I' "PRIVATE" BILL GARRETT'S DISGRACE. J. M. WADDILL. T was in December, '62. Citizens of historic old Fredericksburg were fleeing from Burnside's threat of burning the city. Extra trains carried the well-to-do to places of safety. The muddy roads were crowded with vehicles of every description, while pedestrians thronged the roads and fields, all flying from the coming storm. Many were burdened with such lighter household goods as could be carried, seeking no particular place, bent only on escape from the old city. A melancholy spectacle it was-feeble old men and women, mothers with groups of little children clinging to their skirts, wearily making their way out of harm's reach. Little knots of desolate, homeless ones paused by the roadside, with wet feet and bedraggled garments, knowing not which way to turn their steps. Very soon outhouses, barns, and stables were taken possession of by these houseless ones, while temporary huts were hastily constructed for shelter from the storm, but there was much suffering. It was just before the great battle, and our regiment, theth North Carolina Infantry, was in camp, near the now famous Marye's Heights. Bill Garrett and I were messmates and chums. Bill was known as one of the best, warmesthearted fellows in the world, rough of exterior, but a jewel at heart; quiet, sensitive, brave, and the soul of honor. One morning, to the surprise of every man in the regiment, Bill was marched forth under arrest and put in the guard tent. Upon inquiry, I learned that he had been caught the night before stealing from the commissary's store tent. The evidence was undoubted, and Bill submitted to the punishment without a murmur-marching back and forth before the guard tent all day, with a big placard suspended from his neck bearing the word "THIEF" in great black letters. That night, when Bill came to our mess fire, I felt so disgusted with him that I scarcely spoke; for while thieving in the army was not exactly the same as in civil life, I could not but feel a contempt for him, the synonym of all that was noble and proud in the regiment. "What on earth could have caused you to descend so low, Bill?" I asked, as we drew our only blanket over our heads that night. "Well," said he, with a yawn, which showed far too much indifference, "I felt that I was just bound to have a whole side of bacon once more." "I wouldn't have believed it of you, Bill," I replied, with no little contempt in my tones, "and," I continued, "you must bunk with some one else hereafter." "We'll see about that to-morrow," he an swered. "I'm too sleepy now to talk much," and in a minute he was sound asleep and snoring. The next day, a good many of the boys turned the cold shoulder to Bill, but he seemed so hardened and brazen that I felt no delicacy in again. referring to his disgrace. "What were you going to do with your plunder, Garrett?" I asked, when we were. alone. "Don't you think our mess-table could stand such an addition and not suffer?" he replied, with so little of shame in his manner that I felt a far greater contempt for him than ever. "Our mess doesn't wish any help by such means," I answered, and turned on my heel to leave him. "Hold on a minute," he said, and I half turned to hear what he had to say. "The boys are pretty hard on me, don't you. think so?" "No harder than they should be," I answered, coldly, but a bit of compassion overcame me for the moment, and I continued: "How is it, Bill, that you, whom every one regarded as the soul of honor, should so far forget yourself as to descend to the level of the lowest scum of the regiment?" The great burly fellow looked full in my faceand burst into a loud horse laugh. I instantly left him without another word, but he called to me to come back. Taking no notice of him, he again called me in a more earnest manner, which prompted me to pause and wait for him to draw near. "I think I'll make a clean breast of the whole matter, if you won't give me away," he said, in a more serious manner. My respect for your people at home must prevent my adding to your disgrace," I answered. "Then meet me at sunset, on the telegraph road, near the Tennessee Brigade, and I'll tell you the whole story," and we separated. I went that evening to the place he appointed and found him already there. "Come along," he said, leading the way down the road some distance, neither of us speaking a word. Turning into a narrow path which led into the forest, he glanced over his shoulder and beckoned me to follow. Having passed through the wood, we entered a small clearing, near the centre of which stood a solitary tumble-down log cabin, toward which he led the way. As the door was reached he gave a double knock, and looked into my face laughing. The door was lifted away, for its hinges had long since disappeared, and we entered. I shall never forget the sight which greeted my vision. A poor, meanly-clad, middle-aged woman, surrounded by five little children, received us. There was nothing attractive about the woman save the look of gratitude with which she gazed on Bill. 66 Well, and how are we getting on now?" he asked, patting one of the tow-headed boys with his big brawny hand, at the same time placing on a rude shelf a package which I had noticed under his arm as we came. The tears sprang into the woman's eyes as she turned away, unable to speak, during which time I took a hurried inventory of the contents of the cabin. A camp kettle, frying pan, a piece of pork, a bag of something, a pile of hay in a corner, and a short