As soon as we could make our plans we returned to our ruined home on Turkey Island by the James River, where we built a small cottage in the place of the colonial mansion which had been burned by Butler.

The ancestral trees had all been cut, even the monuments in the family cemetery had been broken, but it was home and we loved it. The river and the woods and our own garden supplied our table. We planted vines to wind lovingly around the melancholy stumps of the old oaks and elms which had fallen victims of the vandalism of war. In our own flowers my Soldier found the perfumes that he loved. He gathered geranium leaves to keep around him, scattered rose-petals through his bureau drawers, and put fragrant blossoms into bags and laid them in the folds of his clothing. In war-time a friend going North asked him, "What shall I bring you!"

"A bottle of new-mown hay and a bottle of heliotrope," was the reply.

Turkey Island, called by the Federal soldiers Turkey Bend, is in Henrico County, which is one of the original shares into which Virginia was divided in 1634. Historic Richmond, the State capital, a town established in the reign of George II, on land belonging to Colonel Byrd, is its county-seat. Brandon, the home of the Harrisons; Shirley, the home of the Carters; and Westover, the home of the Byrds, where Arnold landed on the 4th of January, 1781, and proceeded on his march toward Richmond, are neighboring plantations. Malvern Hill, where one of our internecine battles was fought, adjoins Turkey Island.

Not far distant is the famous Dutch Gap Canal, the useful legacy which Butler left to the State of Virginia, and which, in the advantages it gave the commonwealth, to some extent atoned to my Soldier for the destruction of the Pickett home.

Diverting his troops for a time from wanton spoliation, Butler set them to digging a canal at Dutch Gap to connect the James and Appomattox, thereby shortening by seven miles the road to Richmond, and placing the State traffic under a permanent obligation to his memory. To protect his men while they worked he stationed his prisoners in the trench beside them, in order that the Confederates might not yield to the otherwise irresistible temptation to fire upon them.

Butler may not have been gifted with that fascinating suavity of demeanor which renders a man an ever-sparkling ornament to society, but from a practical business point of view he was not wholly destitute of commendable qualities. His Dutch Gap Canal is not only a lasting monument to his progressive spirit, but a benefit to commerce and an interesting feature which has attracted visitors from many nations.

Out on a point of the plantation, back from the river in a clump of trees—the beginning of the big woods—is still standing a most interesting monument. The top of it was broken off by Butler's troops in a search for hidden treasure. It was erected by William and Mary Randolph in 1771. The following is a copy of the inscription on one of its sides:

"The foundation of this pillar was laid in 1771, when all the great rivers of this country were swept by inundations never before experienced; which changed the face of nature and left traces of their violence that will remain for ages."

My first visit to this monument is one of the sweetest memories of my Turkey Island life. I had gone with my husband to hunt rabbits and birds—a hunt more for the meat than the sport in those poverty-stricken days when our larders were greatly dependent upon the water and the woods.

The day was fine and the dew was yet glistening as we came suddenly and without warning within touch of the gray broken monument shut in and surrounded by the great forest trees. In silence and solemn awe, in the strange light and sudden coolness beneath the shadows my hero-soldier stacked his gun and, raising his hat, gently and silently reached for my hand. I slipped it into his and drew close to him. Birds were singing in the distance.

"God's choir," he said, and in his beautiful voice sang his favorite hymn, "Guide me, oh, thou great Jehovah." Then he taught me these lines:

"Is not that monument one of the oldest in Virginia?" I asked my Soldier.

"No," he said. "There are many older, but the oldest one in the United States, I believe, is one erected to a poor fellow who died on what was to be your birthday in the centuries to come. It is on the banks of Neabsco Creek in Fairfax County. Once when I was on furlough Snelling and I came across it and copied the epitaph. The poor fellow was a companion of John Smith. The inscription on the monument simply said:

"'Here lies ye body of Lieut. William Herris, who died May 16, 1608, aged 65 years; by birth a Briton; a good soldier, a good husband and neighbor.'"

These rambles over the fields and woods, through the clover and sweetbrier, keeping step and chattering with my Soldier where he, as a boy, had often tramped with his father, are among the blessedest of my blessed memories. My Soldier's classic taste and perfect harmony and simple, pure heart made him a true lover of nature and the trees and the plants, the stones, the sod, the ground, the waters, the sky, and all living animals were his kin.

