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Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
1998.
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Documenting the American South,
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Library of Congress Subject Headings,
21st edition, 1998
LC Subject Headings:
Wise, John S. (John Sergeant), 1846-1913.
Plantation life -- Virginia -- History -- 19th century.
Virginia -- Social life and customs.
Virginia -- Politics and government.
Slavery -- Virginia.
Richmond (Va.) -- Social life and customs.
Virginia -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal
narratives.
Virginia -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Campaigns.
Virginia Military Institute -- History -- 19th century.
Military cadets -- Virginia -- History -- 19th century.
New Market (Va.), Battle of, 1864.
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Military
life.
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal
narratives, Confederate.
1998-12-14,
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1998-11-25, Natalia Smith,
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finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing.
1998-09-10,
Jessica Mathewson
finished scanning (OCR) and proofing.
THE END OF AN ERA
BY
JOHN S. WISE
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1899
Verso
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY JOHN S. WISE.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PREFACE
THIS book needs this much of an apology. It is to a
great extent the autobiography of an insignificant person.
If it were that alone, it would have no excuse for
publication, and would possess little interest for those
outside the immediate home circle. But it is not an autobiography
alone. It introduces views of Southern life and
feelings and civilization, prior to and during the war,
which possess an unflagging interest for the American
people; and it tells the true story of several striking events
which preceded our civil strife, and many episodes of the
great war. Besides these, it gives accurate descriptions
not heretofore published of the appearance and actions
and sayings of many distinguished participants on the
Confederate side.
When I first concluded to print the book, I made an
honest effort to construct it in the third person. It was a
lamentable failure, and made it appear even more
egotistical than in its present form. Having returned to the
narrative in the first person singular, I found myself a
participant in several scenes in which I was not actually
present. How to eliminate these, and at the same time
preserve the continuity of the narrative, was a serious
problem. I solved it at last by the consent of my only
living brother that he would stand for me in several episodes
having told me all I know.1 I will not mar
the
narrative by pointing out the places in which my brother is
myself. This confession redeems the book from being
classed either as an autobiography or a romance; and
whenever anybody shall say to me, "Why, you were not
there?" I will answer, like the Israelite gentleman, "Yes, I
know. Dot vas mine brudder." The reader gets the facts
as they were, and that is all he ought to expect.
I dedicate it to my old Confederate comrades, the
bravest, simplest, most unselfish, and affectionate friends
I ever had.
Near sundown, two young officers of the army of the United
States sat upon one of the benches on the promenade of the
great reservoir which supplies the city of Rio de Janeiro with
water.
Both were lieutenants, - one of engineers, the other of
artillery. Any one half acquainted with the United States would
have recognized them as West Pointers; and their presence in
this far-away spot was easily accounted for by a glance
downward from the coign of vantage where they sat, at a fleet
of United States men-of-war and troop ships riding at anchor
in the bay.
Nowhere in all the world is there a scene more beautiful than
that spread out before them. Below, falling away down the
mountain side to the silver sands of the bay, were the palms
and gardens, and orange and olive groves, surrounding the
residence of the Cateti suburb. To seaward, the southern
boundary of the mile-wide entrance to the bay, loomed the
bald, brown peak of the Sugar Loaf Mountain, with the
beautiful suburb of Botafogo nestling near its base. Huge
mountains, their dense foliage lit by the sinking sun, ran down
to the water's edge upon the opposite or northern shore. Far
beneath
them was the Gloria landing for naval vessels. To westward,
sweeping out into the bay with bold and graceful curves, and
spread beneath them like a map, was the peninsula upon
which the city of Rio is built, and beyond this, gleaming in the
evening sunlight, and studded with islands of intense verdure,
extended the upper bay until it was lost in the distance, where,
on the horizon, the blue peaks of the Organ range closed in
the lovely picture.
The ships bearing the commands to which the young
gentlemen were attached were bound to California around
Cape Horn. The troops were to take part in the war then
flagrant between the United States and Mexico. A short stop
had been made at Rio for water and provisions and
these two youngsters were among the first to apply for and
obtain shore leave.
The dusty appearance of their dress, and other evidence of
fatigue, showed that they had not failed to sustain the
reputation of their countrymen as investigators of everything
new and strange. In fact, they had, in the morning exhausted
the sights to be seen in the city. After amusing themselves in
the shops of the Rua Direita, and replenishing their stock of
Spanish books in the Rua do Ovidor and wandering through
several churches and residence streets, they had become very
much interested in the remarkable aqueduct which supplies
the city of Rio with water.
Our young soldiers, in their engineering zeal, had followed
the aqueduct back to its source of supply; and now, bound for
the Gloria landing, were resting, deeply impressed by the great
work, and by the genius and skill of its builders. But both the
youths, recalling the fact that it was the Christmas season, felt,
in spite of all the tropical novelty and strange beauty
surrounding them as evening closed in, a yearning for an
American home
and voice and face; and their conversation naturally enough
fell into conjecturing how the Christmas was being spent by
their own loved ones in the United States, or in bemoaning the
good things they were missing.
While thus engaged, they saw two men approaching. One
was in civilian dress; the other wore the uniform of assistant
surgeon in the United States navy. The newcomers were
engaged in animated conversation; and, although the civilian
was a man of forty, while his companion was a youngster of
twenty-five, there was little if any difference in the alertness of
their steps.
The faces of the young officers lit up with pleasure as, upon
the near approach of the two pedestrians, they caught the
sound of genuine United States English. They had observed
the American flag floating from a residence in the Cateti, and
had no doubt that the persons who were now passing were in
some way connected with the legation. Accordingly, with that
freedom which fellow countrymen feel in addressing each other
in foreign lands, the West Pointers arose at the approach of the
two gentlemen, and, catching the eye of the elder of the two,
advanced, announced their rank and service, and made some
inquiry as a groundwork of further conversation. They were not
mistaken in their surmises. The gentleman addressed was the
Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Empire
of Brazil from the Republic of the United States. A title like that
was well calculated to paralyze the familiarity of two young
military men; and when they realized that, unannounced and
covered with dust, they had of their own motion ventured into
conversation with the bearer of such an august title, their first
impulse was to apologize for their temerity and to withdraw.
Even from an officer of no higher grade than captain in their
own service, they were accustomed to a
greeting strictly formal, usually accompanied by the inquiry,
"Well, sir? state your business;" and, having done so, they were
generally glad enough to salute and withdraw. Here they were,
without any business, standing in the presence of a high
official, with nothing more to say, and with no excuse to give for
what they had said. But before their embarrassment could grow
more annoying, the minister put them completely at their ease.
