Emeline and Drusilla clung to him—a fearful foreboding of personal evil seemed to take sound and volume with every reverberation of the artillery discharges. But he was firm. He pressed his fond and faithful wives—his helpmeets given him of God—to his martial bosom; and then he left them to solace themselves by prayer while he rushed to the encounter.
Then these two good women—sisters, nay dearer to each other than sisters—knelt down, with arms clasped about each others waists and prayed to the All-Merciful to bring their good husband home in safety from the battle.
One day, two days passed. It was the morning of the 12th day of September, 1846. William was bidding farewell to his wives and his children; when Emeline sobbed anew:
"Oh, my beloved! Let not Augustus go to the battle today. He is but a child: think, William! he is only fourteen. Each day he has followed you, taking his gun on his shoulder to fight the wicked enemy and to brave a dreadful death. Let him stay with me!"
Even as she spoke, the thunder of the cannonade shook the city; and William sprang away to hasten to his post, while Augustus gave a ringing cry and fled from the house.
The two women and the little girls were left alone—Emeline and her younger sister wife, the loving Drusilla, and Caroline and Martha— white and trembling.
Hours elapsed, during which these good women were praying as they toiled.
The sounds of the battle waging around the city neither distracted them from devotion nor domestic duty.
Gradually there came a lull; and a momentary hope sprang up in their hearts. But even while the precious thought was taking form, a rattle of musketry shook the window panes; and a moment later the deep boom of a siege gun—shaking the houses from chimney to cellar—told that the struggle was renewed in all its fierceness.
When this grim messenger dispelled their hope with his harsh voice, Emeline pressed her hands to her bosom and sank upon the floor. As she dropped she cried: