They broke every bureau and case of drawers, scattered their
contents on the floor, selecting what suited their fancy. Every rag of
the boys' clothes, the old Colonel's and Senator Barton's were tied in
bundles.
They entered Jennie's room, broke every mirror, tore down the rods from
the bed and ripped the net into shreds. The desk was split, letters
turned out and scattered over the floor. A light sewing machine was sent
below for a souvenir. The heavy one was broken with an ax.
From Jennie's bureau they tore a pink flowered muslin, stuck it on a
bayonet and paraded the room, the officers striking it with their swords
shouting their dull insults:
"I've struck the damned secesh!"
"The proud little hellion!"
"That's the time I cut her!"
One seized her bonnet, put it on, tied the ribbon under his chin and
amid the shouts of his half-drunken companions, paraded the house, and
wore it into the streets when he left.
When the noise had died away and the house was still at last, Jennie
came forth from the little room in which she had taken refuge, leading
her grandmother. Hand in hand they viewed the wreck.
The thing that hurt the girl most of all was the ruin of her desk--her
letters from Dick Welford, the boys, her father and mother, the diary
she had kept with the intimate secrets of her young heart--all had been
opened, thumbed and thrown over the floor.
Pages:
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363