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DIES IRJE.
OR
Under the Stars and Bars.
BY CELESTE HITCHMS BARKSDALE.
CHAPTER V.
I have just com* from Mrs. Revere‘8 room and
stand on the piazza listening to the wailing
wind. I am very weary of life jnst now. I am
nsnally brave, bat have grown weak and afraid
of the future.
Like Sieter Anne in Bine Beard's tower, I
look eagerly for the approach of some one. I
discern a dark fignre ewiitly coming np the si*
lent street I walk to the Bteps and wait. It
stops at the gate, comes from nnder the dark
shadows of .be graoefnl cedars. In the dim
light it is impossible to recognize the lace, but
my heart tells me that Frederioksbnrg has not
Bert for a victim.
The hnm of whispering voioes oomea to me
from Mrs. 1 averr room like the tolling of some
death bell. Yet sl-e is much better this evening.*
Instantly he stands by me, grasping my band
and kissing me. whispers huskily:
‘Mother?*
‘She is better, dear Bert, * I reply softly.
‘Thank God,* he says fervently. ‘From the
letter I feared that I would come too late. .1
could not get a furlough any sooner. How is
sister and Eve?’
‘They are both well. Indeed we are all well
except your mother and my father. ‘
‘Your face is thin, Helen. What is it?’ he
asks, passing his hand over my face.
•Care, Bert’ I return. ‘Shall I prepare your
mother for your coming?'
‘Let me calm myself first,’ he says.
Seme one begins to play softly on the piano.
Lila goes np stairs, I see her by the hall lamp,
Vulane goes into the parlor. It must be Eve
who is playing. I hear mother and Barbara
talking in the hall. After awhile Bert signals
me to take him to his mother’s room. I go si
lently, swiftly before him.
‘Pen,’! say, softly.
‘Yes, * the girl rises from beside her mother.
‘Has he come? has my boy come?' asks Mrs.
Revere, rising up in the bed.
I close the door softly and walk into the par
lor.
■Guess who has come?’ I ask.
‘The Yankees!' cry Ellie and Barbara in con
cert.
‘John!' exclaims mother and Valerie at the
same time.
Eve says nothing, but her eyes look at me
wistfully, and her cheek fiuehes as I say, ‘It is
Bert. ’
•Oh!‘mother and Valerie are wofully disap
pointed.
■On!' Ellie and Barbara are happily disap
pointed.
‘Dr Eustis thinks Mrs. Revere much better,’
Valerie says.
Life dees not seem so forlorn as it did just
now. I go cheerfully to see that the supper ta
ble is arranged properly. Eve joins me pre-
ently.
•Is he much changed, Helen,’ she asks, bend
ing low over the table, so that I may not see the
color that comes to her face.
‘Yes—no—I don’t know. I could not see
much of his face in the dark. He wears a long
beard now. That, ef course makes him look
older. He said he would have come before, but
could not get m fuilougH. no IB a noble fellow.
Eve.’
•Yes,’ she answer* abstractedly.
•I wonder be has not married long ago. uar- ,i
bara saye. from the doorway. ’Suoh » band-
some fellow muet necessarily make an impres
sion upon the eusoeptible heart of some girl.
•Barbara,’! eay, with asperity ™
do pray
'DtvrUKlHt * mm J» " m . . . m i t
quit harping on that stale subjeot of love.
‘Gracious, Helen ! what makes you speak so
irritably ? I did not know that you were m
love with Bert, or I would not have said it,
laughing maliciously, for Barbara has always
prophesied that I would marry Bert
‘Bert! Has Major Revere come ?’ ones Lila,
peeping over Barbara’s shoulder. , ,
P Major Revera! I had forgotten that Bert had
been made a Major at Fredericksburg. f
•Yes, and is in bis mothers room, answers
The girl oomes toward me, her eye# glowing.
•Do you love him. Miss Helen ? evidently she
has over heard Barbara’s remark. ,
‘Not in the way Barbara insinuates, Lila, I
reply, busying myself over the tea urn.
I don’t look up at Eve, I fear to draw the bat
tery of Lila’s keen eyee upon her. Neither do
I want Eve to meet Bert before the others. I
say to her: _ ,
•Eve, go ask Pen to come here.
