The HEART of a
SOLDIER

As revealed in the
Intimate Letters of
Genl. GEORGE E. PICKETT
C.S.A.

Copyright 1913 by Seth Moyle (Inc.)
Copyright 1912 by the Pictorial Review Company
Copyright 1908 by The S.S. McClure Company

Published by SETH MOYLE (Incorporated)
New York

FOREWORD

        Through the medium of this volume, which is hereby dedicated to the Great Soldier and True Man who supplied its contents, these letters are given, out of the hands of one who has cherished them tenderly for many years, into the keeping of all those who honor courage, loyalty and the love of man for woman.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

• I. In which the General Tells Why He Sided with the South . . . . . 33
• II. Written After a Light Skirmish with the Enemy . . . . . 38
• III. Concerning Legitimate Warfare, Secession and the Mishaps of an Old Major of Artillery . . . . . 41
• IV. In Which Are Given Certain Details of the Battle of Seven Pines . . . . . 46
• V. Containing a Presentiment of Danger, the Night Before He Was Wounded at Gaines' Mill . . . . . 50
• VI. At His Old Home Recovering from His Wound . . . . . 52
• VII. Mostly Concerning Bob, His Body-Servant . . . . . 55
• VIII. Written Upon His Return to His Old Command . . . . . 58
• IX. On the Occasion of His Promotion to the Rank of Major-General —Telling of Jackson and Garnett . . . . . 61
• X. From the Field of Fredericksburg . . . . . 64

PART TWO

• XI. From His Old Home on the Suffolk Expedition . . . . . 69
• XII. In Which He Urges His Betrothed to Marry Him at Once . . . . . 73

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• XIII. Warning Her to Leave the Danger Zone . . . . . 77
• XIV. When Lee Crossed the Potomac . . . . . 79
• XV. On the Way Through Pennsylvania . . . . . 81
• XVI. Lines Penned on the Road to Gettysburg . . . . . 84
• XVII. During a Halt in the Long March . . . . . 88
• XVIII. While He Awaited the Order to Charge at Gettysburg . . . . . 91
• XIX. Relating Certain Incidents of the Great Battle . . . . . 97
• XX. Written in Sorrow and Defeat, after the Struggle . . . . . 101
• XXI. Containing Further Details of the Battle . . . . . 104
• XXII. On the Way to Richmond, Guarding Prisoners . . . . . 109

PART THREE

• XXIII. In Which the General Issues an Order . . . . . 117
• XXIV. Written After Their Marriage, on an Expedition Into North Carolina . . . . . 120
• XXV. From the Lines Near Petersburg, Va. . . . . . 123
• XXVI. In the Wilderness Before Cold Harbor . . . . . 127
• XXVII. Recalling a Visit from "Old Jack" . . . . . 130
• XXVIII. After General Lee Had Congratulated His Division for Gallantry . . . . . 134
• XXIX. When Butler Burned the General's Old Home . . . . . 138

PART FOUR

• XXX. Upon Hearing of the Birth of the "Little General" . . . . . 147
• XXXI. A Second Letter Written on His Son's Birthday . . . . . 150
• XXXII. On the Occasion of His First Visit to His Boy . . . . . 151
• XXXIII. Upon Returning from a Ride with "Marse Robert" . . . . . 153
• XXXIV. Concerning the Gossip of His Servant, George . . . . . 155
• XXXV. After an Evening Spent at the "White House" of the Confederacy . . . . . 162
• XXXVI. In the Dark Days Before the End . . . . . 167
• XXXVII. Written in Defeat, after the Battle of Five Forks . . . . . 169
• XXXVIII. A Few Hours Before Lee's Surrender at Appomattox . . . . . 176

PART FIVE

• XXXIX. In which the General Tells of a Trip to Washington and a Visit with his old Friend, Grant . . . . . 183
• XL. From New York, after refusing the Command of the Egyptian Army . . . . . 188
• XLI. A Letter from Turkey Island, during a brief absence of his Wife . . . . . 191
• XLII. Concerning a Slight Illness and the Business Troubles of a Soldier . . . . . 197

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• XLIII. On the Occasion of the Memorial Services in Honor of those who died at Gettysburg . . . . . 203
• XLIV. Written while away from Home, after the death of his Youngest Boy . . . . . 208

        For the Introduction to this book, credit is due to McClure's Magazine, in which the article first appeared.

ILLUSTRATIONS

By FRANKLIN BOOTH

• Do you remember, my Sally, how many times we said Goodbye that evening?
• "The enemy is there, General, and I am going to strike him," said Marse Robert in his firm, quiet voice.
• Two lines of their infantry were driven back; two lines of guns were taken—and no support came.
• You must have been up all night, my prettice, to have made up and sent out such a basket of goodies. My, I tell you, it all tasted good.

The HEART of a
SOLDIER

An Introductory Chapter
from the One to Whom these Letters
were Written

        I could not understand the change. I would press my face against the ball-room window-panes and watch the merry-making inside and my little heart would almost break. One morning, while playing alone on the beach, I saw an officer lying on the sand reading, under the shelter of an umbrella. I had noticed him several times, always apart from the others, and very sad. I could imagine but one reason for his desolation and in pity for him, I crept under his umbrella to ask him if he, too, had the whooping-cough. He smiled and answered no; but as I still persisted he drew me to him, telling me that he had lost someone who was dear to him and he was very lonely.

        And straightway, without so much as a by-your-leave, I promised to take the place of his dear one and to comfort him in his loss. Child as I was, I believe I lost my heart to him on the spot. At all events, I crept from under the umbrella pledged to Lieutenant George E. Pickett, U. S. A., for life and death, and I still hold most sacred a little ring and locket that he gave me on that day.

        It is small wonder that this first picture of

him is among the most vivid still; the memory of him as he lay stretched in the shade of the umbrella, not tall, and rather slender, but very graceful, and perfect in manly beauty. With childish appreciation, I particularly noticed his very small hands and feet. He had beautiful gray eyes that looked at me through sunny lights—eyes that smiled with his lips. His mustache was gallantly curled. His hair was exactly the color of mine, dark brown, and long and wavy, in the fashion of the time. The neatness of his dress attracted even a child's admiration. His shirt-front of the finest white linen, was in soft puffs and ruffles, and the sleeves were edged with hem-stitched thread cambric ruffles. He would never, to the end of his life, wear the stiff linen collars and cuffs and stocks which came into fashion among men. While he was at West Point he paid heavily in demerits for obstinacy in refusing to wear the regulation stock. Only when the demerits reached the danger-point would he temporarily give up his soft necktie.

        It was under that umbrella, in the days that followed, that I learned, while he guided my

hand, to make my first letters and spell my first words. They were "Sally" and "Soldier." I remember, too, the songs he used to sing me in the clear, rich voice of which his soldiers were so fond, frequently accompanying himself on the guitar. He kept a diary of those days and after the war it was returned to him from San Juan by the British officer who occupied the island conjointly with him before the opening of the war. I have it now in my possession.

        Three years after our first meeting I saw my Soldier again. He had just received his commission as captain, and was recruiting his company at Fortress Monroe, before sailing for San Juan. The first real sorrow of my life was when I watched the St. Louis go out to sea with my Soldier on board, bound around the Horn to Puget Sound, where he was stationed at Fort Bellingham, which I thought must be farther than the end of the world. Forty thousand Indians had risen against the settlers. For two years he was in the thick of it, and greatly distinguished himself, but he did even better after the Indians were suppressed, for he made them his friends,

learned their languages, built school-houses for them and taught them, and they called him Nesika Tyee—Our Chief. One old Indian chief insisted upon making him a present of one of his children. He translated the Lord's Prayer and some of our hymns and patriotic songs into their jargon and taught the Indians to sing them. He taught me some of them afterward. Years later, one night after the Civil War, while we were exiles in Montreal, General Pickett and I were singing a hymn in Chinook to put our baby to sleep, when a voice in the next room joined us. At the close of the hymn a stranger came and spoke to my Soldier in Chinook. When he left, he invited us to the theater where he was playing. He was William Florence, and he gave me my first taste of the pleasures of the drama.

        Following the Indian war, the quarrel with the British over the ownership of San Juan Island reached a white heat, and on the night of July 26, 1859, my Soldier, with sixty-eight men, was sent from the mainland to take possession. They were none too soon, for when

morning dawned there were five British warships off the coast, with nineteen hundred and forty men ready to land. They proposed joint occupation, but Captain Pickett replied:

        "I cannot allow joint occupation until so ordered by my commanding general."

        The English captain said: "I have a thousand men ready to land to-night."

        Captain Pickett replied: "Captain, if you undertake it, I will fight you as long as I have a man."

        "I shall land at once," said the British officer.

        "If you will give me forty-eight hours, till I hear from my commanding officer, my orders may be countermanded. If you don't you must be responsible for the bloodshed that will follow."

        "Not one minute," was the English captain's reply.

        My Soldier gave orders for the drawing up of his men in lines on the hill facing the beach where the English must land.

        "We will make a Bunker Hill of it, and don't be afraid of their big guns," he said.

        In his official report General Harney said: "So satisfied were the British officers that Captain Pickett would carry out this course, that they hesitated."

        The United States retained the Island and my Soldier remained in command until the outbreak of the Civil War. But when Virginia passed the Ordinance of Secession he resigned his commission and recognizing the claims of his native state, joined his fortunes with those of the Southland, although, like many others who fought as bravely against the national government as in happier times they had fought for it, he loved the Union and every star in that flag which he had so often borne to victory.

        My Soldier reached Richmond September 13, 1861, and at once enlisted as a private. The next day he was given a commission as captain, a short time later promoted to a colonelcy, and early in 1862 received his commission as brigadier-general. In June, while

leading his brigade in a charge at Gaines's Mill, he was severely wounded in the shoulder, but refused to leave the field, ordering Dr. Chancellor to extract the bullet on the field. The surgeon remonstrated, but he said:

        "My men need me here, Doctor. Fix me now."

        He was finally carried off, but was back with his brigade two months before he was able to draw a sleeve over the wounded arm.

        Time has not lessened the fame of Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg, and it never will; for the changes that have taken place in the science of war leave no possibility that future history will produce its counterpart. Truly, "the first day of the terrible three at Gettysburg was an accident, the second a blunder" and the third the greatest tragedy that has ever been played upon the stage of war. With its imperishable glory—overshadowing all other events in martial history, notwithstanding its appalling disaster—is linked forever the name of my Soldier.

        Down the slope into the smoke-filled valley the devoted men followed him as he rode in advance upon his black war-horse. Their ranks were thinned and torn and shattered by the tempest of lead which from every side was turned on them. Smoke and flame surrounded them. But from the rear the men sprang to fill the gaps in front as they pressed after their leader through the tempest of iron. Five thousand Virginians followed him at the start; but when the Southern flag floated on the ridge, in less than half an hour, not two thousand were left to rally beneath it, and those for only one glorious, victory-intoxicated moment. They were not strong enough to hold the position they had so dearly won; and, broken-hearted, even at the very moment of his immortal triumph, my Soldier led his remaining men down the slope again. He dismounted and walked beside the stretcher upon which General Kemper, one of his officers, was being carried, fanning him and speaking cheerfully to comfort him in his suffering. When he reached Seminary Ridge again and reported to General Lee, his face

was wet with tears as he pointed to the crimson valley and said:

        "My noble division lies there!"

        "General Pickett," said the commander, "you and your men have covered yourselves with glory."

        "Not all the glory in the world, General Lee," my Soldier replied, "could atone for the widows and orphans this day has made."

        Soon after the great battle my Soldier confided to his corps commander his intention of marrying, and asked for a furlough. General Longstreet replied that they were not granting furloughs then, but added, with the twinkle in his eye which those who knew him so well will remember: "I might detail you for special duty and you could, of course, stop off and get married if you wanted to."

        In old St. Paul's Church in Petersburg, September 15, 1863, we were married, while the bells rang out the chimes that still make music from that old belfry and are yet known

as "Pickett's Chimes." In the throng which crowded the church and extended to the sidewalk were hundreds whose mourning garb attested to the costly sacrifice which Petersburg had given to the South. Many hands were reached out to greet my Soldier, and from the lips of many a black-robed mother came the words: "My son was with you at Gettysburg - God bless you!" A salute of a hundred guns announced the marriage; cheers followed us, and chimes and bands and bugles played as we left for our wedding reception in Richmond.

        The food supply of the South was reduced to narrow limits then. Salt was reclaimed from the earth under smoke-houses. Guests at distinguished functions were regaled with ice-cream made of frozen buttermilk sweetened with sorghum. But friends of the general had almost worked miracles to prepare a wedding supper. It was sora season, and those little birds had been killed at night with paddles—the South being not much richer in ammunition than in edibles—and contributed so lavishly to our banquet that it was always

afterward known as "the wedding sora supper." Our wedding present from Mrs. Lee was a fruit-cake, and Bishop Dudley's mother sent a black cake she had been saving for her golden wedding. Little bags of salt and sugar were sent as presents. The army was in camp near by, and all the men at the reception, except President Davis, his cabinet, and a few clergymen, came in full uniform, officers and privates as well. We returned without delay to Petersburg, that being my Soldier's headquarters.