Though my warrior was a lion in battle, he was gentle, amiable, good-humored, affectionate and hospitable in his home. The same exuberant and hopeful spirit which cheered and encouraged his soldiers in the field was felt in his home life. All the world is witness to his patriotism and unselfishness, as he offered his life for the success of the cause in which he had faith. He was never disheartened by the most complicated difficulties. Unspoiled by fame, just and loyal, he deserved the love he received, for he was worshipped by his family, idolized by his soldiers, honored by all parties and all nations—my brave warrior, as simple as a child, as high-minded as he upon whom the word-magician said, "Every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man."

Soon after the surrender the Khedive of Egypt offered my Soldier the position of General in his army, which he declined. After he had refused a second invitation the Khedive cabled to Mr. Mott asking if there was any way of inducing General Pickett to accept the commission. My Soldier replied:

"I fight only for my country. Nothing would induce me to enter a foreign war."

He tried to turn his sword into a plowshare, 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 know whether potatoes grew on trees or trellised vines. They would get up when they felt like it, linger over breakfast, go out to the fields, and if the sun was too hot or the wind too cold they would come back to sit on the veranda or around the fire till dinner was ready. Then they would linger at table telling war stories until it was unanimously decided to be too late for any more work that day. 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. The inevitable soon came. Resources were exhausted and proprietor and guests were forced to seek other fields.

One of our friends was a veteran who had lost an eye in the Mexican war and had served in the Confederate Army. All that was left of his magnificence was his pride, which had grown strong and rugged on misfortune. It was difficult to do anything for him. He would never admit his needs and any reference thereto was likely to give offense. He had visited us for a time and when urged to stay had resolutely declined. My Soldier was very anxious to help him, but fearful of wounding him. Walking down with him to take the steamer to Richmond my Soldier, unobserved, took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and dropped it in the road, hoping that the old Major would find it. But the veteran walked by without seeing it. So his friend was compelled to find it himself. Three times the ruse was played and at last the Major saw the coin and, picking it up, offered it to his companion. "No, it belongs to you," said the General. "You must have dropped it," urged the Major. "I?" was the query. "How could I have a gold piece? The Yankees are about the only people who have been down in this country with gold, and now that you have found it, it belongs to you." After a long discussion the Major was induced to accept the law that "finders is owners," and he put the gold in his pocket.

When a number of his Virginians wished to make my Soldier Governor he said that he never again would hold any office, but he would be glad to have the valor of his soldiers at Gettysburg recognized and he and the men would like to see his old Brigadier, Kemper, elected Governor. General Kemper was the only one of Pickett's Brigadiers who came out of the battle of Gettysburg, and he was maimed for life. He was elected Governor, and, as he was a bachelor, my Soldier and I often assisted at his receptions.

At a dinner given by the Governor to George Augustus Sala, the English correspondent, Mr. Sala asked:

"General Pickett, whom do you regard as the hero of the battle of Gettysburg, on the northern side?"

"Mr. Sala," was the reply, "the hero of Gettysburg on both the northern and southern side was the private soldier."

I had often heard him say that not the Generals but the men in the ranks fought the battles.

This reminded me of a story, which I told them:

"At a dinner in Canada, given to General Magruder's niece, who had married an English officer, the conversation turned upon the battle of Gettysburg and my Soldier was asked by the Governor-General and General Magruder if he would tell them, now that the war was over, whom he considered responsible for the loss of the battle; who was to blame. With a twinkle in his eye he replied:

"'Well, Governor-General and General Magruder, I think the Yankees had a little something to do with it.'"

Among the visitors at our home at Turkey Island was Mr. R. M. T. Hunter. I well remember his grave but genial face, beardless, marked with deep lines wrought by years of study and care. Those who do not recall him may look at the pictured face of former Senator John W. Daniel, of Virginia, and gain an idea of his appearance. His long hair, almost touching his shoulders, gave him an air that would seem quaint to one accustomed to the closely cropped heads of the present day. His extensive acquaintance with public life, formed in the Congress of the United States and that of the Confederacy, had secured for him an inexhaustible fund of anecdote which his ready wit displayed to good effect, and his vein of humor made him always a welcome companion. His ability to deal with weighty subjects is indicated by the remark of Senator Wigfall, "I don't know what we Southern men would do without Hunter; he is the only one among us who knows anything about finance." As a child his gravity and fondness for books led his old mammy to say, "Li'l Marse Robert gwine ter be a gre't man; he's so lonesome in his ways."

Mr. Hunter knew men, and was the first to discover the genius of Stonewall Jackson. In a letter written to my Soldier near the beginning of the war he congratulated the South on the possession of so great a military man as General Jackson. He was one of those whom Mr. Lincoln wished to see in Richmond after the surrender, expressing confidence in his honesty and his influence with the Southern people, a meeting which was prevented by the absence of Mr. Hunter from Richmond at the time, and for which there was no later opportunity because of the tragic end of the President's great life.