She leaves the room, and presently I tell the
servant to summon them to supper.
‘I suppose, Bert,’father says, when they have
all assembled around the table, ‘that you have
long since surrendered your heart to some love-
ly ‘I*must plead guilty, sir,’ Bert answered, look
ing across at Lila. .
The girl flushes redly. I glance from one to
the other curiously. Barbara opens her big blue
6y *Shail we congratulate you, Bert ; ?’ »^e asks.
‘What is her name, Bert?’ I ask, glancing at
Eye to see bow she takes this news.
She is smiling at Lila. T
•That I cannot tell you juBt now. Have 1
told you. Miss Lila, that Major Andrews is
looking forward to a furlough soon ? laughing
only as Bert can laugh.
Lila blushes furiously.
•Pray what is all this, Lila? asks father,
gI *Tell him if you will, Major Revere,’ she says,
hastily rising, and leaving the room.
Bert leisurely eats on until wears nearly
devoured with curiosity, then he says.
•Major Andrews and Miss Lila are to be mar
ried as soon as this ‘cruel war is over.’”
•We thought that it was yon and Lila! blurts
out Barbara.
Bert opens his brown eyes wide, asks why we
should think so, and asks Eve, pointedly, if she
thought so.
•Of course I did,’ she retorts, smiling gaily.
•Bow could I help it?'
•Do you know anything of Jerome, Bert (
puts in Barbara.
The smile dies off Eve’s lips, she hastily rises
from the table, mutters an excuse, and hurries
out of the room. .
‘Oh, Barbara, how could you !’ cnes Valarie,
in a shocked voice. ‘You know so well that
Eve hates his very name, and you invariably
bring it np.’
“‘Love Is love forever more,’ ”
quotes Barbara. „
•In your case, yes,’ I say, making an allusion
to Charley Rogers. . ...
Whereupon Barbara retorts, saying she had
just as soon be a widow as an oldmaid. I laugh,
Barbara is funny if she is provoking.
‘If you will exouse me, I’ll go to mother and
send Pen,’Bert says.
As he goes out we hear him whisper softly
We lit discussing Lila and Bert,until a passion'
ate cry strikes us dumb.
It is Pen ! It oomes from Mrs. Revere s room.
I so from the room, into the hall.
•Sue haa fainted!’ Bert whispers, as I reach
the bed over which he and Pen are bending.
•Dead/’ mother says, sadly-
A vail brssks from Penolop® s white lips.
How long I stood and gazed at that dear face I
know not, I have no recolleotion of what passed
untii Valarie put her arms around me and
drew me out on the verandah. Bert is there
before ns, I go to him as I would have done to
John.
‘Where is sister/’ he asks, after a long while.
I had fergotten Pen in my own selfish sorrow,
forgotten her whom I had promised to oomfort.
Going into the parlor, where the light fails upon
the placid face of the dead and the agonized
face of the girl kneeling betide her, I
entreat Pen to come away, but she is deaf to
me. She clings with frenzy to the folded hands
of her mother. I send Valerie for Bert.
Silently he comes in and stands beside his
mother. She looks marvelously life-like as the
pale rose-light streams over her.
The geranium leaves and tube roses, that Eve
has put between the thiu fingers, fill the air
with their fragrance.
Stooping, Bert reverently kisses the pale
lips, lifts Pen as though she were a tired ohild,
carries her into the library.
Throughout the long night we watch beside
the dead, listening at times to the howling of
the wind, the rushing of the river, the crack
ling of the fire, the passionate sobbing of Pe
nelope, and Bert ■ soothing voice.
Day dawns gloomily. Dark gray oloude scud
across the gray sky ; the trees echo dismally the
wailing of the wind, and at uoou it begins to
elect.
The six other families, that comprise our vil
lage, ocme in. There are but two men in our
village, lather and Dr. Eutis. Hal Mayberry
and Frank Winstead are at home for a day or
two.
In the evening, mid hail and sleet, we wend
our way through the village toward the ceme
tery. The bell from the belfry slowly tolls out
the news that one more mortal has gone to ber
long home, one less to love upon this sad, sad
earth.