"Well met!" he exclaimed; "we are just returning homeward
from the city. Come! The more the merrier: you shall dine with
me. I still have some Christmas turkey and plum pudding, and
we will drink the health of the good angel who sent my
countrymen to me at this blessed season."
During the course of their walk to the American legation, the
young fellows had opportunity to observe their newly found
host more carefully. To them he was a revelation. His name and
position in politics were not unknown to them; for although still
young, he had for many years been a conspicuous figure in
national politics in the United States. The echoes of his
eloquence, as well as accounts of his game-cook courage, had
penetrated even into the isolated world of the Academy at West
Point. In fact, he had been absent from the United States but
two or three years upon this mission, which had been accepted
partly on account of failing health, and partly from a desire to
strike a blow at the infamous African slave-trade. He had
accomplished much towards breaking up the slave-trade, and
derived great benefit to his health.
Brilliant at all times in conversation, he was, on this
occasion, unusually interesting. The sight of his country's
ships in the harbor, and the news of the struggle with Mexico,
so excited and elated him that he was seen
at his best by his visitors. The two boys studied him as if he
had been some great actor. Tall and thin, he was nevertheless
exceedingly active and muscular. His dress consisted of simple
black, with spotless linen. He wore the open standing collar and
white scarf affected by the gentlemen of that period. The only
ornament upon his person was a large opal pin confining the
neckerchief. His head gear, suited to the climate, was one of
those exquisitely wrought white Panama hats which is the envy
of men living beyond the tropics. Beneath this was a head
exquisitely moulded, with a noble brow, and large hazel eyes,
the ever-changing expression of which, coupled with a full, rich
voice, charmed and fascinated his guests. His silken blond hair
was thrown back and worn long, as was the custom of the day.
A nose too handsome to be called Roman, yet too strong to be
designated as Grecian; a mouth wide and mobile, filled with
even, white teeth; and a strong chin with a decided
dimple, - completed the remarkable face which turned in ever-changing expression, from time to time, towards its
companions, as they strode homeward in the twilight.
Such was the American minister; and, according to the mood
in which one found him, he impressed the stranger as the
gentlest, the tenderest, the most loving, the most eloquent, the
most earnest, the most fearless, the most impassioned, or the
fiercest man he had ever met. Nobody who saw him ever forgot
him.
They reached the legation just as it was growing dark, and
as the full-orbed moon was rising from the distant sea. Seeking
the veranda, and seating his guests in the wicker easy-chairs
with which it was well supplied, the minister excused himself,
and left them for a few minutes to their own observations and
reflections.
As the soft sea-breeze came up to them, laden with
garden perfumes; as they watched the golden highway the
moon's reflection on the sea; as they saw the twinkling lights
of the ships in the deep shadows of the bay below
them, - they felt as if they had indeed discovered an earthly
paradise; and when a fair blond girl in filmy apparel glided
through the drawing-room and joined them speaking pure
English, it seemed as if their paradise was being peopled by
angels. Everybody here spoke in English. Everything spoke of
home. The pictures on the walls, the books on the tables, yes,
the dishes at table were all American.
The visitors were conducted to their apartments to make
necessary preparations for dinner. Soon after their return to
the drawing-room, the minister reappeared with a look
somewhat troubled, as he apologized for his long absence and
the non-appearance of the lady of the house.
A moment later the folding-doors rolled back, and the
English butler announced that dinner was served. Oh what a
contrast with the ward-room of the man-of-war in which our two
lieutenants had been dining for a month or more!
Dinner over, the company once more sought the cool veranda,
where coffee and cigars were served. There they were joined by
Baron Lomonizoff, the Russian minister who had called to be
informed of all the recent developments in the controversy
with Mexico, and who spoke English perfectly. Later, just as
the baron was bidding adieu, in fact, at what seemed to our
young friends to be a very late hour for visiting, the oddest
imaginable specimen of Brazilian humanity was introduced as
Dr. Ildefonso.
His efforts at English were startling. They nearly convulsed
our two young friends, and reconciled them to their own
failures at Portuguese.
As the little doctor showed no signs of leaving, and
as, by one or two indications, the young visitors began to
suspect it was time for them to go, they reluctantly took their
departure, thanking their host a thousand times for the
pleasure he had given them, and chatting joyously, on the
route to the ship, about the good fortune which had given
them such a Merry Christmas.
The little Brazilian doctor and the surgeon in the navy had
remained because there was work on hand for them. I entered
my name on the docket of humanity that night; and as the
lawyers say, my cause was continued until the further order of
the court.
How do I know it? I will tell you.
Forty-five years later, at a great banquet in New York, I was
sitting beside an aged, grizzled general of the armies of the
Union.
Said the old general cheerily, "Did I ever tell you of my visit
to your father in Rio?" Receiving a negative response, he
proceeded in his inimitable way to recount every incident
above set forth, omitting the hour of his own departure from
the legation. The memory of the struggles of the little Brazilian
doctor with the English language still amused him immensely.
He was recalling some absurd mistake of Dr. Ildefonso, when I
looked up, and, with a merry twinkle in my eye, said, "General,
at what hour did you leave the Cateti that night?" "Oh, I
should say about eleven or twelve o'clock," said the general.
"Well, now, do you know, my dear general, I deeply regret you
left so early. I arrived myself that night about two hours after
your departure, and would have been so delighted to meet you
under my father's roof." This sally was met by a hearty laugh
from the listening company, and was followed by a glass of
wine to the memory of those olden days, since when so many
things have happened.
The young lieutenant of artillery, and the old general
above described, was no other than William Tecumseh
Sherman, commander of the armies of the Union. His
companion was the officer who afterwards became
famous as General Halleck. Neither of them ever met
again their host of that evening.
In later years, he also became a distinguished general
but on the Confederate side. He never knew that Sherman
and Halleck, the great Union generals, were the
young officers he entertained at Rio the night I was born;
for he died many years before the general revealed his
identity as above related.
Forty years after this meeting, when I was in
Congress, I received a letter from a dear old retired
chaplain of the navy living in Boston, Rev. Mr.
Lambert, asking assistance in some public matter, and concluding with the
remark that this demand of a stranger sprung from the
fact that the writer had held me in his arms and baptized
me at the American legation in Rio, April 14,1847.
In the spring of 1847, my father asked the President
for a recall; and, his petition being granted, the United
States frigate Columbia was placed at his disposal for the
return to America.
