Perhaps Wheeler and Beauregard and the other vain heroes would have prevented it if they could. Since, however, it lay in their hard fortune that they could not, there remained in General Sherman’s mind no single reason for consideration.
Désirée went truly to the Ursuline convent, passing swiftly through the windy streets on a windy day, choosing small back streets because the principal ones were now crowded with soldiers, keeping close to the walls of the houses and drawing a scarf she wore more fully about head and face, for even through the side streets there were now echoing drunken voices. She came to the convent door, rang, and greeting the sister who came told how alone she was in the city. The door opened to admit her of course, and she only wished that Edward might see her in the convent garden or in the little room where the nuns said she might sleep that night.
But no one slept in the convent that night. It was burned. The nuns and the young girls, their pupils, and the women who had come for refuge stayed the night in the churchyard. It was cold and there was a high wind. The leafless branches of the trees clattered in it, and below, on their knees, the nuns murmured prayers, their half-frozen hands fingering their rosaries. The young girls drew together for warmth, and the Mother Superior stood, counselling and comforting. And the convent burned and the city burned, with a roaring and crackling of flames and a shouting of men.
CHAPTER XL
THE ROAD TO WINNSBORO’
She was a wise as well as a fair woman, and yet, the day after the burning of Columbia, she took a road that led northward from the smoking ruins. In the cold morning sunlight Sherman himself had come to the churchyard, and hat in hand had spoken to the Mother Superior. He regretted the accidental burning of the convent. Any yet standing house in town that she might designate should be reserved for her, her nuns and pupils. She named a large old residence from which the family had gone, and walking between files of soldiers the nuns and their charges came here. “We learned,” says the Mother Superior, “from the officer in charge that his orders were to fire it unless the Sisters were in actual possession of it, but if even ‘a detachment of Sisters’ were in it, it should be spared on their account. Accordingly we took possession of it, although fires were already kindled near and the servants were carrying off the bedding and furniture, in view of the house being consigned to the flames.”
All morning the burning, the looting and shouting went on. Smoke rolled through the streets, the wind blew flames from point to point. The house was crowded to oppression; there came a question of food for so many. Some one was needed to go to the mayor with representations, which might in turn be brought before the Federal commander. Désirée volunteered and the distance not being great, went and returned in safety. Not far from the door that would open to receive her was a burned house and before it an ancient carriage, and in the carriage two ladies and a little girl. There were soldiers in the street and to be seen through smoke beyond the fallen house, but here beside the carriage was an officer high in command and order prevailed. The officer was speaking to the ladies. “If there is any trouble, show your pass. I won’t say that you are wise to leave this place, sad as it is! These are wild times, and there are more marauders than I like. Even if you make your way to your brother’s house, you may find it in ashes. And if you overtake the rear of your army, what can that help? We will be sweeping on directly and the rebels—I beg your pardon, General Beauregard’s army—will have to fall back before us or surrender. I think you had better stay. General Sherman will surely issue rations to the place.”
“We prefer to go on,” said the eldest of the two women. “We may find friends somewhere, and somewhere to lay our heads. We do thank you for the pass.”
“Not at all!” said the officer. “As I told you, your father and my father were friends.”
As he moved from the carriage door Désirée saw that there was an empty seat. “Oh,” she thought, “if I might have it!”
Her face, turned toward the carriage, showed from out her hood. The younger of the women saw her, started and uttered an exclamation. “Désirée Gaillard!” she cried.