        In early May, General Butler, with thirty thousand men, came down upon Petersburg, defended by only six hundred. They held the place till half-starved and ragged reinforcements were hurried in from every direction. We women carried the despatches, and cooked the food and took it to the men at the guns. The roar of the cannon and the shriek of shot and shell filled our ears day and night. At train-time we would go to the station and send up cheer after cheer to welcome the train from its short trip out into the country, hoping to blind the Yankees to the fact

that it brought in only the half-starved railroad men. During the entire week, until he had Butler safely "bottled up at Petersburg," my Soldier did not sleep, and the only times I saw him were when I carried his bread and soup and coffee out to him. It was just as it had been when he started for Cemetery Hill at Gettysburg. He would never stop till he had accomplished his work. After Pickett's Division had retaken Bermuda Hundred the following summer, General Anderson, commanding Longstreet's Corps, wrote to General Lee: "We tried very hard to stop Pickett and his men from capturing the breastworks of the enemy, but we could not do it."

        The devotion of General Pickett's men to him has often been recounted as something phenomenal. It was equaled only by his devotion to them. Very near the end of the war, when the army had subsisted on nothing but corn for many days, as my Soldier was riding toward Sailor's Creek, a woman ran out of a house and handed him something to eat. He carried it in his hand as he rode on. Presently he came upon a soldier lying behind a

log, and spoke to him. The man looked up, revealing a boyish face, scarcely more than a child's—thin and pale.

        "What's the matter?" asked my Soldier.

        "I'm starving, General," the boy replied. "I couldn't help it. I couldn't keep up, so I just lay down here to die."

        "Take this," handing the boy his luncheon; "and when you have eaten and rested, go on back home. It would only waste another life for you to go on."

        The boy took the food eagerly, but replied:

        "No, Marse George. If I get strength enough to go at all, I'll follow you to the last."

        He did, for he was killed a few days later at Sailor's Creek.

        I was in Richmond when my Soldier fought the awful battle of Five Forks, Richmond surrendered, and the surging sea of fire swept the city. News of the fate of Five Forks had reached us, and the city was full of rumors that General Pickett was killed. I did not

believe them. I knew he would come back, he had told me so. But they were very anxious hours. The day after the fire, there was a sharp rap at the door. The servants had all run away. The city was full of northern troops, and my environment had not taught me to love them. The fate of other cities had awakened my fears for Richmond. With my baby on my arm, I answered the knock, opened the door and looked up at a tall, gaunt, sad-faced man in ill-fitting clothes. who, with the accent of the North, asked:

        "Is this George Pickett's place?"

        "Yes, sir," I answered, "but he is not here."

        "I know that, ma'am," he replied, "but I just wanted to see the place. I am Abraham Lincoln."

        "The President!" I gasped.

        The stranger shook his head and said:

        "No, ma'am; no, ma'am; just Abraham Lincoln; George's old friend."

        "I am George Pickett's wife and this is his baby," was all I could say. I had never seen Mr. Lincoln but remembered the intense love and reverence with which my Soldier always spoke of him.

        My baby pushed away from me and reached out his hands to Mr. Lincoln, who took him in his arms. As he did so an expression of rapt, almost divine, tenderness and love lighted up the sad face. It was a look that I have never seen on any other face. My baby opened his mouth wide and insisted upon giving his father's friend a dewy infantile kiss. As Mr. Lincoln gave the little one back to me, shaking his finger at him playfully, he said:

        "Tell your father, the rascal, that I forgive him for the sake of that kiss and those bright eyes."

        He turned and went down the steps, talking to himself, and passed out of my sight forever, but in my memory those intensely human eyes, that strong, sad face, have a perpetual abiding place—that face which puzzled

all artists but revealed itself to the intuitions of a little child, causing it to hold out its hands to be taken and its lips to be kissed.

        It was through Mr. Lincoln that my Soldier, as a lad of seventeen, received his appointment to West Point. Mr. Lincoln was at that time associated in law practice with George Pickett's uncle, Mr. Andrew Johnston, a distinguished lawyer and scholar, who was very anxious that his nephew should follow in his footsteps and study for the law— an ambition which, it is needless to say, my Soldier did not share. He confided his perplexities to Mr. Lincoln, who was very fond of the boy; and the great statesman went at once to work to secure his appointment.

        After Richmond's fall I anxiously awaited my Soldier's return, and at last one morning I caught the familiar clatter of the hoofs of his little thoroughbred chestnut which he always rode when he came home, and the sound of his voice saying: "Whoa, Lucy, whoa, little girl."

        He gave his staff a farewell breakfast at our home. They did not once refer to the past, but each wore a blue strip tied like a sash around his waist. It was the old headquarter's flag, which they had saved from the surrender and torn into strips, that each might keep one in sad memory. After breakfast he went to the door, and from a white rose-bush which his mother had planted cut a bud for each. He put one in my hair and pinned one to the coat of each of his officers. Then for the first time the tears came, and the men who had been closer than brothers for four fearful years, clasped hands in silence and parted.

        Ever since the Mexican War General Grant had been a dear friend of my Soldier. At the time our first baby was born the two armies were encamped facing each other and they often swapped coffee and tobacco under flags of truce. On the occasion of my son's birth bonfires were lighted in celebration all along Pickett's line. Grant saw them and sent scouts to learn the cause. When they reported, he said to General Ingalls:

        "Haven't we some kindling on this side of the line? Why don't we strike a light for the young Pickett?"

        In a little while bonfires were flaming from the Federal line. A few days later there was taken through the lines a baby's silver service, engraved: "To George E. Pickett, Jr., from his father's friends, U. S. Grant, Rufus Ingalls, George Suckley."

        It was through their courtesy, at the close of the war, that we were taken from Richmond down the James to my father's old home at Chuckatuck. But we were not allowed to remain long at peace. General Ingalls warned my Soldier that General Butler was making speeches against him in Congress, and urged that he would be safer on foreign ground. Though he did not believe it, he reluctantly consented to go. He mounted Lucy and rode to the station. It was a pathetic incident that, just as the train moved out, the chestnut thoroughbred lay down and died.

        We had been in Canada almost a year when General Grant, learning of our exile, wrote to us to return, saying that his cartel with General Lee should be kept, if it required another war to make it good. We went back to our dear old place, Turkey Island, on the James River, and built a little cottage in the place of the magnificent mansion which had been sacked and burned by order of General Butler. I once asked my Soldier why it was called Turkey Island. He replied that there were two good reasons; one was that it was not an island, the other that there were never any turkeys there. Everything, even the monument in the family cemetery, had been destroyed, but it was home. We loved it. My Soldier was always passionately fond of flowers, and our garden was an unfailing delight to us both.

        He tried to turn his sword into a plow-share, but he was not expert with plowshares; and, worse, he constantly received applications for employment from old comrades no more skilled than he. All were made welcome, though they might not be able to distinguish

a rake from a rail fence or tell whether potatoes grew on trees or on trellised vines. They would rise at any hour that pleased them, linger over breakfast, and then go out to the fields. If the sun were too hot or the wind too cold, they would come back, to sit on the veranda or around the fire till dinner was ready. There were generals, colonels, majors, captains, lieutenants, privates—all of one rank now; and he who desired a graphic history of the four years' war needed only to listen to the conversation of the agricultural army at Turkey Island. But the inevitable came; resources were in time exhausted, and proprietor and assistants were forced to seek other fields.

