Days went by and no Willy returned. We began to whisper our anxieties to each other, when out on the lawn where no one else could hear; having already learned to be wary of the darky. We were afraid he had died before he told, as he had been cautioned to do again and again. At last, one day Willy presented himself all right and fresh as a rose. Pony looked as though he had been in clover instead of on a long and rather perilous journey. The boy came to me, in the absence of my husband, and handed the receipt. To my eager inquiries as to the delay, he could furnish no sensible reason. He was detained, could not tell by what. Did he lose the road? “No.” Was he sick? “No.” Did pony give out? “No.” “What was the detention?” Well, he “couldn’t just tell.” “Of one thing you may be sure, sir; your uncle will make you tell.” And he was dismissed with a frown. The orphan boy was no relative, but called my husband uncle, from association with our nephews.
My husband’s step was heard. Willy ran to meet him, and they had a long and anxious talk, walking down the road. The bright, animated face of the youth, and his uncle’s bowed, eagerly listening attitude, warned me that Willy did have a “tale to unfold” that was not simply “No,” for the talk came from him. My assiduous pumping must have started the stream, for the anxious listener was eagerly drinking refreshing draughts of news.
We were only two in those days: the children were young, the negroes crafty, and the neighbors scattered; so we were only two, and never did two hearts beat as one as ours did in those times that tried men’s souls, and made the bravest among them feel the need of help, even though it were the help of a woman, whose quick inspirations often assisted her husband’s deductions, and sometimes solved the problem by intuition. There was no secret I did not share—there was nothing done—and, dear me! we felt, while the world was “up and doing,” that we could do so little—but there was nothing done wherein I was not allowed to help. That night we walked by the silent river’s bank, and then I heard the story that made my blood run quick. I longed to be a soldier, and go forth to battle for my beloved land, like Joan of Arc.
When Willy reached within a few miles of home, he was astounded to find a “whole army,” as he called it, on the wary march. He was arrested, as traveling in the direction no one was allowed to pass.
General Breckinridge, with a totally inadequate contingent of men, was moving toward Baton Rouge, then in possession of the Federals. If he could swoop down upon them suddenly, and have the co-operation of a Confederate gunboat, he hoped by strategy to accomplish what might be impossible in open battle. Willy was detained two or three days, before obtaining permission to see General Breckinridge. When admitted, he related his story to the general, even that part he was cautioned to “die before telling,” and in sheer desperation showed the tax-office receipt. General Breckinridge immediately dispatched the boy with a secret message to my husband (with whom he was personally intimate), to the effect that he “was slowly approaching Baton Rouge, and needed all the assistance possible; if he could send any men to join him, to do so; they could bring arms if they had them. He had no hospital supplies. No one could be spared to attend to the disabled, and men who could not engage in actual conflict could battle with disease and wounds in the rear. If lint and bandages could be had, send them, and come himself within two days.” Poor, burdened Willy trotted home, big with the secret no man knew this side of the advancing command.
By the light of the moon I heard the stirring story, and earnestly we talked and planned. We each had a tired and wounded brother only a few days home from the battle-field of Shiloh, on sick leave, both the poor fellows up-stairs in bed, ragged, foot-sore, tired, disgusted, and inclined to think that the “hireling horde” the North was pouring down upon us was a well-disciplined, almost invincible foe. We knew those young men would need no “bugle-call” to summon them to the front; while they really had nothing to buckle on but a tin water-can, they would be off at the earliest moment, and take the chance of getting arms from the first captured men. Then, one by one, we recalled the names and whereabouts of some eight or ten others. Some were exempts; some called themselves by the alluring name of “Home-Guards,” that would fight “right thar,” but couldn’t go all the way to Virginia to do it; and one or two were, like our two, home from Shiloh. We made our plans to recruit, under the calm radiance of an August moon that was destined to shine on many an upturned face on that bloody battle-field, unpitying for the agonies that surge far and wide, blasting hearts that never heard the cannon’s roar. Next morning my husband sallied forth.
“Not with the roll of the stirring drum
And the trumpet that sings of fame,”
but in a very cautious way he went after recruits, and succeeded in raising a dozen, all told. In the gray of the early morning of the day following there assembled at Arlington a rough stalwart set of men. I do not know how many fought the next day, nor how many ran, but they were quietly and soberly enthusiastic. We furnished a hearty breakfast by candle-light, filled their tin cans with coffee, and, as they were not burdened with arms or accoutrements, a substantial lunch was put into their pockets. They marched off in the early dawn, toward the rear of the plantation, and no more earnest prayer was ever offered to the God of battles than ascended from our lips as, with dimmed eyes and beating hearts, we watched them vanish in the veil of mist which at that hour rises from the river.
Knowing that the assault was planned for the following morning, we felt anxious and excited all day; and at evening my husband mounted his horse, followed by an attendant, both loaded down with hastily prepared lint, linen sheets for bandages, and all the medicines we had. They also vanished amid the descending shades of night, and I was left alone with two little children and a few house-servants.