me-nots on bodice and sleeves, with a result simply ravishing!

        After I had converted all my laces into collars, cuffs, and sleeves, and had sold my silk gowns, opera cloak, and point-lace handkerchiefs, I devoted myself to trimming the edges of the artificial flowers, and separating the long wreaths and garlands into clusters for hats and bouquets de corsage.

        Eliza and the children delighted in this phase of my work, and begged to assist,—all except Aunt Jinny.

        "Honey," she said, "don't you think, in these times of trouble, you might do better than tempt them po' young lambs in Richmond to worship the golden calf and bow down to mammon? We prays not to be led into temptation, and you sho'ly is leadin' 'em into vanity."

        "Maybe so, Aunt Jinny, but I must sell all I can. We have to be clothed, you know, war or no war."

        "Yes, my chile, that's so; but we're told to consider the lilies. Gawd Almighty tells us we must clothe ourselves in the garment of righteousness, and He—"

        "You always 'pear to be mighty intimate with God A'mighty," interrupted Eliza, in great wrath. "Now you just run 'long home an' leave my mistis to her work. How would you look with nothin' on but a garment of righteousness?"

        When I had stripped the pretty silk gowns of their trimmings, what could be done with the gowns themselves? Finally I resolved to embroider them. The zeal with which I worked knew no pause. I

needed no rest. General Wilcox, who was in the saddle until a late hour every night, said to me, "Your candle is the last light I see at night—the first in the morning."

        "I should never sleep," I told him.

        One day I consulted Eliza about the manufacture of a Confederate candle. We knew how to make it—by drawing a cotton rope many times through melted wax, and then winding it around a bottle. We could get the wax, but our position was an exposed one. Soldiers' tents were close around us, and we scrupulously avoided any revelation of our needs, lest they should deny themselves for our sakes. Eliza thought we might avail ourselves of the absence of the officers, and finish our work before they returned. We made our candle behind the kitchen; but that night, as I sat sewing beside its dim, glowworm light, I heard a step in the hall and a hand, hastily thrust out, placed a brown paper parcel on the piano near the door. It was a soldier's ration of candles!

        Of course I could not find shoes for my boys. I made little boots of carpet lined with flannel for my baby. A pair lasted just three days. A large bronze morocco pocket-book fell into my hands, of which I made boots for my little Mary. Alick,— prowling about the fields to gather the herb "life everlasting," of which we made yeast,—found two or three leather bags, and a soldier shoemaker contrived shoes for each of my boys.

        My own prime necessity was for the steel we women wear in front of our stays. I suffered so

much for want of this accustomed support, that Captain Lindsay had a pair made for me by the government gudocsouth—the best I ever had.

        The time came when the salable contents of the Washington trunk were all gone. I then cut up my husband's dress-coat, and designed well-fitting ladies' gloves, with gauntlets made of the watered silk lining. Of an interlining of gray flannel I made gray gloves, and this glove manufacture yielded me hundreds of dollars. Thirteen small fragments of flannel were left after the gloves were finished. Of these, pieced together, I made a pair of drawers for my Willy,—my youngest boy.

        The lines around us were now so closely drawn that my father returned home after short absences of a day or two. But we were made anxious, during a heavy snow early in December, by a more prolonged absence. Finally he appeared, on foot, hatless, and exhausted. He had been captured by a party of cavalrymen. He had told them of his non-combatant position, but when he asked for release, they shook their heads. At night they all prepared to bivouac upon the ground; assigned him a sheltered spot, gave him a good supper and blankets, and left him to his repose. As the night wore on and all grew still, he raised his head cautiously to reconnoitre, and to his surprise found himself at some distance from the guard—but his horse tied to a tree within the circle around the fire. My father took the hint and walked away unchallenged, "which proves, my dear," he said, "that a clergyman is not worth as much as a good horse in time of war."

CHAPTER XXIII

        IN the colony escaped from the shells and huddled together around General Lee were two very humble poor women who often visited me. One of them was the proud owner of a cow, "Morning-Glory," which she contrived to feed from the refuse of the camp kitchens, receiving in return a small quantity of milk, to be sold at prices beyond belief. I never saw Morning-Glory, but I often heard her friendly echo to the lowing of my little Rose, morning and evening. Being interpreted, it might have been found to convey an expression of surprise that either was still alive, so slender was their allowance of food.

        One day I espied, coming down the dusty road, the limp, sunbonneted figure of Morning-Glory's mistress. She sank upon the nearest chair, pushed back her calico bonnet, and revealed a face blurred with tears and hair dishevelled beyond the ordinary.

        "Good morning, Mrs. Jones! Come to the fire! It's a cold morning."

        "No'm, I ain't cole! It's—it's" (sobbing)— "it's Mornin'-Glory!"

        "Not sick? If she is, I'll—"

        "No'm, Mornin'-Glory ain't never gain' to be sick no mo'."

        "Oh, Mrs. Jones! Not dead!"

        "Them pickets kep' me awake all las' night, an' I

got up in the night an' went out to see how Mornin'-Glory was gettin' on, an' she— she—she look at me jus' the same! An' I slep' soun' till after sun-up, and when I got my pail an' went out to milk her—thar was her horns an' hufs!"

        The poor woman broke down completely in telling me the ghastly story. "Oh, how wicked! How was it possible to take her off and nobody hear?" I exclaimed in great wrath.

        "I don't know, Mis' Pryor, nothin' but what I tells you. Talk to me 'bout Yankees! Soldiers is soldiers, an when you say that, you jus' as well say devils is devils."

        My other poor neighbor had long been a pensioner on my father! She was a forlorn widow with many children, hopeless and helpless. My father was in despair when she turned up "to git away from the shellin'." She found a small untenanted house near us and set up an establishment which was supported altogether by boarding an occasional soldier on sick leave, and taking his rations as her pay. Like Mrs. Jones, she was a frequent visitor to my fireside. One morning, after some unusual demonstrations of coy shyness, she blurted out: "I knows fo' I begin what you goin' to say! You goin' to tell me Ma'y Ann is a fool, an' I won't say you ain't in the rights of it."

        "Well, what is Mary Ann's folly? I thought she had grown up to be a sensible girl."

        "Sensible! Ma'y Ann! Them pretty gals is never sensible! No'm. Melissy Jane is the sensible one o' my chillun. I tole Ma'y Ann she didn't have

nothin' fitten to be ma'ied in, an' she up an' say she know Mis' Pryor ain' goin' to let one o' her pa's chu'ch people git ma'ied in rags."

        "I certainly will not, Mrs. Davis! Mary Ann, I suppose, is to marry the soldier you've been taking care of. Tell her she may look to me for a wedding-dress. When is it to be?"

        "Just as Dr. Pryor says—to-morrow if convenient."

        I immediately overhauled the bundle of Washington finery and found a lavender Pina, or "pineapple" muslin, not yet prepared for sale. This was a delicate gown, trimmed with lavender silk, and with angel sleeves lined with white silk. This I sent to the prospective bride—considering her needs and station, a most unsuitable wedding garment, but all I had! I managed to make a contribution to the wedding supper, a large pumpkin I extorted from John, who had "found" it. Melissy Jane, homely enough to be brilliantly "sensible," appeared to take charge of the present,—the most slatternly, unlovely, and altogether unpromising of the poor white class I had ever seen; and my father, in view of the great good fortune coming to the forlorn family in the acquisition of an able-bodied, whole-hearted Confederate soldier, made no delay in performing the marriage ceremony. About a week afterward Mrs. Davis, limper than ever, more depressed than ever, reappeared.

        "I hope nobody's sick?" I inquired.

        "No'm, the chilluns is as peart as common. Ma'y Ann don't seem no ways encouraged. 'Pears like she's onreconciled."

        "Why, what ails poor Mary Ann?"

        "Yas'm—he's lef' her! Jus' took hisself off and never say nuthin'. We-all don't even know what company owns him."

        "Mrs. Davis!" I exclaimed, in great indignation, "this is not to be tolerated. That man is to be found and made to do his duty. I can manage it!"

        "I don't know as I keers to ketch 'im," sighed the poor woman. "Ef you capters them men erginst ther will, they'll git away ergin—sho! Let 'im go long! He ain't paid me a cent or a ration of meat an' meal sence he was ma'ied. Anyhow," she proudly added, "May Ann is ma'ied! Folks can't fling it up to 'er now as she's a ole maid,"— which proves that maternal ambitions are peculiar to no condition of life.