        The Khedive of Egypt offered my Soldier the position of general in his army, but he declined. When General Grant became President, he entertained us as his guests at the White House, and one of my keenest memories is of President Grant and my Soldier as they stood facing each other in the White House office the last day of our visit. Grant's hand was on the shoulder of my Soldier, and

they were looking earnestly into each other's eyes. Grant, ever faithful to his friends, had been urging my Soldier to accept the marshal-ship of the State of Virginia. Pickett, sorely as he needed the appointment, knew the demands upon Grant, and that his acceptance would create criticism and enemies for the President. He shook his head, saying:

        "You can't afford to do this for me, Sam, and I can't afford to take it."

        "I can afford to do anything I please," said Grant. My Soldier still shook his head, but the deep emotion of his heart shone in his tear-dimmed eyes, and in Grant's, as they silently grasped each other's hands and then walked away in opposite directions and looked out of separate windows, while I stole away.

        My Soldier was urged to accept the position with Generals Beauregard and Early in connection with the Louisiana Lottery. There was a large salary attached to it, but he said there was not money enough in the world to induce him to lend his name to it.

When he was offered the governorship of Virginia, he said that he never again wanted to hold any office, and would be glad to see Kemper, his old brigadier, made governor. Kemper was the only one of Pickett's brigadiers who came out of the battle of Gettysburg, and he was wounded and maimed for life. He was elected governor, and as he was a bachelor, my Soldier and I often assisted him at his receptions.

        For himself, my Soldier finally accepted the general agency for the South of the Washington Life Insurance Company, and held the office till his death. The headquarters were at Richmond. I always went with him on his trips, and we spent our summers in the Virginia mountains.

        External conditions as well as natural instincts made my Soldier's life one of deep and tragic earnestness. He was always grave and dignified, but he was fond of jokes, especially if they were on me. Once, when he was leaving home for an absence of some length, he asked how much money I would need. I

made a laborious calculation, and named a sum which he promptly doubled. He had not been gone long when I remembered an obligation, and telegraphed him that I had underestimated the amount. By the next mail came a check carefully made payable to "Mrs. Oliver Twist." I had to indorse it in that way, and he always carried the cheque in his pocket afterward for my benefit. I have it now.

        At the wedding breakfast given for General Magruder's niece at the mansion of the governor-general of Canada, the governor asked my Soldier to what he attributed the failure of the Confederates at Gettysburg. With a twinkle in his eyes, he replied, "Well, I think the Yankees had a little something to do with it."

        In the summer of 87, when we were prepared to start for White Sulphur Springs, my Soldier was suddenly called to Norfolk. Very much against his advice, I insisted on accompanying him. It was fortunate, for after two days of anxious work he fell ill, and

died there. The evening he was dying, the doctor wanted to give him an anodyne, but he said:

        "Doctor, you say that I must die. I want to go in my right mind. I would rather suffer pain and know. Please leave me now. I do not want anybody but my wife."

        The longest procession of mourners ever known in Virginia followed him to his grave on Gettysburg Hill, in beautiful Hollywood.

        General Longstreet has written of my Soldier:

        "I first met him as a cadet at West Point, in the heyday of his bright young manhood, in 1842. Upon graduating, he was assigned to the regiment to which I had been promoted, the Eighth United States Infantry, and Lieutenant Pickett served gallantly with us continuously until, for meritorious service, he was promoted captain in 1856. He served with distinguished valor in all the battles of General Scott in Mexico, including the siege of Vera Cruz, and was always conspicuous for gallantry. He was the first to scale the parapets of Chapultepec on the 13th of September, 1847, and was the brave American who unfurled our flag over the castle as the enemy's troops retreated,

firing at the splendid Pickett as he floated our victorious colors.

        "In memory I can see him, of medium height, of graceful build, dark, glossy hair, worn almost to his shoulders in curly waves, of wondrous pulchritude and magnetic presence, as he gallantly rode from me on that memorable third day of July, 1863, saying, in obedience to the imperative order to which I could only bow assent, 'I will lead my division forward, General Longstreet.' He was devoted to his martial profession . . .

        "His greatest battle was really at Five Forks, April 1, 1865, where his plans and operations were masterful and skillful. If they had been executed as he designed them there might have been no Appomattox, and despite the disparity of overwhelming numbers, a brilliant victory would have been his if reinforcements which he had every reason to expect had opportunely reached him; but they were not ordered in season and did not join the hard-pressed Pickett until night, when his position had long since been attacked by vastly superior numbers with repeating rifles.

        "He was of an open, frank, and genial temperament, but he felt very keenly the distressing calamities entailed upon the beloved sunny South by the results of the war; yet, with the characteristic fortitude of a soldier, he bowed with resignation to the inevitable, gracefully accepted the situation, recognized the duty of the unfortunate to accept the

results in no querulous spirit, and felt his obligation to share its effects.

        "No word of blame, or censure even, of his superior officers ever escaped Pickett's lips, but he nevertheless felt profoundly the sacrifice of his gallant soldiers whom he so loved. At Five Forks he had a desperate but a fighting chance, and if any soldier could have snatched victory from defeat, it was the intrepid Pickett, and it was cruel to leave that brilliant and heroic leader and his Spartan band to the same hard straits they so nobly met at Gettysburg. At Five Forks Pickett lost more men in thirty minutes than we lost, all told, in the recent Spanish-American war from bullets, wounds, sickness, or any other casualty, showing the unsurpassed bravery with which Pickett fought, and the tremendous odds and insuperable disadvantages under and against which this incomparable soldier so bravely contended; but with George E. Pickett, whether fighting under the stars and stripes at Chapultepec, or under the stars and bars at Gettysburg, duty was his polar star, and with him duty was above consequences, and at a crisis, he would throw them overboard."

        General McClellan has said:

        "Perhaps there is no doubt that he was the best infantry soldier developed on either side during the Civil War. His friends and admirers are by no means confined to the Southern people or soldiers to whom he gave his heart and best affections and of whom he was so noble a type, but throughout the North and on the Pacific coast, where he long served, his friends and lovers are legion.

        "He was of the purest type of the perfect soldier, possessing manly beauty in the highest degree; a mind large and capable of taking in the bearings of events under all circumstances; of that firm and dauntless texture of soul that no danger or shock of conflict could appall or confuse; full of that rare magnetism which could infuse itself into masses of men and cause any mass under his control to act as one; his perception clear; his courage of that rare proof which rose to the occasion; his genius for war so marked that his companions all knew that his mind worked clearer under fire and in the 'deadly and imminent breach,' than even at mess-table or in the merry bivouac, where his genial and kindly comradeship and his perfect breeding as a gentleman made him beloved of his friends.

