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CHAPTER XXXVI.
Perhaps there was never a betrothal made under more favorable auspices than Carlotta’s and mine. Perfect love and confidence towards each other, and the most entire approval of all interested in our welfare! When we met, father pressed my hand most cordially in token of his sanction, and mother kissed me, saying, as she did so:
“My dear boy, it is a consummation I have devoutly prayed for. You have won a prize, indeed, John; cherish it fondly.”
To which my reply was, of course, redundantly affirmative and sempiternally votive.
As we were preparing to leave for Newport the day following I did not see Miss Finnock again, and was very glad of it, as our interview could not have been pleasant; and, in fact, I thought the rest of the party treated me with sudden coldness and reserve when we met at the table.
The night preceding our departure there was a grand ball at the Union, and though I had the honor of escorting Carlotta, her card was so full of engagements that I could only stand off and admire her, as a throng of her devotees surrounded her.
As blind as love is said to be, it is, nevertheless, very much affected by what others think of its object; and, besides flattering our own taste, it very much enhances our devotion to feel that others love what we love. Leander would never have swum the Hellespont if no one else had cared for Hero.
With all the fond pride of ownership I watched the crowd that flocked to Carlotta’s side, when a set closed, begging the honor of a dance, striving to catch a smile, and wearying her with ceaseless and multitudinous attention; and, as I marked the disappointment on the faces of a score, and the conscious triumph of him who led her out, I thought that if they thus sought the pleasure of a moment with her, how supremely blest was I to own her love, and hold her promise to be mine for life.
I was selfish enough to want her all to myself, and brooked but poorly the immense popularity that engaged her time and kept her from me.
At Newport it was the same thing. Her fame had preceded her, and many of her Saratoga beaux followed her thither. Her appearance in the ball room at the Ocean House was the signal for the desertion of other belles, and our drives on the beach were series of stares, of envy from the ladies and of admiration from the men. It was amusing to mark the difference of expression on the faces of the occupants of a buggy or landau as it rolled past us; the gentleman invariably gazing at her, with a smile, as we approached, and turning his head to look back as we passed; the lady looking straight ahead, with a half curl on her lip, as if she would say, “Umph! she is not so beautiful after all.”
It was not till we left Newport, and were returning to dear old quiet Carolina, that I began to realize that Carlotta was indeed my own. Herrara parted with us in New York, taking the steamer for Havana, and promising to bring his bride to see us the next winter.
After spending some days in the metropolis we started home, and then I was happy to sit by Carlotta’s side in the train, whose very rattle made our conversation private, and talk of our future! There is no period so fraught with pleasure to lovers as that when, the first extravagance of the proposal and acceptance over, they sober down into conversation about their plans and prospects; when they talk of the home they are going to have, and how it will be furnished; when they tell of how they will live, and what they will have for dinner; when they make little confidences of their foibles of disposition and temper, that they may know how never to hurt each other’s feelings; when they each draw pictures of their everyday life, that is to be, and dwell like epicures at a feast on the details; she telling of the nice cosy breakfast, with just two cups and saucers; of the fine cigars she will light for him, as she kisses him goodbye till dinner; of the pretty key basket she will carry on her arm, all the “long, dreary morning,” till he comes back; of the afternoon nap, while she fingers his hair; of the evening drive, of the slippers ready for him after tea, of the “hateful newspaper” taken out of his hands that he may talk with her! Bright little heart! is there no tear, no frown, no headache in your picture? He telling of his compliments to her rolls and coffee, of his invariable kiss at parting, of his constant thought of her during the hours of business, of his haste to return, of his often pretending to be sick that she may nurse him in her sweet way, of the many thoughtful gifts he will bring her, of his helping to keep house and stealing her sugar, of his leaning on the piano while she sings his favorite songs, of her head upon his shoulder and his arm around her waist, as they sit together under the moonlight in their little porch, with all the necessary vines and flowers. When they both are thinking, yet carefully avoid speaking, of another tender phase of the picture – when something, not a chair, is rocking in their chamber, and a rack at the fire is full of white cloths, when the gifts he brings now are gutta percha and coral, and, instead of the moon the lamp is kept burning all night.
When we got back to Wilmington I found a letter for me from Ben, inviting me up to his wedding.
