Read Ebook: What Happened to Me by Pickett La Salle Corbell

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Ebook has 914 lines and 49918 words, and 19 pages

"No, indeed," I said. "I'm not a bit afraid, and if I were do you think I would let Pickett's men see me run?"

"Come, dear, please! You are in danger, useless danger, and that is not bravery."

The soldiers did not seem to agree with him, for Corse's Brigade sent up cheer after cheer as we passed. Captain Smith, just then riding across the field, stopped to speak to us.

"The Federals are testing some guns, I think, for the entertainment of visitors," he explained, "and are not firing at us. They are over there to the right of that oak." He handed us his field glass. "Mrs. Grant is standing between those two short, stout men. The one at the left with a cigar in his mouth is Grant. The shorter, stouter one on the right is Ingalls, Grant's Quartermaster-General."

"Yes, that's Rufus. See him laugh, the old rascal!" said my Soldier, a glint of the old-time affection shining in his eyes and vibrating in his voice. He, Grant and Ingalls were old friends, having been comrades in Mexico and the West. "But come, let's ride on."

"Yes," said Captain Smith, "it is not safe here. I would take Mrs. Pickett away. Turn to the left there into that clump of trees."

"Unfortunately, Captain, Mrs. Pickett outranks me; she will not go."

"Permit me, please, Mrs. Pickett, to add my entreaties to those of the General. It really is not safe here."

"Let me get down and try our guns, too, and then I'll go," I answered.

"Not for the world," exclaimed my Soldier. "They are not shooting at us. Mrs. Grant is so kind-hearted that she would not approve of their shooting in this direction if she thought it would interrupt our morning ride. Besides, she is exceedingly cross-eyed and does not know directions."

The Captain saluted my Soldier, lifted his hat to me, suggestively pointed to the grove on our left and rode away. I watched him, admiring his fine horsemanship. Beginning to feel remorseful for my obstinate resistance to his appeal I was about to turn off to the safe path when one of the aimless cannon balls swept across the field and I saw the Captain's horse careering madly along bearing a headless body. Impulsively I sprang from my horse and ran and picked up the poor head, and I solemnly believe that the dying eyes looked their thanks as the last glimmering of life flickered out. Those pathetically grateful eyes have looked at me many times through the mists of vanished years and with them has come the booming of the guns that threw black bars across the sunshine of that far away morning.

The memory of General Grant often came to me afterward associated with that awful sight following my first view of him across the water where he stood peacefully smoking on the slope. The fact that he remembered the old friendship with my Soldier was impressed upon me many times after my view of him through field glasses.

Among the friends whom I often met at this station was General Robert E. Lee. It has been said that our Commanding General never knew or cared what he ate, and it is true that he did not, in comparison with the welfare of his soldiers. Once when he and his staff lunched with us I gave them one of our famous Brunswick stews, made of chicken, a slice of pork, corn, tomatoes and Lima beans, with bay-leaf and onion seasoning, and cooked slowly. It was particularly good this day, as I had received a gift of some smuggled salt and could afford to use it lavishly, and General Lee said the stew was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. I had just made some walnut pickles of which I was very proud. He praised them and told me that in his house he had them many years old and that the "older they became the better they were."

"But, you know," he said, "I never eat anything good without thinking of the soldiers and their privations."

One evening in Richmond my Soldier and I were invited to spend the evening with Senator and Mrs. Clement C. Clay, and while there General Lee called. We had ice cream made of buttermilk and sweetened with sorghum, and lemonade made with lemons from the conservatory of our hostess. She remarked that she had been saving those lemons for the soldiers in the hospital but that she had more which she would give to them. "If you will be sure not to forget the soldiers," said General Lee, "I will enjoy this lemonade."

The General called me "Sweet Nansemond" because I came from Nansemond County, as did the famous sweet potatoes which the hucksters hawked about the streets, calling out, "Nansemonds! Sweet Nansemonds!" and I rather resented this vegetable suggestion, not liking to be associated with potatoes even in the mind of General Lee.

Though sympathetic and warm-hearted, our General had a natural dignity of manner which, though inspiring confidence, interposed a veil of reserve between him and even his warmest admirers. Years after the war one of my friends who had been an officer in the Army of Northern Virginia, first under General Joe Johnston and then under General Lee, said to me:

"Lee was a great soldier and a good man but I never wanted to put my arms around his neck and kiss him as I wanted to do with Joe Johnston."