        "He will live in history as nearer to Light Horse Harry, of the Revolution, than any other of the many heroes produced by Old Virginia—his whole history, when told, as it will be by some of the survivors of Pickett's men, will reveal a modern type of the Chevalier Bayard, sans peur et sans reproche. . . .

        "Could he have had his wish, he had died amid the roar of battle. No man of our age has better illustrated the aptitude for war of his class of our country, and with these talents for war was united the truest and sweetest nature. No man of his time was more beloved of women, of men and of soldiers. He was to the latter a rigid disciplinarian and at the same time the soldier's friend. Virginia will

rank him in her roll of fame with Lee, with Johnston, with Jackson they love as Stonewall; and mourners for the noble and gallant gentleman, the able and accomplished soldier, are legion."

        These were the tributes of friend and enemy - if any man, though he fought him on the field of battle, could be called his enemy. Rivers of blood did not quench the flames of the campfires of Mexico and the West. My Soldier's comrades under the old flag were still his comrades through the crucial test of that most deadly warfare, a conflict between the opposing sections of the same country.

        To me the legacy of love that he left in his letters and in the memories of his daily life is greater than any riches earth could give. The nobility of soul with which he met the problems that come to men in the arena of the world is a treasured possession in my heart even greater than his magnificent heroism on the field of battle. The radiance of the stars in the blue sky of peace eclipse the crimson glow of the fiery comet of war. The heart of "My Soldier" is mine to-day as it was

in that long-gone yesterday when I awaited the messages that link the battlefield with tomorrow's Eternal Harmony.

LA SALLE CORBELL PICKETT.

PART ONE
In the early days
of the Long Struggle

        AT the time when these letters begin, the General (then Captain Pickett, U.S.A.) was stationed at Fort Bellingham in the northwest. Before leaving Virginia, he had become engaged to "Little Miss Sally" Corbell, who during his absence was fitting herself at school to be a soldier's wife. The summons to arms in the cause of the seceding states was late in reaching the Captain at his far-away post, and he, being in the dark as to the course of events, was even more tardy to respond; but when the news came telling of the withdrawal of his native state from the Union he resigned his commission immediately and cast his lot with that of the Confederacy.

        The letters in this part give many vivid glimpses of the armies in action as they do of the lighter side of a soldier's life, during the first year and a half of the War. There are lapses of weeks—even months—between them, due to the fact that some are missing; others, whose pages time has stained, are undecipherable, and in still other instances the fortunes of war kept the General so near his sweetheart that letters were not needed to carry to her the tale of his love.

THE HEART OF A SOLDIER
I
In Which the General Tells Why He Sided
With the South

made this severance necessary. He told her many things for which, with him, she will be sorry, and some of which he hopes will make her glad. He is troubled by finding no answer to this long letter which, having at that time no notion of the real conditions here, he is afraid was written too freely by far.

        No, my child, I had no conception of the intensity of feeling, the bitterness and hatred toward those who were so lately our friends and are now our enemies. I, of course, have always strenuously opposed disunion, not as doubting the right of secession, which was taught in our text-book at West Point, but as gravely questioning its expediency. I believed that the revolutionary spirit which infected both North and South was but a passing phase of fanaticism which would perish under the rebuke of all good citizens, who would surely unite in upholding the Constitution; but when that great assembly, composed of ministers, lawyers, judges, chancellors, statesmen, mostly white haired men of thought, met in South Carolina and when their districts were called crept noiselessly to the table in

the center of the room and affixed their signatures to the parchment on which the ordinance of secession was inscribed, and when in deathly silence, spite of the gathered multitude, General Jamison arose and without preamble read: "The ordinance of secession has been signed and ratified; I proclaim the State of South Carolina an independent sovereignty," and lastly, when my old boyhood's friend called for an invasion, it was evident that both the advocates and opponents of secession had read the portents aright.

        You know, my little lady, some of those cross-stitched mottoes on the cardboard samplers which used to hang on my nursery wall, such as, "He who provides not for his own household is worse than an infidel" and "Charity begins at home," made a lasting impression upon me; and while I love my neighbor, i.e., my country, I love my household, i. e., my state, more, and I could not be an infidel and lift my sword against my own kith and kin, even though I do believe, my most wise little counselor and confidante, that the measure of American greatness can be

achieved only under one flag, and I fear, alas, there can never again reign for either of us the true spirit of national unity whether divided under two flags or united under one.

        We did not tarry even for a day in 'Frisco, but under assumed names my friend, Sam Barron, and I sailed for New York, where we arrived on the very day that Sam's father, Commodore Barron, was brought there a prisoner, which fact was proclaimed aloud by the pilot amid cheers of the passengers and upon our landing heralded by the newsboys with more cheers. Poor Sam had a hard fight to hide his feelings and to avoid arrest. We separated as mere ship acquaintances, and went by different routes to meet again, as arranged, at the house of Doctor Paxton, a Southern sympathizer and our friend.

        On the next day we left for Canada by the earliest train. Thence we made our perilous way back south again, barely escaping arrest several times, and finally arrived in dear old Richmond, September 13th, just four days ago. I at once enlisted in the army and the

following day was commissioned Captain. But so bitter is the feeling here that my being unavoidably delayed so long in avowing my allegiance to my state has been most cruelly and severely criticized by friends—yes, and even relatives, too.

        Now, little one, if you had the very faintest idea how happy a certain captain in the C.S.A. (My, but that "C" looks queer!) would be to look into your beautiful, soul-speaking eyes and hear your wonderfully musical voice, I think you would let him know by wire where he could find you. I shall almost listen for the electricity which says, "I am at—. Come." I know that you will have mercy on your devoted

SOLDIER.

             Richmond, September 17, 1861.

II
Written After a Light Skirmish With the Enemy

1. A wreath and stars, which she had embroidered for his collar.

harm. I don't know when I shall see you, but I should be nearly as far from you as at present. At any rate, I should be worse than miserable did I know you were so near these now apparently infuriated beings.

        Alas, my darling, as the Indian says when despondent, "My heart is on the ground." The enemy has been strongly reënforced, and the town is one network of batteries and entrenchments. I have had two little brushes with them, running them into their works both times—the first one yesterday week. I was ordered to make a reconnaissance in force, which was done by a part of Armistead's Brigade, and in so doing we got under a concentrated fire of about sixteen guns and had as jolly a little time of it for about fifteen minutes as I ever saw. Parrot and round shot were about as thick as the ticks are, and their name is legion. However, the object was effected, and we have lost altogether only about seventy-five men from my division.

        Haven't you some relatives living this side of the Blackwater—a Captain Phillips of the 3rd? Write me, my dearest. Two long,

weary weeks since I drank comfort from those bright eyes—to me a year of anxiety.

Your devoted and miserable

SOLDIER.

            New Somerton Road, April 21, 1862.

