Belle Boyd in Camp and Prison

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER I MY ENGLISH READERS, WHO love their own hearths and homes so dearly, will pardon an exile if she commences the narrative of her adventures with a brief reminiscence of her far-distant birthplace— Loved to the last, whatever intervenes Between us and our childhood's sympathy, Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. There is, perhaps, no tract of country in the world more lovely than the Valley of the Shenandoah. There is, or rather, I should say, there was, no prettier or more peaceful little villagethan Martinsburg, where I was born in 1844. All those charms with which the fancy of Goldsmith invested the Irish hamlet in the days of its prosperity were realized in my native village . Alas! Martinsburg has met a more cruel fate than that of "sweet Auburn." The one, at least, still lives in song, and will continue to be a household word as long as the English language shall be spoken: the other was destined to be the first and fairest offering upon the altar of Confederate freedom; but no poet has arisen from her ruins to perpetuate her name. While America was yet at peace within itself, while the States were yet united, many very beautiful residences were erected in the vicinity of Martinsburg, which maybe said to have attained some degree of imBellle Boyd 70 B E L L E BOYD IN C A M P AND P R I S O N portance as a town, when the large machinery buildings were raised, at a vast outlay, by the Baltimore and Ohio RailwayCompany. They were not destined to repay those who designed them. While they were yet in course of construction, their doom was silently but rapidly approaching. They were destroyed, as the only means of averting their capture by the advancing Yankees, by that undaunted hero, that true apostle of Freedom, "Stonewall" Jackson. Reader, I must once again revert to my home, which was so soon to be the prey of the spoiler. Imagine a bright warm sun shining upon a pretty two-storied house, the walls of which are completely hidden by roses and honeysuckle in most luxuriant bloom. At a short distance in front of it flows a broad, clear, rapid stream: around it the silver maples wave their graceful branches in the perfume-laden air of the South. Even at this distance of time and space, as I write in my dull London lodging, I can hardly restrain my tears when I recall the sweet scene of my early days, such as it wasbefore the unsparing hand of a ruthless enemy had defaced its loveliness. I frequently indulge in a fond soliloquy, and say, or rather think, "Do my English readers ever bestow a thought upon that cruel fate which has overtaken so many of their lineal descendants , whose only crime has been that love of freedom which the Pilgrim Fathers could not leavebehind them when they left their island home? Do they bestow any pity, any sympathy, upon us homeless, ruined, exiled Confederates? Do they ever pause to reflect what would be their own feelings if, far and wide throughout their country, the ancestral hall, the farmer's homestead, and the laborer's cot were giving shelter to the licentious soldiers of an invader or crackling in incendiary flames? With what emotions would the citizens of London watch the camp-fires of a besieging army?" Saywith what eyealong the distant down Would flying burghers mark the blazingtown— How view the column of ascendingflames Shake his red shadow o'erthe startled Thames. Much has latelybeen written of the comfort of our Southern homesteads ; and now, though so many of them are things of the past, while B E L L E BOYD I N C A M P A N D P R I S O N /I those that remain are no longer what they were, I may safely say, that not even English homes were more comfortable, in the true sense of the word, than ours; while for hospitality we have never been surpassed. I passed my childhood as all happy children usually do, petted and caressed by a father and mother, loving and beloved by mybrothers and sisters. The peculiarly sad circumstances that attended my father's death will be found recorded at a future page. Where my mother is hiding her head, I know not: doubtless she...