Hardly had we reached the white gate, gleam
ing out from hail and dark shadows, than a
trampling of horses’ feet announces intruders.
Our little party more on to where the newly
exoavated grave yawns dismally. The precious
burden is lowered.
•Halt!’
With a wail Pen throws her arms around
Bert A frightened cry from some causes the
greatest confusion. Women, children and ne
groes fly in every direction.
Two or three dozen Federal soldiers, regard
less of tims or place, demand the instant sur
render of Major Revere, Lieutenant Mayberry,
Private Winstead.
‘I surrender,’ Bert says, trying to diseugage
Pen’s clingiDg arms. ‘I must beg that you will
allow me to finish this sad duty, the burial of
my mother.'
HiB sad face, gentlemanly and gentle wards
should have commanded respect and sym
pathy, but the red-faced, Yankee officer does
not heed the sad request.
Msjor Itovere must walk out and consider
himself on his way to Fort Dataware.
Hastily embracing Penelope, catching mine
and Eve’s hands, the poor boy turns away with
his captors.
Valarie puts her arms around Eve, Lila goes
to Pen. I am staring with all my eyes at the
officers who seizes father's arm. Can it be that
they are takirg that old man with them ? I fly
to mother's side.
‘Stay with the girls, Helen. I am going with
yonr father,’ she says, brokenly.
They move away, I stacd gazing after them.
‘Helen, what shall we do?' sobs Barbara.
‘Every one is gone bnt ns. Must we stay and
try—try to fill the grave ? or must we go with
Who can P U.— — "* - . t i
it this mouftiit ? Wbo okd toll of our dreary
desolation, o'ur wild wo# ?
•Whet shall we do, Helen ? Dark is fast com
ing on ? Penelope will never leave here until
that grave is filled,’ Valarie says, coming to me.
I shake my head wearily. Pen, Eve and Lila
are sitting upon the wet ground, none of them
can aflord us any assistance. Taking up a spade
I bid Barbara and Valarie follow me. Who can
paint inch a scene ?
A gloomy grave yard with Blender shafts
shooting up amid the sombre evergreens. Six
women, with woe strioken faces standing around
the grave, where the coffin shows black and
ghostly. The sombre clouds, the blinding sleet,
the pelting hail, the rush of wind through the
trees.
Three women wearily toiling at the dirt,
shuddering as it falls with a dull thud upon
the ooffin lid, Penelope moans as she catches
the sound. It is cold, deathly oold, and we
shiver in spite of our laborious work. It is
dark, so dark that I cannot see my companions
who are standing on the other side of the grave.
•Is it filled ?' Valarie whispers across to me.
I felt that 1 could not do much more. My
hands are blistered, and I am shaking as with
an ague.’
I stoop down in the dark, stretch out my
hands.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
Barbara groans ; and we again begin our
task.
Slower, slower do w# work. At laBt I kneel
down and stretoh out my hands.
‘It is full,’ I tell them.
‘Thank God !’ ejaculauH Barbara.
We lay down our spades, grope our way to
Pan and Eve.
•We must go,’ I say, taking Pen s hand.
‘And leave her here alone! O, Miss Helen !’
I make no reply, but gather her shawl closer
around her, and start for home.
We stumble over low graves, run against
shrubbery, until we get into the street. Pass-
ing along we see no light* shining from the
windows.
•I wonder what has beoome of the people, l
hear Barbara say. ...
At our gate, Hannah, the cook, meets ua with
the news that all of our house servants have
departed with the soldiers, carrying with them
a goodly portion of our wardrobe. She further
adds that the glass in the windows have been
broken, the shrubbery is trampled down, the
two deodars at the gateway, the pride of the vil
lage and admiration of strangers, are levelled to
the ground, and lie across the walk, lwo
chairs and a sofa were broken np, the piano,
she thinks, is utterly ruined. Broken china,
cut glass, orookery are strewn everywhere.
Household and kitchen furniture lie in all di
rections. . ,, .
