We were a jolly lot, however, realizing that our battles, hardships and marches were about over.
A COURTEOUS ENEMY.
One day on our return march, when the troops had halted for rest, my comrade suggested that we make a reconnaissance and see if we could not find a little something in the eating line to vary the monotony of coffee, hardtack and “salt hoss.” Back from the roadside we espied a comfortable looking house and we made a “bee line” for it.
In the doorway stood a woman who returned our salutation of “good afternoon, madame,” with “Go right away from here, Yanks, you’ve killed my boy, Tom, and I don’t want to ever look on a blue coat again.”
We expressed sympathy and assured her our mission was a peaceful and honorable one, we wanted something to eat and had good money to pay for it. At this point in the conversation a fine looking man came to the door. He was dressed in a faded butternut colored uniform and on the collar of his coat we noticed the insignia of a Confederate colonel. He gave us a military salute and said: “Come right up here on the veranda, men,” and turning to the woman said: “These soldiers are not responsible for our Tom’s death; ’twas the fo’tunes of wah, and my deah wife, you must remember that all ovah the nawth mothers are weeping for their boys that are sleepin’ under Virginia sod. These are some of the 2d corps boys, that divided their rations with the 2d corps C. S. A. at Appomattox. These are some of Gen. Hancock’s men that treated me so chivalrously at Gettysburg.”
“You see, boys,” he continued, “our Tom was a sergeant in my company when we went into that fight, and was mortally wounded that day in the wheatfield.
“When our line fell back I couldn’t go away and leave my poor boy with his life fast ebbing out, so I jes’ stayed and holding his head on my knee listened to his last message for his mother and then laid him away under the sod, and of cose was yo’ah prisoner. But no southern bo’n man ever performed a more knightly act than did one of yo’ah generals that night when he sent me back to our lines under a flag of truce.
“We are comin’ out of this war poor, and if you’ll excuse the expression, d—d poor, but as long as I’ve got a scrap I’ll share it with a man with a red clover leaf on his cap.”
As the colonel told his story tears coursed their way down his bronzed cheeks, and the two boys, whose emotional natures were not easily stirred had great, big lumps in their throats. For the first time in many months we sat down at a table to eat a meal. If there was scanty fare there was abundance of genuine hospitality of a warmth that is so characteristic of the southern people.
When we took our leave the colonel called black Joe and told him to “tote” our luggage “down the pike,” and on the way we suggested to the darkey that now he was free we presumed he would be leaving the old place and perhaps enlist in some colored regiment and wear fine clothes with brass buttons and other fixings. “No, suh, boss, spec I allus stay right yere. I lak Massa Lincum soldier mens, and I’se much ’bleeged to ’em, but I lak my ole massa an’ missus a heap bettah. An’ den when Marse Tom went to de wah—Tom an’ I useter run roun’ bare-foot when we’s little—I promis him I allus stay with his mammy an’ as Tom can nevah come back any mo’ I reckon I’se boun’ to stay yere.”