III
Concerning Legitimate Warfare, Secession
and the Mishaps of an Old Major of
Artillery

        Why, my Sally, all that we ask is a separation from people of contending interests, who love us as a nation as little as we love them, the dissolution of a union which has lost its

holiness, to be let alone and permitted to sit under our own vine and fig tree and eat our figs peeled and dried or fresh or pickled, just as we choose. The enemy is our enemy because he neither knows nor understands us, and yet will not let us part in peace and be neighbors, but insists on fighting us to make us one with him, forgetting that both slavery and secession were his own institutions. The North is fighting for the Union, and we—for home and fireside. All the men I know and love in the world—comrades and friends, both North and South—are exposed to hardships and dangers, and are fighting on one side or the other, and each for that which he knows to be right.

        Speaking of fighting, Captain Peacock this morning brings us the news that the daring, fearless—has again won—shall I say, a victory? No, not victory. Victory is such a glorious, triumphant word. I cannot use it in speaking of warfare that is illegal to many of us. Marse Robert's ¹ approval and commendation of this illegitimate mode is a source of surprise, for, like many of us, the dear old

1. General Lee.

"Tyee" was reared and schooled in honorable warfare.

        Well, as Trenholm said, only those who have enlisted for this whole war, with muskets on their shoulders and knapsacks on their backs, have a right to criticize; but I reserve even from these the right, and acknowledge myself wrong in criticizing. An old army story, though hardly illustrative enough to be justifiable in telling, occurs to me:

        An old major of artillery, who was always deploring the fact that he couldn't use his own favorite arm against the Indians, determined one day to try the moral effect of it upon a tribe of friendly ones nearby. So he took one of the small howitzers which defended the fort and securely strapped it to the back of an army mule, with the muzzle projecting over the mule's tail, and then proceeded with the captain, sergeant and orderly to the bluff on the bank of the Missouri where the Indians were encamped. The gun was loaded and primed, the fuse inserted and the mule backed to the very edge of the bluff.

        The mule with his wonted curiosity, hearing the fizzing, turned his head to see what

unusual thing was happening to him. The next second his feet were bunched up together, making forty revolutions a minute, the gun threatening with instant destruction everything within a radius of five miles. The captain climbed a tree, the sergeant and orderly following suit. The fat major, too heavy to climb, rolled over on the ground, alternately praying to God and cursing the mule. When the explosion came, the recoil of the gun and the wild leap of the terrified mule carried both over the bluff and to the bottom of the river. The captain, the sergeant and the poor, crestfallen, discomfited major, with the mule and the gun to account for, returned to the fort, soon to be waited on by the Indian chiefs, who had held a hurried council. The high chief, bowing his head up and down, said:

        "Injun go home. Injun ver' brave. Injun love white man. Injun help white man. Injun heap use gun, use knife, heap use bow-arrow; but when white man shoot off whole jackass, Injun no think right—no can understand. Injun no help white man fight that way. Injun go home."

        So, my Sally, if you will forgive your Soldier for telling this old-time story and let him say that he does not approve of fighting in the way in which- fights, he will bid you good-by and eat his breakfast, which the cook says is getting cold. Will you come, my darling, and have some coffee with your Soldier? It is some we captured, and is real coffee.

        Come! The tin cup is clean and shining; but the corn-bread is greasy and smoked. And the bacon—that is greasy, too, but it is good and tastes all right, if it will only hold out till our Stars and Bars wave over the land of the free and the home of the brave, and we have our own home. Nevermore we'll hear of wars, but only love and life with its eternal joys.

YOUR OWN SOLDIER.

            Headquarters, May—, 1862.

IV
In Which Are Given Certain Important Details
of the Battle of Seven Pines

        I pray that you accepted the invitation of your mountain chum, and that your beautiful eyes and tender heart have been spared the horrors of war which this battle must have poured into sad Richmond. Three hundred and fifty of your Soldier's brigade, 1,700 strong, were killed or wounded, and all fought as Virginians should, fighting as they did for the right, for love, honor, home and state— principles which they had been taught from the mothers' knees, the schoolroom and the pulpit.

        Under orders from Old Peter, ¹ we marched

1. General Longstreet.

at daylight and reported to D. H. Hill, near Seven Pines. Hill directed me to ride over and communicate with Hood. I started at once with Charlie and Archer, of my staff, to obey this order, but had gone only a short distance when we met a part of the Louisiana Zouaves in panic. I managed to seize and detain one fellow, mounted on a mule that seemed to have imbibed his rider's fear and haste. The man dropped his plunder and seizing his carbine threatened to kill me unless I released him at once, saying that the Yankees were upon his heels. We galloped back to Hill's headquarters—Archer bringing up the rear with the Zouave, who explained that the enemy were advancing in force and were within a few hundred yards of us. Hill ordered me to attack at once, which I did, driving them through an abatis over a crossroad leading to the railroad.

        As we were nearing the second abatis, I, on foot at the time, noticed that Armistead's Brigade had broken, and sent a courier back post-haste to Hill for troops. A second and third message were sent and then a fourth, telling him that if he would send me more troops and

ammunition we could drive the enemy across the Chickahominy. But alas, Hill, as brave, as great, as heroic a soldier as he is, has, since the fall of Johnston, been so bothered and annoyed with countermanding orders that he was, if I may say so, confused and failed to respond. After this delay nothing was left for us but to withdraw. Hill sent two regiments of Colston's Brigade and ordered Mahone's Brigade on my right, and at one o'clock at night, under his orders, we withdrew in perfect order and the enemy retreated to their bosky cover.

        Thus, my darling, was ended the Battle of Seven Pines. No shot was fired afterward. How I wish I could say it ended all battles and that the last shot that will ever be heard was fired on June first, 1862. What a change love does make! How tender all things become to a heart touched by love—how beautiful the beautiful is and how abhorrent is evil! See, my darling, see what power you have— guard it well.

        I have heard that my dear old friend, McClellan, is lying ill about ten miles from here. May some loving, soothing hand minister to

him. He was, he is and he will always be, even were his pistol pointed at my heart, my dear, loved friend. May God bless him and spare his life. You, my darling, may not be in sympathy with this feeling, for I know you see "no good in Nazareth." Forgive me for feeling differently from you, little one, and please don't love me any the less. You cannot understand the entente cordiale between us "old fellows."

Faithfully,
YOUR SOLDIER.

            Mechanicsville Turnpike, June 1, 1862.

V
Containing a Presentiment of Danger—the
Night Before He was Wounded at
Gaines's Mill

        This morning my brigade moved from its cantonments on the Williamsburg road and by daybreak was marching along the Mechanicsville turnpike, leading north of Richmond. The destination and character of the expedition, my darling, is unknown; but the position of other troops indicates a general movement. This evening we crossed the Chickahominy and are bivouacked on our guns in the road in front of Mechanicsville, from which point

I am blessing my spirit and refreshing my soul by sending a message to my promised wife. I am tired and sleepy, several times to-day going to sleep on my horse.