It was a characteristic epistle, and went on to tell me that as he “had laid by his crap” and was “outer the grass” he had concluded to take unto himself as an helpmeet, Miss Viny Dodge, though he frankly stated that his “daddy” said he “hadn’t no more business with a wife than er oyshter has for gluves.”
As the letter was dated two weeks back I knew that Miss Viny was already Mrs. Bemby, so I sent my congratulations, and regrets that I could not have been present, and a bridal gift for Mrs. B.
Our own arrangements were, that I was to return to Chapel Hill, complete my senior year, and be married to Carlotta immediately after my graduation; and then we were to go to Germany, that I might complete my law course at Heidelberg.
When Ned and I met again in our old room at the University, we both had so much to tell that we devoted several nights to the rehearsal of our adventures. Ned had spent his vacation at the White Sulphur Springs, and was, of course, well charged with news of himself. As each of us was more anxious to talk than to listen, our conversation was a series of mutual interruptions, and this difficulty of communication, perhaps, aided us in our studies.
When we finally got to work in earnest we found our position as Seniors very pleasant in every way. Our studies, though deeper and more comprehensive, were not so tedious, and allowed us more time for general reading. Ned was striving hard for the Valedictory, while I looked forward with some hope to the same honor; our rivalry, however, was always pleasant. With my studies and readings, and, above all, with Carlotta’s sweet letters, I found time did not drag so heavily as I had expected when I parted from her, and almost before I knew the summer was gone the winter vacation came on. I went home and spent the time in one bright dream of happiness. I was with Carlotta!
I returned to college again in January, full of ambitious visions. Five more months and, with a brow burdened with honors, I would stand upon the rostrum of the University, and while the crowded hall was breathless with my eloquence, I would meet the light of Carlotta’s eyes, and in their raptured gaze find my best applause. Then would come our wedding, arranged with all the splendor wealth could command; then a term of honor at Heidelberg; and then, with Fame’s temple before me, I would climb until I stood upon its very dome. But across these bright visions there drifted now the red cloud of war, and in its murky bosom muttered our impending ruin.
I found the University, as I had left Wilmington, all ablaze with excitement over the secession of South Carolina. The number of students was much smaller than usual, and many of those who came returned to their homes, as State after State left the Union. Our noble Commonwealth, with her resinous nature, stuck tenaciously to the Union, and when she tore herself loose at last, adhered as closely to the flag of the Confederacy.
Letters poured in upon me from home. Father and mother urged me to remain at college till the session closed, and get my diploma, as it would be but a short delay, but I was impatient; I wanted to be preparing for the fray, and Carlotta’s letter decided me. It was full of the fire of her soul, and while it breathed the tenderest love for me, it was fervid with patriotism.
“I know that study will be impossible amid the excitement of the times,” she said, in conclusion, “and you will accomplish nothing by remaining at the University till the close of the session. You know, dear John, that I love you more than all else on earth, but if I did not love my country, too, I would be unworthy of your love, and if you were unwilling to defend her, you would be unworthy of mine. But I know your noble heart, and trust its fervid zeal.
“Remember, dearest, my hand shall gird your armor on, and my prayers shall shield your head.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
When I reached Wilmington I found everything in a stir. Everybody wore a cockade, a miniature flag, or a uniform. Officers, with waving plumes, rode furiously up and down the streets; the roll of drums, as companies marched in from the camps, was heard at all hours of the day; and with every whistle of the train arose the thrilling shout of legions, passing on to the front. Ladies pricked their tender fingers sewing the stout gray cloth, or thronged the balconies to wave their dainty handkerchiefs at their favorites in the ranks.
War was in its youth; the scowl of battle had not yet gathered on its brow, and the flowers with which Beauty strewed its pathway were not yet bedewed with the red drops of carnage, nor withered in the smoke and heat of conflict.
Father had already raised a company, up at the plantation in Wayne, and they were now out at the camp of instruction near town. When I joined, they complimented me by electing me second lieutenant, and I felt as proud of the little yellow bars on my collar as Lord Dreddlington did of his Garter.
What a pastime was soldiering then; sleeping in tents for the first time, cooking our own meals, going out with a new gun to play sentry, marching through the dress parade in the evening, before the long line of carriages, filled with our sweethearts from the town!