piece of board supported by two goodly-sized stones, comprised the entire furniture. "Oh, cheer up, mother; we'll soon be all right; to-morrow we're going to thrash Burnside, and you and the little chicks can go back home," said Bill, in a cheery tone, as he kicked the fire and laid on another huge log. "God will reward you, Mr. Garrett," said the poor woman, through her tears, and again her voice left her. "That's all right, mother," spoke Bill, and grasping the kettle he started out, saying to me as he disappeared: "There's a pile of wood about a hundred yards back of the cabin." I understood the hint, and by the time I returned with my load, Bill was back from the spring with the kettle full. "I'll try and come again to-morrow evening, mother; keep a stout heart; good-bye, little chick," and he strode out into the starlight. But Bill failed to keep his promise, for the next evening he lay on the hillside just back of the stone fence on Mayre's Heights, shot through the shoulder. As we reached the wood, on our way to camp, I said to him: "I feel like falling down before you, Bill, and kissing the dust from your feet; and this was what you stole for, and this is where you went alone, and this was what you marched all day long for in front of the guard tent, with that awful placard, and I was one of the first to turn my back on you. Can you forgive me, old fellow?" "Come along, you great idiot," he said, goodnaturedly. "Didn't I know you couldn't understand?" "Tell me all about it, old chap. May I touch you?" I said, passing my arm through his, as we entered the telegraph road. "There isn't much to tell," the noble fellow answered. "I found that poor creature with her five little brats in that old shanty, with not a thing but what they wore on their backs; that was about sunset. I found the pile of wood where I sent you, and that night I stole a part of Company B's' rations, which I carried to her. About day I made a raid on the commissary department, and got that bag of meal, and as I passed Archer's Tennesseeans, I hooked the camp kettle and frying pan which you saw. The next night, one of Major Hayes' men caught me just as I had taken a big side of bacon from under the tent. Next day I trotted before the guard tent, you know, but that night, after you were asleep, I hooked a piece of meat from Walker's commissary, which will run them several days. This is about all there is about it, but you must keep quiet, for I'll catch it again if Cooke hears of it." I never saw the woman again, for when three days later I went to look after them, the cabin was empty. In the winter of '63-'64, while we were in winter quarters on the Rapidan, Bill and I were sitting in our "shuck " one day, when a big, rawboned cavalryman looked in the door and asked, "Is this Private Bill Garrett's house?" "Said to be mine in part," answered Bill. "What can I do for you?" "I learned sometime since," replied the cavalryman, in a brusque tone, "that you acted toward my wife in such a manner as must demand my attention, and which I do not propose to forget, sir." 66 My dear friend," said Bill, in his usual lazy tone, you are on the wrong track; I haven't spoken to a woman in six months." 66 That may or may not be so, but it won't do for me, sir," he answered. "But I happen to know that you were guilty of conduct toward my wife which, to say the least of it, was very unusual, and I've come for a settlement." "Yes, sir," continued the cavalryman, entering the door, "I have learned that while my wife and little ones were houseless and freezing and starving, on the hill behind Fredericksburg, you sheltered and fed them; and I've come from up on Robinson River to say to you," and he offered his great big hand, "that I can't live without thanking you and asking God's blessing on you; and I want to say, more, that while you and I live, if you ever want a friend to stand by you to the last drop, if need be, Jim Blake, of the -rd Virginia Cavalry, is just the man to come at your call, whether you are a hundred or a thousand miles away," and he wrung Bill's hand until he cried out with the pain. Bill lived under a cloud for a while after his punishment, but the truth finally leaked out, and he was again the popular private Bill Garrett of former days. He now lies up in the "land of the sky" in his native Western Carolina, as much honored as a citizen as he was beloved as a soldier. TH DEATH OF GENERAL PHIL KEARNEY. HE death of no Federal general caused one - armed Phil Kearney, who was killed September 1, 1862, at Chantilly, Va. He was a Mexican veteran, who had left an arm in the land of the Montezumas, and we had several Mexican war veterans in our regiment (14th Georgia). Our brigadier-general, E. L. Thomas; our division commander, A. P. Hill; our corps commander, Stonewall Jackson, and our army commander, R. E. Lee, were all veterans of the Mexican war, and loved General Kearney very much. Early in the war we heard more about him than any other Federal general, and the army of Northern Virginia had great love and respect for him. His death occurred in this way, and I, perhaps, was largely responsible for it: The battle of Chantilly was fought late in the afternoon, amid a severe storm of wind and rain. It was a gloomy, dark, depressing afternoon, and night was fast approaching. Our brigade had not fired a gun, but was on the extreme left of our forces and behind a worm rail fence, grown up thick with saplings and bushes—an excellent place for ambushing. The fighting was all to our