        This war was really never contemplated in earnest. I believe if either the North or the South had expected that their differences would result in this obstinate struggle, the cold-blooded Puritan and the cock hatted Huguenot and Cavalier would have made a compromise. Poor old Virginia came oftener than Noah's dove with her olive branch. Though she desired to be loyal to the Union of States, she did not believe in the right of coercion, and when called upon to furnish troops to restrain her sister states she refused, and would not even permit the passage of an armed force through her domain for that purpose. With no thought of cost, she rolled up her sleeves, ready to risk all in defense of a principle consecrated by the blood of her fathers. And now, alas, it is too late. We must carry through this bitter task unto the end. May the end be soon!

YOUR SOLDIER.

            In Camp, June 27, 1862.

VI
At His Old Home Recovering From His
Wound

        Impatient and restive as I am to get back to the field, letters and reports just received show me that I am not missed and that my gallant old brigade is proving its valor as loyally under its new leader as when it so fearlessly followed your Soldier. It held Waterloo

Bridge against Pope while Jackson crossed the Rappahannock, and on the afternoon of the 30th received and repelled the onset of Fitz John Porter, magnificently clearing the field and winning a victory for our arms.

        The news came, too, this morning of the death of Kearny, one of the most brilliant generals of the Federal Army, a man whose fame as a soldier is world-wide. I knew him first in Mexico, where, as you know, he lost an arm at the siege of Mexico City. In Algeria he won the Cross of the Legion of Honor. He fought with the French in the battles of Magenta and Solferino and received also from Napoleon Third the decoration of the Legion of Honor. I wish we had taken him prisoner instead of shooting him. I hate to have such a man as Kearny killed. Marse Robert, who was his old friend, sent his body to Pope under a flag of truce. I am glad he did that—poor old Kearny!

        The same courier, brought the sad news that our Ewell had lost a leg and our Talliaferro had been wounded. And these are the horrors to which, when away from you, my

beautiful darling, your soldier is impatient to return.

        Never, never did men, since the world began, fight like ours. The Duke of Somerset, who sneeringly laughed when he saw our ragged, dirty, barefooted soldiers—"Mostly beardless boys," as he said—took off his hat in reverence when he saw them fight.

Lovingly,
YOUR SOLDIER.

            July 15, 1862.

VII
Mostly Concerning Bob, His Body-Servant

        The dear old doctor understood; he winked at me and changed the subject. He is as loyal to the South, dear old fellow, as if his ancestors had landed at Jamestown. When he asked after my wound he said he would like to pray with me, though the dear old man

pronounced it, with his German accent, "bray," and that reminded me of a story, and instead of having my thoughts and my heart set upon his beautiful prayer as I should have - miserable sinner that I was—I began thinking of Tom August, who said that one Sunday someone meeting him coming out of Old St. Paul's asked him what was the matter. He replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm not a jackass and I'm not going to bray, and old Doctor Minnegerode not only insists that I, but that his whole congregation, shall 'bray.' I, for one, will not do it and I don't want to make a row about it; so I came out. I wonder what the effect would be if we took him literally and did all 'bray'?"

        Now, my darling, forgive this foolish story. I learned to like story-telling, listening as a boy to the best story-teller in the world, Mr. Lincoln.

        Even the bird knows you are not coming to-day, for he doesn't sing. I shall hold you to the last line of your sweet note, which says, "I'll come to you, my Soldier, before the flowers die." When Bob asked me, "Is Miss Sallie comin' dis ebenin' er in de mornin'?"

I answered, "She does not mention any set time, Bob. She only says she'll come before the flowers die." "De flowers ain't waxinated flowers, is dey, Marse George?" he asked. "Den if dey ain't waxinated 'twon't be long fo' she is here."

        When I asked him to hold the paper while I wrote, he humbly, beseechingly asked, "Please, Suh, Marse George, ef hit ain't axin' too much, when you comes ter writin' er dem dar words lak love en honey en darlin', er any er dem poetry rhymes 'bout roses red en violets blue, won't you please, Suh, show 'em ter me?" I didn't promise him, my sweetheart. I only said, "Hold that paper steady, Sir, and don't let it slip." But when I did call you "darling" or tell you I loved you, I felt so guilty that the rascal knew it and grinned.

Your own
SOLDIER.

            July 18, 1862.

VIII
Written Upon His Return to His Old Command

        My shoulder and arm are still quite stiff, and I cannot yet put my sleeve on the wounded arm. I have on one sleeve, and my coat is thrown over my other shoulder and other arm.

I can reach my mouth with my hand by bending my neck way over; so I am not helpless. Bob still buttons my collar and does some other little services. Until I have more control of my arm, however, I shall confine myself to riding old Black and not venture on Lucy. Enough of so small a matter.

        My boys are delighted to welcome me back, showing their affection for me in many, many ways. Garnett is still in command of my dear old brigade, which was temporarily turned over to him when I was wounded and which, under his gallant leadership, has sustained its old reputation for fearlessness and endurance. I miss dear, familiar faces, for many of the brave fellows have been killed and wounded. You have heard me speak of Colonel Strange - a gallant soldier. He was wounded and left behind. After he was shot the plucky old chap called out in a loud, clear voice, "Stand firm, boys; stand firm."

        Well, the Yankees won the battle, but McClellan's delay in winning enabled Old Jack ¹ to seize Harper's Ferry, so it was not so great a victory for them after all. Old Jack's note

1. General Stonewall Jackson.

to Marse Robert, telling him of his success, was characteristic in both brevity and diction. He said, "Through God's mercy Harper's Ferry and its garrison are to be surrendered."

        The seventeenth following is recorded in letters of blood for both armies, and in its wake came Lincoln's great political victory, proving the might of the pen, in his Emancipation Proclamation—winning with it the greatest victory yet for the North. It will behoove us now to heed well the old story of "The Lark and the Husbandman," for it will be farewell to all foreign intervention unless Greek meets Greek and we fight fire with fire and we, too, issue an Emancipation Proclamation. I pray God that the powers that reign will have the wisdom and foresight to see this in its true and all-pervading light. It would end the war, and I should assume as soon as practicable the rôle of schoolmaster and husband to the brightest little pupil and the sweetest little wife in all the world.

YOUR SOLDIER.

P.S. Have been placed temporarily in command of a division.

            Headquarters, Sept. 25, 1862.

IX
On the Occasion of His Promotion to the Rank
of Major-General—Telling of Jackson and
Garnett

        Old Dick is a fine fellow, a brave, splendid soldier. He was in the Mexican war and was wounded in the battle of Mexico. He commanded a brigade under Old Jack and was

for a time in command of the famous old "Stonewall Brigade." You have not met him, my sweetheart; but I want you to know him. He is as sensitive and proud as he is fearless and sweet-spirited, and has felt more keenly than most men would Old Jack's censure of him at the battle of Kernstown, when all his ammunition gave out and he withdrew his brigade from the field, for which Old Jack had him arrested and relieved from duty. Old Jack told Lawton that in arresting Garnett he had no reference to his want of daring, which was surprising for Old Jack to say, who never explains anything.