Picking our way in tbe dark over the mass of
our ruins, uttering exclamations of surprise,
erief, or anger as we come in contact with some
unexpected object, feeling what it is, we pass
on to the dining room. ,. 4
A touching spectacle presents itself to our
mzd. Black ohildren, deserted by their heart
less mothers, huddle around the fire, uttering
piteous cries. Ellie sits in a chair trying to
Boothe them. , , , ,
Thev have had no supper, and, as exhausted
as Eve and I are, we assist Hannah to prepare
food for them and us.
Penelope sinks in a flaccid heap betore the
fire, olaaping her arms over her knees, saying
nothing, uttering no moan, .looking hopelessly
into the ruddy fire.
The blsok children gather around her,—she
was always a favorite with them-softly stroking
with their little blaek hands hers folded so de-
^Valarie! exhausted by the unwonted and labo
rious task she has just done, sits in a chair,
half conscious of what is going on around her
Lila flits near her half asleep.
Barbara lies full length upon the rug before
the fire, too tired to m.-ve or speak, even to
Ellie who nestles beside her.
Eve goes noiselessly from the dining room to
the kitchen, Buffering terribly. I am half wild
with anxiety about lather and mother, but I do
not intrude my tears upon the others. I can
only conjeoture where they are, and had I net
had saoh a painful duty to perform at the grave,
and beside the grave of one whom I loved, in
years now gone, better than life, I would be
with them to comfort them.
All night we hover over tbe fire. In the gray
dawn ef the morniag mother comes tottering in
supported by Mrs. Amory.
•Your father is very ill, Helen,’ Mrs. Amory
says, hurriedly. ‘Prepare a place for him.’
Very ill—ill unto d-»ath, I see, now why they
have brought him home.
God comfort us!
January, 1863.
On the second day of January we follow all
that remains of our noble father to his lowly
bed in the church yard.
We miss his smile, his presence, his love. Ah
me, God only knows how hard it is to bear ;
H6 only knows the aching pain in our hearts,
the feeling of utter desolation hovering like a
dark ahadow over our home*.
“Into *ach life some rain must fail-”
Mine has been like a March day, full of tem
pestuous trouble and scalding tears.
My poor, poor mother ! if I could only bear
your burden for you.
Penelope has been very ill. If we could only
hear from Bert!
of the fathers, to know that the fell hand of de
struction is abroad.
We are stopped many times on our journey.
Seab has his answers ready, and his black face
is our passport. At last, after days and days of
weary journeying, we come to a house where
they can tell us news from Gettysburg. To our
astoni-hment we are told that General Mead is
very near, and that he is going to surprise Gen
eral Loe. We are more impatient than ever to
reach Gettysburg.
Lila now directs Ssab, and at iast we descend
before his aunt's gate. Two girls come out to
meet us. Lila presents them as her cousins,
Mary and Dora Hill. We are told John is well
enough to join his command and has gone. All
our trouble has been tor nothing. We go into
the nonse. Danger and sympathy do notallow
formalities, for onr new friends are Southern
sympathizers. Tne battle has begun, for the
shells come flying over tbe house. When we
have rested,,Penelope proposes that we go up in
tbe rear of the Confederate army. After much
trouble we get fresh horses, and with faithful
Saab, we make a detour and - come up in tbe
Confederate rear.
Mary and Dora, and even Lila, are familiar
with every road, so there is no trouble. We
spring out, feeling sure that we are out of ‘wo
man s sphere* in being here. We leave Seab
to attend to the horses and provisions we have
brought, while we steal forward.
We meet some officers in gray uniforms, they
stare impolitely at ns as if to be sure that we are
ladies. Penelope says, with cutting empha
sis: >
‘I had scarcely expected to find so many able
men in the rear of the army. ‘
One of them flashes redly, steps up to us:
‘This is the Confederate army, Miss.’
‘Thank you for the information. I know it.’
‘Have you relatives in our services?’ as Pen
slowly shakes her head, he glances at her black
dress.
•I am Major , at your service, ladies.’
‘We are Misses Ross, Revere and Hill,’Lila
says.
‘Ross! Revere! he exclaims.* Are you Major
Albert Kevere’s sister?' turning to Pen. The
girl droops her head upon her hands.
‘The noblest fellow that ever lived!* he says,
enthusiastically. ‘I thought he lived in Vir
ginia.’
•We live in Virginia/ I say, passing my arm
around Pen.
