In the early summer of 1875, as we were on the eve of going to Green Brier White Sulphur Springs for the rest that my Soldier so much needed after a winter of hard work, a telegram came from the Insurance Company he represented notifying him that an important matter in their Norfolk Agency had arisen, requiring his immediate personal attention.

"Little one," he said to me, "you must go on to the Springs with our boy and I will join you just as soon as this business is settled."

"Go without you? Not for the whole world!" I replied. "No, indeed, my Soldier. I am going with you. Why, I would not leave you even if you were perfectly well. I am going with you."

He, with his usual unselfishness, urged my going to the Springs, pleading that he was not at all seriously ill and would be all right in a day or two.

"I am going to Norfolk," I said, "and that settles it."

"But think, little one, think," he replied. "You are packed and ready to start, your rooms are engaged and your tickets bought. Now, don't be a foolish little wife. Go on to the White where it is cool and pleasant—please, now, my Lily, please, dear. This business may not detain me over a day or two. Be good and go, and please me by escaping the heat and mosquitoes."

"I want to be foolish," I replied, "and I don't want to be good, nor stay in a cool and pleasant place when you are where it is uncomfortable and sweltering; I want to be scorched with heat and bitten by mosquitoes, so I am going with you if it is not longer than a minute."

I went. The day following our arrival in Norfolk my Soldier returned to the hotel suffering with a chill. The duties had proved more complicated than were anticipated and his illness had been aggravated by hard work in the intense heat. Feeling better the next morning, he insisted upon going out again, but within the hour came back with another chill.

Thus began the long battle with death, in which no impatient word escaped his lips. With the endurance born to the brave, trained in long marches and agonizing campaigns and steeled in the fires of battle, his soul rose triumphant above the shocks of physical torture. When intense pain forced a moan from his lips he would look up pathetically and apologize, saying:

"You must not mind my moaning, little one. I'm afraid husband is getting into bad habits; forgive him."

So solicitous was he for me that often he would not acknowledge that suffering had caused an expression of pain, but would say, "Oh, it was nothing." With serene face he met the agony, fighting a braver battle than had ever been waged upon a field of war. Oh, those dark, dark days when hope failed and faith waned! If there was one ray of light in their gloom as I look back through the long weary years, it was in the loving thoughtfulness and sympathy of his people, the people of our beloved land everywhere.

Especially do I recall, among the legion of those who came to serve, my cousin, William Jasper Phillips, a mere boy in years but a man in mind and spirit, who with willing hand and heart, with gentle words and loyal, loving eyes, came to watch with me through the dark hours—holding my hands with a child's loving fervor and a man's strong sympathy.

Long years afterward, when I stood by the open grave of this cousin and looked upon the many mourners whom special trains had brought from all parts of the country to do him honor and show their love, my thoughts went back to that dread time and I wondered not that a host of friends were saddened by his passing.

"ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC"

In vain were all our prayers—in vain our loving care. The time soon came when I knew that my Soldier's warfare was almost ended.

Father Jansen, who had come from Richmond to see him, asked, "Do you want to see me alone?" With his hand on the Father's knee, he replied:

"You know, Father, I never was a solitary bird. I was never alone except sometimes in the twilight or in the woods and then I had the spirit of my mother and my little girl with me."

"I know you are reconciled to death," said the priest.

"Ah, no; how could I be? I think God does not want me to be reconciled to leaving my wife and little boy alone in the world. He only wants me to obey with the courage of a soldier who receives an order that must be carried out because he is a soldier."

The Father was silent for a time as if going back in memory to an hour long past. Then he said:

"The first time I remember seeing you and having a talk with you was on Shockoe Hill. Standing there alone, your little boy gathering flowers some distance away, you seemed completely lost in the view before you. You held a bunch of wild flowers in your hand and were singing, 'As I view now those scenes so charming,' I listened and when you had finished the song you began to whistle. I asked you what tune you whistled and you said, 'I was thinking of Forsyth and of the boys and of the old fellow who came into the camp at San Antonio and acted out "Bennie Havens, O," and we all gave him money to go on his way and I sang that song that night, and it came back to me, and I wondered what had become of the boys. The next morning at breakfast a young fellow named May came in and said, "Boys, here is your money and it is worth it. I was Bennie Havens, O." I was wondering where May was.'"