With a bit of a jealous feeling for my own Soldier I asked:

"Did you want to do that to General Pickett?"

"To Pickett?--Why, I not only wanted to but I did."

One evening when General Lee, General Beauregard, my Soldier and his Brigade Commanders were studying war-maps in our cabin and confidentially discussing the freeing of the slaves and the enlisting of them as soldiers, General Lee finished by saying:

"Well, gentlemen, we must hope for the best. If we should give up there are many who would feel that we had sold the South--many of our Southern States would think so, for even they have no idea that we have come to the last of our resources and no realization of how starving and poor we are, and, alas, gentlemen, too much of the best blood of the land is being spilled, too many homes being despoiled and made desolate, too many mothers with broken hearts."

Solemnly they shook hands and General Lee and his companions galloped off, my Soldier and I standing in the doorway listening.

"So they do, little one," answered my Soldier. "Strange--strange I had not thought of that before."

We turned to the map on the floor and rolled up the ways to go and prayed for a miracle to bring success.

THE AMENITIES

We were near the Federal lines and the men on the opposing sides enjoyed friendly chats with each other, swapped jokes, bartered tobacco for coffee and exchanged newspapers.

The Federals kept their cattle in a stockade in the rear of their camp. Early one morning they were surprised to see Confederate soldiers running along the line in a manner suggestive of a drove of highly excited cows.

"What's the matter with you, Johnnies, over there?" came the query across the lines. "Are you all crazy?"

The only answer was a vociferous and long-drawn out chorus of "Moo-o-o! Moo-o-o! Moo-o-o!"

Disgusted with the pertinaceous lunacy of their foes the blue-coats gave up the conundrum. A little while later the problem was solved. In the night General J. E. B. Stuart with some of his men had circled the camp and driven off all the Federal cattle, and the "Moo!" of the Confederates was a graphic announcement to the victims of their loss. For a time the "Johnnies" fared sumptuously on steak and roast while the "Yanks" were compelled to forage till they could lay in a new supply of live stock.

The red flag of the politicians never wholly divided the hearts of the soldiers into hostile camps. Not only did the West Pointers retain the comradeship of the old Army days, but the enlisted men shared the friendly sentiment.

In the summer of '63 the Confederate and Federal soldiers doing duty on opposite banks of the Black Water River in Virginia were wont to divert themselves by trading with each other. They had built for their traffic a miniature fleet of rudely but ingeniously carved boats. One of these little vessels would be taken up stream, the current of which was seldom strong, and with rudder fixed it would go down the river with its cargo of sugar and coffee wrapped in the latest newspaper and stored in the scooped deck, and would be grappled and hauled in by the sentry on the opposite side. Back the same trusty little carrier dove would come, laden with plugs of tobacco, wrapped likewise in the latest paper on that side. Cheers and shouts from both lines would greet each cargo as it touched the shore.

One morning a short time after the battle of Gettysburg the Confederates anxiously awaited the return of their little craft. It came and was enthusiastically received, but to their surprise, no answering shout went up from the opposite shore on the landing of the boat. The cargo, much to their disappointment, was wrapped in brown paper.

"Well, we have whipped them Yanks again as sure as guns," they argued sympathetically in explanation of the silence and the brown paper. The vessel was sent back and on the paper in which the cargo was wrapped were these words:

"We-all are so sorry for you-all Yanks, but we won't crow loud, so send along the paper."

The boat returned with the paper, on the margin of which was written:

"'Twas sech darned infernal hard luck in the papers for you Rebs we was 'feared they'd sink the coffee."

In the old Army my Soldier had a dear comrade, at this time a General in the Army of the Potomac. His brother had the misfortune to be captured and put into Libby prison and, in memory of the old friendship, my Soldier secured his release and took him as a guest into our home, the old Pickett mansion in Richmond. In an unaccountable moment of indiscretion he wrote a letter in which he said that the Confederacy was on its last legs, stating that he was in a home of wealth, where there was a house full of servants, and in the morning the basket was sent to market packed full of money and brought back only half full of provisions. This letter fell into the hands of Judge Ould, Commissioner of exchange of prisoners, who immediately reported it and the offending writer was returned to prison. My Soldier's sympathy was not cooled by this unhappy incident, and later he secured permission for me to go to the prison at will and take whatever I could of our scanty store that would be a help or comfort to him--beaten biscuit, eggs, milk or fruit. However unpromising the outlook might be I always managed to find something for him. Every week when I would take him clean linen the other prisoners would cut dice for that which he left off. Of more value than anything else was the gourd of soft soap which I carried to him, for we had no salt to make hard soap. I think he cared more for the human interest that I brought from outdoor life, the glint of sunshine, however dark my own heart might be.