I was a tried seaman when, for the first time, I set foot
upon the soil of my country, and took up my residence
where my people had lived for over two hundred years. I
was not born on the soil of the United States, but
nevertheless in the United States; for the place where I
was born was the home of a United States minister, and
under the protection of the United States flag, and was in
law as much the soil of the United States as any within its
boundaries. Descended from a number of people who
helped to form the Union, born under the
glorious stars and stripes, rocked in the cradle of an
American man-of-war, and taught to love the Union next
to my Maker, little did I dream of the things, utterly
inconsistent with such ideas, which were to happen to me
and mine within the first eighteen years of my existence.
OUR voyage terminated in the kingdom of Accawmacke,
the abiding-place of my ancestors for two and half centuries.
Although within eight hours of New York and six hours from
Philadelphia by rail, the region and its people are as unlike
those of these crowded centres of humanity as if they were a
thousand miles away.
John Smith tells us, in his memorable narrative of earliest
American explorations, that when Captain Nelson sailed in
June, 1607, for England, in the good ship Phoenix, he, John, in
his own barge, accompanied him to the Virginia capes; and there,
after delivering his writings for the company, he parted with him
near the southernmost cape, which he named Cape Henry. Sailing
northward, Captain Smith first visited the seaward island,
which he named Smith's Island, after himself. It is still called
Smith's Island, and is owned by the Lee family. Then he
returned to the northernmost cape, at the entrance to the
Chesapeake Bay, and named it Cape Charles, in honor of the
unfortunate prince afterwards known as Charles I. Upon the
point of this cape Smith encountered an Indian chief, whom he
describes as "the most comely, proper, civil salvage" he had
yet met. The name of this chief was Kictopeke. He was called
"The Laughing King of Accomack," and Accomack means, in
the Indian tongue, "The Land Beyond the Water." He bore in
his hand a long spear or harpoon, with a sharpened
fish-bone or shell upon its point; and he it was who taught
John Smith and his companions to spear the sheepshead and
other fish in the shallow waters hard by. John Smith and The
Laughing King have been buried for well-nigh three centuries,
but the people about Cape Charles still spear sheepshead on
the shoals in the same old way.
Smith and his companions cruised along the western shore
of this Peninsula of Accawmacke, which is the eastern shore
of the Chesapeake Bay, until they reached what is now called
Pocomoke River, the present boundary between Virginia and
Maryland. The distance is probably eighty miles. The reason
assigned for the long cruise was that they were searching for
fresh water. To those who know the abundant springs of the
Peninsula, this statement is surprising. Overtaken in the
neighborhood of Pocomoke by one of those summer thunderstorms
which are so prevalent in that region, they were driven
across the bay to the western shore, and thence they cruised
down the Chesapeake until they turned into what is now called
Hampton Roads. Passing the low sandspit where the ramparts
of Fortress Monroe now frown and the gay summer resorts are
built, they stopped at the Indian village Kickotan, located upon
the present site of Hampton. Obtaining there a good supply of
food from the Indians, they returned to the Jamestown
settlement, about forty miles up the river, then called Powhatan,
now known as the James. In this as in all things, the
Englishman appropriated what belonged to the Indian, and
King James supplanted King Powhatan.
It was on this return voyage that Smith, while practicing the
art acquired from the King of Accawmacke, impaled a fish
upon his sword, in the shallow waters about the mouth of the
Rappahannock River. Unaware of the
dangerous character of his captive, he received in his wrist a
very painful wound from the spike-like fin upon the tail of the
fish. This wound caused such soreness and such swelling that
he thought he was like to die, and his whole party went ashore
and laid Smith under a tree, where he made his will. "But," says
he, "by night time the swelling and soreness had so abated
that I had the pleasure of eating that fish for supper." The next
morning the journey was resumed, and the place, in remembrance
of the incident, was named Stingaree Point. To this day,
that point at the mouth of the Rappahannock is called
Stingaree Point; and that fish is still called Stingaree by the
people along the Chesapeake Bay.
After this famous cruise, John Smith, who was as active and
restless as a box of monkeys, made his map of Virginia, which
is still extant, - and a pretty good map it is, showing his capes
and his islands, and his points and his rivers, and what
not, - in which map the Kingdom of Accawmacke bears a most
conspicuous part.
On that historic document, old John at certain point printed
little pictures of deer, to show where they most abounded; and
at other points he designated where the wild turkeys were most
plentiful. The author of this humble narrative has, in his day,
hunted every variety of game which abounds at the present
time in Old Virginia; and just where the deer and turkeys were
most abundant in 1608, according to John Smith's map, there are the most
abundant now. In the counties of Surry and Sussex, upon the
south side of the James, run, doubtless, the descendants of
those very deer whose pictures adorn the map of John Smith,
published three centuries ago; and within the past twelve
months the writer has followed the great-great-great-
grandchildren of the identical turkeys, no doubt, from whose
flocks were captured, in 1616,
the twenty birds sent by King Powhatan to his brother the
King of England.
But to return to our Kingdom of Accawmacke.
After the Jamestown colonists had tired of poor old John
Smith, after he had blown himself up with his own powder
while smoking in his boat, upon one of his return trips to
Jamestown from the present site of Richmond; after he had
returned to England, broken in health and spirits, - the
colonists who remained found, among their other miseries and
tribulations, that they were sadly in need of salt.
Bearing in mind stories brought back from the coast by
Smith, Sir Thomas Dale, governor, in the year 1612 detailed a
party from the Jamestown settlement to go to the Kingdom of
Accawmacke and boil salt for the settlers at Jamestown.
We may well imagine that such a task was far from grateful
to those to whom it was allotted. It was looked forward to by
them, no doubt, as the equivalent of solitary confinement in a
dangerous locality. At Jamestown the settlers were located
upon an island. This fact and their numbers gave them
comparative security from the savages. In Accawmacke the
party assigned to saltboiling was placed upon the same land
as the Indians; and its numbers were so small, and the
position so isolated from the chief settlement by the
Chesapeake Bay between them, that their situation would
have been most perilous in case of attack. It was therefore,
doubtless, in the spirit of satire that the party named the place
at which they first located upon the eastern shore, Dale's Gift.
Thus came about the first settlement of the white man upon
the eastern shore peninsula of Virginia; and, recognizing its
separation from the other settlements, the kings of England for
many years addressed all their decrees to
the Virginia colonists to their "faithful subjects in ye Colonie
of Virginia and ye Kingdom of Accawmacke"
Like many another venture undertaken reluctantly in
ignorance, this settlement upon the eastern shore proved to
be anything but an irksome and dangers transfer. The party
at Dale's Gift found the Accawmacke Indians totally unlike
the warlike and treacherous tribes across the bay; and from
that time forth there never was, not even at the time of the
general outbreak of the savages in 1629, any serious trouble
between the whites and the Indians of the eastern shore.