I had moved out to the camp, and though it was very near town, I had to get a pass whenever I wished to see Carlotta. The very novelty of this, however, rendered it pleasant, and I no doubt wearied the commandant by my frequent applications. Our marriage had been fixed for the 15th of June, but as our company expected to leave for Richmond by the 12th, we made the appointment nearer by ten days, and on the 5th of June, 1861 – a fair, cloudless morning – we were married. It was a plain, unostentatious wedding – different, indeed, from what I had anticipated. Only a few friends with us, a slight collation in the parlor, a short excursion to Smithville, and it was all over. Yet Carlotta was dearer to me, in her simple Swiss muslin, than she would have been in satin and lace; and I felt, as she looked up radiantly into my face, that she was prouder of me, in my suit of gray, than if I had worn the finest cloth.
On our return from Smithville I found a short letter from Ben, who had enrolled his name with our company, but had not yet come down to join us:
“Dear john,” he wrote, “when Curnal Smith was up here, I couldent leave on account of Viny, but it’s come now, and a fine one it is, and Viny is doin’ well; so I’ll be down sum’ers about the last of the week. i hate orful to leave Viny and the baby, and it’ll be mity lonesome at night, not to trot him on my nee, but I be dogged if ime goin’ to see the yankeys get into north Carolina if my carciss will help to stop ’em. Less me and you git together when we fight, cause I want somebody ime cwainted with to see me ‘mongst the balls, and it’ll help me to keep game.
“if i don’t git to Wilminton in time, i’ll meet you at Goldsboro’. Till Death, yours,
Ben.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Father, mother, Carlotta and I are standing in the dim light of dawn, under the old shed at the depot. We lack only Lulie to be the same party who stood there five years before, waiting for the train. How things have changed! The little dark eyed girl that was gazing out of the car window then is the beautiful woman who is weeping and clinging to my arm now. Instead of mirth and cheerfulness, all around us now is sadness and gloom. Great rough fellows are dropping their first tears, as they strain a sobbing wife or little child to their bosom for the twentieth time.
Delicate youths, wearing a brave face in spite of their quivering lips, are holding in their arms fond mothers, who are putting back the hair from their idol’s forehead, perhaps for the last time; and even those who have no one to bid them farewell, and who are attempting to look careless and indifferent, often lift their cuffs to their averted eyes.
We have no piles of baggage now; a plain pine box, filled with the delicacies loving hands have made, and a roll of blankets, are all that we check for.
How Carlotta clings to me, sobbing on my neck!
“Oh John, my husband, how can I give you up? And to think that I bade you go! I did not know what it was to part from you. Oh, if you are hurt, it will kill me – I know it will kill me. My God, protect him, for thy Son’s sake!”
I kissed her again and again, and told her to look on the bright side; I reminded her of our duty to our country, and spoke of war as a field of honor, not of danger. But the agony of our separation was too close at hand, and my own heart too near breaking to reason her into composure and fortitude, and I gave way to my own grief, and mingled my tears with hers.
A whistle now sounded far across the river, then, with the roar of the approaching train, rose the thrilling cheers of its gallant freight. And soon the ferry boat, dimly seen through the mists, her very bulwarks crowded with men in gray, strikes out into the stream, and in brazen cadences the glorious strains of Dixie float across the smoky waters. Nearer and nearer comes the cheering, louder and louder swells the music, and in the red light of the rising sun gleams the Stars and Bars. As they neared the wharf father said: “Come, John, we must get our seats before the crowd comes in. Mary! God bless you, good bye. Good bye, Carlotta, my daughter!” and he walked with a firm step up the platform into the car. A mother’s kiss and tearful benison, a sobbing scream and a convulsive clasp of my darling’s arms, and I took my place in the train. Bowing my head on my hands I scarce heard the murmur of voices, the ringing of bells, or the quick thrang of the kettle drum, as the regiment from the boat formed and marched to the coaches assigned them. As the long train jerked forward I thrust my head out of the window and caught sight of our carriage and its two weeping occupants. They saw me at the same instant, and, with their handkerchiefs, waved farewell What an acme of agony in that last view!