        Looking back, and living over again these stern times, it seems to me little short of a miracle that we actually did exist upon the slender portion of food allotted us. We could rarely see, from one day to another, just how we were to be fed. "Give us this day our daily bread "—this petition was our sole reliance. And as surely as the day would come,

                        "He that doth the ravens feed,
                        Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,"

would prove to us that we were of more value in His sight than many sparrows.

        General Lee passed my door every Sunday morning on his way to a little wooden chapel

nearer his quarters than St. Paul's Church. I have a picture of him in my memory, in his faded gray overcoat and slouch hat, bending his head before the sleet on stormy mornings. Sometimes his cousin, Mrs. Banister, could find herself warranted by circumstances to invite him to dine with her. Once she received from a country friend a present of a turkey, and General Lee consented to share it with her. She helped him at dinner to a moderate portion, for there was only one turkey—like Charles Lamb's hare—and many friends! Mrs. Banister observed the general laying on one side of his plate part of his share of the turkey, and she regretted his loss of appetite. "Madam," he explained, "Colonel Taylor is not well, and I should be glad to be permitted to take this to him."

        After an unusually mild season, John bethought himself of the fishes in the pond and streams, but not a fishhook was for sale in Richmond or Petersburg. He contrived, out of a cunning arrangement of pins, to make hooks, and sallied forth with my boys. But the water was too cold, or the fish had been driven down-stream by the firing. The usual resource of the sportsman with an empty creel—a visit to the fishmonger—was quite out of the question. There was no fishmonger any more.

        Under these circumstances you may imagine my sensation at receiving the following note:—

        "MY DEAR MRS. PRYOR: General Lee has been honored by a visit from the Hon. Thomas Connolly, Irish M.P. from Donegal.

        "He ventures to request you will have the kindness to give Mr. Connolly a room in your cottage, if this can be done without inconvenience to yourself."

        Certainly I could give Mr. Connolly a room; but just as certainly I could not feed him! The messenger who brought me the note hastily reassured me. He had been instructed to say that Mr. Connolly would mess with General Lee. I turned Mr. Connolly's room over to John, who soon became devoted to his service. The M.P. proved a most agreeable guest, a fine-looking Irish gentleman with an irresistibly humorous, cheery fund of talk. He often dropped in at our biscuit toasting, and assured us that we were better provided than the commander-in-chief.

        "You should have seen 'Uncle Robert's' dinner to-day, madam! He had two biscuits, and he gave me one."

        Another time Mr. Connolly was in high feather. "We had a glorious dinner to-day! Somebody sent 'Uncle Robert' a box of sardines."

        General Lee, however, was not forgotten. On fine mornings quite a procession of little negroes, in every phase of raggedness, used to pass my door, each one bearing a present from the farmers' wives of buttermilk in a tin pail for General Lee. The army was threatened with scurvy, and buttermilk, hominy, and every vegetable that could be obtained was sent to the hospital.

        Mr. Connolly interested himself in my boys' Latin studies.

        "I am going home," he said, " and tell the English women what I have seen here: two boys reading Caesar while the shells are thundering, and their mother looking on without fear."

        "I am too busy keeping the wolf from my door," I told him, "to concern myself with the thunderbolts."

        The wolf was no longer at the door! He had entered and had taken up his abode at the fireside. Besides what I could earn with my needle, I had only my father's army ration to rely upon. My faithful John foraged right and left, and I had reason to doubt the wisdom of inquiring too closely as to the source of an occasional half-dozen eggs or small bag of corn. This last he would pound on a wooden block for hominy. Meal was greatly prized for the reason that wholesomer bread could be made of it than of wheaten flour,—meal was no longer procurable, but we were never altogether without flour. As I have said, we might occasionally purchase for five dollars the head of a bullock from the commissary, every other part of the animal being available for army rations. By self-denial on our own part we fondly hoped we could support our army and at last win our cause. We were not, at the time, fully aware of the true state of things in the army. Our men were so depleted from starvation that the most trifling wound would end fatally. Gangrene would supervene, and then nothing could be done to prevent death. Long before this time, at Vicksburg, Admiral Porter found that many a dead soldier's haversack yielded nothing but a handful of parched

corn. We were now enduring a sterner siege. The month of January brought us sleet and storm. Our famine grew sterner every day. Seasons of bitter cold weather would find us without wood to burn, and we had no other fuel. I commenced cutting down the choice fruit trees in the grounds,—and General Wilcox managed to send me a load of rails from a fence, hitherto spared by the soldiers. Poor little Rose could yield only one cupful of milk, so small was her ration; but we never thought of turning the faithful animal into beef. The officers in my yard spared her something every day from the food of their horses.

        The days were so dark and cheerless, the news from the armies at a distance so discouraging, it was hard to preserve a cheerful demeanor for the sake of the family. And now began the alarming tidings, every morning, of the desertions during the night. General Wilcox wondered how long his brigade would hold together at the rate of fifty desertions every twenty-four hours!

        The common soldier had enlisted, not to establish the right of secession, not for love of the slave,— he had no slaves,—but simply to resist the invasion of the South by the North, simply to prevent subjugation. The soldier of the rank and file was not always intellectual or cultivated. He cared little for politics, less for slavery. He did care, however, for his own soil, his own little farm, his own humble home, and he was willing to fight to drive the invader from it. Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation did not stimulate him in the least. The negro,

free or slave, was of no consequence to him. His quarrel was a sectional one, and he fought for his section.

        In any war the masses rarely trouble themselves about the merits of the quarrel. Their pugnacity and courage are aroused and stimulated by the enthusiasm of their comrades or by their own personal wrongs and perils.

        Now, in January, 1865, the common soldier perceived that the cause was lost. He could read its doom in the famine around him, in the faces of his officers, in tidings from abroad. His wife and children were suffering. His duty was now to them; so he stole away in the darkness, and in infinite danger and difficulty found his way back to his own fireside. He deserted, but not to the enemy.

        But what shall we say of the soldier who remained unflinching at his post knowing the cause was lost for which he was called to meet death? Heroism can attain no loftier height than this. Very few of the intelligent men of our army had the slightest hope, at the end, of our success. Some, like Mr. William C. Rives, had none at the beginning.

        One night all these things weighed more heavily than usual upon me,—the picket firing, the famine, the military executions, the dear one "sick and in prison." I sighed audibly, and my son Theodorick, who slept near me, asked the cause, adding, "Why can you not sleep, dear mother?"

        "Suppose," I replied, "you repeat something for me."

        He at once commenced, "Tell me not in mournful

numbers"—and repeated the "Psalm of Life." I did not sleep; those were brave words, but not strong enough for the situation.

        He paused, and presently his young voice broke the stillness:—

        "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name"—going on to the end of the beautiful psalm of adoration and faith which nineteen centuries have decreed to be in very truth a Psalm of Life.

        That General Lee was acutely sensible of our condition was proved by an interview with General Gordon. Before daylight, on the 2d of March, General Lee sent for General Gordon, who was with his command at a distant part of the line. Upon arriving, General Gordon was much affected by seeing General Lee standing at the mantel in his room, his head bowed on his folded arms. The room was dimly lighted by a single lamp, and a smouldering fire was dying on the hearth. The night was cold, and General Lee's room chill and cheerless.

        "I have sent for you, General Gordon," said General Lee, with a dejected voice and manner, "to make known to you the condition of our affairs and consult with you as to what we had best do. I have here reports sent in from my officers to-night. I find I have under my command, of all arms, hardly forty-five thousand men. These men are starving. They are already so weakened as to be hardly efficient. Many of them have become desperate, reckless, and disorderly as they have never been before.

        "It is difficult to control men who are suffering for food. They are breaking open mills, barns, and stores in search of it. Almost crazed from hunger, they are deserting in large numbers and going home. My horses are in equally bad condition. The supply of horses in the country is exhausted. It has come to be just as bad for me to have a horse killed as a man. I cannot remount a cavalryman whose horse dies. General Grant can mount ten thousand men in ten days and move round your flank. If he were to send me word to-morrow that I might move out unmolested, I have not enough horses to move my artillery. H e is not likely to send me any such message, although he sent me word yesterday that he knew what I had for breakfast every morning. I sent him word I did not think that this could be so, for if he did he would surely send me something better.

        "But now let us look at the figures. As I said, I have forty-five thousand starving men. Hancock has eighteen thousand at Winchester. To oppose him I have not a single vidette. Sheridan, with his terrible cavalry, has marched unmolested and unopposed along the James, cutting the railroads and the canal. Thomas is coming from Knoxville with thirty thousand well-equipped troops, and I have, to oppose him, not more than three thousand in all. Sherman is in North Carolina with sixty-five thousand men. So I have forty-five thousand poor fellows in bad condition opposed to one hundred and sixty thousand strong and confident men. These forces added to General Grant's make over a quarter

of a million. To prevent them all from uniting to my destruction, and adding Johnston's and Beauregard's men, I can oppose only sixty thousand men. They are growing weaker every day. Their sufferings are terrible and exhausting. My horses are broken down and impotent. General Grant may press around our flank any day and cut off our supplies."