The climate also was much more salubrious than that of the
swamp region where the brackish waters at Jamestown bred
malaria. As for sustenance, they found the place an earthly
paradise. In the light and sandy soil corn, vegetables, and
many varieties of fruit grew with little care of cultivation and in
great abundance. Fish and shell-fish of every kind abounded in
the ocean, bay, and inlets. Wild fowls of many sorts, from
the lordly wild goose to the tiny teal, swarmed in the marshes
and along the coast. Game in great abundance, furred and
feathered, could be had for the shooting of it upon the land;
the fig and the pomegranate grew in the open air. And the
influence the Gulf Stream, which in passing these capes
approaches to within thirty miles of the coast and then turns
abruptly eastward, made, as it still makes, residence upon the
eastern shore of Virginia most charming and delightful. The
eastern shore men were the epicures of the colony. A hundred
years before New York knew the terrapin, it was the daily
food in Accawmacke.
We may be sure that the less fortunate settlers at
Jamestown, Smithfield, Henricopolis, Flower de Hundred and
the Falls of the James were not long in finding out the
delights of this, at first, despised settlement in Accawmacke.
History tells us that when, twenty years later, the
colony of Virginia was divided into eight colonies,
"to be governed as are the shires in England," the
Accawmacke settlement was of sufficient importance to
constitute of itself one of these eight counties; and in 1643,
when the whole colony had a population of but fifteen
thousand, one thousand of these were upon the eastern
shore. When Captain Edmund Scarburgh, presiding justice,
opened the first County Court of Accawmacke at Eastville, the
county seat, in the autumn of 1634, The Laughing King of
Accawmacke had no doubt ceased to laugh; for he, like many
another savage chief before and after him, had by this time
felt the fangs of the British bull-dog sink deep into the vitals
of his kingdom, and became sensible of the fact that it was a
grip which, once fastened upon its prey, never relaxed its
hold.
Rare old records are those of Captain Edmund Scarburgh and
his successors, and very curious reading do they furnish.
You may see them, reader, if, instead of flashing
and dashing over every other country in search of novelty,
you will seek the things which are interesting in your native
land, within a stone's throw of your door. There they are,
preserved to this day, in the little brick court house, and are
continuous from then until now, without a
break, preserving the history of their section intact through a
period of nearly three centuries.
The Peninsula is no longer a single county. About 1643,
ambitious Colonel Obedience Robins, from Northamptonshire,
England, succeeded in changing the name of the Peninsula to
Northampton. It was not until 1662, when the eastern shore of Virginia
was divided into two counties, that the upper portion resumed the old title of
Accawmacke, which it retains to this day. The lower part of
the original Accawmacke is still called Northampton.
Nowhere is the type of the original settler in Virgina so well
preserved, or are to be found the antique customs
manners, and ways of the Englishman of the seventeen
century in America so little altered, as in the Kingdom of
Accawmacke. No considerable influx of population from
anywhere else has ever gone to the eastern shore of Virginia
since the year 1700. The names of the very earliest settlers are
still there. Everybody on the Peninsula knows everybody
else. Everybody there is kin to everybody else. Nobody is so
poor that he is wretched; nobody is so rich that he is proud. The
majority of the upper class are stanch Episcopalians, just as
their fathers were Church of England men; and the remainder of
the population are for the most part Methodists, Baptists and
Presbyterians.
The vices of the community, as well as the virtues, are equally
well-recognized inheritances from their progenitors. Fighting
and drunkenness are by no means absent but theft is rare
among the whites. The kinship and sociability of the
population are such that the fondness of the Englishman for
sports of all kinds is freely indulged. No neighborhood is
without its race-boat; no court day without its sporting event
of some kind; and no tavern without its backgammon board,
quoits, and, in old times its fives-court. The poorhouse has
fallen into decay. When a man dies, his kin are sufficiently
numerous to care for his family; and while he lives, there is no
excuse for pauperism in a land where earning a living is so
easy a matter.
The citizen of Accawmacke may begin life with no other
capital than a cotton string, a rusty nail, and broken clam, and
end it leaving a considerable landed estate. With his string for
a line, his nail for a sinker and his clam for bait, he can catch
enough crabs to eat
and sell enough besides to enable him to buy himself hooks
and lines. With his hooks and lines he can catch and sell
enough fish to buy himself a boat and oyster tongs. With his
boat, fishing-lines, and oyster tongs he can, in a short while,
catch and sell enough fish and oysters to enable him to build a
sloop. With his sloop he can trade to Norfolk, Baltimore,
Philadelphia, and New York, sell fish, oysters, and terrapin, and
carry fruit and vegetables, until he has accumulated enough to
buy his own little patch of ground, and build his house upon
it. Then, from the proceeds of his fruit, berries, and every
variety of early vegetable, for which he will find excellent
markets, he is sure of a comfortable living with easy labor; and
he will be happier in his simple home than many who are far
more pretentious, and whose incomes are far greater.
Such has been for three centuries, and still is, the place and
people among whom my lot was cast when I arrived from
Brazil, - descendants of the families of Scarburgh, Littleton,
Yeardley, Bowman, Wise, West, Custis, Smith, Ward,
Blackstone, Joynes, Kennard, Evans, Robins, Upshur,
Fitchett, Simpkins, Nottingham, Goffigan, Pitts, Poulson,
Bowdoin, Bagwell, Gillett, Parker, Parramore, Leatherbury,
Cropper, Browne,: and the rest of them, who were there when
Charles I. was king, and who gave the name of Old Dominion
to Virginia because they refused to swear allegiance to the
Pretender Cromwell, and made the colony the asylum of the
fugitive officers of their lamented sovereign.
Poor enough pay they got for their loyalty; for, when Prince
Charlie came to his own, although Sir Charles Scarburgh, son
of old Captain Edmund of blessed memory, was Court
Surgeon, and although Colonel Edmund Scarburgh, his
brother, was made Surveyor-General in
Virginia, in recognition of his fidelity, the reckless sovereign
gave away the devoted Kingdom of Accawmacke to his
favorites, Arlington and Culpeper. To this day, one of the
loveliest places upon the Peninsula, on Old Plantation Creek,
bears the name of Arlington, bestowed upon it by John Custis,
in honor of one of the proprietary lords of the eastern shore.
A famous local celebrity in his day was this old John
Custis, - feasting and junketing at lordly Arlington. When, in
1649, Colonel Norwood, seeking asylum in
Virginia after King Charles's defeat, was shipwrecked upon the
coast of the eastern shore, he first secured abundant clothing
from Stephen Charlton, a minister of the Church of England,
and his sufferings were atoned for he says, by finding John
Custis at Arlington. He tells us how he had known him as a
tavern-keeper in Rotterdam, and of the high living he had
with Custis in his new home until he put him across the bay to Colonel
Wormley's, more dead than alive from hospitality.
From the point of Cape Charles to the Maryland boundary,
the coast of the Peninsula on sea side and bay side is indented
with inlets, which are called "creeks" in this section. On the
bay side, going northward from the cape where the oldest
settlements were made, the names of these creeks are English,
such as Old Plantation, Cherrystone, and Hungers. Higher up
the bay side, the names given by the Indians before the white
settlements seem to have been retained; for we have
successively Occahannock, Nandua, Pungoteague, Onancock,
Chesconessex, Annamessex, and Pocomoke as the names of
the beautiful and bold inlets on the bay side. On the sea side,
they rejoice in such titles as Assawamman, Chincoteague, and
the like. These numerous inlets, many of which are navigable
for vessels of considerable size, are but a few miles
apart, and divide the Peninsula into many transverse "necks."
Thus it often happens that neighbors living on opposite sides
of these creeks, within hailing distance of each other, find it
necessary, in order to visit each other by land, to travel miles
around the head of the creek dividing them. Small boats are,
therefore, as much in use as means of intercourse between
neighbors, and for visiting the post-offices and little towns at
the wharves, as are horses and vehicles; and an eastern shore
man is as much at home in a boat as upon the land. The public
roads of the counties are called Bay Side and Sea Side roads,
and their general course is up and down the Peninsula, just
inside of the heads of the creeks. The only transverse public
roads are those to the wharves, and an occasional crossroad
from the Bay Side to the Sea Side road.
It by no means follows, from the general use of boats, that
the travel by land is diminished; for in no place is the
proportion of wheeled vehicles to population greater than upon
the eastern shore. Poor, indeed, is the citizen who cannot own, or
cannot occasionally borrow, an animal and a vehicle of some
kind. Strangers, visiting that section for the first time, get the
impression that at least half the population is continually
driving back and forth upon the highways; and the number and
variety of animals and vehicles collected at the county seat on
court day is something truly astonishing. The speed at which
the driving is done is likewise a matter of comment and
observation by many visitors to the eastern shore.
People from the Blue Grass regions, where size and bone
and symmetry count for so much in horseflesh, are at first
disposed to look contemptuously upon the Accomack twelve
of horse; and, indeed, it must be confessed that he is not the
highest expression of physical beauty. But never was the
Scripture saying, that"the back is fitted
to its burden," better exemplified than in the tough and
wiry little animal which you will sit behind, if you ever make a visit to
this far-away kingdom. Small in stature, inclined even to those
homely features known as ewe nick and cat ham, often higher
behind than in front, and with great length of stifle, he is not, I
admit, imposing to look upon. We must carefully scan the
cunning little fellow before we condemn him. Note, if you
please, in the first place, that the close, shiny coat bespeaks a
strong infusion of the thoroughbred; observe the large, gazelle-like
eyes beaming beneath the foretop, which is fluffy and
shaggy from the constant influence of salt sea air; watch the
nervous playing of the pointed ear, and see how the broad
forehead tapers away to the muzzle, with its wide and flexible
nostrils; observe the clean, straight legs and flat knees before,
and bent stifles, well muscled, behind; run your hand over
those pasterns, long, limber, and without a windgall; and do not
overlook the cup-like, often unshod, hoofs. What say you to
those sloping shoulders, that deep chest, and those well-rounded
ribs, close coupled to the heavy hips? When you
have finished, you will not ridicule a moving machine like that,
if you know good horseflesh when you see it. You may call him
pony if you like. Many of them do, indeed, possess a cross
derived from the wild pony of Chincoteague Island. Now, I see
you turn to look at the light conveyance, with its almost fragile
harness, and know you are wondering whether such an outfit,
drawn by such a horse, will take you to your destination. One
drive will dissipate every doubt. You are starting for a journey
in a country where there is not a hill twelve feet high within fifty
miles, over light, well-packed sand roads, on which in many
places, you could hear an egg-shell crush beneath the wheel.
Come, mount with me. Never fear that our vehicle and
harness are frail. They are light, but not fragile. In the matter of
our driving we are exquisites, and we buy the toughest and the
best. Never fear that we shall be overturned, or that we shall
hurt the horse. Hurt him? I love him as the apple of my eye;
and he knows me as the Arab steed knows his rider. See how
the little rascal snuffs for a caress, as I loosen him from the
fence where he and a long line of his companions are made
fast. Now we have backed him out into the roadway. Gentle as
a lamb, quick as a kitten, see the little bundle of nerves start
the instant the reins are gathered, and how, with that squat
between the shafts, and spraddle, and overreach in the hind
legs, known to every horseman as the surest sign of going, he
is settled to his work, and spinning us along at a slashing gait.
Before long, twenty miles lie behind us, and when we pull up at
Belle Haven or Horn Town, not a sign of weariness or
punishment does the little beggar show. All that he asks - and
he asks that in a way that no one can mistake his wish - is that
we loosen his check-rein and let him stretch that bony neck,
and give a long, deep heave, before he takes thirty swallows
from the roadside water-trough. Then he rubs his neck against
my sleeve, and his unclouded eye says, "Come, I am ready. Let
us go again."
Let me tell you, also, that the horse is not the only thing
which you will find better than it looks in the Kingdom of
Accawmacke. The pretty little white-painted red roofed
houses are better than they look, as you will learn when you
enter their hospitable portals, and find them the abodes of
refinement and virtue and hospitality. The quaint, flat farms
are better than they look, as you will learn when you see the
bountiful crops of fruit and high-priced early vegetables and
berries which they produce.
The sea side and the bay side are even better than they
look, as you will know when you learn the wealth of fish and
shell-fish and sea food and game of which they are the
storehouses. The people themselves are better than they look;
for, beneath their unassuming and oftentimes provincial
appearance, they possess great shrewdness, great powers of
observation, strong character, decided opinions, refinement,
and considerable education; and, without one tinge of false
pride, they are of a lineage as old and as honorable as any of
which America can boast.
Two things, also, you will find in this locality which can be
no better than they look. One is the daybreak and sunrise from
the sea, and the other is the exquisite sunset which lights land
and ocean as the orb of day sinks out of sight to the west
beneath the waves of the Chesapeake. Not sunny Italy, with all
her boasted wealth of color, can surpass the many-tinted
loveliness of evening in the ancient Kingdom of Accawmacke,
to which, for some years to come, my residence was now
transferred.
