Rain had fallen plentifully here. The day was one of fogs and mists with occasional light showers, the roads were, muddy and seamed with ruts, over which the wagon jogged up and down, and I jogged with it, feeling as if my back would break in two and almost wishing it would and end my misery. About nine of that miserable wet night we hailed with eager, glad, tired hearts and eyes the lights of Woodstock. Here we knew we should find Southern forces encamped, here we knew we should be at home among our own people. Just outside the town a voice rang through the darkness:
“We are Southerners,” we said. “Let us pass.”
“Papers? We haven’t any papers. We are _Southerners_, we tell you--Southern ladies, and we are in a hurry, and you must let us pass right now.”
“I can’t do it. Show your papers or turn back.”
“Here, we’ve come all the way from Baltimore, and the Yankees have sent us and have brought us all the way in a fine ambulance and cavalry escorts and big horses and gold lace and everything, and now we’ve got home, and our own people won’t let us in! tell us to turn back!”
The sentry seemed impressed. Rags and musket, he was a pathetic if stern figure as he stood in that lonely, muddy road in the glare of our driver’s lantern.
But he was firm. He told us that he was obeying orders and could not let us by since we had no passes.
“I’m so tired, and my back is almost broken with this trunk sticking into it,” I moaned.
“That _ain’t_ comfortable,” he admitted, but his resolute position in the middle of the road showed that we couldn’t pass, all the same.
“Look here,” I said, plucking up some of my accustomed spirit, “do you know that my husband is an officer in the Confederate army? My husband is Captain Grey.”
“And _my_ brother,” said Mrs. Drummond, “is a _colonel_ in the Confederate army. To think that _I_--I, the sister of Colonel ----, am told that I can’t pass here!”
“Law, ma’am! that’s my colonel!” said the man. “I tell you what I’ll do, ladies. I’ll send a note in to the colonel and see what _he_ says about it.”
So we waited till he found a passer-by who would be a messenger; and then we waited until the messenger replied to the note, and we were permitted to pass.
Soon after we reached the tavern the news of our arrival and exploits got abroad and soon the little tavern parlor was filled with people listening to the tales of the blockade-runners who were just from Yankeeland, bringing a trunk or two full of clothes. The news of our doughty deeds spread from house to house, and soldiers gathered in front of the tavern and gave us ringing cheers, and welcomed us home with all their lung power. Poor, ragged fellows! how I did wish that mother and I had worn home a hundred or two more Balmorals!