"Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest, Your truth and valor bearing; The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring!" Indeed, the coolness of women under fire was always a matter of surprise to me. A young girl, not more than 16 years of age, acted as guide to a scouting party during the early years of the war, and when we urged her to go back after the enemy had opened a vigorous fire upon us, she declined, on the plea that she believed we were "going to charge those fellows," and she "wanted to see the fun." At Petersburg women did their shopping and went about their duties under a most uncomfortable bombardment, without evincing the slightest fear or showing any nervousness whatever. A WOMAN'S LAST WORD [Eggleston, in Southern Soldier Stories, pages 225-227.] The city of Richmond was in flames. We were beginning that last terrible retreat which ended the war. Fire had been set to the arsenal as a military possession, which must on no account fall into the enemy's hands. As the flames spread, because of a turn of the wind, other buildings caught. The whole business part of the city was on fire. To make things worse, some idiot had ordered that all the liquor in the city should be poured into the gutters. The rivers of alcohol had been ignited from the burning buildings. It was a time and scene of unutterable terror. As we marched up the fire-lined street, with the flames scorching the very hair off our horses, George Goodsmith--the best cannoneer that ever wielded a rammer--came up to the headquarters squad, and said: "Captain, my wife's in Richmond. We've been married less than a year. She is soon to become a mother. I beg permission to bid her good-bye. I'll join the battery later." The permission was granted readily, and George Goodsmith put spurs to his horse. He had just been made a sergeant, and was therefore mounted. It was in the gray of the morning that he hurriedly met his wife. With caresses of the tenderest kind, he bade her farewell. Realizing for a moment the utter hopelessness of our making another stand on the Roanoke, or any other line, he said in the bitterness of his soul: "Why shouldn't I stay here and take care of you?" The woman straightened herself and replied: "I would rather be the widow of a brave man than the wife of a coward." That was their parting, for the time was very short. Mayo's bridge across the James River was already in flames when Goodsmith perilously galloped across it. Three or four days later--for I never could keep tab on time at that period of the war--we went into the battle at Farmville. Goodsmith was in his place in command of the piece. Just before fire opened he beckoned to me, and I rode up to hear what he had to say.