        As a result of this conference General Lee went to Richmond to make one more effort to induce our government to treat for peace. It was on his return from an utterly fruitless errand that he said:—

        "I am a soldier! It is my duty to obey orders;" and the final disastrous battles were fought.

        It touches me to know now that it was after this that my beloved commander found heart to turn aside and bring me comfort. No one knew better than he all I had endeavored and endured, and my heart blesses his memory for its own sake. At this tremendous moment, when he had returned from his fruitless mission to Richmond, when the attack on Fort Steadman was impending, when his slender line was confronted by Grant's ever increasing host, stretching twenty miles, when the men were so starved, so emaciated, that the smallest wound meant death, when his own personal privations were beyond imagination, General Lee could spend half an hour for my consolation and encouragement.

        Cottage Farm being on the road between headquarters and Fort Gregg,—the fortification which held General Grant in check at that point,—I saw General Lee almost daily going to this work or to Battery 45.

        I was, as was my custom, sewing in my little parlor one morning, about the middle of March, when an orderly entered, saying:—

        "General Lee wishes to make his respects to Mrs. Pryor." The general was immediately behind him. His face was lighted with the anticipation of telling me his good news. With the high-bred courtesy and kindness which always distinguished his manner, he asked kindly after my welfare, and taking my little girl in his arms, began gently to break his news to me:—

        "How long, madam, was General Pryor with me before he had a furlough?"

        "He never had one, I think," I answered.

        "Well, did I not take good care of him until we camped here so close to you?"

        "Certainly," I said, puzzled to know the drift of these preliminaries.

        "I sent him home to you, I remember," he continued, "for a day or two, and you let the Yankees catch him. Now he is coming back to be with you again on parole until he is exchanged. You must take better care of him in future."

        I was too much overcome to do more than stammer a few words of thanks.

        Presently he added, "What are you going to say when I tell the general that in all this winter you have never once been to see me?"

        "Oh, General Lee," I answered, "I had too much mercy to join in your buttermilk persecution!"

        "Persecution!" he said; "such things keep us alive! Last night, when I reached my headquarters,

I found a card on my table with a hyacinth pinned to it, and these words: 'For General Lee, with a kiss!' Now, he added, tapping his breast, "I have here my hyacinth and my card—and I mean to find my kiss!"

        He was amused by the earnest eyes of my little girl, as she gazed into his face.

        "They have a wonderful liking for soldiers," he said. "I knew one little girl to give up all her pretty curls willingly that she might look like Custis! 'They might cut my hair like Custis's,' she said. Custis! whose shaven head does not improve him in any eyes but hers."

        His manner was the perfection of repose and simplicity. As he talked with me, I remembered that I had heard of this singular calmness. Even at Gettysburg and at the explosion of the crater he had evinced no agitation or dismay. I did not know then, as I do now, that nothing had ever approached the anguish of this moment, when he had come to say an encouraging and cheering word to me, after abandoning all hope of the success of the cause.

        After talking awhile and sending a kind message to my husband, to greet him on his return, he rose, walked to the window, and looked over the fields,— the fields through which, not many days afterward, he dug his last trenches!

        I was moved to say, "You only, General, can tell me if it is worth my while to put the ploughshare into those fields."

        "Plant your seeds, madam," he replied; sadly

adding, after a moment, "The doing it will be some reward."

        I was answered. I thought then he had little hope. I now know he had none.

        He had already, as we have seen, remonstrated against further resistance—against the useless shedding of blood. His protest had been unheeded. It remained for him now to gather his forces for endurance to the end.

        Twenty days afterward his headquarters were in ashes; he had led his famished army across the Appomattox, and telling them they had done their duty and had nothing to regret, he had bidden them farewell forever.

CHAPTER XXIV

        THE day drew near when the husband and father of our little family was to be restored to his own home and his own people. Paroled, and not yet exchanged, we could hope for a brief visit from him. John was in a great state over the possibilities of a welcoming banquet. Peas, beans, flour, sorghum molasses,—these in small quantity he might hope to command. A nourishing soup could be made of the peas, and if only he could "find" an egg, he could mix it with sorghum and bake it in an unshortened open crust for dessert. But the meat course!

        Just at this critical moment a hapless duck ventured too near John's acquisitive hand while he was on one of his prowling expeditions. This he perfectly roasted and presented to me to be sacredly kept until the general's arrival. Accordingly I hid it away in a small safe with wire-netting doors, and judiciously covered it over with a cloth lest some child or visitor should be led into irresistible temptation.

        We were all expectation and excitement when a lady drove up and asked for shelter, as she had been "driven in from the lines." Shelter and lodging I could give by spreading quilts on the parlor floor—but, alas, my duck! Must my precious duck be sacrificed upon the altar of hospitality? I

peeped into the little safe to assure myself that I could manage to keep it hidden, and behold, it was gone! Not until next day, when it was placed before my husband with a triumphant flourish (our unwelcome guest had departed), did I discover that John had stolen it! "Why, there's the duck!" I exclaimed.

        " 'Course here's the duck !" said John, respectfully. "Ducks got plenty of sense. They knows as well as folks when to hide."

        We found our released prisoner pale and thin, but devoutly thankful to be at home. Mr. Connolly and the officers around us called in the evening, keenly anxious to hear his story and heartily expressing their joy at his release. My friends in Washington had wished to send me some presents, but my husband declined them, accepting only two cans of pineapple. Mr. Connolly sent out for the "boys in the yard" and assisted me in dividing the fruit into portions, so each one should have a bit. It was served on all the saucers and butter plates we could find, and Mr. Connolly himself handed the tray around, exclaiming, "Oh, lads! it is just the best thing you ever tasted!" Then each soldier brought forth his brier-root and gathered around the traveller for his story. His story was a thrilling one—of his capture, his incarceration, his comrades; finally of the unexpected result of the efforts of his ante-bellum friends, Washington McLean and John W. Forney, for his release.

        It was ascertained by these friends in Washington that he was detained as hostage for the safety of some

Union officer whom the Confederate government had threatened to put to death. This situation of affairs left General Pryor in a very dangerous position. Southern leaders were inclined to take revenge upon some prominent Union soldiers in their prisons, and Stanton stood ready to take counter-revenge upon the body of "Harry Hotspur." Washington McLean, the editor and proprietor of the Cincinnati Enquirer, had met my husband while he was in Congress, and learned "to like and love him," as one expressed it. Realizing the gravity of his friend's situation, Mr. McLean, having first approached General Grant, who positively refused to consider General Pryor's release, resolved to appeal to Mr. Stanton. He found Mr. Stanton in the library of his own home, with his daughter in his arms, and the following conversation ensued:—

        "This is a charming fireside picture, Mr. Secretary! I warrant that little lady cares nothing for war or the Secretary of War! She has her father, and that fills all her ambition."

        "You never said a truer word, did he, pet?" pressing the curly head close to his bosom.

        "Well, then, Stanton, you will understand my errand. There are curly heads down there in old Virginia weeping out their bright eyes for a father loved just as this pretty baby loves you."

        "Yes, yes! Probably so," said Stanton.

        "Now—there's Pryor—"

        But before another word could be said, the Secretary of War pushed the child from his knee and Thundered:—

        "He shall be hanged! Damn him!"

        But he had reckoned without his host when he supposed that Washington McLean would not appeal from that verdict. Armed with a letter of introduction from Horace Greeley, Mr. McLean visited Mr. Lincoln. The President remembered General Pryor's uniformly generous treatment of prisoners who had, at various times, fallen into his custody, especially his capture at Manassas of the whole camp of Federal wounded, surgeons and ambulance corps, and his prompt parole of the same. Mr. Lincoln listened attentively, and after ascertaining all the facts, issued an order directing Colonel Burke, the commander at Fort Lafayette, To "deliver Roger A. Pryor into the custody of Colonel John W. Forney, Secretary of the Senate, to be produced by him whenever required."

        Armed with this order, Mr. McLean visited Fort Lafayette, where he found his friend in close confinement in the casemate with other prisoners. Mr. McLean immediately secured his release and accompanied him to Washington and to Colonel Forney's house.

