As Colonel Brokenborough grew weaker, I felt self-reproach that no one had offered to write letters for him. His friend the clergyman had said to me: “That poor boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. I wonder what is best? Would it grieve him to speak of her. You ladies have so much tact; you might bear it in mind. An opportunity might offer for you to discover how he feels about it.”
The next time I was alone with him I ventured: “Now, Colonel, one mustn’t forget absent friends, you know, 92 even if fair ladies do bring perfumes and roses and what not. I have some ink and paper here. Shall I write a letter for you? Tell me what to say.”
He turned his head and with a half-amused smile of perfect intelligence looked at me for a long time. Then an upward look of infinite tenderness; but the message was never sent—never needed from a true heart like this.
One night I was awakened from my sleep by a knock at my door, and a summons to “come to Colonel Brokenborough.” When I reached his bedside I found the surgeon, the clergyman, and the colonel’s aid. The patient was unconscious; the end was near. We sat in silence. Once, when he stirred, I slipped my hand under his head, and put his canteen once more to his lips. After a long time his breathing simply ceased, with no evidence of pain. We waited awhile, and then the young soldier who had been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the room, and stooping over, kissed me on my forehead, and went out to his duty in the ranks.
Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. It was my husband. “My men are all dead,” he said, with anguish, and, falling across the bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart.
Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands wounded. Richmond was saved!
DEATH OF MRS. SARAH K. ROWE, “THE SOLDIERS’ FRIEND”
[From Southern Historical Papers.]
Orangeburg, S. C., June 2, 1884.
I feel warranted in informing you of the death of Mrs. Sarah K. Rowe, which occurred yesterday, the 1st of June, at her country home in this county. Mrs. Rowe was known for four and a half years, ’61 to ’65, as “the soldiers’ friend.” I detract nothing from great women all over the South, Cornelias of heroic type, when I state that Mrs. Rowe was pre-eminently the soldiers’ friend. 93 If this should meet the eye of Hood’s Texans, of Polk’s Tennesseeans, of Morgan’s Kentuckians, or of Pickett’s Virginians, any of whom passed on the South Carolina Railroad during the war, her face beaming with benevolence, her arms loaded with food, will be remembered as one of the sunny events of a dark time. From the first note of war Mrs. Rowe gave all she had and could collect by wonderful energy to the soldiers. She had her organized squads. The gay, strong soldier to Virginia was fed and cheered on; the mangled and sick were nursed and cared for. She had a mother’s blessing for the brave; a mother’s tears and sympathy for the dying and the dead. Mrs. Rowe emphatically lived and spent herself for the cause, and when it failed, like a noble woman she submitted, with the remark, “It is all right.” The sight of a bandaged head or limb under her soft touch was an everyday picture. The echo of a thousand cheers as the troop trains passed her was recurring every day. She bandaged and waved God-speed as well. A few days ago Mrs. Rowe showed by request a part of her great legacy—the letters from the soldiers she had nursed to life again. Truly her reward was rich. She passed away, of paralysis, at a ripe old age. The soldiers and survivors buried her. The Young and “Old Guard” lowered her remains to mother earth. When Fame makes up its roll her precious name should stand out—the soldiers’ friend.
Yours truly,
John A. Hamilton.