We explain how and why they are there. He
calls up his fellow officers and introduces us,
pointedly saying, ‘This is Major Revere's sister,
and tnis is Captain Ross's.* 1 ask about John
and Maurice Hill. They are both well. While
we stand talking, somebody says:
‘Gen. Lee and stall!*
We turn, and witn great eagerness and admi
ration, view the greatest, noblest man upon the
Western Continent. Others may rank big'er,
but none other command tbe universal admira
tion, the universal adoration of the world.
He bows to us imperially, hastens on to be
met by a courier, who says that Gordon has
cnarged with his brigade of Georgians upon a
host of tbe enemy in the woods on the opposite
side of tbe valley and put them to flight. That
Darling ! I say taking her into my arms. A i General Eariy massed Gordon's, Hoke's, Haves*
burst of tears relieves her, and for a while she ] brigades and attacked a larger volume near Get-
sobs on my shoulder. My own eyes are full of I tysburg, had charged a second time, captured
April.
•Mercifnl;Heavexi!' c-’-4-*.-'iiarbar&. rushing into
my room.
•What is it ?’ I ssked, looking up from the
biaok dress on which I was sewing, startled at
the whiteness of her faoe.
‘Poor Pen !’ she gasps.
A horrible foreboding comes over me ; I
grasp Barbara's arm and cry hoarsely :
‘For God’s sake. Barbara, tell me what it is !'
‘Poor Bert! poor Bert!' is all she r.ays.
I shake her soundly, entreating to be told
what it is.
‘The yankees shot him while trying to es
cape ; and Frank Winstead, who escaped at the
same time is down stairs teiiing Pen.'
‘And Pen !' I utter after a stunned silence of
moments.
‘Walks up and down like
mented, neither moaning or crying,
my heart ache to look at her.'
‘And Eve?’
'Lies upon tbe sola, while mama tries to com
fort her. It was horrible enough before, but
this is the worst. Will you go aown now ? you
are the only one who can comfort Pen. This
will kill her, after she haa been ill so long.’
Like one in a horrible dream 1 follow Bar
bara into the parlor. Valarie meets me with
tear-wet eyes.
‘Poor Eve !’ she murmers.
1 kneel down beside Eve.
‘Helen ! Helen !’ she cries, holding out her
hands to mo. It is a piteous cry, but alas ! it
avails nothing.
one de-
It makes
tears, and my voice is husky as I speak to her
of him.
It is not thus with Penelope. Not heeding
our tears, unmoved by Eve’s grief, she walks
aoross the floor like asomnambulem, apparently
unconscious of external siWoundings. Her
eyes are set, her mocMLli id, stern, he t
face deadly pale, tears do *— 11 — '-- t
this trait ni - do wn..»/,
Morning Wo.lftan/1 w’g, evening darkens
into night. Throughout the still house echoes
her stops like the passing of some ghostly visi
tant.
■it is terrible !’ Valarie says to me, as we sit
watching Penelope like fascinated beings.
Will she never cease ?’
In the still calm of the night, it seems ages
since she began to pace to and fro. At last I
can stand it no longer. I go to her, put my
arms about her to arrest her. Then the sealed
fountain of her tears is unloosed, at last, and
she lies in my arms weeping so wildly that it
seems her life mast go out in her sobs.
•A direful calamity has befallen us! A mor
tal blow has been given the Confederacy!’ writes
John. ‘General Jackson has fallen, and we
monrn bis loss as only soldiers can mourn for
a true, tried, and trustworthy -genera!.
•Tears gushed to our eyes when it was formal
ly and solemnly announced that General Jack-
son’s pure spirit (a spirit unstained by the de
moralizing influences of war, but purified by
its fiery ordeals), had winged its way peacefully
Heavenward.
‘It was in the battle of the wilderness that he
wa* shot by his own men. It was the most
feaiful mistake ever made. It was kept from
the larger part of ns, and when we rushed pell-
mell through the thickets, lighted only by the
flash of musketry and cannons, we supposed
that we were led by him.