        As is now well known, even a presidential command did not stand in the way of Stanton's vengeance. When he learned of General Pryor's release, his rage was unbounded, and he immediately issued orders to seize the prisoner wherever found, and announced his intention of hanging him, as a response to the threats of the Southern leaders. Colonel Forney was advised of this condition of affairs, and at his request his secretary, John Russell Young,

afterwards Minister to China, went to the offices of the various Washington newspapers and gave each journal a brief account of how General Pryor had passed through Washington that evening, and under parole had entered into the rebel lines. As a matter of fact, he was at that time in Colonel Forney's house, and remained there for two more days. Stanton, however, was made to believe that his prey had escaped him, and therefore abandoned his hunt.

        At that time John Y. Beall, a Confederate officer, was confined with General Pryor, having been, it was supposed, implicated in a conspiracy to set fire to hotels and museums in New York, derail and fire railroad trains. Young Beall protested innocence, but finally he was arrested, tried by court-martial, and sentenced to be hanged. He belonged to an influential Southern family, and was held in high esteem south of Mason and Dixon's line. Some of the officials of the Confederacy served notice on Secretary of War Stanton that if Beall was hanged, they would put the rope around the necks of a number of prominent Northern soldiers who at that time were in their custody. But the stern Stanton was relentless, and he only sent back word that if the threat was carried into execution, he would hang Pryor. Mr. McLean became interested in young Beall's fate, and suggested that if General Pryor would make a personal appeal in his behalf to President Lincoln, his execution might probably be prevented. To that end, Mr. McLean telegraphed a request to Mr. Lincoln, that he accord General

Pryor an interview, to which a favorable response was promptly returned. The next evening General Pryor, with Mr. McLean and Mr. Forney, called at the White House, and were graciously received by the President. General Pryor at once opened his intercession in behalf of Captain Beall; but although Mr. Lincoln evinced the sincerest compassion for the young man and an extreme aversion to his death, he felt constrained to yield to the assurance of General Dix, in a telegram just received, that the execution was indispensable to the security of the Northern cities. Mr. Lincoln then turned the conversation to the recent conference at Hampton Roads, the miscarriage of which he deplored with the profoundest sorrow. He said that had the Confederate government agreed to the reëstablishment of the Union and the abolition of slavery, the people of the South might have been compensated for the loss of their negroes and would have been protected by a universal amnesty, but that Mr. Jefferson Davis made the recognition of the Confederacy a condition sine qua non of any negotiations. Thus, he declared, would Mr. Davis be responsible for every drop of blood that should be shed in the further prosecution of the war, a futile and wicked effusion of blood, since it was then obvious to every sane man that the Southern armies must be speedily crushed. On this topic he dwelt so warmly and at such length that General Pryor inferred that he still hoped the people of the South would reverse Mr. Davis's action, and would renew the negotiations for peace. Indeed, he declared in terms that he could

not believe the senseless obstinacy of Mr. Davis represented the sentiment of the South. It was apparent to General Pryor that Mr. Lincoln desired him to sound leading men of the South on the subject. Accordingly, on the general's return to Richmond, he did consult with Senator Hunter and other prominent men in the Confederacy, but with one voice they assured him that nothing could be done with Mr. Davis, and that the South had only to await the imminent and inevitable catastrophe.

        The inevitable catastrophe marched on apace.

        On the morning of April 2 we were all up early that we might prepare and send to Dr. Claiborne's hospital certain things we had suddenly acquired. An old farmer friend of my husband had loaded a wagon with peas, potatoes, dried fruit, hominy, and a little bacon, and had sent it as a welcoming present. We had been told of the prevalence of scurvy in the hospitals, and had boiled a quantity of hominy, and also of dried fruit, to be sent with the potatoes for the relief of the sick.

        My husband said to me at our early breakfast:—

        "How soundly you can sleep! The cannonading was awful last night. It shook the house."

        "Oh, that is only Fort Gregg," I answered.

        "Those guns fire incessantly. I don't consider them. You've been shut up in a casemate so long you've forgotten the smell of powder."

        Our father, who happened to be with us that morning, said:—

        "By the bye, Roger, I went to see General Lee, and told him you seemed to be under the impression

that if your division moves, you should go along with it. The general said emphatically: 'That would be violation of his parole, Doctor. Your son surely knows he cannot march with the army until he is exchanged.' "

        This was a great relief to me, for I had been afraid of a different construction.

        After breakfast I repaired to the kitchen to see the pails filled for the hospital, and to send Alick and John on their errand.

        Presently a message was brought me that I must join my husband, who had walked out to the fortification behind the garden. I found a low earthwork had been thrown up during the night still nearer our house, and on it he was standing. My husband held out his hand and drew me up on the breastwork beside him. Negroes were passing, wheeling their barrows, containing the spades they had just used. Below was a plain, and ambulances were collecting and stopping at intervals. Then a slender gray line stretched across under cover of the first earthwork and the forts. Fort Gregg and Battery 45 were belching away with all their might, answered by guns all along the line. While we gazed on all this, the wood opposite seemed alive, and out stepped a division of bluecoats—muskets shining and banners flying in the morning sun. My husband exclaimed: "My God! What a line! They are going to fight here right away. Run home and get the children in the cellar."

        When I reached the little encampment behind the house, I found the greatest confusion.

Tents were struck, and a wagon was loading with them.

        Captain Glover rode up to me and conjured me to leave immediately. I reminded him of his promise not to allow me to be surprised.

        "We are ourselves surprised," he said; "believe me, your life is not safe here a moment." Tapping his breast, he continued, "I bear despatches proving what I say."

        I ran into the house, and with my two little children I started bareheaded up the road to town. I bade the servants remain. If things grew warm, they had the cellar, and perhaps their presence would save their own goods and mine, should the day go against us. The negroes, in any event, would be safe.

        The morning was close and warm, and as we toiled up the dusty road, I regretted the loss of my hat. Presently I met a gentleman driving rapidly from town. It was my neighbor, Mr. Laighton.

        He had removed his wife and little girls to a place of safety and was returning for me. He proposed, as we were now out of musket range, that I should rest with the children under the shade of a tree, and he would return to the house to see if he could save something—what did I suggest? I asked that he would bring a change of clothing for the children and my medicine chest.

        As we waited for his return, some terrified horses dashed up the road, one with blood flowing from his nostrils. When Mr. Laighton finally returned, he brought news that he had seen my husband, that my boys were safe with him, that all the cooked

provisions were spread out for the passing soldiers, and that more were in preparation; also that he had promised to take care of me, and to leave the general free to dispense these things judiciously. John had put the service of silver into the buggy, and Eliza had packed a trunk, for which he was to return. This proved to be the French trunk, in which Eliza sent a change of clothing.

        When Mr. Laighton asked where he should go with us, I had no suggestion to make. Few of my friends were in the town, which was filled with refugees. My dear Mrs. Meade or Mr. Charles Campbell would, I was sure, shelter us in an extremity. I decided to drive slowly through the crowded streets, looking out for some sign of lodgings to let. Presently we met a man who directed us to an empty house, and there, dumping the silver service in the front porch, Mr. Laighton left us. About noon I had my first news from the seat of war. John and Alick appeared, the latter leading Rose by a rope. John was to return (he had come to bring me some biscuits and my champagne glasses!), but Alick positively rebelled. Go back! No, marm, not if he knew his name was Alick. His mammy had never borned him to be in no battle! And walking off to give Rose a pail of water, he informed her that "You'n me, Rose, is the only folks I see anywhar 'bout here with any sense."

        Neighbors soon discovered us; and to my joy I found that Mrs. Gibson, Mrs. Meade, and Mr. Bishop—one of my father's elders—were in their own houses, very near my temporary shelter.

        Our father, I learned afterwards, was with the hospital service of his corps, and had been sent to the rear. I sent John back to the farm, strictly ordering that the flag should be cared for. He told me it was safe. He had hidden it under some fence rails in the cellar. As to the battle, he had no news, except that "Marse Roger is giving away everything on the earth. All the presents from the farmer will go in a little while."

        In the evening my little boys, envoys from their father, came in with confidential news. The day had gone against us. General Lee was holding the line through our garden. The city would be surrendered at midnight. Their father was giving all our stores of food and all his Confederate money to the private soldiers, a fact which evidently impressed them most of all.

        I have told the thrilling story of the ensuing events elsewhere. Having been compelled to repeat much, I must now hasten on,—only briefly recording my husband's recapture, release on parole, and continued recapture every time the occupying troops were replaced by a new division.

        The day the Federals entered the town I saw our precious banner borne in triumph past the door. The dear Petersburg women had made it and given it to their brave defender; it was coming back, amid shouts and songs of derision, a captive! As the troops passed they sang, to their battle hymn:—

                        "John Brown's body is a-mouldering in the ground,
                        As we go marching on!
                        Oh, glory hallelujah,
                        As we go marching on!"