We had reached Goldsboro before I had recovered my spirits, and I was gazing thoughtfully out of the window as we ground our way slowly under the shed, when a rough hand was laid upon my shoulder, and looking up I recognized Ben. He was the same awkward looking specimen of humanity, clad in a suit of copperas striped homespun. Instead of the old flapped hat he now wore an oilskin cap, which he had purchased that morning, and which still had the price card stuck on the brim. His hair was still long and sandy, though a trifle darker than when we went fishing together; his upper lip, with the scar across it, was covered with a soft yellowish fuzz, that told of an incipient moustache, and his chin was covered with stiff wiry little curls, that looked like the vegetation of freckle seed. Rough and uncouth as was his appearance, I felt, as I grasped his hand, that it was as full of nerve as Virginius’, and that the old brown suit would always be the first hid in the smoke of battle.
“I am glad, indeed, to have you with us, Ben,” said father, as they shook hands, “John here is a gloomy companion. He has hardly spoken to me since we left Wilmington.”
“Well, I tell you, curnell,” said Ben, laying a bag full of biscuit on the seat in front of him, “it streaked my gizzard powerful to leave Viny and the baby, and when I went to kiss the little varmint farwell the tears run round my eyes like rain in a gourd bloom; but I couldn’t make up my mind to sneak at home, and let somebody else git shot for my folks.”
“You have expressed your patriotism very pointedly,” said father, clearing his throat to deliver his favorite speech on States’ rights. “Our fair and sunny land is threatened with invasion by the Vandals of the North, and it becomes every man’s duty to resist them. We are clearly on the side of right. The original compact of the thirteen States was, most evidently, no surrender of sovereignty. Each State retained its own laws, and was only sufficiently amenable to the general Government to preserve unity. The very investiture of each State with the right to change its laws, to execute criminals, and to regulate its own elections, proves its sovereign independence. Do you not think so?”
“I don’ know much ‘bout politicks,” said Ben, looking somewhat flattered that father should have asked his opinion on so deep a subject, “but seems to me that States is folks, and folks is sholy got the right to undo what they done therselves.”
As I had heard these old arguments, differently dished, in every conversation or debate since the first of January, I was much relieved by more troops getting on board at the next depot, and crowding father and Ben out of their talk.
We passed Weldon in the evening, through Petersburg in the night, and were in regular camp the next day. Then war began in earnest; our lines were formed in front of cannon instead of carriages; instead of a flower-wreathed target a man in blue stood in front of our guns, and our bayonets now were sometimes red when we unfixed them.
But do not fear, patient reader, that I am going to inflict a long series of war incidents upon you. You have heard and read all that I could tell a dozen times; and though no pen has yet arisen to blazon North Carolina’s deeds, I will only point to the battle record of the South, and resting her fame on the glorious valor of her sons, pass on, with only one chapter of letters, to the close of our struggle, when the banner we had borne through four years of shot and shell was furled, and the land we had bled for – conquered!
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Wilmington, N. C., Oct., 1862.
My Precious Husband – The little angel God promised us has come, and I am so happy. If you were only here, to see the little cherub nestling by me, I would be too full of bliss for utterance. To think it is yours and mine, darling! I feel sometimes that I must send it to you that you may see how beautiful and sweet it is. Mother says it is like me, but I see in it nothing but your image. I think it notices me some already, though it is only a week old, but I know there never was such an intelligent baby; the very first name it lisps shall be “papa,” and it shall say its little prayers each night for dear papa’s safety. I often weep over it, darling, as I think of the danger and hardship you are exposed to, and Oh! I do pray so fervently that no harm may befall you. We are making a fearful sacrifice for our country. God grant her independence may be won!
There is an old friend of yours here now – Frank, or rather Col. Paning, as he calls himself. He relates wonderful stories of his achievements in South Carolina, and wears his three stars very proudly. He is all devotion to Lulie, and report says they are to be married soon. Poor, infatuated girl, how I pity her!
We are getting on very pleasantly in our domestic affairs; the servants are all faithful and efficient, and Mr. Bemby reports excellent crops up at the plantation.
I would write more but feel wearied even with this, and mother, who has propped me up in bed, threatens to take away my paper.
Our love and kisses to dear father. Johnnie sends his little love to papa.
As ever your fond Carlotta.
**********
—
Camp near Gettysburg, July 3d, 1863.
