“I do wish we were home,” she whispered to herself. “I wish there wasn’t any war!” For it was in the early summer of 1862, when Northern and Southern States were in arms against each other, and when President Abraham Lincoln had fully determined to declare the freedom of negroes held in slavery. Roxy’s father was a soldier with the Northern Army in Virginia, and Mrs. Delfield had taken her little daughter and come to her old home in Maryland hoping that her husband might secure leave of absence and join them.
It was now nearly a month since Roxy had first seen Polly Lawrence, whose father’s farm adjoined the Millers’. Polly had at once made friends with the little Northern girl, and although she was nearly five years older than Roxy, she seemed to enjoy her company and had taken the little Northern girl on many a pleasant ride about the countryside, and on walks over the pasture-lands that stretched up the slopes behind the farms. It was Polly who told Roxy that the river had been named Antietam for an Indian chief, and that years before the white men had settled in this part of the country the Shawnee, Catawba and Delaware Indians, with feathered heads, painted faces, and clad in the skins of wild animals, had wandered along the banks of this placid stream and camped in the near-by valleys.
“But Polly has always called me ‘Yankee girl,’” Roxy told herself, choking back a troublesome lump that came in her throat as she remembered that she had quarrelled with Polly Lawrence; with Polly, who was nearly fifteen years old, and who knew so many wonderful stories, and who sang such beautiful songs, and who owned a horse! Oh! There never was anyone like Polly, even if she did think Maryland people better than the people of Massachusetts; and now Roxy leaned her head on the rough stones of the parapet and sobbed aloud, and was so filled with unhappiness that she did not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs or the jingle of bridle reins until two horsemen clattered onto the bridge close beside her; then she turned quickly and gazed up at them in amazement. It was Roxy’s first sight of Confederate soldiers, and as she looked at the two war-worn men, in shabby gray uniforms, mounted on fine well-cared-for horses, it was no wonder that the little girl forgot her own troubles.
So far, in the summer of 1862, the war had not pressed hard on Maryland; the state seemed chiefly a highway through which passed the Northern troops; and Polly Lawrence had seen many marching men crossing that very bridge.
The two horsemen did not at first notice Roxy. One of them drew a paper from his pocket, opened it and said:
“This is the road to Sharpsburg. I’m sure of it,” and before he could say more his companion exclaimed:
“Well, little miss! You look surprised! Have you never seen a soldier before?” and he smiled down at Roxy.
“Oh, yes, sir! But all the soldiers I have seen wore blue clothes,” Roxy answered.
“And where were these blue-clothed soldiers?” continued the man, as he swung himself from the saddle and stood beside the little girl.
“They were in Washington,” replied Roxy, “but I saw my father’s regiment when it marched down High Street in Newburyport!”