        Lawton, who is one of his generals, says Old Jack holds himself as the god of war, giving short, sharp commands, distinctly, rapidly and decisively, without consultation or explanation and disregarding suggestions and remonstrances. Being himself absolutely fearless, and having unusual mental and moral, as well as physical, courage, he goes ahead on his own hook, asking no advice and resenting interference. He places no value on human life, caring for nothing so much as fighting, unless it be praying. Illness, wounds and all

disabilities he defines as inefficiency and indications of a lack of patriotism. Suffering from insomnia, he often uses his men as a sedative, and when he can't sleep calls them out, marches them out a few miles; then marches them back. He never praises his men for gallantry, because it is their duty to be gallant and they do not deserve credit for doing their duty. Well, my own darling, I only pray that God may spare him to us to see us through. If General Lee had Grant's resources he would soon end the war; but Old Jack can do it without resources.

        Bless your heart, here I am talking of these old war-horses to my flower queen. Well, she knows how entirely I love her and how I have left in her keeping my soul's all.

Lovingly and faithfully,

YOUR SOLDIER.

            Headquarters, Oct. 11, 1862.

X
From the Field of Fredericksburg

        I penciled you a note by old Jackerie ¹ on the 12th from the foot of the Hills between Hazel Run and the Telegraph Road. In it I sent a hyacinth—given me by a pretty lady who came out with beaten biscuit—and some unwritten and written messages from Old Peter and Old Jack, Hood, Ewell, Stuart, and your "brothers," to the "someone" to whom I was writing.

        My division, nine thousand strong, is in fine shape. It was on the field of battle, as a division, for the first time yesterday, though only one brigade, Kemper's, was actively engaged.

1. Headquarters Postmaster.

What a day it was, my darling—this ever to be remembered by many of us thirteenth of December—dawning auspiciously upon us clad in deepest, darkest mourning! A fog such as would shame London lay over the valley, and through the dense mist distinctly came the uncanny commands of the unseen opposing officers. My men were eager to be in the midst of the fight, and if Hood had not been so cautious they would probably have immortalized themselves. Old Peter's orders were that Hood and myself were to hold our ground of defense unless we should see an opportunity to attack the enemy while engaged with A. P. Hill on the right. A little after ten, when the fog had lifted and Stuart's cannon from the plain of Massaponax were turned upon Meade and when Franklin's advance left the enemy's flank open, I went up to Hood and urged him to seize the opportunity; but he was afraid to assume so great a responsibility and sent for permission to Old Peter, who was with Marse Robert in a different part of the field. Before his assent and approval were received, the opportunity, alas, was lost!

        If war, my darling, is a necessity—and I

suppose it is—it is a very cruel one. Your Soldier's heart almost stood still as he watched those sons of Erin fearlessly rush to their death. The brilliant assault on Marye's Heights of their Irish Brigade was beyond description. Why, my darling, we forgot they were fighting us, and cheer after cheer at their fearlessness went up all along our lines. About fifty of my division sleep their last sleep at the foot of Marye's Heights.

        I can't help feeling sorry for Old Burnside - proud, plucky, hard-headed old dog. I always liked him, but I loved little Mac, ¹ and it was a godsend to the Confederacy that he was relieved.

        Oh, my darling, war and its results did not seem so awful till the love for you came. Now—now I want to love and bless and help everything, and there are no foes—no enemies just love for you and longing for you.

        YOUR SOLDIER.

Fredericksburg, Dec. 14, 1862.

General McClellan.

PART TWO
During the Six Months
Campaign Before
Gettysburg

        DURING the period covered by the letters in this part the burdens of the war fell heavily upon the soul of the General's little sweetheart, as they did upon the whole South. Lee's campaign into Pennsylvania carried his army for many months into the country of the enemy. It was a land that was strange to the men and stranger still to the imagination of the sorrowing ones who stayed behind. And at the end of it came Gettysburg, where more than five thousand sons and husbands and lovers laid down their lives for the cause they thought to be just.

        Pickett's charge at Gettysburg is one of those deeds of arms that are immortal. When it was over—ending in defeat as it did, on account of the lack of promised supports—two-thirds of his beloved division lay sleeping on the slope of Cemetary Ridge and the heart of their fearless commander was crushed by the thought of their sacrifice and the suffering that it meant to the Southland.

XI
From the General's Old Home On the Suffolk
Expedition

        While I am writing to you, Braxton and the cook and the whole household, in fact, are busy getting a lunch for me and preparing to load up my courier and my boy, Bob, with as many more lunches as they can carry, to be distributed as far as they will go. My little sister is making a paper box to hold my lilies

for you, and I am writing a love-letter to stand sentinel over them and guard the sweet, sacred messages entrusted to them. Old Jackerie will take them to you and will also bring you, with my sister's love, a box of her own home-made dulces.

        Perhaps, sweetheart, perhaps I say, you will see your Soldier sooner than you think. You know that since the capture of Roanoke Island and our abandonment of Norfolk and Suffolk, all that section of the country has been in the hands of the enemy. Now in the extreme northeast corner of North Carolina are stored away large quantities of corn and bacon. Old Peter, our far-seeing, slow but sure, indefatigable, plodding old war-horse, has planned to secure some of these sorely needed supplies for our poor, half fed army—and there never was such an army, such an uncomplaining, plucky body of men—never.

        Why, my darling, during these continuous ten days' march, the ground snowy and sleety, the feet of many of these soldiers covered only with improvised moccasins of raw beef hide, and hundreds of them without shoes or blankets

or overcoats, they have not uttered one word of complaint, nor one murmuring tone; but cheerily, singing or telling stories, they have tramped—tramped—tramped. To crown it all, after having marched sixty miles over half frozen, slushy roads they passed today through Richmond, the home of many of them, without a halt, with not a straggler— greeted and cheered by sweethearts, wives, mothers and friends. "God bless you, my darling," "God bless you, my son," "Hello, old man," "Howdy, Charley," rang all along the line. Lunches, slices of bread and meat, bottles of milk or hot coffee were thrust into grateful hands by the dear people of Richmond, who thus brought comfort and cheer to many a hungry one besides their very own, as the men hurriedly returned the greetings and marched on. You would hardly recognize these ragged, barefoot soldiers as the trim, tidy boys of two years ago in their handsome gray uniforms, with shining equipment and full haversacks and knapsacks.

        Be brave and help me to be brave, my darling, and to trust in God. I won't say, "Keep

your powder dry," for one who doesn't know enough to do that is not much of a soldier.

Faithfully and forever your

SOLDIER.

            Richmond, February, 1863.

XII
In Which He Urges his Betrothed to Marry
Him at Once