I was struck with amazement to see my husband, who had been the busiest man there all day, march into the room with dear, pretty Fanny on his arm! I never did know where the necessary ring came from, but somebody produced a plain gold ring, which, no doubt, was afterwards returned with appropriate thanks. The Captain was a strikingly handsome man, even with a bandaged head and those ill-fitting clothes, not even store-made, and we all agreed Fanny looked very placid and happy. Their healths were drunk in tepid lemonade (did you ever drink brown sugar lemonade? If your grandmother is a Southern woman I’ll be bound she has). There was a hurried “God bless you!” and a kiss, and I had to rush home to two wounded brothers needing my care.

Some near neighbors stayed to assist in the further preparations for an early flight. I afterwards heard the entire family, groom and all, were at work all night, and at early dawn Marse Green was able to start the loaded wagons to the piny, sandy country. The bride and groom and two young sisters piled into the ramshackle old family carriage, and were driven off, a ten hours’ trip to Amite. I trust they made it before night, but it was many years thereafter before I knew anything further of them.

I asked my husband, afterwards, when we talked the wedding over, who paid the minister? We had not seen yet a Confederate soldier with as much money as a wedding fee in his pocket. “I don’t think the Captain had a dollar,” he replied, “so I whispered him to be easy; we would attend to the minister.” No hat was passed around, but someone produced a fifty-dollar Confederate bill—unless it was parted with very promptly it was not worth fifty cents to the preacher.

The gunboats the frantic negroes had so long heralded, got “round de p’int” at last, and a battle ensued in the very streets of our town. Marse Green’s house happened to be in the thick of it, and consequently was so riddled that it was put permanently out of commission. The family never returned to it, even to view the ruins.

At the time of the exposition I accidentally met the Captain and his wife on a street car in New Orleans. At Napoleon avenue the car stopped and the passengers were leaving. I asked in a general way, knowing no one, “Do we change cars here?” A voice, whose owner was out of sight, promptly replied, “Yes, madam, you wait for me.” I was thus the last passenger to descend, and to my unspeakable amazement I was received by the Captain and Fanny! She said, though she did not see me, she had recognized my voice, and she reminded me that it was almost twenty-one years since we parted. It was sweet to know that the marriage in haste had not the proverbial sequel of repentance at leisure. They were a happy couple.

The whole wedding affair was a painful and pitiful episode, and for years I had thought of it with a tinge of sadness; but a few years ago, on a later visit to New Orleans, I had the happiness to meet a dear old friend who was one of the busiest helpers on the occasion, and we merrily laughed over the recalled incidents that at the time were so pathetic. The handsome Captain may be living; I have since lost track of him, but every other soul that was at that wedding has gone where there’s no marrying or giving in marriage—I, only, am left to chronicle this wedding in war-time.

XXXIV
SUBSTITUTES

Mrs. Walker sent me a pan of flour! It was the first time in months and almost the last time in years that I saw flour. These, you must know, were war times, and flour was not the only necessary we lacked. Dear Dr. Stone had a bluff, hearty way of arriving at things. When the Federals were in New Orleans he was often called for a surgical consultation, or to administer to an officer, with headache or backache, for they were mortally afraid of yellow fever, and it was just the season for it; and their regimental surgeons were not familiar with the scourge. Dr. Stone frequently “made a bargain” before he would act, and so I do not doubt in that way he obtained permission to ship a barrel of flour—for which all of us were famishing—to Mrs. Stone’s sister on the coast. Mrs. Walker most generously shared it with her neighbors.