There is one bright, shining record of a patriotic and tireless woman which remains undimmed when placed beside that of the most devoted of Confederate women:  I refer to Mrs. Rose Rooney, of Company K, Fifteenth Louisiana Regiment, who left New Orleans in June, 1861, and never deserted the “b’ys” for a day until the surrender.

She was no hanger-on about camp, but in everything but actual fighting was as useful as any of the boys she loved with all her big, warm, Irish heart, and served with the undaunted bravery which led her to risk the dangers of every battle-field where the regiment was engaged, unheeding the zip of the minies, the shock of shells, or the horrible havoc made by the solid shot, so that she might give timely succor to the wounded or comfort the dying.  When in camp she looked after the comfort of the regiment, both sick and well, and many a one escaped being sent to the hospital because Rose attended to him so well.  She managed by some means to keep on hand a stock of real coffee, paying at times thirty-five dollars per pound for it.  The surrender almost broke her heart.  Her defiant ways caused her to be taken prisoner.  I will give in her own words an account of what followed.

“Sure, the Yankees took me prisoner along with the rest.  The next day, when they were changing the camps to fix up for the wounded, I asked them what would they do with me.  They tould me to ‘go to the divil.’  I tould them, ’I’ve been long enough in his company; I’d choose something better.’  I then asked them where any Confederates lived.  They tould me about three miles through the woods.  On my way I met some Yankees.  They asked me, ‘What have you in that bag?’ I said, ‘Some rags of my own.’  I had a lot of rags on the top, but six new dresses at the bottom; and sure I got off with them all.  Then they asked me if I had any money.  I said no; but in my stocking I had two hundred dollars in Confederate money.  One of the Yankees, a poor divil of a private soldier, handed to me three twenty-five cents of Yankee money.  I said to him, ‘Sure, you must be an Irishman.’  ‘Yes,’ said he.  I then went on till I got to the house.  Mrs. Crump and her sister were in the yard, and about twenty negro women—­no men.  I had not a bite for two days, nor any water, so I began to cry from weakness.  Mrs. Crump said, ‘Don’t cry, you are among friends.’  She then gave me plenty to eat,—­hot hoe-cake and buttermilk.  I stayed there fifteen days, superintending the cooking for the sick and wounded men.  One-half of the house was full of Confederates, and the other of Yankees.  They then brought us to Burkesville, where all the Yankees were gathered together.  There was an ould doctor there, and he began to curse me, and to talk about all we had done to their prisoners.  I tould him, ’And what have you to say to what you done to our poor fellows?’ He tould me to shut up, and sure I did.  They asked me fifty questions