Our next station was on the "Bermuda Hundred" lines near the heart of the storm, but there were rifts of sunshine to break the gloom.

A tent was our first home and later a log cabin. Major Charles Pickett's log cabin near our own had two rooms, a degree of splendor to which no one else attained.

We had friends—such friends as war binds together with links that can never be broken. The wives of many of the officers were there. The few new books we had were exchanged until they were read through and through and almost learned by heart. If one of us fortunately came into possession of a month-old paper it went the rounds and was more eagerly perused than are the morning journals now, just off the press with the news of the hour fresh and hot. We visited, walked, talked, rode and danced half the night away lest it should be over-long and bring darksome dreams. How could we live on the rim of a volcano if we could not dance around its crater?

At the Howlett House not all our evenings were given over to pleasure. The Federals had a theory that business should come first, and would thrust their views upon us at inopportune times, frequently arousing us from slumber. These nocturnal attacks were veritable scenes from the Inferno displayed against the black curtain of night—swords flashing through the darkness, guns thundering across the silence that had brooded over the earth, weapons clashing, the roar of orders sweeping over the field—all the demoniac sounds of battle crashing through a blackness that enshrouded our world. He who has looked upon such a scene needs no fiend of darkness to roll back for him the heavy curtain that hides the world of demons. Even the bravest of the brave doubted their courage in a night attack.

After one of these encounters when the wounded were brought in I saw my Soldier stop beside two of them, one a Federal and the other a Confederate. Pointing to the northern soldier he said:

"Please attend first to our guest, doctor."

Then he gave his handkerchief to serve as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding of the Federal soldier's wound.

It was at the Bermuda Hundred line that I first saw General Grant. My Soldier and I were riding along looking at the Federal gunboats and monitors not more than a few hundred yards from our headquarters when I saw a puff of smoke drifting, scattering, a mere shadow as it floated higher and was lost against the blue sky.

"Look, look!" I exclaimed. "Isn't that beautiful?"

"Dangerously beautiful. It is from a shell. The enemy are firing over there. Come, dear; whip up your horse and let me get you out of this as soon as I can."

"No, indeed," I said. "I'm not a bit afraid, and if I were do you think I would let Pickett's men see me run?"

"Come, dear, please! You are in danger, useless danger, and that is not bravery."

The soldiers did not seem to agree with him, for Corse's Brigade sent up cheer after cheer as we passed. Captain Smith, just then riding across the field, stopped to speak to us.

"The Federals are testing some guns, I think, for the entertainment of visitors," he explained, "and are not firing at us. They are over there to the right of that oak." He handed us his field glass. "Mrs. Grant is standing between those two short, stout men. The one at the left with a cigar in his mouth is Grant. The shorter, stouter one on the right is Ingalls, Grant's Quartermaster-General."

"Yes, that's Rufus. See him laugh, the old rascal!" said my Soldier, a glint of the old-time affection shining in his eyes and vibrating in his voice. He, Grant and Ingalls were old friends, having been comrades in Mexico and the West. "But come, let's ride on."

"Yes," said Captain Smith, "it is not safe here. I would take Mrs. Pickett away. Turn to the left there into that clump of trees."

"Unfortunately, Captain, Mrs. Pickett outranks me; she will not go."

"Permit me, please, Mrs. Pickett, to add my entreaties to those of the General. It really is not safe here."

"Let me get down and try our guns, too, and then I'll go," I answered.

"Not for the world," exclaimed my Soldier. "They are not shooting at us. Mrs. Grant is so kind-hearted that she would not approve of their shooting in this direction if she thought it would interrupt our morning ride. Besides, she is exceedingly cross-eyed and does not know directions."

The Captain saluted my Soldier, lifted his hat to me, suggestively pointed to the grove on our left and rode away. I watched him, admiring his fine horsemanship. Beginning to feel remorseful for my obstinate resistance to his appeal I was about to turn off to the safe path when one of the aimless cannon balls swept across the field and I saw the Captain's horse careering madly along bearing a headless body. Impulsively I sprang from my horse and ran and picked up the poor head, and I solemnly believe that the dying eyes looked their thanks as the last glimmering of life flickered out. Those pathetically grateful eyes have looked at me many times through the mists of vanished years and with them has come the booming of the guns that threw black bars across the sunshine of that far away morning.

The memory of General Grant often came to me afterward associated with that awful sight following my first view of him across the water where he stood peacefully smoking on the slope. The fact that he remembered the old friendship with my Soldier was impressed upon me many times after my view of him through field glasses.

Among the friends whom I often met at this station was General Robert E. Lee. It has been said that our Commanding General never knew or cared what he ate, and it is true that he did not, in comparison with the welfare of his soldiers. Once when he and his staff lunched with us I gave them one of our famous Brunswick stews, made of chicken, a slice of pork, corn, tomatoes and Lima beans, with bay-leaf and onion seasoning, and cooked slowly. It was particularly good this day, as I had received a gift of some smuggled salt and could afford to use it lavishly, and General Lee said the stew was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. I had just made some walnut pickles of which I was very proud. He praised them and told me that in his house he had them many years old and that the "older they became the better they were."

"But, you know," he said, "I never eat anything good without thinking of the soldiers and their privations."

One evening in Richmond my Soldier and I were invited to spend the evening with Senator and Mrs. Clement C. Clay, and while there General Lee called. We had ice cream made of buttermilk and sweetened with sorghum, and lemonade made with lemons from the conservatory of our hostess. She remarked that she had been saving those lemons for the soldiers in the hospital but that she had more which she would give to them. "If you will be sure not to forget the soldiers," said General Lee, "I will enjoy this lemonade."

The General called me "Sweet Nansemond" because I came from Nansemond County, as did the famous sweet potatoes which the hucksters hawked about the streets, calling out, "Nansemonds! Sweet Nansemonds!" and I rather resented this vegetable suggestion, not liking to be associated with potatoes even in the mind of General Lee.

Though sympathetic and warm-hearted, our General had a natural dignity of manner which, though inspiring confidence, interposed a veil of reserve between him and even his warmest admirers. Years after the war one of my friends who had been an officer in the Army of Northern Virginia, first under General Joe Johnston and then under General Lee, said to me:

"Lee was a great soldier and a good man but I never wanted to put my arms around his neck and kiss him as I wanted to do with Joe Johnston."

With a bit of a jealous feeling for my own Soldier I asked:

"Did you want to do that to General Pickett?"

"To Pickett?—Why, I not only wanted to but I did."

One evening when General Lee, General Beauregard, my Soldier and his Brigade Commanders were studying war-maps in our cabin and confidentially discussing the freeing of the slaves and the enlisting of them as soldiers, General Lee finished by saying:

"Well, gentlemen, we must hope for the best. If we should give up there are many who would feel that we had sold the South—many of our Southern States would think so, for even they have no idea that we have come to the last of our resources and no realization of how starving and poor we are, and, alas, gentlemen, too much of the best blood of the land is being spilled, too many homes being despoiled and made desolate, too many mothers with broken hearts."

Solemnly they shook hands and General Lee and his companions galloped off, my Soldier and I standing in the doorway listening.

"Hear the horses' hoofs saying, 'Blood-blood, Blood-blood,'" said I.

"So they do, little one," answered my Soldier. "Strange—strange I had not thought of that before."

We turned to the map on the floor and rolled up the ways to go and prayed for a miracle to bring success.