Our Women in the War

The bloody struggle ended more than twenty years ago. Many a vacant chair has been filled, and merciful time has brought its consolations. Far be it from any of us to sow the bitter seeds of discord, or to revive the poignant regret at the loss of what “might have been.” For us, there is no country but this country. There is no flag but “the old flag.” To that country and to that flag we are true, in the measure of our truth to the cause that was lost and the flag that is furled forever. How could it be otherwise? The harder the soldier fights, and the better soldier he is, the more is he to be trusted when the strife and carnage are over. The noblest Americans in the North to-day are those who came first to the front, in the battle, and stayed there unto the end. And side by side with them are the Southern soldiers—the old Confederates—who met them face to face, and were as true as they. The better the soldier, the better the citizen. On that platform—broad as our blessed country—stand all our people—all of us—to-day.

Yet right is right. Truth is truth. It is well enough to cover our wounds and hide our scars. But never let it be denied—never should it be denied—that the scars and wounds are there. They are there, however, not to rankle or to irritate, but as signs and tokens of the days that are dead, and of glories and disasters whose memory we could not blot out if we would, and would not if we could! Too much history has already been written for us—too little has been written by ourselves, and for the justification of our people. It is, then, but meet and right that, on such an occasion as this, the truth shall be told, and the whole truth, even if it hurt the feelings of “our friends, the enemy.” It is not for their sake but for ours—not to pain them, but to set forth, in proper light and in true colors, the unexampled conduct of Southern women and Southern men, in the unsuccessful struggle for independence—that the eventful story, with its sunshine and shadow, should and must be told.

The war began. The “conflict” which the North, not the South, had made “irrepressible,” came at last. Troops were organizing in every part of this sunny land. As rapidly as the battalions were formed they were hurried to the front. There was, for a time, no special trouble in procuring, in the cities, the requisite uniforms and camp equipage. The women, in the towns where troops were stationed, applied themselves primarily to the construction of Havelocks and tobacco bags. These tobacco bags, by the way, were supposed to serve the same purpose as scalps in another kind of warfare. They marked, at least, the long-roll of pleasant words and kindly glances, if not of incipient flirtations. In the country districts, however, the work for the soldiers was more arduous. The whole time and thought of the women was given to the preparation of clothing. The courthouse or church formed a convenient place of meeting, and there the overcoats, jackets and other garments were deftly made. And how many hopes and prayers went forth with the flash of the flying needle, and the ache of the weary fingers. Nothing was too irksome, or too hard. The women made cartridges and sand bags, and in town and country alike scraped lint and prepared bandages, in sad anticipation of what was soon to come.

In a single word, the Southern women, old and young, gentle and simple, had but one thought, and that was to aid and encourage, in every conceivable way, the soldiers of the South. Aye! and the valor in the field would have but little worth without the bravery at home. Doubtless, many of you remember these exquisite lines:

The maid who binds her warrior’s sash, And smiling, all her pain dissembles, The while, beneath her drooping lash, One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles— Though Heaven alone records the tear, And fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As ever dewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband’s sword, ’Mid little ones who weep and wonder; And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder— Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of war around him rattle, Has shed as sacred blood as e’er Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief, While to her heart her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses— With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood, as e’er the sod Received on Freedom’s field of honor!