ad rowed out to the war ships during the bombardment. They
called to the commander of the flagship as they pushed their skiff
alongside:

"There are no men in town, sir--you're only killing women and children!"

The commander leaned over the rail of his gunboat.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I thought, of course, your town had been
evacuated before your men were fools enough to fire on my marines. I've
shelled your streets to intimidate them."

The firing ceased. The order to shell the city had been caused by four
guerillas firing on a yawl which was about to land without a flag of
truce. Their volley killed and wounded three.

"These four men," shouted the elders from the skiff, "were the only
soldiers in town!"

One woman had been killed and three wounded. Twenty houses had been
pierced by shells and two little children drowned in their flight. A
baby had been born in the woods and died of the exposure.

It was three o'clock next day before Jennie reached home, her
grandmother utterly oblivious of her own discomforts but complaining
bitterly because she could hear nothing from the old Colonel who had
found it impossible to leave New Orleans. They had not been separated so
long since the Mexican war. Jennie comforted her as best she could, put
her to bed, and took refuge in a tub of cold water.

The dusty road had peeled the skin off both her heels but no
matter--thank God, she was at home again.

Orders were issued now from the Federal commandant for the government of
the town. No person was permitted to leave without a pass. All families
were prohibited to leave--except persons separated by the former
exodus. Cannon were planted in every street. Five thousand soldiers had
been thrown into the city, General Williams commanding. Any house
unoccupied by its owners would be used by the soldiers.

Jennie decided to stick to the house at all hazards until forced to go.
She walked down town to the post office in the vain hope a letter might
have come through from New Orleans to her grandmother. Soldiers were
lounging in the streets in squads of forty and fifty. A crowd was
playing cards in the ditch and swearing as they fought the flies. Crowds
of soldiers relieved from duty were marching aimlessly along the street.
Some were sleeping on the pavements, others sprawled flat on their backs
in the sun, heads pillowed in each other's lap.

To her surprise a letter addressed in the familiar handwriting of her
brother was