Page 148 - Arkansas Confederate Women

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Reminiscences of the Old South 129

•and fired into the main body, causing a perfect stampede;

Ward's men turned and followed their Captain at breakneck

speed through the lane into the thick woods beyond. Hawkins'

men came after them yelling and firing their guns in wildest

confusion. The bullets fell like hail on the roof and porches

singing about our ears as myself and the negroes thoughtless
of danger ran out to see the chase. The Federals did not go
in pursuit of Capt. Ward for they were sure the whole woods

were full of Rebels. When they turned a captain of the Fed-

erals dashed up to the gate. I was still on the front porch ; he
commanded me to tell him where I had those Rebels hidden.
I replied I did not have them hidden. I did not know Captain
Ward was in the country at all. He became furious; he cursed

me until he could find no words wicked enough to express him-

self, then he threatened to kill me and burn the house over me

I did not move, I was utterly in his power, so I told him to

•kill me if he would, but I had told the truth ; at this juncture,

"Old Dafney," our dear old colored mammy came ' in view

—she ran to him crying, "Mister, Mister, hold on Miss Mira is

Wetelling you de Cod's truth ! ain't had no soldiers here !"

He turned to her saying, "Well, Aunty, if you say so, I will

take your word, but I won't believe that Secesh gal." He then

rode away, followed by the men who had been waiting for or-

ders. During the whole war my life was one bitter dream of

terror. I was imperiled in three or four skirmishes where the

bullets fell around me like hail and the shrieks of the wounded
and dying froze my blood with horror. I have at the point

of a bayonet cooked for the Yankees until there was nothing

left that could be cooked. Utterly unprotected I knew not at

what hour I might suffer personal violence.

I cannot write these facts coldly, I cannot speak them

calmly, the wound has never healed, and when touched the abra-

sion shows acute inflammation. Dear hearts, I am making you
tired, but my life was potent with golden dreams, which that

cruel war turned into hydra form. The scenes we forget are not

erased. While the engulfing tide of circumstances implunge

the past in texture of new design, yet, in the nightime when the

winds sigh around the corners, when stray, restless birds sing