‘Next day the gallant J. E. B, Stewart led the
charge. Everywhere in the thickest fight bis
long black plume waved triumphantly. Our
watch-word was ‘Remember Jackson!' and
truly he was remembered. As we would charge
with our bayonets, the words ‘Remember Jack-
son !’ enthused every heart, moved every hand
for the fray.
‘We gained his praise and applause—that re
paid ns far more than the sight el our dead foes
br captured batteries.
‘May 11th, 1863, is a terrible and memorable
day to the Confederacy. It has given her a bat-
tle-crv whose purport is to make desperate men
more desperate.
‘Hushed now are the voices of laughter and
song; and faces once so gay wear a look of stern
determination.’
CHAPTER VI.
September
There comes a letter from Maurice Hill, say
ing that John iB dangerously wounded, and is at
his aunt’s house in Gettysburg. Valarie has
been ill some weeks, mother is very feeble,
Barbara is as helpless as a babe. We deoide and
decide quickly, that Pen, Lila and Helen must
go to Gettysburg. Eve, though she pleads to
go, must be left to nurse Valarie and mother.
The family carriage is pnlled out and over
looked. Seab, oar sufficient valet on such oc
casions, is instructed what to say and do on
certain occasions. Last kisses are bestowed
upon our loved ones, and we drive towards
Gettysburg.
The devastating hand of war has been laid
npon our land. Onoe, where waved broad
fields of plumy grass and tasseled oorn; where
cotton bloomed and fruited into snowy white-
dess, where ebon-faced, happy servants tilled
the generous soil; where luscious cherries,
crimson and yellow peaches, and rosy-cheeked
apples and pears loaded the trees, all was des
olation.
Scant patches of oorn and wheat, a few bro
ken and braised frait trees, piles of half-burned
rails tell tbe story. The happy servants, trans
formed into sullen and vicious negroes, no lon
ger greet tbe ear with their grotesque bnt mel
odious song, sit idly by the roadside snnning
themselves in tbe scorching July sun.
We have only to look at the prematurely whi
tened hair of the mothers, see the tottering step
three pieces of artillery ami several entire reg
iments.
‘Tne Georgia boys always tight well, especial
ly when led by Gordon, 4 remarks an aide.
‘Always!* I hear General Lee say, with empha
sis. ,
They move off, and we stand and watch theJi.
i^“^ l o w e go?‘asks Pen, with evident im‘p-
General Longstreet and his sdfi%tiSPU]^fci
a sweeping galop.
‘Longstreet!’ says one of the men. ‘Hard
work for us to-day, boys. There is always tough
fighting when he’s about ‘
The gay cavalcade passes, and it is soon for
gotten in the excitement whioh follows. The
wounded are coming to the rear! First comes
two men carrying a man between them. I turn
sick and lean heavily against a tree. It is hor
rible! I watch the faces of the men who are
soon to face death, and fight hand to hand with
him; they are impertnrbed.
•Poor fellow!* exclaims one, ‘his beauty’s
spoiled.'
The bearers lower the man to the ground, and
I see that a ball has taken off his nose, and ter
ribly disfigured his face. Grasping the sapling
for support, I give way to a feeling of intolera
ble, deathly sickness. Ere I can recover from
it a’ second man is carried past, having no feet.
Two bloody legs, shattered ana bleeding,
point to me. I gasp for breath; the air is suffo
cating ns the smoke comes sweeping over ns.
Then come two ^wounded men supporting a
third between them. Ambulance wagons be
gin to come np, filled to overflowing with their
ghastly burden. My soul sickens, my senses
revolt at the scene into which I have brought
myself; sitting down I bury my face in my
hands.
War! Can, or does anyone realize its horrors
until they stand and watch the stream of dead
and dy ing as they some from off the field of
carnage to the rear?* C*n they realize the ter
rors until they stand beside the moaning,
groaning, cursing wounded, with the roar of
the cannon and the yell of the men as they
charge? The battle field is the place that
tries tbe mettle, the rear is the place that
tries the soul. I feel as I crouffi here
beside this tree that fighting is far prefer
able to the dnties of the ambulanoe corps. Over
coming this weakness, I stagger 4to my feet,
looking about for tbe girls.
