Any group of men in a tent would have had more exciting tales to tell.
I needed no fiction when I had Fanny Wright
, for instance, daily passing to and fro before my tent, with her shy little girl clinging to her skirts.
was a modest little mulatto woman, a soldier's wife, and a company laundress.
She had escaped from the main-land in a boat, with that child and another.
Her baby was shot dead in her arms, and she reached our lines with one child safe on earth and the other in heaven.
I never found it needful to give any elementary instructions in courage to Fanny
's husband, you may be sure.
There was another family of brothers in the regiment named Miller
Their grandmother, a fine-looking old woman, nearly seventy, I should think, but erect as a pine-tree, used sometimes to come and visit them.
She and her husband had once tried to escape from a plantation near Savannah
They had failed, and had been brought back; the husband had received five hundred lashes, and while the white men on the plantation were viewing the punishment, she was collecting her children and grandchildren, to the number of twenty-two, in a neighboring marsh, preparatory to another attempt that night.
They found a flat-boat which had been rejected as unseaworthy, got on board,--still under the old woman's orders,--and drifted forty miles down the river to our lines.
happened to be on board the gunboat which picked them up, and he said that when the “flat” touched the side of the vessel, the grandmother rose to her full height, with her youngest grandchild in her arms, and said only, “My God!
Are we free?”
By one of those coincidences of which life is full, her husband escaped also, after his punishment, and was taken up by the same gunboat.