“The enemy came demanding food or horses,” wrote mother, “taking all they could of breadstuffs, meat stock, and all the able-bodied negroes, whether willing or not. Our men hid, but they took the horses and mules, and promised to return in a week and take everything!”
Alas, poor little mother! Those were but the beginning of bitterer days and yet sterner deprivations! For months the only hope of our beleagured neighbours in Huntsville lay in the prayed-for advance of General Bragg, though their prayers, too, were interdicted when made in the church; and, upon the investment of the town, our pastor, Doctor Bannister,[26] was quickly instructed as to the limited petitions with which he might address his God on behalf of his people.
In the meanwhile, the courage of our citizens was kept alive by General Roddy, who lay over the crest of Monte Sano. The forays of his men were a perpetual worry to the Federals in the valley. So audacious, indeed, did they become that the Federal general razed the houses on “The Hill” and threw up breastworks, behind which he built a stout fort, the better to resist the possible attacks from the mountain side by brave General Roddy and his merry men.
During General Mitchell’s investment of Huntsville he was accompanied by his daughters, who, in the ransacking of our home, fell heiresses to certain coveted and “confiscated” articles of my own, but the possession of which could scarcely have been an unmixed pleasure. I heard of my losses first through a letter written late in August. “Mr. Hammond,” began the epistle, “says in Atlanta he saw a lady just from Nashville who told him that Miss Mitchell rode out in _your green habit on your mare_! This part of the story,” continued my witty sister, “may be true, but there is another: that the other Miss Mitchell rode in my habit on _my_ mare! I’m glad I had no mare, and am sorry for poor ‘Jenny Lind’!”
Months afterward I heard (and any who asks may still hear the story in the town, for it has become one of Huntsville’s war-time annals) an account of Miss Mitchell’s outings in my now celebrated green habit. Her path, it seems, as she trotted my pretty mare about the streets, was not strewn with roses; for, though absent from our beloved little city, I was not forgotten. One day the horsewoman, passing proudly on her way, saw, looking over the garden gate of a pretty cottage, the laughing face of sweet Alice Spence, a right loyal admirer of my undeserving self. Alice looked up at the passing apparition, and, full of daring, half mischievously, half indignantly, cried out after it, “Hey! Git off ’Ginie Clay’s mare! Git—off—’Ginie Clay’s ma—are!”