On the last day when the physicians wanted to give my Soldier an anodyne, he said:

"No, I would rather suffer and know. You say there is no help for me; that I've got to cross the river. Well, I want to go over in my right mind—to know when I'm going; and I want to see how to steer my little craft as it pulls out from the shore and look into the dear faces of my loved ones till I breathe my last good night. Now, please, Doctor, excuse me, but won't you all go and leave me alone with my wife? You have tried to save me for her and I thank you. Now, all that you can do for me is to say good night."

Just as they were going my uncle, Colonel Phillips, and his wife came in with our little boy, who was staying with them.

"Well, Colonel," said my Soldier, "the enemy is too strong for me again, you see, and, Colonel—my ammunition is all out. I am glad you have both come. Thank you, and now good night, my dear friend; you are the last old comrade to whom I shall give an order—watch over my wife and child."

Calling our boy he said:

"Crawl up here by 'Dear Father,' my baby," and laying his hand on our boy's head he closed his eyes and there was silence in the room. Presently he spoke:

"This is the month that God sent you to us, my boy, and this is the month, I am afraid, that God is going to call me away from you. You must take my place at the side of your Dear Mother, begin at once to be the little husband to her, the little man for her, and I will watch over you and help you to perform all these offices."

"What are officers?" asked the child.

"Offices. You are old enough to know offices and officers. You must begin to learn words, because words are things and their meanings have much to do with our lives."

He spoke of Indian words and how the Indians had chosen their words.

"Klosch nonnitsh, look out, means you must not tell anybody; it is a secret. Tum-tum, heart. Klosch mika tum-tum, my heart speaks to yours."

He turned to me and said in Chinook:

"I am trying to make him understand the value of words and feel their meaning as indicated in their sound."

He gave George some money and told him to treat his little friends, saying that he had found that it brought him much more pleasure to give than to receive, and that one of the expressions of the eyes that he liked more than anything else was gratitude and love.

"I have seen gratitude and love in a dog's eyes almost as strong as in a human being's."

Little George asked:

"How about a cat's?"

"Cats have secret eyes. They are eyes of mystery; eyes that defy you to read them. They are wonderfully beautiful, and there is a jewel that looks like them and is called cat's-eye.

"They told Dear Father that he must not write and he is a good soldier, but he is going to risk a court-martial and write. Now, run along and spend your money and have a good time and remember when even you are having a good time that it is at nobody's expense."

"What is expense?" asked George.

"You can have it at your own expense."

"What are you going to do to be court-martialed about!" asked the boy, returning to the risk that his father was to take.

"Well, I am going to have pencil and paper if I can get them. I would rather have pen and ink if I could."

"I will get paper and ink and pen for you," replied George.

He went out and returned with paper, a bottle of ink, a pen and a sponge. He said he tried to get some shot because he had seen it down-stairs to wipe pens on, but he did not see how it could wipe pens, for he took one and tried to wipe a pen and couldn't do it.

"Now, this is a love-letter and I don't want you to read it because you would be jealous. It is to an old sweetheart," said my Soldier, and the old twinkle came into his eyes.

On that last day he wrote a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Haxtun, dear friends at whose home I had visited in happy days. Mr. Haxtun was both Vice-President and Secretary of the Life Insurance Company which my Soldier represented.

"Sister," he said to the nurse, "I want this letter mailed at once."

"All right," she answered. "Would I not better ask the Doctor?"

"I want this letter mailed right at once," he repeated.

In the letter he had written:

"The marching days are over and when the train comes in and the call is 'All aboard' and I shall have started on the last journey, I want you to come and take my precious wife to your home and keep her just as long as you can have her and as she can stay. She loves music, she loves the beautiful sky, she loves the flowers, the ocean, and she loves you both. Lying here thinking about it, I feel that if she went to her own people they would remind her all the time of her grief, because it will be a grief to her, and it would be the same way if she went to mine. With you there is nothing that will make the sorrow keener."

When the letter was finished he said to little George:

"My darling boy, your Dear Mother gave you my name, George Edwards Pickett. I know you will take care of it, and now I give you my place, too, and my darling wife, your Dear Mother. You understand, my son?"

The little head of his namesake son nestled closer to his own, the little arms crept about his neck and the child sobbed out, "Yes, sir, Dear Father."

"Bless your heart, my baby, bless your heart. Come now and kiss 'Dear Father,' good night."