OUR folks have been in Old England since the days of
Alfred, and in America since Thomas West, Lord de la War,
was governor of the Virginia colony in 1608, when numerous
brothers, cousins, and relatives followed him hither in search
of the treasures of the still undiscovered South Sea.
There and here, for centuries, in peace and in war, they have
never failed to be mixed up in the thick of whatever game the
English stock has played.
They have lived and died in Devonshire and Somersetshire
for nearly ten centuries. Until its recent destruction to make
way for the government buildings, the old; family nest at
Plymouth was almost as well known to Englishmen as the banks
of the Tamar itself. Burke tells us the name is among the oldest in England.
The first American ancestor of our name was a younger son
of these old Devonshire people, and came to the Virginia
colony in the reign of Charles the First. The ancient shippinglists
show that he sailed from Gravesend, July 4, 1636, after first
taking the oath of allegiance to king and church. He was a lad
of eighteen, who, yielding to the spirit of adventure which
then prevailed in England, joined his friends, the Scarburghs of
Norfolk, in the Kingdom of Accawmacke.
Two hundred and sixty years of separation ordinarily works
considerable estrangement, and difference in characteristics,
between the separated branches of a family. Not so
with our people. If they possess one predominant trait, it is their
faith in and attachment to anybody and everybody bearing the
name, or springing from the old stock. But for the evidence it
gives of stanchness in love and loyalty, the way in which the
old ties are kept up, to this day, between the English and
American branches would seem absurd. Descendants in the
eighth degree since the separation recognize the kinship; and
the English cousins welcome the Americans to hearth and home,
taking no note of the two and a half centuries which have
elapsed since the American immigrant wandered off from his
English home, and placed the Atlantic Ocean between himself
and his family.
And let me tell you, you boys of America, that there is no
higher inspiration to any man to be a good man, a good citizen,
and a good son, brother, or father, than the knowledge that
you come from honest blood. Few who have it scorn it, and
many of those who are loudest in belittling it would give all
they have to possess it. And, boys, let me tell you another
thing. When you are hunting for that honest blood, when you
are looking back into the wellsprings of your existence for the
source of the virtue the courage, the manhood, the truth, the
honesty, the reverence, the family love, the simplicity of life,
which will make you what true men ought to be, believe me,
you are more apt to find it in the progenitors who came from
"the right little, tight little island" than anywhere else on this
rolling planet.
Don't deceive yourselves with the notion that England did
not furnish the best of us. We have had our troubles with
her in the past, it is true. But it is hard for the mother to realize
that her boy is grown, and accord him his rights as a man.
She sometimes makes it very
uncomfortable for him by failing to recognize that he is no
longer in his swaddling-clothes. But there is not a true-hearted
boy in the world who, in spite of his mother's shortcomings,
does not feel in his heart that there is no other like her.
Don't take my word for it, if you think I am an old fogy. Wait
until you grow up and see the world for yourselves. Travel
through Russia, or Turkey, or Austria and you will never see a
thing to stir your heart with a desire to be one of them. Stand in
the shadow of the Pyramids, and you will be untouched by one
wish that your blood were Egyptian. Go through Germany, and,
while you will find there much to admire, there will still be
something lacking. In the home of the fickle Gaul, even at
Napoleon's tomb, the American boy is not in touch with his
surroundings. Spain and Italy, while possessed of a wealth of
antique beauty, are to us only echoes of a decayed and
different civilization.
But, some sunny day in London, wander through Westminster
Abbey and read the names. Some misty morning in Trafalgar
Square, cast your eye upward to the form of Nelson, as he stands
there in the fog, with the lions sleeping at the base of his column.
In some leisure hour, visit the crypt of St. Paul's, where the car
that bore Wellington to his rest still stands. Then, perhaps, you
will appreciate the meaning of an old fogy when he tells you
"There's nothing outside America which tugs at an American's
heart-strings like the names and deeds and monuments of Old
England."
Don't let us deceive ourselves about it, either. Don't
think or say that it is a better country than our own Don't let us be
Anglomaniacs. That is not at all necessary. America is good
enough for us. In many things: these blessed United States
already equal any nation on
the globe. In almost everything, time considered, they are a
marvel. Within the past seventy years, American inventive
genius has contributed more to make life easy, and to advance
civilization, than all the world beside in many hundred years, if
we except the inventions of printing and gunpowder. In future
we may, and probably shall, become in all things the greatest
nation that ever existed. But it is not disloyalty to your own
country, and no disparagement of its greatness, to thank God
that the people from whom we sprang were Englishmen, and
that we have part and lot in England's glory.
In all America, there is no spot more emphatically English
than the Kingdom of Accawmacke. Nay, more: there is many a
spot in England to-day where the manners and customs of the
population have changed more from what they were in the
seventeenth century, than those of that little peninsula in
America. Of the twenty-five thousand white people in the two
counties of the eastern shore of Virginia, it is safe to say that
four fifths of them are descendants of the earliest English
settlers, and that there has been less infusion of foreign
element there within the last three centuries than in many parts
of England itself. But a few years ago, this writer sat in the old
church at Bishops Lydeard Somersetshire, and looked over the
congregation. The resemblance in appearance between the
people assembled there and the congregations he had often
seen in the Episcopal Church at Eastville, the first county seat
of Accawmacke and in the Bruton Parish Church at
Williamsburg, was striking.
The first John Wise married Hannah, eldest daughter of
Captain Edmund Scarburgh. In 1655, we find him locating his
grant from Governor Diggs on Nandua Creek, and in 1662, he
was one of the first presiding justices of the newly formed
county of Accawmacke In this year,
also, the Indian chief Ekeekes, for "seven Dutch blankets"
sold him the two thousand acre tract in Chesconesseck,
named "Clifton" by its new purchaser - a tract of which the
greater part descended without deed from father to son for six
generations, until sold to pay the debts of the seventh heir,
who was killed in 1864 in the American war between the
States.
John, eldest son of the emigrant, married a Matilda,
daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel John West and died in 1717.
Their son John married a Scarbugh, daughter of Colonel Tully
Robinson, and died in 1761. Their son John married Margaret,
daughter of Colonel George Douglas, and died in 1770. Their
son John married first a Mary, daughter of Judge James Henry
and then a Sarah, daughter of General John Cropper, and died
in 1813; and their son Henry, a younger son, was my father.
