Macaulay, in one of his essays, speaks of “that perfect disinterestedness and self-devotion of which man seems incapable, but which is sometimes found in woman.”
This virtue, this perfect disinterestedness and self-devotion, was manifested on every side, and on all occasions, by Southern women during the Confederate war. Their constancy and fidelity, their tenderness and courage, their unfailing cheerfulness and patience, have no parallel in the history of human achievement and human suffering.
Think for a moment of the peculiar circumstances. The soldiers on the Northern side fought as the Confederates fought, and were equally exposed to the fatigue of the march and the hazard of battle. But the Northern soldier was well-clad, well-fed, well-armed. Naught that science and wealth could furnish to make him an effective combatant was allowed to remain wanting. The Confederate, on the other hand, was stinted in his food, and, besides, was poorly equipped in arms and munitions. In a campaign, he was more often bare-backed and bare-footed than warmly clothed and well-shod.
Apply the same test to the women. The mothers and wives, sisters and daughters, of the Northern soldiers were worn with anxiety as the Southern women were. The sword of affliction pierced every heart alike. But there was a striking difference, nevertheless. The bereavement of the Southern maid and matron was more agonizing than that of the Northern matron and maid, because the South risked more of its own flesh and blood than the North risked, family by family. This is not all. Apart from the fear of ill tidings of those in service, apart from the anguish that wounds, disease and death could bring, the Northern women had no special care or discomfort. They were in no danger themselves. There was no Milroy, no Butler, no Hunter, no Sheridan, no Sherman, to taunt and upbraid them, to strip them of their most precious mementoes, to steal or scatter their scanty store of provisions and burn their homes over their head.
The Southern women, dwelling in a land which was hedged about with armies and fleets, and cut off from all regular and expeditious communication with the rest of the world, encountered every form of hardship and privation. Living almost alone on their plantations, they were at the mercy of their slaves. It is true that the slaves were, as a rule, faithful and submissive, but the peril existed all the same. There was difficulty, from the beginning, in obtaining such necessaries or luxuries as could not be home-made. As the years went by the privations became more and more intense. There was actual lack of meat and bread in many parts of the South. And, behind the black spectre, there was the threat of rapine and revenge whenever a raiding party should come within reach.
Therefore, it is that the lives of “Our Women in the War” are beyond the reach of comparison, and stand nobly, supremely alone, without peer or rival. Physical suffering, the torment of the body, was added to “crucifixion of the soul.”
What was the depth of their dolor, none but the All-seeing Eye could discern. But those who were with them, who were bound to them by ties of blood or affection, know this, at least, that the Southern women never hesitated or faltered; that every rich sacrifice on the altar of country but confirmed their resolution to surrender whatever else remained; that, in fine, they were joined to the Southern cause to love, to honor, to obey—for richer or for poorer, for better and for worse, and until death them should part!
The bloody struggle ended more than twenty years ago. Many a vacant chair has been filled, and merciful time has brought its consolations. Far be it from any of us to sow the bitter seeds of discord, or to revive the poignant regret at the loss of what “might have been.” For us, there is no country but this country. There is no flag but “the old flag.” To that country and to that flag we are true, in the measure of our truth to the cause that was lost and the flag that is furled forever. How could it be otherwise? The harder the soldier fights, and the better soldier he is, the more is he to be trusted when the strife and carnage are over. The noblest Americans in the North to-day are those who came first to the front, in the battle, and stayed there unto the end. And side by side with them are the Southern soldiers—the old Confederates—who met them face to face, and were as true as they. The better the soldier, the better the citizen. On that platform—broad as our blessed country—stand all our people—all of us—to-day.
Yet right is right. Truth is truth. It is well enough to cover our wounds and hide our scars. But never let it be denied—never should it be denied—that the scars and wounds are there. They are there, however, not to rankle or to irritate, but as signs and tokens of the days that are dead, and of glories and disasters whose memory we could not blot out if we would, and would not if we could! Too much history has already been written for us—too little has been written by ourselves, and for the justification of our people. It is, then, but meet and right that, on such an occasion as this, the truth shall be told, and the whole truth, even if it hurt the feelings of “our friends, the enemy.” It is not for their sake but for ours—not to pain them, but to set forth, in proper light and in true colors, the unexampled conduct of Southern women and Southern men, in the unsuccessful struggle for independence—that the eventful story, with its sunshine and shadow, should and must be told.