I remember when Wheeler's cavalry passed through town that the men,
when halted, just dropped in the streets and slept, so that passers-by
were forced to step over them, but in spite of starvation and
weariness the old indomitable spirit would assert itself. One of the
poor fellows, while the column was passing by Christ Church, looked up
at the weathercock and remarked to a comrade that it was the first and
only instance of Wheeler's boys seeing a chicken which they could not
get at.

We were singularly fortunate in the neighborhood of Raleigh in having
no lack of wholesome food, and in being able to send boxes of
provisions to the army around Petersburg. We, in particular, were
plentifully supplied from the plantation, a four-horse wagon being
constantly engaged in hauling supplies.

One of the greatest taxes upon our resources, and the event that
brought the war very closely home to us, was the advent of the
cavalcade and ambulances referred to in my notes concerning My Own
Early Home.

Most of the horsemen who had come with the ambulances returned to the
front the next morning, leaving behind them six or more sick and
wounded, with their surgeon and friends to look after them.
Fortunately, the office in the yard (a house with two comfortable
rooms) was easily made ready and the wounded men were installed in the
quarters which they kept for a month. The wound which afterwards
deprived one of the wounded, a young man by the name of Nat Butler, of
his arm, was by far the most serious. The attempt to save the arm came
very near costing him his life. Instead of healing, the wound
constantly sloughed, with great loss of blood. As the wound was
between the elbow and the shoulder, the danger attending amputation
increased with each sloughing, but the poor boy was deaf to all that
his doctor could urge, positively refusing to have the arm amputated,
and he grew weaker and weaker with every hemorrhage. Meantime several
of the sick and wounded were so far cured as to be able to return to
duty. Captain Butler (an older brother of Nat Butler), Dr. Thompson,
Mr. Taylor, and several others whose names I have forgotten, and the
bugler, named Glanton, still remained. One morning, while I was in the
mealroom getting out dinner, I heard Captain Butler's voice calling
loudly that young Butler was bleeding to death. I just took time to
call out to my daughters, Annie and Kate, who were just starting to
town, to drive as quickl