Myrta Avary - A Virginia Girl in the Civil War, 1861-1865

Next day came and Dan made me buckle on his sword.

“If you stay long in Norfolk may I come?” I sobbed.

Poor Dan didn’t know what to say.

“I’m a soldier’s wife,” I said with a mighty effort to look it. “I can travel with a knapsack – and,” with a sob, “I can – keep – from crying.”

“I’m going to have you with me if possible. There! little wife, don’t cry, or you’ll make a fool of me. Be brave, Nell. That’s it! I’m proud of you.”

But there was a tremor in his voice all the same. He put me gently away from him and went out, and I lay down on the sofa and cried as if my heart would break. But not for long. Captain Jeter’s wife came for me; her eyes were red with weeping, but she was trying to smile. We were to go to the public leave-taking – there would be time enough for tears afterward. Everybody was on the streets to see the troops go off, and I took my stand with the others and watched as the cavalry rode past us. We kept our handkerchiefs waving all the time our friends were riding by, and when we saw our husbands and brothers we tried to cheer, but our voices were husky. The last thing I saw of my husband he was wringing the hand of an old friend who was not going, tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was saying, “For God’s sake, take care of my wife.”

They were gone, all gone, infantry and cavalry, the flower of the city. But they would be back in a few days, of that we were sure – and some of them never came back again.

I was in a city of mourning and dread, but my own suspense measured by days was not long, though it seemed an age to me then. A week had not passed when I got a telegram from Dan:

“Come to Norfolk. We are camped near there.”

It was near train time when I got it. I snatched up my satchel, put in a comb and brush and tooth-brush – not even an extra handkerchief – and almost ran to the depot. I could not have carried all my clothes, I know, for part of them were with the laundress, and packing a trunk would have taken time; but why on earth I did not put a few more articles into my satchel I can not tell. It is a matter of history, however, that I only took those I have named. The first thing Dan did was to get me some handkerchiefs.

“Why, Nell,” he said, “you are taking this thing of being a soldier’s wife too seriously.”

It was delightful to be in my old home once more. Friends and kindred crowded around me, the river and bay and ocean sang my old cradle-songs to me again, and, above all, Dan was near and came in from camp as often as he could. Then he was ordered away to Suffolk, which is twenty miles from Norfolk, and there, of course, he could not ride in to see me. But that was not so bad as it might have been. I could hear from him regularly, he had not yet been in any actual engagement, my fears were subsiding, or I was getting accustomed to them. I had, of course, telegraphed to Petersburg for my baggage and had made myself as comfortable as possible. An old uncle had taken it into his head to become quite fond of me, and altogether I was very far from unhappy. This uncle was eccentric and had eccentric ways of comforting me when I had the blues.

“Why, Nellie, my dear,” he used to say, “you ought to be playing dolls, and here you are a wife, and if Dan gets killed you will be a widow.”

On the heels of which cheerful observation this despatch came from Suffolk:

“Come by next train. Dan slightly hurt.

When I got to Suffolk four of the company met me.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Nell,” said the great fellows, sympathy and desire to cheer me blending in their eyes. “Dan will pull through all right.”

Then Jack Carrington took me aside and explained as gently and tenderly as if he had been my brother:

“It happened yesterday, Miss Nell, but we wouldn’t let you know because there was no way for you to get here then. We thought it wouldn’t be so hard on you if we waited and sent the telegram just before train time. Your uncle got one before you did, but we told him not to tell you till just before train time, and he wired us back to tell you ourselves, that he couldn’t tell you. Dan is getting all right now – he’ll soon get well, Miss Nell, indeed he will. But the doctor said I must warn you – Miss Nell, you must be brave, you see – or I can’t tell you at all. The doctor said I mustn’t let you go in there unless you were perfectly calm. The wound is nothing at all, Miss Nell.”

Poor Jack was almost as unnerved as I was. He mopped my face with a wet handkerchief, and made somebody bring me some brandy.

But the words ringing in my head, “A soldier’s wife,” pulled me together more than the brandy, and I made Jack go on.

“It’s nothing but his arm. We were out on vidette duty yesterday and we got shot into. You see, Miss Nell, you must be brave or I can’t tell you!”

I pulled myself together again and insisted that I was brave.

“You don’t look like it, Miss Nell. I declare you don’t.”

“But I am. See now.”

Jack didn’t seem to see, but he went on, looking scared himself all the time.

“The real trouble was Dare Devil. You see, after Dan’s arm got hurt – I wish it had been me or George who had caught that shot, but, hang the luck! it was Dan. You know Dare Devil’s old trick – catching the bit in his teeth. Well, he did that and ran away. Dan held on with his good arm until that d – d horse (excuse me, Miss Nell!) wheeled suddenly and dashed into the woods. The limbs of the trees dragged Dan out of his saddle, and his foot caught in the stirrup and Dare Devil dragged him (take some brandy, Miss Nell) until the strap broke. We picked Dan up insensible; he was delirious all night, and we thought for a time that he was done for, but, thank God! he’s all right now. I hate to tell you, Miss Nell, but – you’ll see how his head is – and the doctor said we mustn’t let you go in if you couldn’t be calm.”

“I understand,” I said, “I will be very careful – ”

And to prove how careful I could be, I broke down crying.

They didn’t know what to do with me, poor fellows. They begged me not to cry, and then they said crying would do me good, and I had four pairs of broad shoulders to cry on. They were all as gentle and pitiful with me as a mother is with a baby. One of them got out his nice fresh handkerchief and wiped my eyes with it. I had come off the second time without a change of handkerchiefs, and this time without even a tooth-brush. When I had cried my trouble out and was quite calm, I told them I was ready to go to my husband. They took me to the door and I went in quietly, and seeing that he was awake, bent over him.

“I am here, Dan,” I said smiling.

He tried to smile back.

“Take my head in your hands, Nell,” he whispered, “and turn it so I can kiss you.”

I laid my hands softly and firmly on each side of his head and turned it on the pillow. As I did so, a quantity of sand fell away.

I don’t know whether his head had been properly dressed or not, but I know that for a number of days the sand fell away from it whenever I took it into my hands to turn it.

“After I fell,” he told me, when he was allowed to talk, “my head was in the dirt, of course, and it was beat first against one tree and then against another. When I felt my senses leaving me, I clasped my arms tight around my head. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got hold of my crippled arm with my good one, and when I was picked up my arms were locked in some way about my head. That is all that saved me.”

I took the law into my own hands. Before Dan got well Dare Devil had been shot.

When Dan recovered I returned to Norfolk, and there I stayed for some time, getting letters from him, taking care of uncle and developing a genius for housekeeping. One day I was out shopping when I saw everybody running toward the quay. I turned and went with the crowd. We saw the Merrimac swing out of the harbor – or did she crawl? A curious looking craft she was, that first of our ironclads, ugly and ominous.