        And down the line the tune was caught by advancing soldiers:—

                        "Hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,
                        As we go marching on.
                        Oh, glory hallelujah," etc.

        "Ole Uncle Frank's at de bottom of dis business," said Alick; and alas! we had reason to believe that the wily old gentleman—whom we had left hiding in the cellar and imploring "for Gawd's sake, Jinny, bring me a gode o' water "—had purchased favor by revealing the hiding-place of our banner.

        Early that morning German soldiers had rushed Into our house demanding prisoners. My husband was marched off to headquarters, and the parole written by Mr. Lincoln himself on a visiting-card respected. The morning was filled with exciting incidents. Our English "colonel" came early: "To say good-by, madam! It's a shame!—and all just a question of bread and cheese—nothing but bread and cheese!"

        "We sat all day in the front room, watching the splendidly equipped host as it marched by on its way to capture Lee. It soon became known that we were there. Within the next few days we had calls from old Washington friends. Among others my husband was visited by Elihu B. Washburne and Senator Henry Wilson, afterward Vice-president of the United States with General Grant. These paid long visits and talked kindly and earnestly of the South.

        Mr. Lincoln soon arrived and sent for my husband. But General Pryor excused himself, saying that he was a paroled prisoner, that General Lee was

still in the field, and that he could hold no conference with the head of the opposing army.

        The splendid troops passed continually. Our Hearts sank within us. We had but one hope— that General Lee would join Joseph E. Johnston and find his way to the mountains of Virginia, those ramparts of nature which might afford protection until we could rest and recruit.

        Intelligence of the death of President Lincoln reached Petersburg on the 17th of April. As he had been with us but a few days before, manifestly in perfect health and in all the glow and gladness of the triumph of the Federal arms, the community was unspeakably shocked by the catastrophe. That he fell by the hand of an assassin, and that the deed was done by a Confederate and avowedly in the interest of the Confederate cause, were circumstances which distressed us with an apprehension that the entire South would be held responsible for the atrocious occurrence. The day after the tragic news reached us, the people of Petersburg in public meeting adopted resolutions framed by General Pryor, deploring the President's death and denouncing his assassination,—resolutions which gave expression to the earnest and universal sentiment of Virginia. I question if, in any quarter of the country, the virtues of Abraham Lincoln—as exhibited in his spirit of forgiveness and forbearance—are more revered than in the very section which was the battle-ground of the fight for independence of his rule. It is certainly my husband's conviction that had he lived, the South would never have suffered the shame and sorrow of the carpet-bag régime.

CHAPTER XXV

        MY condition during the military occupation of Petersburg was extremely unpleasant. I was alone with my children when General Sheridan demanded my house for an adjutant's office. Such alarming rumors had reached us of outrages committed by marauding parties in the neighboring counties that my husband had obtained an extension of his parole to visit his sisters in Nottoway County. His first information of them was from finding their garments in a wagon driven by German soldiers, who, challenged by the barrel of a pistol, made good their escape, leaving their plunder behind them. The fate of his sisters was not discovered for some time. They had found means to hide when the thieves appeared.

        General Sheridan, meanwhile, kept me prisoner in two rooms for ten days, and very trying was the experience of those days. He called to "make his respects" to me the day he left, and although I received him courteously he was fully aware that I appreciated the indignity he had put upon me and the record he had made before I met him. He thanked me for the patience with which I had endured the ceaseless noise, tramping, and confusion, night and day, of the adjutant's office, and apologized for the policy he had adopted all through the war.

        "It was the best thing to do," he informed me. "The only way to stamp out this rebellion was to handle it without gloves."

        I made no answer. "The mailed hand might crush the women and babes," I thought, "but never, never kill the spirit!"

        However, they departed at last—leaving me a huge gas-bill to pay and a house polluted with dirt and dust. My husband, still a paroled prisoner, at the end of his leave of absence returned to me and reported to the authorities.

        We had made the acquaintance of General Warren, who had been superseded by Sheridan and was now without a command. We grew very fond of him. He spent many hours with us. Tactful, sympathetic, and kind, he never grieved or offended us. One evening he silently took his seat. Presently he said:—

        "I have news which will be painful to you. It hurts me to tell you, but I think you had rather hear it from me than from a stranger—General Lee has surrendered."

        It was an awful blow to us. All was over. All the suffering, bloodshed, death—all for nothing!

        General Johnston's army was surrendered to General Sherman in North Carolina on April 26. The banner which had led the armies of the South through fire and blood to victory, to defeat, in times of starvation, cold, and friendlessness; the banner that many a husband and lover had waved aloft on a forlorn hope until it fell from his lifeless hands; the banner found under the dying boy at Gettysburg,

who had smilingly refused assistance lest it be discovered,— the banner of a thousand histories was furled forever, with none so poor to do it reverence.

        My dear general was not free until Johnston surrendered. His flag was still in the field, but he was allowed to go to Richmond, twenty miles away, to seek work of some kind to meet our present necessities. My servants came in from Cottage Farm, and every one begged to remain and serve me "for the good" I had "already done them," but this, of course, I could not permit. My faithful John protested passionately against accepting his freedom, but I was firm in demanding he should return to his father in Norfolk. He had earned five dollars in United States money; I had five more which my little boys had gained in a small cigar speculation. This I gave him.

        "Now don't let me see you here to-morrow, John. Write to me from Norfolk."

        The next morning he was gone, and I had a grateful letter from his old father, who expressed, however, some anxiety about his "army habits."

        We had soon occasion to regret the absence of the protecting soldiers. Almost immediately a tall, lantern-jawed young fellow with a musket on his shoulder marched in. I was alone, and he walked up to me with a threatening aspect.

        "What do you want here?" I demanded.

        "I want whiskey—d'ye hear? Whiskey!"

        "You'll not get it!"

        "Wall, I rayther guess you'll have to scare it up! I'll search the house."

        "Search away," I blithely requested him. "Search away, and I'll call the provost guard to help you!"

        He turned and marched out. At the door he sent me a Parthian arrow.

        "Wall! You've got a damned tongue in yer head ef you ain't got no whiskey."

        I repeat this story because my husband has always considered it a good one—too good to be forgotten!

        The time now came when I must draw rations for my family. I could not do this by proxy. I was required to present my request in person. As I walked through the streets in early morning, I thought I had never known a lovelier day. How could nature spread her canopy of blossoming magnolia and locust as if nothing had happened ? How could the vine over the doorway of my old home load itself with snowy roses, how could the birds sing, how could the sun rise, as if such things as these could ever again gladden our broken hearts?

        My dear little sons understood they were to escort me everywhere, so we presented ourselves together at the desk of the government official and announced our errand.

        "Have you taken the oath of allegiance, madam?" inquired that gentleman.

        "No, sir." I was quite prepared to take the oath.

        The young officer looked at me seriously for a moment, and said, as he wrote out the order :—

        "Neither will I require it of you, madam!"

        I was in better spirits after this pleasant incident, and calling to Alick, I bade him arm himself with

the largest basket he could find and take my order to the commissary.

        "We are going to have all sorts of good things," I told him, "fresh meat, fruit, vegetables, and everything."

        When the boy returned, he presented a drooping figure and a woebegone face. My first unworthy suspicion suggested his possible confiscation of my stores for drink,—for which my poor Alick had a weakness,—but he soon explained.

        "I buried that ole stinkin' fish! I wouldn't bring it in your presence. An' here's the meal they give me."

        Hairy caterpillars were jumping through the meal! I turned to my table and wrote:—

        "Is the commanding general aware of the nature of the ration issued this day to the destitute women of Petersburg?

[Signing myself] "MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR."

        This I gave to Alick, with instructions to present it, with the meal, to General Hartsuff.

        Alick returned with no answer; but in a few minutes a tall orderly stood before me, touched his cap, and handed me a note.

        "Major-General Hartsuff is sorry he cannot make right all that seems so wrong. He sends the enclosed. Some day General Pryor will repay.

"GEORGE L. HARTSUFF,
"Major-General Commanding"

        The note contained an official slip of paper:—

        "The Quartermaster and Commissary of the Army of the Potomac are hereby ordered to furnish Mrs. Roger A. Pryor with all she may demand or require, charging the same to the private account of

"GEORGE L. HARTSUFF,
"Major-General Commanding."

        Without the briefest deliberation I wrote and returned the following reply:—

        "Mrs. Roger A. Pryor is not insensible to the generous offer of Major-General Hartsuff, but he ought to have known that the ration allowed the destitute women of Petersburg must be enough for

"MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR."