My Dear Wife:
I write to-night, because I know you will be uneasy when you read the telegraphic accounts of to-day’s fight. I am grateful to say that I am well, and cannot even boast a scratch, though I have been to-day where a thought of life seemed folly. The hardest conflict of the war has taken place here, and even as I write the very air seems burdened with the groans of the wounded and dying. The loss of life has been fearful indeed, as the reckless courage of our soldiers drove them into the jaws of death. Our great commander and our men did all that human strength could do, but the position of the enemy was impregnable, and all our efforts to dislodge them were futile. To-morrow we retire, though we are not whipped, and if Meade dare leave his mountain entrenchments we will put him to utter rout. Would to God our retreat were all I must write, but the old proverb about the plurality of misfortune is but too true. Last night Ned, my dearest friend, died, and to-day father was taken prisoner by the enemy; he was at the head of our company, in a charge which was repulsed with heavy loss, and when we fell back, in some disorder, he was left within the Yankee lines. We trust that he is not wounded or hurt in any way, as, when last seen, he was standing erect, waving his sword, and calling on his men to rally. He will, I hope, soon get a communication through the lines to some of you. Even if he is sent to Elmira, or Point Lookout, he has so many personal friends at the North that he may make his situation comfortable. Help mother to bear up bravely, for she will need help. Prison life, however, is not so bad if one can get funds to purchase comforts, and you know the gentleman who is now holding father’s property for him in New York will attend to that as soon as he hears that he is in prison. But, oh, darling! how my heart bleeds to write of poor Ned’s death. You remember he came on to Virginia soon after we did, but his company was placed in another regiment, so that he was in yesterday’s fight while we were not engaged. Last night, about dark, he sent for me to come to him, in the field hospital. When I reached his side I found him in a stupor, from which he roused only enough to recognize me, and faintly call my name, when he again sunk into that ever deepening coma that seems like the very mantle of approaching death. He had been struck in the breast with a fragment of shell, and his lungs were completely torn to pieces. The surgeons, seeing his hopeless condition, had given him an opiate and left him to die, turning their attention to those who could be saved. He was breathing with great difficulty, and with long intervals between the gasps, as I sat down by him and took his hand in mine. His pulse was scarcely perceptible, and I felt that his life would not last through the night. You, Carlotta, who know how I loved him, know how deep was my grief as I saw him slowly dying, his poor torn breast pouring out its life-blood with every labored breath. I sat, watching him in silence, ‘till midnight, when he opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, but was too weak; he then commenced talking, in a confused strain, of angel armies he had seen marching all night, in white battle lines, over the blue sky, and of how they had formed a hollow square around his cot; and how their commander had approached and laid bare his bosom, that they all might see his wound, and how they had sung a song of triumph and filed back up the blue vault, out of sight. He then seemed to become conscious of his condition, and pressing my hand feebly, said: “I can’t last much longer, John, but I am ready to die, thank God! Tell mother I said so. And, John, let me be buried under the old pines at home.” He closed his eyes and was silent for an hour or more; when he again opened them there was that strange vacancy in their look that is Death’s signet, and the tone of his voice was husky and cold, as he murmured, “The white army – has come – a-gain. I must – go. For Heaven, forward!”
He made an effort to spring up as he uttered the last word, but his strength failed, and he fell across my lap, dead. The bravest spirit that ever led a charge was marching through the pearly gates!
I had him buried this morning before the battle, and marked the grave, so it may be easily found. You must go down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s and tell them how he died.
I close now to visit Ben, who is suffering with a broken arm. Love to mother, and a kiss to my dear boy.
May God bless and preserve you all.
Yours devotedly, John.
**********
—
Our Country Home, Oct., 1864.
My Dear Boy:
Though it has been nearly three months since your sainted father’s death, this is the first time I have felt strong enough to rouse myself from my tears and grief, that I may write to you. My heart is broken, and I have nothing now to live for. I can only pray God for patience to wait His summons. But, my dear child, only those who are bereaved know how hard it is to say “Thy will be done!”
Sometimes I feel, so full of deep despair, as I look to the dark, lonely life before me, that I cannot help murmuring; and did I not know, from all our past, that God does all in love and infinite wisdom, He would seem now my bitterest enemy. O Christ! pardon the feeble rebellion of my burdened soul!
