It was the story of another divided family. All of her own relations were in the Confederate lines, and she had remained with her husband to await the coming of the Union army.
The enemy were gathering above us on the Teche. Those oath-taking patriots, whose sons were in the enemy’s army and crops within our lines; who, heretofore, had stood aloof and scowled sullenly at us when we passed, now came into camp, and for once were communicative. They asked us if we knew what was coming, and hinted at Southern conscription, and the damage the Wild Texans would do the growing crop. They feared the rough riders from the prairies, and told many tales of their lawless cruelty. There came in, too, refugees and contrabands, all speaking of the enemy’s increasing strength; of boats collecting for some night attack, and of the reckless fierceness of those Wild Texans. On the opposite side of the river, the Wild Texans began to move in open day. They came down in little scouting parties, hiding behind houses and bushes, but constantly on the alert. We must have presented tempting marks for a long-range Enfield, yet they never fired, but flitted silently about, always observing us, yet never responding to our many shots.
I watched these indications of the gathering storm, with the nervous irritability inseparable from convalescence. But every slight exertion brought on a slight relapse, and I was soon forced, so far as I could do so, to abstract myself from these excitements, and try to gather back my strength in time to be of service in the coming trouble. To this end, I took up the contents of some captured mails. There were a few of the ridiculous letters, that once found their way freely into our newspapers, with bad spelling, and false syntax, and bombastic rhetoric, but the most of them were sad. More woeful letters were never read than these Wild Texans wrote. There were such mournful yearnings for home—for peace—for those they had left behind, that, insensibly, the mind changed from exultation into pity. There was a slight compunction, too, in running the eye over the secrets of our enemies; a more than reluctance to look upon these hidden words, which love and duty had written for loving eyes, and coldly appropriate them as our own. There were tales of want and tales of love—tidings of weddings and of deaths. Here was a letter from a father in Port Hudson, to his “dear little daughters;” and here one from a mother to her “own beloved son.” This is a family letter, written by the parents and sisters, to their “two dear boys,” who now are watching us from the other shore. And this one is the reverse, for it is addressed to “father, mother, wife, and sisters.” The rebel soldier has filled his “last sheet” with sad forebodings, with few hopes, much love, and many prayers. A widow’s letter tells me, that her only child fell at Iuka; and a father’s, that his eldest son died before Dalton. “What wonder,” each letter asks, “that I wish to die and be at rest?” Among so many, of course a love-letter can be found, breathing a first avowal. It is written to some village beauty, and hints at rivals, and her sometime smiles and sometime frowns. The village beauty is, I judge, a slight coquette, who has led her lover along with little encouragements and little rebuffs. His letter is written in a manly strain, and tells her that he had hoped to gain an honorable name, and come back to win her in an early peace. But the peace has not come. He can bear this suspense no longer. He begs her to deal frankly and truly with him, and, if she loves him, to answer this letter. The letter will never be answered! I laid it away, and thought that I would send it, by some flag of truce, to the unknown belle. But my papers were captured, and this letter, on which so many hopes hung, was lost.
The threatening trouble drew nearer. There were frequent alarms—the cannon rung out their warnings often during the night—the long rolls were beaten and the troops assembled and stood on their arms. One night I awoke at the call of the cannon near my window, and heard the men assembling and the ammunition wagons rolling past. To one accustomed to act at such times, such forced inaction is the severest of trials. I watched from habit, expecting the rattling small arms of an attack, but the night wore away in unusual silence. The next morning I was told that all our troops save the sick and a few on guard, had gone. The sick men whispered each other that we were defenceless, and it was well that we had the telegraph and railroad, and could call our troops back in case of an attack from across the river. A few hours passed and then the telegraph suddenly ceased its ticking—the railroad was cut and the enemy was between us and our forces at La Fourche.
No relief came, and after three days of suspense, Brashear was carried by assault. Some of our sick men formed a line and behaved well, but they were quickly overpowered. The red flag of our hospital was not understood by the assaulting party, and for a little while it looked as if no quarter would be given by the Wild Texans to our sick and wounded. I had risen and mounted my horse after the attack commenced, and I now dismounted at the hospital, and with Captain Noblet of the 1st Indiana Artillery stood awaiting the result. The Captain was full of wrath, and vowed that he would put the two or three charges, still in his revolver, in places where two or three of the murdering villains would feel them. A wild-looking squad, with broad hats and jangling spurs, rushed, revolver in hand, upon the building. In no very decided mood at the time, and acting chiefly from the military habit of looking to some one in authority, I asked sharply if there was an officer among them. They stopped, looked, a trifle disconcerted, and one answered that he was a sergeant.
“This is a hospital,” I said, authoritatively. “Sergeant, put two men on guard at the door, and don’t let any but the wounded pass in.”
“Well then, Bill,” said the sergeant, “you and John stand guard here. And now see you don’t let nobody go in unless they be wounded.”
This was the first and last order I ever gave to a Confederate soldier, and it is due to the sergeant to say that he executed it promptly and well.
About the same instant another squad rushed to a side window and poked their rifles through the sash. Dr. Willets, the surgeon of the 176th, at the moment was operating on a wounded soldier. With professional coolness he turned to the window, and in the decided manner that one would speak to a crowd of small boys, said—
“This is a hospital; you mustn’t come here. Go away from the window and get out of my light.”