Some of the Northern officers who had seen little, if any, of Southern plantation life, visited us and were deeply interested in the characteristic features of our domestic circle. They found much amusement in the original repartee of the negroes, liking to ask them questions and discuss with them subjects of everyday life. General Ingalls saw an old negro coming in with a large number of terrapin.

"What a lot of terrapin and what immense ones, Uncle Tom! How much do you get for them, and where do you sell them?"

"Yas, suh; dey is 'mense 'case dey's fresh water tarepin; salt water ones is littler. I gits ober en above a couple er ninepences apiece fer 'em, en I sells 'em up in Richmon' ter Mr. Montero, de gambler gemman. You mus' 'scuse me, Marsa, fer answerin' you in retail."

"Why, Uncle Tom, you could get over a dollar apiece for these terrapin in New York," General Ingalls replied.

Uncle Tom pointed to a bucket of water and looking at the General said:

"Yas, suh, Marsa; I spec' dat's so. En, suh, ef I had dat pail er water in hell I could git a million er dollars fer it."

The visitors were also amused by the division of the plantation property, as explained by the servants.

"Whose horse is that?" asked General Tom Pitcher of one of the boys "mindin' de cows."

"Dat hawss? W'y, Marsa, hawsses allers b'longs ter de men-folks, so cou'se dat hawss b'longs ter Marse George."

"And whose cows are those?"

"De woman-folks allers owns de cows, so cou'se dey's Miss Sally's cows."

"Whose chickens are those in the yard?"

"Dey's woman's t'ings, too, en cou'se dey's Miss Sally's."

"To whom do those mules belong?"

"Dey's jest only mules en dey don' hab no owners. Dey don' b'long ter nobody 'specially, en don' nobody want 'em 'specially cep'n fer ter wu'k. Dey's dif'unt fum udder prop'ty; dey ain' one t'ing ner de udder."

Looking up General Pitcher saw a flock of wild ducks flying across the river in delightful irresponsibility.

"Whose ducks are those?" he asked.

The boy looked up and turned toward the General with an expression of scorn.

"Dey's dey own ducks," he asserted emphatically. "Lawd, Marsa, whar you been all yo' life not ter know dat wile ducks is dey own ducks?"

Going down the river one day with my Soldier, his brother Charlie, and their sister, in a boat rowed by the overseer, I had what I thought an interesting illustration of the tenacity of childish habits of thought. Mr. Sims had been overseer on the Pickett plantation in the childhood of the two sons of the family, who used to follow him around and absorb knowledge from what they looked upon as fathomless depths of intellect and experience. They were catching terrapin and my Soldier looked at the catch in the bottom of the boat.

"Mr. Sims, why is it that these terrapin are of such different markings?" he asked with a recurrence of the old-time attitude of mental dependence. "They come from the same water, are grown in the same conditions, and seem in every way alike except that the color markings are different. There is a reason; what is it?"

"Yas, George," said the old man, "of course there is a reason for it, it's jest this way with them tarepins; I've allers noticed they are different. I've been catchin' tarepins off an' on all my life an' I've allers seen 'em that way. Some's streaked an' some's criss-crossed an' some's plain an' some has diamon's on 'em an' that's jest the reason. They's jest made that way."

"I see now," said my Soldier in all seriousness and good faith. "I suppose that is the reason. I have often wondered about it and this is the first time I ever understood it."

After all the years and the wars and the foreign travel and the changes he had unconsciously gone back to the blind confidence of childhood.

Adjoining Turkey Island was the plantation of Colonel William Allen (Buck Allen), Curl's Neck. General Schofield and some other officers of the United States Army, among them Colonel Day, drove down from Richmond, visiting old battlefields and shooting ducks and partridges, and were guests at Curl's Neck. At the invitation of my Soldier they came to our home. Colonel Day had never before seen my Soldier and he afterward thus expressed his feeling upon first meeting the warrior whom he had hitherto known only by reputation:

"Imagine my surprise when, instead of the dashing, rollicking fire-eater whom I expected to see in the hero of the greatest charge in modern history, I touched glasses of apple-toddy with the gentle George Pickett. I was impressed above all with his quiet demeanor, his warm-hearted hospitality and gentleness. I stood in speechless wonder, trying to reconcile the man before me with my preconceived idea of the great warrior. It might all be summed up in the explanation that 'the bravest are the tenderest.'"