‘Miss Helen, the surgeons have come, and I
thought yon would like to eome with us. Pen
elope and Mary nearly fainted as they tried to
dress the wounds of a man who has had his
nose taken off by the bursting of a shell,’ Bays
Dora who has hunted me.
I put out my hands blindly, catch hers, we
start off together nnder the shade of an oak, we
find the girls talking to the surgeons.
Seab has brought up the bandages and linen
from the carriage. I am sent after some linen
by a surgeon. I am startled to find that some
thing stops me. Looking down 1 find that the
fingers of a dying man have caught at me convul
sively, and I am a prisoner of the dead. I oan
not call or speak, and to stoop andnnolasp those
stiffening fingers that are clinging to my skirts
so tenaciously is beyond my power. Standing
still, watching with sickening fasoination the
working countenance of the boy (he is nothing
more) I dare not move. I wait ten minutes be
fore release oomes. As the surgeon bends over
the inanimate form, he says, softly:
‘He belonged to an Alabama oompany. ‘
In death’s calm repose it is a fair, beautiful
face to look npon. Bending down I note the
fair looks, clotted with blood, the high, white
forehead, the handsome features, particularly
his month. At my request the surgeon looks
in his pockets. He hands me a small bible and
a picture. The picture is that of a lady who
has scaroely reached the meridian of life. “
the bible, on the fly leaf is:
‘To Will, from his mother,
Hnntsville, Ala.’
‘To Will,’ and now he lies here dead, alone,
while that fond mother waits in vain for his
coming. I put the piotnre between the cold
fingers, and replace the bible. My heart smites
me for my fear. Gently I kies these almost
perfect lips, spread my handkerohief over his
In
face and go away.
The stream of the wounded becomes terrific,
showing how severe must be the confl ot between
the two armies. Br »ken arti 1 ry wagons, drawn
by wounded horses, constantly pass as. Then
come numbers of Yankee prisoners, laughing
and jesting with their captors in a most amia
ble manner. Passing our busy group one of
them says:
‘No wonder von Rebs whip us so often, when
you have the women folks in the rear to urge
you on, and to nurse you when you are woun
ded.’
•You didn’t whip u* at Manassas, when you
had the ladies in the rear, ready to go on to
Richmond,’ calls eat a burly gaard.
A hearty laugh from captors and prisoners;
wounded, nurses, aDd surgeons follow this
sally. An almost forgotten flag, the stars and
stripes, is borne by a wounded soldier from
Mississippi, who has snatched it from the ene
my and brings it with him.
Night falls upon us amid the roar cf cannon
and ball, and we decide to stay w‘i«re we are,
as we are tol l that the enemy occupies Get
tysburg. It is late when G neral Lee and staff
come, riding by, slowly. How each counte
nance beams at the sight of that noble tace!
Thankfully we coil np in the carriage, and
sleep dreamlessly until morning. We eat our
cold breakfast, and, escorted by Seab and Ma
jor . we start for the field of yesterday's
carnage.
‘Miss Helen!’* cries Liia, they are moving the
bodies.’
The horrible sickness of yesterday overcomes
me, and I faint away. When I wake to conscious
ness, John's faoe is bending over me. Silently
I clasp him in my arms, bursting into passion
ate weeping.
‘Helen, how came yon here?* he asks.
•We came to nurse you.
‘How is mother, Yalarie, Eve and Barbara? 1
he asks.
Valarie has been sick, bnt is much better.
Eve and Barbarie are well. Molher, oh John. I
fear mother will not be with us much longer.
It is terrible for her to live now. In a few more
weeks she will join father. Speak to Pen,
John.'
‘Dear Pen, I am glad to see you, even in this
terrible place,’ he says; afterward shaking hands
with Lila, Mary and Dora.
I give John an account of onr journey, and
yesterday’s experience; adding.
‘John, there's a boy, a young soldier from
Alabama, that I want you to bury for me.’
He calls Seab and two menj^and digs a grave
under a wide spreading oak, close beside a
large rock, and ‘Will,’ the pride of a mother’s
fond heart, is consigned to the grave on the hill
From that unmarked grave will he rise on the
last great day.
