Reminiscences of Peace and War
by Mrs. Roger A. Pryor

McClellan was almost at the gates of the city and the famous “seven days fights” was about to begin. Several of the officers of our brigade were in the hotel, I ran out to find their wives and learn more news from them. On the stair I met Colonel Scott, and as he passed me he exclaimed, “No time until I come back, Madam!” Turning, he paused, raised his hand, and said solemnly, “If I ever come back.” The wife of Captain Poindexter came up at the moment. She was weeping, and wringing her hands. “Do you think,” she said, “that we could drive out to camp and see them once more before they march?” 

We hurried into the street, found a carriage, and, urging our driver to his utmost speed, were soon in sight of the camp. All was hurry and confusion there. Ambulances were hitching up, troops forming in line, servants running hither and thither, horses standing to be saddled, light army wagons loading with various camp utensils. 

Captain Whitner of the General’s staff met me, and said, as he conducted me to my husband’s tent” “The General will be so glad to see you, Madam! He is lying down to rest for a few minutes before we move.” 

He opened his arms to me as I went in, but there were no sad words. We spoke cheerily to each other, but, unable to control myself, I soon ran out to find John and see that he had provided brandy and cold tea, the latter a necessity lest good water be unprocurable. Never have I seen such a number of flies! They blackened the land, corrupted the food, and tormented the nervous horses. When I returned, Mrs. Poindexter was standing outside the tent waiting for me. “I can see my husband only at the head of his company,” she said. “Look! They are forming the line.” 

We stood aside as the brigade formed in marching order. The stern command, “Fall in! Fall in!” reached us from company after company stretching far down the road. My husband mounted his horse, and, drawing his sword, gave the order to advance. 

We could not bear to remain a moment after they left. Finding our carriage, we were about to enter, when the driver pointed back with his whip. There – sure enough, rose puffs of blue smoke from McClellan’s guns – so near, so near! 

We set our faces homeward, two stunned, tearless women, neither yet able to comfort the other. Presently the carriage stopped and the driver, dismounting, came to the door. “Lady,” said he, “there’s a man lying on the roadside. We just passed him. Maybe he’s drunk, but he ‘pears to me to look mighty sick.” 

Fanny Poindexter and I were out of the carriage in less than a minute, eagerly embracing an opportunity for action – the relief for tense feelings. The man wore the uniform of a Confederate soldier. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep? We feared the worst when we perceived a thin thread of blood trickling slowly from a wound in his throat, and staining his shirt. 

We knelt beside him, and Fanny gently pressed her handkerchief upon the wound, whereupon he opened his eyes, but was unable to speak. “What in the world are we to do?” said my friend. “We can’t possibly leave him here!” 

“I can tote him to the carriage,” said the kind-hearted driver. “He ain’t no heavy-weight, an’ we can car’ ‘im to dat hospital jus’ at de aidge of town. Come now, sir! Don’t you be feared. I’ll tote you like a baby.” 

We were terrified lest he should die before we reached the hospital. To avoid jolting, we crawled at a snail’s pace, and great was our relief when we drew up at the open door of the hospital and summoned a surgeon. He ordered out a stretcher and took our patient in, and we waited in a little reception room until we could learn the verdict after an examination of his injuries. 

“It was well for him, poor fellow,” said the surgeon upon returning to us, “that you found him when you did. His wound is not serious, but he was slowly bleeding to death! Which of you pressed that handkerchief to it?” I had to acknowledge that my friend had rendered this service. She was one of those nervous, teary women who could rise to an occasion. 

“He had probably been sent to the rear after he was wounded, and had tried to find General Pryor’s camp,” said the doctor. “He missed his way, and went farther than necessary. It has all turned out right. He is able to write his name – ‘Ernstorff’ – so you see he is doing well. When you pass this way you must call and see him.” 

We never went that way again. Two years afterward I was accosted at a railway station by a handsome young officer who said he “had never forgotten, never would forget” me. He was Lieutenant Ernstorff!