        As I sat alone, revolving various schemes for our sustenance,—the selling of the precious testimonial service (given by the democracy of Virginia after my husband's noble fight against "Know-nothingism"), the possibility of finding occupation for myself,— the jingling of chain harness at the door arrested my attention. There stood a handsome equipage, from which a very fine lady indeed was alighting. She bustled in with her lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes, and announced herself as Mrs. Hartsuff. She was superbly gowned in violet silk and lace, with a tiny fanchon bonnet tied beneath an enormous cushion of hair behind, the first of the fashionable chignons I had seen,—an arrangement called a "waterfall," an exaggeration of the plethoric, distended "bun" of the Englishwoman of a few years ago.

        I found myself, all at once, conscious that I must, in this lady's eyes, resemble nothing so much as the wooden Mrs. Noah, who presides over the animals in the children's "Noah's arks." Enormous hoops were then in fashion. I had long since been abandoned by mine, and never been able to get my own consent to borrow, as others did, from a friendly grape-vine. My gown was of chocolate-colored calico with white spots. My hair! I had torn it out by the roots when I was delirious at the time of the fierce battle of Port Walthall (six miles from Petersburg), which I had heard, my senses being quickened by fever.

        Mrs. Hartsuff began hurriedly: "Oh, my dear lady, we are in such distress at headquarters! George is in despair! You won't let him help you! Whatever is he to do?"

        "I really am grateful to the general," I assured her; "but you see there is no reason he should do more for me than for others."

        "Oh, but there is reason. You have suffered more than the rest. You have been driven from your home! Your house has been sacked. George knows all about you. I have brought a basket for you—tea, coffee, sugar, crackers."

        "I cannot accept it, I am sorry."

        "But what are you going to do? Are you going to starve?"

        "Very likely," I said, "but somehow I shall not very much mind!"

        "Oh, this is too utterly, utterly dreadful!" said the lady as she left the room.

        The next day the ration was changed. Fresh meat, coffee, sugar, and canned vegetables were issued to all the women of Petersburg. The first morning they were received I met the wife of General Weisiger trudging along with a basket. "Going for your rations?" I asked her. "No indeed! I'm going, with the only five dollars I have in the world, to the sutler's! I shall buy, as far as it goes, currants, citron, raisins, sugar, butter, eggs, brandy, spice—"

        "Mercy! Are you to open a grocery?"

        "Not a bit of it "—solemnly—"I'm going to make a fruit cake!"

        Less, one might think, should have contented a starving woman! The little incident is characteristic of the Southern woman's temperament. She can lie as patiently as another under the heel of a hard fate, but the moment the heel is lifted she is ready for a festival.

        All the citizens who had been driven away now began to return—among them the owners of the house I was occupying, and I was compelled to return to Cottage Farm. General Hartsuff, to whom I applied for a guard, said at once:—

        "It is impossible for you to go to Cottage Farm; there are fifty or more negroes on the place. You cannot live there."

        "I must! It is my only shelter."

        "Well, then, I'll allow you a guard, and Mrs. Hartsuff had better take you out herself, that is, if you can condescend to accept as much."

        I was not aware that Mrs. Hartsuff had entered and stood behind me.

        "And I think, George," she said, "you ought to give Mrs. Pryor a horse and cart in place of her own that were stolen." Before my conscience could strengthen itself to protest that I had not owned a horse and cart, the general exclaimed: "All right, all right Madam, you will find the guard at your door when you arrive. You go this evening? All right—good morning."

        Mrs. Hartsuff duly appeared in the late afternoon with an ambulance and four horses, and we departed in fine style. She was very cheery and agreeable, and made me promise to let her come often to see me. As we were galloping along in state, we passed a line of weary-looking dusty Confederate soldiers, limping along, on their way to their homes. They stood aside to let us pass. I was cut to the heart at the spectacle. Here was I, accepting the handsome equipage of the invading commander—I, who had done nothing, going on to my comfortable home; while they, poor fellows, who had borne long years of battle and starvation, were mournfully returning on foot, to find, perhaps, no home to shelter them. "Never again," I said to myself, "shall this happen! If I cannot help, I can at least suffer with them."

        But when I reached Cottage Farm, I found a home that no soldier, however forlorn, could have envied me. A scene of desolation met my eyes. The earth was ploughed and trampled, the grass and flowers were gone, the carcasses of six dead cows lay in the yard, and filth unspeakable had gathered in the corners of the house. The evening air

was heavy with the odor of decaying flesh. As the front door opened, millions of flies swarmed forth.

        "If this were I," said Mrs. Hartsuff, as she gathered her skirts as closely around her as her hoops would permit, "I should fall across this threshold and die."

        "I shall not fall," I said proudly; "I shall stand in my lot."

        Within was dirt and desolation. Pieces of fat pork lay on the floors, molasses trickled from the library shelves, where bottles lay uncorked. Filthy, malodorous tin cans were scattered on the floors. Nothing, not even a tin dipper to drink out of the well, was left in the house, except one chair out of which the bottom had been cut and one bedstead fastened together with bayonets. Picture frames were piled against the wall. I eagerly examined them. Every one was empty. One family portrait of an old lady was hanging on the wall with a sabre cut across her face.

        To my great joy Aunt Jinny appeared, full of sympathy and resource. She gathered us into her kitchen while she swept the cleanest room for us and spread quilts upon the floor. Later in the evening an ambulance from Mrs. Hartsuff drove up. She had sent me a tin box of bread and butter sandwiches, some tea, an army cot, and army bedding.

        The guard, a great tall fellow, came to me for orders. I felt nervous at his presence and wished I had not brought him. I directed him to watch all night at the road side of the house, while I would

sit up and keep watch in the opposite direction. The children soon slept upon the floor.

        As the night wore on, I grew extremely anxious about the strange negroes. Aunt Jinny thought there were not more than fifty. They had filled every outhouse except the kitchen. Suppose they should overpower the guard and murder us all!

        Everything was quiet. I had not the least disposition to sleep—thinking, thinking of all the old woman had told me: of the sacking of the house, of the digging of the cellar in search of treasure, of the torch that had twice been applied to the house and twice withdrawn because some officer wanted the shaded dwelling for a temporary lodging. Presently I was startled by a shrill scream from the kitchen, a door opened suddenly and shut, and a voice cried: "Thank Gawd! Thank Gawd A'mighty!" Then all was still.

        Was this a signal? I held my breath and listened, then softly rose, closed the shutters and fastened them, crept to the door, and bolted it inside. I might defend my children till the guard could come.

        Evidently he had not heard! He was probably sleeping the sleep of an untroubled conscience on the bench in the front porch. And with untroubled consciences my children were sleeping. It was so dark in the room I could not see their faces, but I could touch them, and push the wet locks from their brows, as they lay in the close and heated atmosphere.

        I resumed my watch at the window, pressing my

face close to the slats of the shutters. A pale half-moon hung low in the sky, turning its averted face from a suffering world. At a little distance I could see the freshly made soldier's grave which Alick had discovered and reported. A heavy rain had fallen in the first hours of the night, and a stiff arm and hand now protruded from the shallow grave. To-morrow I would reverently cover the appealing arm, be it clad in blue or in gray, and would mark the spot. Now, as I sat with my fascinated gaze upon it, I thought of the tens of thousands, of the hundreds of thousands of upturned faces beneath the green sod of old Virginia. Strong in early manhood, grave, high-spirited men of genius, men whom their country had educated for her own defence in time of peril,—they had died because that country could devise in her wisdom no better means of settling a family quarrel than the wholesale slaughter of her sons by the sword. And now? "Not until the heavens be no more shall they awake nor be raised out of their sleep."

        And then, as I sorrowed for their early death in loneliness and anguish, I remembered the white-robed souls beneath the altar of God,—the souls that had "come out of great tribulation," and because they had thus suffered "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more;... and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

        And then, as the pale, distressful moon sank behind the trees, and the red dawn streamed up from the east, the Angel of Hope, who had "spread her white wings and sped her away" for a little season,

returned. And Hope held by the hand an angel stronger than she, who bore to me a message: "In the world ye have tribulations; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

        The sun was rising when I saw my good old friend emerge from her kitchen, and I opened the shutters to greet her. She had brought me a cup of delicious coffee, and was much distressed because I had not slept. Had I heard anything?