Untill then, ‘Will,’ sleep peacefully in
your low grave on the hillside; over
which in time the violets and daises will blos
som and fade, the spring grass will grow and
wither, the winter winds wearily sigh, the
spriDg zephyrs will chaunt their requiems, trees
whisper their dirges.
We busy ourselves attending the wounded,
while John sees that the dead are taken away.
At noon John leaves us, promising, if practicable,
he will carry us in sight of the battle. He says
the enemy has the advantage in position, and
General J. E. B. Stuart, is absent with his
cavalry, causing much discomfiture among
the officers. At three, p. m., John comes to us,
and we are hastily driven within sight of the
armies, npon a raised eminence, covered with
trees; here we are to remain until he returns for
us. The horses are taken from the carriage by
Stab, who begins to make a kind of ft>re *st-work
for us. ,
u«»‘7dsteo_-thgv are coinu to fight jn ceme-
At four forty-five everything is quiei.’■ v.-v
have even began to congratulate each other,
thinking there will be no blood shed to-day.
Just then Longstreet commenced a heavy
cannonade on the right. (Here, I would say, I
I am indebted to John and Maurice for particu
lars.) It is taken up on the left by Ewell.
The enemy reply with inconceivable fury. A
dense, snlphurous smoke, intermingled with
exploding shells, hissing and spluttering, for
six miles, loads the air; there being no wind to
float it away ‘it appeared to us like the winding
sheet of the two armies. As onr men charged
there ascends a shout to Heaven. In that wild
scream who can tell the agonizing prayers as
cending to the mercy seat? Now, amid the
screching of shells and flying balls some
thoughts go baok to ‘the cot on the mountain,’
to the helpless wife and little ones who pray
nightly for their return. It is not a fight for
country then, but for home.
While the strife below is at its height, while
human souls are invisibly passing us, released
from the body in the valley below, to that new
home, a band near by begins to play ‘Home
Sweet Home.’ One of the enemy's guns
becomes unruly, and instead of shooting at the
mass of human beings below ns, sainted us with
a cannon ball. There a general disappearance
behind rooks and trees, whose tops and limbs
fall aroand us. We wait a few minutes, our an-
welcome visitor does not return, but vomits
fortbs its death laden missels at the soldiers of
Dixie. We take our place and watoh those be
low us.
‘Look!’ exclaims Pen, who has the glass,
‘there is an officer, hat in hand, advancing
in front of the regiment against a battery. Miss
Helen, its General Longstreet! There goes a
little brigade across the valley under the fire
of the guns on the heights. They have meet
and engaged the enemy’s advanoe lines. They
are driving back the yankees—they rash up
the hights—they are in the entrenchments—
why don’t they send them reinforcement?’
The enemy surrounds Wright and his bri
gade of Georgians. They out their way through
them, leave the guns they have captured, make
their way baok to those tardy divisions who
should have joined them.
The son sinks lower. Twilights oomes softly
on, as if dreading to behold the blood-stained
valley over whioh she has so often wrought her
magic spell. The stars come out, one by one,
to find themselves rivaled in brilliancy by the
flying shells and volumes of Inminons smoke
issuing from the cannons’ months. Flames
wraps the valley below as in one sheet of fire.
As eruption ot Vesuvius could not be grander.
John does not eome to ns, and it is after one
o’clock before we go to the carriage to sleep.
We are awakened at early dawn by John. His
arm is in a sling and his head is bandaged.
‘Were you hurt yesterday?, I ask, anxious
ly.
‘Only scratched. Congratulate me, I am
Major Ross now!'
•With all my heart. You look gloomy John;
is not everything well?’
‘Not altogether. Through the carelessness or
indifference of some of the offioers, Wright's bri
gade, looking reinforcements, Hayes* brigade,
unsupported by his right, were compelled to
fall back after having gained the enemy's en
trenchments and stormed the Cemetery Heights.
It is. a bad loss to us, a good gain to the enemy.
Some one's to blame, bnt not the men. for I
have never seen more gallant fighting done
than by Wright's and Longstreet's Georgians. ‘
Have you breakfasted, Major Rosse?, asked
Dora.
‘Not yet; 1 bave been too bnsy/ smiling at
the girl.
Two hours later John takes us near the battle-
CONTINDED ON 6th. PAGE.