Related to a great number of the people of his county; known
to all; honored and respected for his high character and
beloved for his widely known talents and eloquence, which
had reflected honor upon the community, - father's return
from Brazil to his home in Accomack was the occasion of great
rejoicing and festivities upon the eastern shore.
No more beautiful spot for a dwelling-place can be found
anywhere than his home named "Only." It is located upon a
bold estuary of the Chesapeake, called Onancock Creek,
which comes down westwardly from its source, and, upon
reaching Only, makes a graceful turn, first southward, then
westward, then northward, and, curving like a horseshoe,
incloses within its bend five acres of ground, with banks high
above the stream and level as a table, on which stands a grove
of noble oaks of the original growth.
In the neck of the horseshoe, with the grove behind it
and a fan-shaped lawn of greensward before it, stood the
mansion house. It was not a stately structure There are few such
among the simple folk of this Peninsula. But it was a model of
scrupulous neatness, every way fit for the residence of an
unpretentious country gentleman, and, outside and inside, gave
evidence of taste and refinement. On the eastern side of the
lawn, a terraced garden ran down to the water's edge; and about
the porches, roses, cape jessamines, and honeysuckles climbed
in great luxuriance. Adjoining the house were the kitchen and
quarters of the household slaves, and outside the lawn, beyond
the terraced garden, were the barns, carriage-houses, stables,
and cattle-pens. Still further away were the quarters occupied by
the plantation slaves. Looking upstream, other pretty points
were visible, on which, in groves, the picturesque dwellings of
the neighbors were seen, and in the further distance was the
village of Onancock, with its steeples, and sandy streets, and
red-topped houses, and wharves swarming with boats of all
sizes from the schooner to the skiff. Westward from Only, the
stream courses broad and shining between sloping banks, on
which, here and there, their greensward often coming down to
the water's edge, stood other homes, which looked smaller and
smaller in the distance. Far away, beyond a dim point of pines
marking the mouth of Onancock Creek, the sparkling whitecaps
of the bay are visible, with the sails of commerce passing up and
down or turning in and out of the entrance to the creek.
On the beautiful November morning determined upon for
welcoming my father on his return to the United States,
relatives, neighbors, friends, clients, and political adherents
began to assemble at Only.
Bright and early, activity was visible on the plantation.
Under the wide-spreading oaks, long tables were improvised,
covered with snowy linen, and groaning with everything
good to eat. At several points under the bluffs, pits were dug
where beeves and sheep and pigs were barbecued, and oysters
and clams and crabs and fish were cooked by the bushel. Great
hampers of food, sent from the village, or from the homes of
neighbors, stood about the tables, ready for distribution when
the feast should begin. The house itself, decorated with flowers
and evergreens, was thrown wide open to the guests, and in the
rooms of the first floor was spread a collation for the more
distinguished visitors.
By eight o'clock in the morning, the earliest of the guests
hove in sight. By ten o'clock, the grandees of the county
began to arrive.
There were Colonel Joynes, the county clerk, Lorenzo Bell,
the county attorney; the Arbuckles, the Custises the Finneys,
the Waples; the Corbins from near the Maryland line; the
Savages from Upshur's Neck; the Croppers from Bowman's Folly
on the seaside; the Kneads from Mount Prospect; the Upshurs
from Brownsville the Baylys from Mount Custis; and the
Yerbys, the Nottinghams the Goffigons the Kennards, and
Smiths from Northampton. But why enumerate? Their name was
legion.
By midday the stables and stable-yards were filled; and
the horses, fastened to the front-yard fence, formed a continuous
line; while the creek about the grove was literally filled with
small craft ranging from canoe to "pungy," and a steamboat
had arrived from Norfolk with a great company and a band of
music. This band, playing in the grove, was an endless source
of wonder and delight to many of the primitive people, who heard a brass band that
day for the first, and no doubt, in some instances
last time in their lives.
Within the house, father and mother held a long levee,
welcoming old friends, and stirred to their hearts depths by the
simple ovation of which they were the recipients.
Without, under the shade of the trees, hundreds of visitors,
after paying their respects to the host and hostess, walked or
sat about and chatted with each other.
We may be sure that not the least theme of their conversation
was politics; for not only was it in Virginia where
everybody talked politics everywhere, but it was just at the
period when Americans were carrying all before them in
Mexico, and the Whigs were about to elect old "Rough-and-
Ready," and snatch political control from the Democracy. Nor
was there lack of party differences among the assembled
guests, to give spice to the discussions. Hot and heavy was
the argument between "Chatter Bill" Nottingham and
"Monkey" Johnson, as to which national party was entitled to
the honors for the American triumph in the Mexican war. Everybody
had his nickname in these days.
Colonel Robert Poulson, the county representative in the
legislature, had his group around him, as, red in face and
solemn of mien, he ventilated his views on the best method of
protecting the Virginia oyster-beds from Maryland poachers.
Captain Stephen Hopkins, the largest vessel-owner of the
county, had his admiring coterie, who insisted upon hearing
his opinion, which he gave modestly, as to the prospect of a
rise in the price of corn in the Baltimore market. Not far away, a
noisy group of youngsters were bantering each other as to the
respective merits of two saucy centreboard skiffs that rode
proudly near the shore, and it was not long before a race
between the Southerner and the Sea-Gull was a fixed event of
the future.
As the day wore on, and when the multitude had been
fed, a movement from the house to the grove indicated that
something important was about to occur. The host and
hostess and the distinguished guests moved out to an
improvised platform under the oaks, and there began the
formal ceremonies of welcome.
Colonel Joynes, the venerable county clerk, as of course,
called the gathering to order, when the stragglers had all
drawn near. Then came the introduction of a young fellow
from Hampton, afterwards somewhat known as a poet, who
read an original poem lauding Virginia and her honored son.
Then followed a brief address of welcome from young Bell.
And then father stood up, facing, for the first time after years
of absence, the people among whom he was born; the kin who
had loved him from his infancy; the constituency who had
made his brilliant career possible; the people who still had faith
in him, and had come so far to do him honor.
It was an impressive scene. Restraining himself, and laboring
under the deep emotion such interest in himself was well
calculated to arouse, he drew his audience to him with the
simple speech which the skilled orator so well knows to be the
most effective at the outset. Then, gradually warming up to his
theme, he pictured the yearning of his heart for these old
scenes during his long exile in foreign lands; reviewed his work
abroad in the interest of humanity; his desire to see the
infamous slave trade abolished; his hope for some scheme by
which the curse of slavery might ultimately be removed
without wrong to the owner; his realization of the glorious
work accomplished by the Union arms in Mexico during his
absence; his deep sense that, with restored health and the youth
remaining to him, there was still much of his life's work before
him; his gratitude to God for this restoration to his
own people; his deep emotion at this evidence of their
continued trust; and his abiding faith in their further
confidence in him. He concluded with a brilliant and
genuine tribute of affection for a constituency so true and so
confiding. His audience were wrought into a burst of
thunderous applause, which was renewed and renewed as the
band played, "Carry Me Back to Old Virginia."
