“This is panning out first rate,” I said, with less emotion. The emotion was somehow getting out of me, and the affair was becoming more of a mercantile transaction. It was like a young druggist going from the side of his beloved, to the drug store, to take an inventory. “Now hand out that other lot.”
She evidently knew what I referred to, for she handed out over the pulpit a package just exactly the shape of what I had supposed, in my guileless innocence, was a portion of the female form. That is, I had suspected it was not all human form, but didn't know. That was also full of medicines, of which quinine was the larger part, though there was about a pint of gun caps.
“Speaking about stockings,” I said, “please take them off and hand them over.”
She kicked about taking off her shoes and stockings, and said no gentleman would compel a lady to do that. I said I would wait about two minutes, and then, if it was too much trouble for her to take them off, I would come around the pulpit and help. Bless you, I wouldn't have gone for the world, as I was already more than satisfied with what I had found. She said I needn't trouble myself, as she guessed she could take off her shoes without my help. I heard her unlacing her shoes, and pretty soon two dainty shoes and two very long stockings, came over the pulpit, the heel of one shoe hitting me in the ear. As I picked up the shoes I heard the crumpling of a letter behind the pulpit, and I told her I must have all the messages she had. She said it was only a letter to one she loved. I told her I must have it, and she handed it over. I read, “My darling husband,” and handed it back, saying I would not pry into her family secrets. She began to cry, and insisted on my reading it, which I did. It was to her husband, an officer in the Confederate army, and was about as follows:
“My Darling Husband:—This life of deception is killing me.
I want to do all in my power to help our cause, but I am
each day more nervous, and liable to detection. The Yankee
officers are frequently at our house, and I have to treat
them kindly, but it is all I can do to keep from crying, and
I am expected to laugh. I fear that I am suspected of
smuggling, as the subject is frequently brought up in
conversation, and I feel my face burn, though I try hard not
to show it. I think of you, away off in Virginia, with your
armless sleeve, our children in New Orleans, and I wonder if
we will ever be united again. O, God, when will this all
end. I have no fault to find with the Federal troops. The
officers are very kind and through one fatherly general I am
allowed to pass into our lines. I feel that I am betraying
his kindness every trip I make, and only the urgent need
that our dear boys have for medicines could induce me to do
as I do. After this trip I shall go to New Orleans,{*}
where I fear Madge is sick, as shew as not at all well the
last I heard from her. Pray earnestly, my dear husband,
every day, as I do, that this trouble may end soon, some
way, and I beg of you not to have a feeling of revenge in
your heart towards your enemies, on account of the loss of
your arm, as there are thousands of federals similarly
afflicted. I shall love you more, and I will wrap your empty
sleeve about my neck, and try never to miss the strong arm
that was my support. Adieu.
“Your loving wife.”
That letter knocked me out in one round. I had begun to enjoy the unpacking of the smuggled goods, and the discomfiture of my female smuggler, but when I read that loving letter, breathing such a Christian spirit, and thought of the poor wife-mother behind the pulpit unravelling herself, I was ashamed, and I said to myself, “she shall not take off another rag. So I handed back the letter and the dress, and all of the things she had taken off, and I said:
“Put everything right back onto yourself, and come out at your leisure, and we took the medicines and went out of the schoolhouse. Presently She came out, and I told her it was my duty to take her back to headquarters, but if she had no objections to my taking the letter to the general, with the medicines, she could go back to the house where she boarded, and I thought if she took the first boat for New Orleans, it would be all right, and I would see that the letter was sent through the lines to her husband. I helped her on her horse, and I said:
“You can escape. Your horse is better than ours, and though you are a prisoner, we would not shoot at you if you tried to escape. I hope your prayers will have the effect you desire, and that the trouble will soon be over. I hope you will and the children well, and that the husband will be spared to be a comfort to you.”