Dear Carlotta is as kind and tender as she can be, and does all she can to comfort and cheer me, but there are times when I feel that I shall die, when I think of your poor father’s languishing on his coarse prison bed, with no comforts near, and only his enemies to smooth his pillow and attend to his wants. I know how he longed for me at his bedside, and how his dying thoughts came back to his dear old home. O John! it almost kills me to think I shall never see him again, never hear his voice calling “Mary” any more.
I hope and pray now for the close of the war, that I may go with you to Elmira and bring home his dear remains to our quiet graveyard – where mine, I trust, will soon rest beside them.
But I must not fill my whole letter with sadness. Dear little Johnnie is running all about now, and lisps our names very sweetly. Carlotta is holding him on her knee near me as I write, and he says, “Tiss papa for me.”
You see from the date of our letter that we are up at the plantation. We brought most of our valuables up with us, and left the house in charge of Miss Wiggs, our housekeeper, who has taken her brother, the cripple, to stay with her, and says she is not afraid of the Yankees. All our servants left us except Horace and Hannah, who are touchingly faithful in their devotion. The negroes up here are too far from Federal influence to be much demoralized, and Mr. Bemby is gathering a very fine crop. Since we left Wilmington we have heard some very sad news about Lulie Mayland. Frank Paning, you know, has been in Wilmington for more than a year, in some position that exempted him from service. He and Lulie have been very intimate, and every one expected that they would soon be married. Lulie made a cloister of her home, and would see no one but Frank, who almost lived under her roof. Of late, dark rumors began to be whispered about them, but no one believed their slanderous import. At last, however, her shame could be no longer concealed, and your once bright, guileless little playmate is ruined for ever. Frank has fled, no one knows whither, though many believe he has gone to the Federal lines, which is, I think, probable. It is but the result of Frank’s long studied designs of evil and Lulie’s too implicit trust and confidence.
The blow has almost killed Dr. Mayland, whose health is very feeble. Carlotta has written to the poor girl, begging her to come up here to us, as her ruin will be less marked in this retired neighborhood. Lulie’s mother was my dearest friend, and I would love and protect her child for her sake.
Alas! all the news we hear now is sad and gloomy. Fort Fisher must soon fall and Wilmington be evacuated; and I fear that even our home here will not be safe from the invasion of the enemy. But we are in the hands of the Lord. May He deliver our struggling country!
Write to us often, my dear boy, for you can never know what a comfort are your letters to your mother’s sorrowing heart. May God enfold you with His arms of mercy! is her earnest prayer.
**********
—
Headquarters, Army of Va.,February 28, 1865. }
My Dear Smith: Your application for transfer to the Army of South Carolina has just been returned to us from the Department at Richmond, approved, and I take pleasure in enclosing it to you, together with transportation for yourself, servant and horse. We regret to give you up, but hope that you and Bemby may render as signal service to General Johnston as you have to General Early.
I remain, very truly yours,
Amos Halstead,Acting Ass’t Adj’t Gen’l
Major John Smith,of Gen. Early’s staff.
As explanatory of this letter, I would state that, when our regiment first reached the Army of Virginia, it was placed in the old “Stonewall” brigade. Ben soon began to attract the attention not only of the officers, but of General Jackson himself, for his daring bravery in battle, but chiefly for his skill in conducting foraging and scouting expeditions. So successful was he in stealing through the enemy’s lines and gaining reliable information in regard to their strength and position, that General Jackson honored him with a special appointment for his own service. Soon after this a friend of father’s, in high position, secured for me a place on Jackson’s staff, and Ben and I were thus thrown together in many a field of danger and hair-breadth escape. After Ned’s death, at Gettysburg, and father’s capture and subsequent death in prison, I became more than ever attached to Ben, and we were fortunate in not being separated till near the close of the war. When Jackson fell at Chancellorsville we were both transferred to Ewell’s command, and at his death to Early’s – Ben receiving a commission as chief of scouts, while I was appointed aide-de-camp with the rank of major. After that memorable valley campaign, and when we had joined General Lee in the trenches around Petersburg, Ben was sent to General Beauregard, in South Carolina, to act as scout and spy; and as I felt lonely without him, and General Early had little need for staff officers in the trenches, I applied for transfer, with the result indicated in the letter.