After our boy had gone my Soldier said:

"Poor little man! Poor little loving heart! He does not know what death is, even though he saw his little brother go out of this earth-life; and you, my darling wife, must not let him know its meaning now. You must—you have got to take my place and be 'Dear Mother' and 'Dear Father,' too, to our boy."

The moon was rising, filling the night with radiance and casting mystic shadows on the earth.

"Turn down the lights, please, little one," he said, "and come to my arms."

Again there was silence. The Doctor came and gave him something and I have always thought there was an anodyne in it.

"How beautiful the moonlight looks and how peaceful! You will remember sometimes, my darling wife, how often in the years that are no more, I have sung to you under its silvery sheen, but my guitar is unstrung and the strings in my voice are all broken and I can't sing to you to-night, and I want to—oh, how I want to sing just one song for, as I hold you close and feel your touch, I seem to hear again the chimes ringing out on our wedding day—our blessed marriage song, 'Believe me, if all these endearing young charms,' and I hear the choir chanting it soft and low in the distance as the minister is saying, 'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,' and the bands playing the same song as they passed our carriage on the way to the station. I feel the hand of my wife creep into mine, and as the last faint sound of the last band dies away I feel our hand-clasp tighten and hear my own voice singing for my darling, 'Believe me, if all these endearing young charms,' and feel the thrill of our great love."

My Soldier felt my tears. I could not speak. I could only remember.

"Oh, my Lily—my little one—my precious wife! Pass over the dark days as bravely as you can till our boy is safe and then come to husband."

His thought went out to the home in which we had spent so many happy years.

"If I had been at home in our little room within the sight and the sound of the waters below us and the old packet-boat coming by, the birds singing and my own redbird that always came and the mocking-birds, I think husband would have been a long time with you and the little boy. Maybe it is best. I think they must have given me an anÆsthetic, though I asked them not to, for I feel as if floating dizzily. Now, little one, let's go to sleep."

THE ANGEL OF PEACE

My Soldier went to sleep with my hand in his. One and then another of the watchers would look in and as I waved my hand would quietly steal away. He just breathed hard and then seemed to be gently sleeping.

Six hours later one of the Sisters of Charity came in and unclasped the precious hand which I knew was holding mine for the last time. Two hours earlier I had felt the sigh that freed his great spirit and made of me (Oh, the woe of that word!) a widow.

Darkness came. Through it some of the scenes that passed made pictures on my mind which come back to me now in the dim watches of memory. I recall the memorials and resolutions of sorrow that came from military associations, from Boards of Trade, from the many organizations that had known my Soldier through the years. From all over the country they came to tell of the deep appreciation and honor in which he was held.

I remember the long procession of mourners that followed him through the streets of Richmond to the beautiful resting place of Hollywood, the longest funeral procession, they told me, that had ever been known in Richmond. His staff officers, couriers and headquarters guard met again to follow him as loyally as when he led them into the whirlwind of battle.

His old soldiers who had leaped at the flashing of his sword and dashed with him against the gates of death, and who were now scattered through far distant States, had rallied to the call of the unblown bugle and the unvoiced command of their beloved leader to march behind him for the last time. Those who had followed other leaders came to do honor to the memory of the great soldier who had fought for the cause dear to them all.

A few years later another procession marched down the streets of Richmond to the sacred ground of Hollywood to attend the dedication of Gettysburg Monument, erected to the memory of my Soldier and his brave men—the first Confederate Monument. Again Southern veterans assembled in honor of their leader and of their gallant comrades. Loyal to them and the past, they came from many States, faithful as in the days of fire and storm, bringing their treasure of memories to lay on that sacred shrine.

William Florence and Joe Jefferson placed their laurel wreaths on the grave of their friend.

From Pennsylvania came ex-Governor Curtin, the war Governor, and two Union Generals. The Philadelphia Brigade, that stood on Cemetery Hill and received the shock of that great charge which will live in history while our country stands, marched in a body to pay tribute to the great Southern soldier whose heart was filled with kindness, leaving no room for enmity. Officers of the old Army of the Forties and Fifties, who had loved my Soldier in those far-gone days, three of them members of that memorable class of 1846, were there, with the golden flames of old camp-fires yet burning upon the altar of the heart.

General Longstreet thus recalls his old comrade:

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 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.

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.

In a memorial paper General George B. McClellan wrote of my Soldier:

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 one 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.

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

True and noble soul, rest in peace.