right. I had charge of the skirmish line, some two hundred yards in advance of our line of battle, and in a cornfield which gently sloped up toward the direction of the Federals. Fortunately, I saw a line of blue majestically moving tow ard us, several hundred yards away, and I remember distinctly the powerful impression it made on my mind at the time. As it came forward, slowly and grandly, amidst the thickening gloom of that dreary September evening, it reminded me of an inrolling blue wave of the great ocean coming toward us. They had no skirmish line, and I withdrew ours back to the main line, and as far as I could I tried to get the men to hold their fire until the enemy came close up. I could not find General Thomas, and therefore failed to carry out my idea, and having a good many new recruits in our brigade at that time, our discipline was nothing like it was in 1863 and 1864, or we would have annihilated the Federal line. As it was, some of our men commenced firing before the enemy came close enough, which spoiled the whole game. The Federals were checked and driven back so easily that we knew something was the matter, and attributed their timidity to the demoralizing influence of defeat at Second Manassas only a few days before; but on re-establishing our skirmish line, we discovered that the gallant General Phil Kearney had been killed, and this was the cause of the Federals' weak attempt. The grief of our entire army was marked and sincere over this sad news, and General Lee sent his body through the lines next day, to the great satisfaction and approval of us all. General Kearney was killed by the 49th Georgia Regiment, beloved and mourned by both blue and gray. "To recall this hour and self-same scene Where I gave my last bit of pork and cracker, In the midst of the river that flows between, And you gave your last bit of leaf tobacker." And thus they parted. Three decades are o'er. 1861. They meet, heart and hand, to tell the story In the mingled blood of her sons was sealed. And thus may they meet-may their campfires burn To the last tattoo, when their children in turn A PACK OF CARDS. COLONEL W. C. ELAM. NLY a girl and boy: she seventeen and he nineteen. She was plump, rosy, and merry, with bright black eyes, a profu sion of black hair, and a voice of silvery sweetness. He was slender and tall, fair and delicate, having gray eyes and light auburn hair, and withal a somewhat quiet and pensive air that did not wholly accord with a notoriety he had already achieved for wildness. She was in a plain dress of pale rose color, thin and airy; he, in a suit of military gray. It was in May, The State had seceded, and war was begun. To-morrow the youth's company would leave, to take the field in Virginia. The girl and boy had been reared in almost daily association since childhood, and this was to be their first serious parting. Both equally sought to make the separation appear pleasant, yet it was obvious enough that each felt most painfully all the possible vicissitudes that might intervene before their next meeting. They had been telling each other's fortunes, more ruefully than gaily, with a pack of playing-cards that now lay on the table, while they sat silent, both filled with thoughts and feelings which neither could wholly dissimulate, nor either would openly reveal. "I will write as often as I can," said he hesitatingly, "to-to-my sister Sarah." "And I," she said, "will write every day to brother John, and he will write to me." "So we shall hear from each other," he suggested, with a faint smile and something of a blush, 66 even if if we don't write to each other." "Yes," rejoined she; "and that will be better," she added, although as one asserts that self-denial is meritorious. "You will give me a keepsake," he whispered, for Miss Eliza Conway, an elder sister of the girl, was visible in the adjoining room, where she was thrumming snatches of old songs on the piano. "I do not know what it will be," she said, doubtfully. "Another Bible or Testament would seem too much of a good thing." "Give me these cards," he said. "Oh, no!" she protested, glancing at him as if alarmed. "Now, Mary," he urged, turning quite red and speaking very low, "I know what you think; but give me these cards, and I promise you that they shall never be defiled by gambling, and that no other cards shall smirch my hands. I only shall use these, playing solitaire in memory of our parting and in hope of our meeting." She gathered up the cards and placed them in their leather case. "Be a good boy, Harry," she said, with tears in her eyes and words, as she handed him the case. He kissed the case, and put it tenderly in his left breast-pocket. And then very quietly, but very fondly, he kissed her. She couldn't help it; and, for that matter, neither could he. The next day Mary Conway waved her moist handkerchief to Harry Norridge as he marched away, and he responded with his cap. Big Bethel was Harry's baptism of fire. Since leaving home he had taken one "wild tear," and then subsided into a very orderly fellow, much given to solitude and solitaire. He was thus occupied when the long roll called him to the fight. It was a tumult and a convulsion; a series of fearful and quick succeeding scenes, only dimly perceived and not at all understood; a hail-storm of musketry, with all the thunder of artillery; breathless rushes and awful pauses; shouts, huzzas, groans, flame, smoke, wounds, and death! The boys stood it well. "Norridge is down!" cried John Conway, who was near him. |