The Victim: A Romance of the Real Jefferson DavisDixon, Thomas, Jr.
History
The Victim: A Romance of the Real Jefferson Davis
Dixon, Thomas, Jr.
Davis, Jefferson, 1808-1889 -- Fiction; Historical fiction, American; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
Jennie had reached the gate when she suddenly remembered her canary--a
present Billy had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She rushed back
into the house, snatched the cage up and started on the run again.
What was the use? It was impossible to take the bird. He would starve to
death.
She quickly opened the cage, took him out and kissed his yellow head.
"Good-by, Jimmy darling!"
The tears would come in spite of all she could do.
"I hope you'll be happy!"
With quick decision she tossed him in the air.
The bird gave one helpless chirp of surprise and terror at the strange
new world, fluttered in a circle, spread his wings at last and was gone.
The girl brushed her tears away and returned to her grandmother's side.
The gravel was cutting her feet. Her shoes were utterly unfit for
running. She would rush back and get a pair of the boys' strong ones.
She had worn them before.
"Wait, grandma!" she shouted. "I must change my shoes!"
Back into the house she plunged and found the shoes. Seeing the house
still standing, she thought of other things she might need, grasped her
tooth brushes and thrust them in her corset. She would certainly need a
comb. She added that--a powder bag and lace collar lying on the bureau
were also saved. Her hair was tumbling down. She thought of hairpins and
tucking comb and added them.
Her grandmother in alarm came back to find her. They decided between
them to fill a pillow case with little things they would certainly need.
There was a lull in the shelling. Jennie's maids rushed back in terror
at being left alone.
The guns again opened with redoubled fury. Still bent on saving
something Jennie grabbed two soiled underskirts and an old cloak and
once more dragged her grandmother to the door.
* * * * *
Five big shells sailed squarely over the house at the same moment. They
seemed to swing in circles, spiral-shaped like corkscrews. The dull whiz
and swish of their flight made the most blood-curdling unearthly noise.
Her grandmother fumbled at the door trying to turn the bolt of the
unused lock.
"Don't fool with that door, grandma!" Jennie cried--"run--run--you'll be
killed."
"I won't run!" the old lady said with firm decision. "I'll go down there
and tell those cowards what I think of their firing on women and
children--"
A big shell whizzed past the house and grandma jumped behind a pillar.
She was painfully deaf to human speech--but the whiz of that shell found
her nerves. They ran now without looking back--ran at least for a
hundred yards until the poor old lady could run no more and then walked
as rapidly as possible.
They were at last on the main country road, leading out of town.
Hurrying terror-stricken people, young, old, black and white, were
passing them every moment now.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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