It was thus that I saw the inside of Libby prison. Let no man who did not see Libby prison in the last days of the Confederacy imagine for a moment that he is able to conceive of any fraction of its infernal horror. It is easy to understand that, in a country where the soldiers were starving in the field and families were starving at home, a prison would not be a comfortable place of abode, but it would have to be seen to be in the least appreciated. When I look back through memory at that scene of indescribable wretchedness, unutterable gloom and despair, I can almost envy those whose fancy falls so far short of the reality.

It had been many months since the authorities of the North had set a rigid bar against the exchange of prisoners, involving the reinforcement of the Confederate Army. It was impossible for the South to replace her captured men, while the Federal Army could be easily kept in full force by new recruits. Mr. Davis had vainly pleaded for exchange on the field. He had sent two Federal prisoners to Washington to represent our condition and the impossibility of feeding prisoners in addition to trying to keep our own soldiers from starvation. The stern necessities of war had prevailed against him. The prisoners themselves had given assent to the sad fate that was to be theirs. They had offered their lives for their country. What mattered it whether the supreme sacrifice was accepted in the swift glory of the battle flash or in the long dreary darkness of a hopeless imprisonment.

In my visits to the prison I met and knew other unfortunate ones and am thankful that I was able to minister to some of them. Among my son's and my own best friends in after years were some whom I first met in that awful, woeful place.

Dining with Mr. and Mrs. Beverly Tucker at a hotel in Washington years after the war, I saw a strange gentleman at a table near, gazing so earnestly at me that I said to my host, "Is that gentleman some one whom I should know and speak to?" Mr. Tucker looked up, half inclined to be offended. The stranger rose and came to our table.

"Excuse me," he said, bowing to my host and hostess. Turning to me, his voice trembling, he said, "Forgive this intrusion but I couldn't help it. I want to ask you, please, if you ever gave buttermilk and soft soap, fresh figs, a clean shirt, a world of sunshine and a lot of other things to a poor, wounded, weary, homesick boy in Libby prison? Aren't you the lady? You are; don't you remember me?"

The tears were streaming down his face now as he held out his hand.

"Yes," I said, "I remember; of course, I remember. You are the poor wounded boy the prisoners used to call Little Willie Sourmilk, Little Kentuck, Baby Blue, etc."

"Yes; that's me, and, oh, I am so glad that I have found you at last. Do you know that I have prayed to God every night that I might, and, lady, you never will know what a benediction your visits were to old Libby, and me--oh, you saved my life; I never can forget that first day. It was in June. The roses were in bloom, and such roses! A great bunch was lying on the top of your basket. I was stretched out on the table near the barred window trying to think of old Kentucky and forget my wounds when I heard a voice say, 'Little fellow, would you like to have a beaten biscuit and a glass of buttermilk?' 'Would I? Oh, God, would I?' I said. When you went away you left half the roses on my pillow, and how I watched for your visits after that. I never knew your name, never knew how to find you. To us prisoners you were the Rose Lady."

His tears had washed off the kiss on my hand and I was back again, looking into the wild, harrowing, despairing faces in the dismal tobacco-warehouse prison, all regardless of my host and hostess and the surrounding guests.

"Well, I'll be dogged, Jane," said Mr. Tucker to his dear little wife. "What do you think of this? I always did believe every word of those Ali Baba and Forty Thieves and Magic Lantern tales and this proves them, for they are not a bit stranger than this sour buttermilk story."

The stranger was Colonel William H. Lowdermilk, of Anglim's Bookstore. When later I lost all my worldly goods and was appointed to a desk in the Pension Office, Colonel Lowdermilk, then of the firm of Lowdermilk & Company, Book-Dealers, wrote to the Commissioner of Pensions a strong letter of commendation, in which he told in warmest terms of my care of himself and other Union soldiers in Libby prison, and asked that every courtesy and consideration be shown to me for all time and in every possible way, in sacred memory of the boys in Libby. Throughout his life afterward he was a devoted, loyal friend to me and mine.

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