If my pen alone, dear reader, could direct the scenes which must be presented to your view in drawing near the close of my narrative, rest assured they should be pleasant. I would tell of a grand triumphant army, marshalled for the last time beneath the Stars and Bars to hear the plaudits and farewell of their chieftain; of victorious legions marching home crowned with laurels, their very footsteps softened by the flowers fair hands are scattering before them; of every homestead, blessed with peace and plenty, greeting its hero returned from the war. I would tell of an Independent Republic, with Robert E. Lee at its head, growing into power and greatness among the nations of the earth; while, with all sectional animosity and bitterness buried beneath the blood of their children, the United and the Confederate States join hands in the noble alliance of progress and enterprise—exchanging products and commodities, aiding each other onward, yet vieing in generous rivalry. Alas! the stern reality presents a darker picture—the picture of a people, borne down by want and woe, yielding up at last their long and gallant struggle, and sitting down amid the ashes of their country to mourn their children dead for nought; a picture of two armies—small, indeed, and wasted by famine and disease, yet still stepping proudly as they remember their long record of victories—stacking their faithful arms and furling their shell-torn flags with tears of helpless bitterness; a picture of Southern roadsides filled everywhere with men in tattered gray, plodding, with blistered feet, their weary way towards homes where gaunt starvation hath so wasted the cheeks of loved ones that they will scarcely flush at their coming, and where, laying down the burden of war, they must take up the burden of fruitless labor!
Ben and I secured transportation on the cars from Durham’s to Raleigh, and set out from there to walk home.
Ah! never to be forgotten are those days after the surrender! How the Yankees jeered and cursed us for being rebels, as squad after squad galloped by us, tramping along our dusty roads! And the people, God bless them! how kind they were to us, even in their poverty! Stripped to almost utter destitution by the enemy, they were willing, like the widow of Sarepta, to share with us their only cake. As we passed each gate they would come out with a pitcher of water, a tray of corn bread and potatoes, and, if the ”bummers” had not paid their visits of mercy, a small piece of meat. Calling us into the yard, under the trees, they would press us to eat, and lament that they had not better to give. And as we eagerly ate their frugal fare, which was more delicious then than were the quails of Lucullus, and rose to thank them and pursue our way, they would put what remained in our pockets, and, asking God’s blessing on us, turn into the house to prepare their humble offering for the next hungry troop.
Thus were the gloomy feelings of our homeward journey relieved by constant kindness and attention from every house we passed, and it was not till we neared Ben’s home, and had left the public road, that I had time to feel the terrible suspense and anxiety about Carlotta and mother that had been in my heart since I left them. I dared not hope that mother was alive; yet my heart did so much shrink from knowing she was dead, that, as I came in sight of Mr. Bemby’s, my feet almost refused to go forward.
As we approached we saw no one but Horace, who was working in a little garden near the house, and we motioned to him to be quiet. We opened the door of the house softly, and heard the sound of voices out in the little back porch, and saw the edge of some one’s dress who was sitting near the door. Then we heard a chair put down from its tilted position, and Ben’s wife leaned forward and looked sideways into the passage. With a loud cry of joy she dropped a lap full of work on the floor, and ran to meet her husband. She was followed by Carlotta and Mrs. Bemby. Where was mother? Carlotta, as I pressed her to my bosom, interpreted the anxiety of my look, and said:
”God has spared mother, John. She is much improved, though still feeble. She is out in the porch. Come with me.”
I followed her out to the porch, and there, propped by pillows in a chair, pale and thin, but still alive, was mother.
I knelt by her, and we both murmured our thanksgiving to God for his mercy.
Then, when Mrs. Bemby had brought out chairs for us all, and Horace had brought a bucket of fresh cool water, how bright and happy were we all as we told of our adventures and wondered at our mutual dangers and escapes. Verily, it was worth four years of hardship to experience the joy of that morning out in Mr. Bemby’s porch.