        " 'Course I know you was bleeged to hear," said Aunt Jinny, as she bustled over the children. "That was Sis' Winny ! She got happy in the middle of the night, an' Gawd knows what she would have done if Frank hadn't ketched hold of her and pulled her back in the kitchen! Frank an' me is pretty nigh outdone an' discouraged 'bout Sis' Winny. She prays constant all day; but Gawd A'mighty don't count on being bothered all night. Ain't He 'ranged for us all to sleep, an' let Him have a little peace? Sis' Winny must keep her happiness to herself, when folks is trying to git some res'."

        The guard now came to my window to say he "guessed" he'd "have to put on some more harness. Them blamed niggers refused to leave. They might change their minds when they saw the pistols."

        "Oh, you wouldn't shoot, would you?" I said in great distress. "Call them all to the back door and let me speak with them." I found myself in the presence of some seventy-five negroes, men, women, and children, all with upturned faces, keenly interested in what I had to say to them.

        I talked to them kindly and explained my presence, asking them to remain, if they would help clean the yard, with the result that Abram and Beverly, two old men who had known my general in his boyhood, pledged themselves to stay with me on the terms I suggested.

        To my great joy, my dear husband returned from Richmond. There was no hope there for lucrative occupation. He had no profession. He had forgotten all the little law he had learned at the university. He had been an editor, diplomat, politician, and soldier, and distinguished himself in all four. These were now closed to him forever! There seemed to be no room for a rebel in all the world.

CHAPTER XXVI

        WE found it almost impossible to take up our lives again. All the cords binding us to the past were severed, beyond the hope of reunion. We sat silently looking out on a landscape marked here and there by chimneys standing sentinel over blackened heaps, where our neighbors had made happy homes. Only one remained, Mr. Green's, beyond a little ravine across the road.

        We had, fortunately, no inclination to read. A few books had been saved, only those for which we had little use. A soldier walked in one day with a handsome volume which Jefferson Davis, after inscribing his name in it, had presented to the general. The soldier calmly requested the former owner to be kind enough to add to the value of the volume by writing beneath the inscription his own autograph, and his request granted, walked off with it under his arm. "He has been at some trouble," said my husband, "and he had as well be happy if I cannot!"

        As the various brigades moved away from our neighborhood, a few plain articles of furniture that had been taken from the house were restored to us, but nothing handsome or valuable, no books nor pictures,—just a few chairs and tables. I had furnished an itemized list of all the articles we had lost, with only this result.

        We had news after a while of our blooded mare, Lady Jane. A letter enclosing her photograph came from a New England officer:—

"TO MR. PRYOR,
        "Dear Sir: A very fine mare belonging to you came into my camp near Richmond and is now with me. It would add much to her value if I could get her pedigree. Kindly send it at your earliest convenience, and oblige,

"Yours truly,
"——"

"P.S. The mare is in good health, as you will doubtless be glad to know."

        Disposed as my general was to be amiable, this was a little too much! The pedigree was not sent, but later the amiable owner of Lady Jane sent her photograph. Also his own—on her back.

        A great number of tourists soon began to pass our house on their way to visit the localities near us, now become historic. They frequently called upon us, claiming some common acquaintance. We could not but resent this. Their sympathetic attitude offended us, sore and proud as we were.

        We were perfectly aware that they wished to see us, and not to gain, as they affected, information about the historic localities on the farm. Still less did they desire ignobly to triumph over us. A boy, when he tears off the wings of a fly, is much interested in observing its actions, not that he is cruel— far from it! He is only curious to see how the creature will behave under very disadvantageous circumstances.

        One day a clergyman called, with a card of introduction from Mrs. Hartsuff, who had, I imagine, small discernment as regards clergymen. This one was a smug little man, sleek, unctuous, and trim, with Pecksniffian self-esteem oozing out of every pore of his face.

        "Well, madam," he commenced, "I trust I find you lying meekly under the chastening rod of the Lord. I trust you can say 'it is good I was afflicted.' "

        Having no suitable answer just ready, I received his pious exhortation in silence. One can always safely do this with a clergyman.

        "There are seasons," continued the good man, "when chastisement must be meted out to the transgressor; but if borne in the right spirit, the rod may blossom with blessings in the end."

        A little more of the same nature wrung from me the query, "Are there none on the other side who need the rod?"

        "Oh—well, now—my dear lady! You must consider! You were in the wrong in this unhappy contest, or, I should say, this most righteous war."

        "Væ victis!" I exclaimed. "Our homes were invaded. We are on our own soil!"

        My reverend brother grew red in the face. Rising and bowing himself out, he sent me a Parthian arrow:-

                        "No thief e'er felt the halter draw
                        With good opinion of the law."

        Fortunately my general was absent at the moment. Like the Douglas, he had endured much, but—

                        "Last and worst, to spirit proud
                        To bear the pity of the crowd"—

this was more than he could endure.

        The suggestive odors within doors could never be stifled or cleansed away. Not before October could I get my consent to eat a morsel in the house. I took my meals under the trees, unless driven by the rains to the shelter of the porch. I suffered terribly for want of occupation. I had no household to manage, no garments to mend or make. My little Lucy could not bear the sun, and she sat quietly beside me all day. I could have made a sun-bonnet for her, but I had no fabric, no thimble, needles, thread, or scissors. Finally I discovered in the pocket of one of my Washington coats my silver card-case with Trinity Church on one side and the Capitol at Washington on the other,—objects I had now no right to hold dear. I made Alick drive me in my little farm cart to the sutler's and effected an exchange for a small straw "Shaker" bonnet which I am sure could have been purchased for less than one dollar. Protected with this, the little girl found a play-house under the trees. A good old friend, Mr. Kemp, invited the boys to accompany him upon relic-hunting expeditions to the narrow plain which had divided the opposing lines on that fateful April morning just three months before. Ropes were fastened around extinct shells, and they were hauled in, to stand sentinel at the door. The shells were short

cylinders, with one pointed end like a candle before it is lighted. Numbers of minie balls were dug out of the sand. One day Mr. Kemp brought in a great curiosity—two bullets welded together, having been shot from opposing rifles.

        The sultry days were begun and rounded by hours of listless endurance followed by troubled sleep. A bag of army "hard-tack" stood in a corner, so the children were never hungry. Presently they, too, sat around us, too listless to play or talk. A great army of large, light brown Norway rats now overran the farm. They would walk to the corner before our eyes and help themselves to the army ration. We never moved a finger to drive them away. After a while Alick appeared with an enormous black-and-white cat.

        "Dis is jest a lettle mo'n I can stand," said Alick. "De Yankees has stole ev'rything, and dug up de whole face o' de yearth—and de Jews comes all de time and pizens de well, droppin' down chains an' grapplin'-irons to see ef we-all has hid silver—but I ain' obleedged to stan' sassyness fum dese outlandish rats."

        Alick had to surrender. The very first night after the arrival of his valiant cat there was a scuffle in the room where the crackers were kept, a chair was overturned, and a flying cat burst through the hall, pursued by three or four huge rats. The cat took refuge in a tree, and stealthily descending at an opportune moment, stole away and left the field to the enemy.

        Of course there could be but one result from this

life. Malaria had hung over us for weeks, and now one after another of the children lay down upon the "pallets" on the floor, ill with fever. Then I succumbed and was violently ill. Our only nurse was my dear general; and not in all the years when he never shirked a duty, nor lost a march, nor rode on his own horse when his men toiled on foot or if one failed by the way, nor ever lost one of the battles in which he personally led them,—not in all those trying times was he nobler, grander than in his long and lonely vigils beside his sick family. And most nobly did the aged negress, my blessed Aunt Jinny, stand by us. My one fevered vision was of an ebony idol.

        General and Mrs. Hartsuff were terribly afraid of the Southern fevers, but sent us sympathetic messages from the gate. But as soon as I could receive him, Captain Gregory, the commissary general, sought an interview with me. General Hartsuff had sent him to say that it was absolutely necessary for General Pryor to leave Virginia. He had never been pardoned. There were men in power who constantly hinted at punishment and retribution. He had been approached by General Hartsuff and vehemently refused to leave his family.

        "Where, oh, where could he go?" I pleaded. "He does think sometimes of New Orleans."

        "Madam," said Captain Gregory, "there is a future before your husband. New York is the place for him."

        "He will never, never consent to go there," I said.

        "Well, then, we must use a little diplomacy. Send him by sea to shake off his chills. Mark my words—as soon as he registers in New York, friends will gather around him. Only send him—and speedily. I come from General Hartsuff."

        My Theo was listening to this conversation, and when Captain Gregory left, he implored me to obey him. Without consulting his father the old horse General Hartsuff had given me was hitched to the little cart, and we set forth to find some broker who would lend us a small sum, receiving my watch and diamond ring as pledges for repayment.

        After several failures we found an obliging banker who lent me, upon my proposed security, three hundred dollars. As I left his office my hand instinctively sought my little watch to learn the hour. It was gone!—pledged to send my general to New York. I bought some quinine and ordered my husband's tailor to make without delay a suit of clothes to replace the threadbare uniform of Confederate gray. It was difficult to persuade the wearer to accept the proposition—which was only for the sea voyage in order to break the chills that shook him so relentlessly every third day. Nothing was farther from my thought or wishes than a permanent residence in New York.

CHAPTER XXVII

        IT was supposed that my husband would be absent only a week. The following letter from New York explains his delay:—

        "I had intended leaving here yesterday, but our friend, General Warren, invited me for dinner Sunday. I find him in a handsome house in a fashionable quarter of the city. Mrs. Warren inquired kindly about you. She has two charming sisters of our Gordon's age.

        "What will you think when I tell you that several gentlemen suggest to me to settle here? Dare I 'then, to beard the lion in his den—the Douglas in his hall!' Not in his 'hall,' certainly, unless I am very specially invited by him, but I might in time wrestle with him, in a court-room. I have a mind to try it. 'The world is all before us where to choose.' I shouldn't like the Douglas to find out I have forgotten all the law I ever knew. Neither would I like my good old Professor Minor (if he reads the N. Y. reports) to make a similar discovery."

        Close upon this letter followed another.

        "I am not yet determined when to return. I was to leave this morning, but Mr. Ben Wood of the News has requested me to remain a day or two that he might have a talk with me. What this means, I am not sure. I conjecture he will propose some connection with his paper. By the last of the week you may expect me with you."

        The last of the week found him still in New York. Early in October he wrote:—

        "I have accepted Mr. Wood's proposition for the present. The only difficulty I see is the fact that they refuse me a pardon. If they learn that I am writing for the News, they may send me to keep company with John Mitchell. I understand that charges are constantly made against me in Washington. Whatever they are, they are false, trumped up to serve some sinister purpose. Yet I am resolved not to degrade myself by any abject submission. I have never solicited 'pardon,' and I mean to approach them with no further overture.

        "I am so glad you liked the box. Don't scold me for extravagance. You have suffered long enough for the mere decencies of life. I am going to work like a beaver and with no other purpose now than to earn a living for my dear wife and children. Ambition! The ambition of my life is to have my darlings settled in comfort. May God assist me in the endeavor!

        "My room is at 47 West 12th Street. There you must send my winter clothes—and we must try, whatever is left undone, to send the boys to school."

        But after a week or two he became discouraged at the cost of living in New York, and wavered again.

        "I feel I cannot bear a long separation from my dear family—my darling little ones. And yet how can I maintain them here? Is it not a cruel fortune which tears us asunder when our delight in each other is about the only source of happiness left us in this world? I shall lose, in this hopeless grind, all the elastic energy of my mind. I cannot live without you! Do you advise me to continue my connection with the News? Twenty-five dollars a week is a pitiful sum, but how can I do better ? If I can only procure the comforts of life for my family! That is my only object in life—fame, ambition, office, all these

things I have renounced forever. Is it not hard that one should be baffled in so reasonable an endeavor? I can leave here at any moment, my connection with the paper being that of a mere contributor. I am not at all responsible for its course, but only for my own articles."

        Early in December my husband wrote me the following letter:—

        "I am still the victim of ague and fever—the worst I ever suffered. The chill comes on every alternate day, and during its continuance—about two hours—I am tortured with the most agonizing nausea, followed by fever. Thus I spend two days in every week. Dr. Whitehead attends me and expects to relieve me, but meanwhile it is very annoying to be so stricken just as one enters the fight.

        "For I have entered the fight! The die is cast—and here I mean to remain, 'sink or swim, survive or perish.' This is the way it has all come about.

        "Sitting late one night with Mr. Ben Wood in the News office, he turned to me and said rather abruptly, 'General, why don't you practise law? You would make $10,000 a year.' I answered, 'For the best of all possible reasons—I am not a lawyer.' He replied, 'Neither is C, nor T; yet they make $10,000 a year.'

        "Of course the idea of my ever making so great a sum was too preposterous for a moment's thought. Nevertheless, Mr. Wood pressed the appeal; and being enforced by McMasters of the Freeman's Journal, it made an impression on my mind. I said nothing to you about it at the time, because I had, until within the last few weeks, reached no decision in the matter. But just then I received an invitation from Mr. Luke Cozzens for temporary desk room in his office and the use of his library. I have really borrowed books and been studying law in my leisure hours ever since I came to the city, and I now resolved to make application

for admittance to the Bar! The application was made by James T. Brady, the most eminent of our forensic orators. I was required to make affidavit of my residence in the State, and some other formal facts, but such was my ignorance of legal procedure that I was unable to draw the affidavit, which Judge Barnard perceiving, he kindly drew the paper for me. Thereupon the Hon. John B. Haskins —my former associate in Congress—was appointed to examine me as to my knowledge of Law. Under his lead we went to a restaurant. When seated he proceeded, with much solemnity of manner, to 'examine' me. He asked me, 'What are the essentials of the negotiability of a note?' This question I was prepared to answer, and did answer to his satisfaction.

        "After a 'judicial pause,' he asked gravely, 'What will you take?'

        "This also I was fully prepared to answer—and entirely to his satisfaction.

        "He asked me no other question. He was apparently satisfied with the good sense of my last answer. We returned to the Court, and he reported in favor of my application!

        "Still an insuperable obstacle to my practising was an inability to procure an office, for my desk room at Mr. Cozzens’s was not suitable for my new dignity. This difficulty has been removed by the offer of Mr. Hughes (an English 'sympathizer') to allow me the use of one of his two rooms for the nominal price of $1 a month in Tryon Row. Both he and I have learned since that this is considered an undesirable locality—a fact of which we were ignorant, but here I must remain until I can better myself. My room is perfectly bare—a carpetless floor, plain uncovered table, and three chairs—one for myself, and the others for possible clients. Here I have swung out my modest shingle soliciting the patronage of the public.

        "I have commenced attending the Courts regularly and have heard the leading lawyers. I am not vain, as you know, but—I am not afraid of them! But when, when shall I have a chance? The great difficulty in my way is the prejudice against 'rebels'; and that I am sorry to see is not diminishing. I hope to wear it away after a while if, meantime, I do not starve. It is my last cast—and I am resolved to succeed or perish in the attempt. Several New York papers have spoken of my residence here with kindness and compliment, but a silly sneer in the Boston Post—under which I am fool enough to suffer—cut me to the heart, trifling and flippant as it is: 'The Rebel Pryor has opened an office in New York for the practice of the Law, but he has not yet had a rap.'—(R. A. P.).

        "Look now for uninteresting letters. It will be study, study, study, ever after this! I am writing now at night, with a languid head. My children—my dear children! How I love them! God bless them!"

        He wrote, December 28:—

        "My prospects here had brightened a little with the promise of a case that would, in time, have yielded me two hundred dollars, but a friendly priest (and he was wise) persuaded the parties to settle out of Court, and so my hopes were dashed to the ground. But I am retained, provisionally, as counsel for the National Express Company, from which I may make something. My thoughts at Christmas in my lonely office were with my precious household at Cottage Farm. How I regretted my want of money would not permit me to send some holiday presents, but we must bear these privations till happier days. I longed to go to you— but had no money to defray the expense of the trip. Dearest Sara, let us endure these trials with all possible fortitude. If only you can keep happy, I can bear my portion of the burden."

        In February he wrote me: -

        "To-day I make a reckoning of my earnings since my residence in New York. I was admitted to the Bar about the first of December. I have been 'practising,' then, about two months and a half. Well, my receipts for sundry small services have been $356, and I am retained by an express company. I wonder if this looks as if we are 'out of the woods.' Unhappily I have had to pay a debt incurred when I was in Fort Lafayette, and for which I had provided money, but it was embezzled by a dishonest quartermaster at the Fort. Then the small debts we owed when we left Washington—and which, you remember, the Confederate Government 'confiscated' and for which exacted payment—have simply waited for me to get work, and these I must promptly pay. However, I am hopeful. God grant my anticipations may be realized.

        "I have some little money owing to me and some doubtful claims, and the Court and lawyers treat me with marked courtesy. I study intensely and am as diligent as possible in attention to my duties. I mean at least to deserve success—which is the surest way to realize it. Kiss the chicks!

"Devotedly,
"R. A. P.

"P.S. A client interrupts me! Don't be depressed, Sallie! A gleam of light gilds our horizon, which has been dark, God knows, long enough. Next summer we must have our home, and won't it be a happy home? God grant it. God bless us all."     &