The formal ceremonies over, the visitors gradually dispersed,
and quiet reigned once more at Only.
It is the death of that era - a death which begun with my
birth, and was complete before I attained manhood - that is to
be chronicled in the following pages.
THE autumn of 1850 brought an event freighted with deep
significance to me. My mother died. Although I was but four
years old, it made a profound impression, and it exercised an
incalculable influence upon my after life. My mother was a
Northern woman, daughter of Hon. John Sergeant,
a distinguished lawyer, and for many years representative in
Congress from Philadelphia. Her people were of New England
blood, identified with the earliest and most important events of
the Plymouth Colony.
She had been taught to practice economy, simplicity, and
scrupulous neatness and order. She was deeply religious,
charitable, sympathetic, highly sentimental, and withal
ambitions. She was one of those beautiful, refined creatures
for which the City of Brotherly Love is famous. Hers was one
of those extraordinary natures whose physical comeliness
seems to make no injurious impression upon loveliness of
character. Indeed, both in herself and with those about her,
consideration of her appearance was subordinated to
appreciation of her moral and intellectual beauty.
It was seven years after her marriage before she fully
realized the vast difference between the life in which she had
been reared and that into which her marriage had brought her.
For, prior to their departure for Brazil, father, being in
Congress, had resided for the most part in
Washington, and had no fixed establishment in Virginia. In
Brazil, social conditions had been strange to herself and
husband alike. It was only on my father's return from
Brazil - when the Virginia establishment was resumed -
that she realized the vastly altered terms of her
existence. It is fortunate it was so. It gave time for her wifely
love to become fixed and deepened beyond disturbance; and
residence in Brazil undoubtedly took away the shock of
slavery as it existed at home. Coming now to a knowledge of
Virginia slavery, it was much less repulsive than it would
have been if she had been transplanted direct from
Philadelphia. Notwithstanding this gradual change, the
contrast was strong enough to make her fully realize the
difference between the duties and the pleasures of her new
home and those to which she had been accustomed in girlhood.
Of the society about her she had nothing to complain. The
good old people were of excellent social position, and
Philadelphia was their social rendezvous. Many of them were
acquaintances of her family. They were neighborly and
congenial enough, and the means of intercommunication were
excellent. One of lighter tastes, and less serious purpose and
sense of duty, could easily have found, in her new
surroundings, all the social enjoyment she desired, and
might have been, quite happy and free from care.
But it was not so with the mistress of Only. She had too
much of the old Puritan blood in her to ignore the word
"duty." She adored her husband, and was as ambitious as
himself, which is saying a great deal. She knew that, if he
was to maintain his professional and political prominence,
she must assume her share of the duties of their domestic
life; and when she fully realized what the meant for her, she
doubted her ability to bear the burden it imposed; but,
asking God to sustain her, resolved to try.
With the abundance of servants at her command, the care of
her children was a task comparatively easy. But it was these
very servants who were the chief cause of her anxieties. They
were slaves. When she had consented to marry her husband,
she had not fully considered, perhaps, the difference between
conducting a Philadelphia household and being mistress of a
Virginia plantation. At the former place, an impudent or sick
or worthless servant might be discharged or sent to a hospital,
and the place supplied by another. Here, a discharge was
impossible. Beside the necessity for discipline, every
requirement, whether of food or clothing, or care in sickness,
had to be supplied to these forty servants, who were as
dependent as so many babies. In those days, slavery was not
looked upon, even in Quaker Philadelphia, with the shudder
and abhorrence one feels towards it now. It had not been a
great while since it existed in Pennsylvania. A few slaves were still
owned in Delaware, and Maryland and Virginia
were slave States. The time had come, it is true,
when it was abolished in Pennsylvania; but
its existence was a fact so familiar that it produced no
particular protest or expression of abhorrence, and, by all
save a small coterie of abolitionists, was regarded as
probably permanent. Slave-owners mingled with non-slave
owners upon terms of mutual regard and respect, unaffected,
apparently at least, by any consideration of the subject of
slavery.
Even if my mother had no qualms of conscience concerning
ownership of negroes, her sense of duty carried her far
beyond the mere supplying of their physical needs, or
requiring that they render faithful service. Forty immortal
souls, as she viewed it, had been committed to her guidance.
Every time one of these gentle and affectionate creatures
called her "mistress," the sense of obligation
resting upon her, to keep their souls as well as their
bodies fit for God, echoed back to her tender heart with
alarming distinctness. And in time, sweetly and humbly as
she performed her task, it became very irksome. She sleeps
to-day in Laurel Hill, on the banks of the Schuylkill, having
died at the early age of thirty-three, and no one knows how
much that sense of duty to her slaves contributed to her
death.
Ah, you who blame the slaveholder of the olden day, how
little you know whereof you speak, or how he or she became
such; how little allowance you make for surrounding
circumstances; how little you reck, in your general
anathemas against the slave-owner, of the true and beautiful
and good lives that sacrificed themselves, toiling to do
their duty to the slaves in that state of life to which it
pleased God to call them! There is not a graveyard in Old
Virginia but has some tombstone marking the resting place
of somebody who accepted slavery as he or she found it, who
bore it as a duty and a burden, and who wore himself or
herself out in the conscientious effort to perform that duty
well. Mark you, I am not bemoaning the abolition of slavery.
It was a curse, and nobody knows better than I the terrible
abuses which were possible and actual under the system.
Thank God, it is gone.
All that I am saying to you now is, you who fought slavery,
as well as you who have heard it described in the passionate
denunciations following its death, realize that the name of
slave-owner did not always, or even in the majority of cases,
imply that the slave-owner was one whit less conscientious,
one whit less humane, one whit less religious, or one whit less
entitled to man's respect or God's love, than you, who,
because, perhaps, you were never slave-owners, delight to
picture them as something
inferior to your precious selves. After all, it was not you, but
God that abolished slavery. You were his mere instruments
to do his work.
In the case of my mother, her task was somewhat
lightened by the character of her possessions, for the slaves
were of more than usual intelligence, and were, for the most
part, family inheritances.
This was no abode of hardship and stony hearts. No
slaves were sold from that plantation. The young ones might
have eaten their master's head off before he would have
taken money for their fathers' and their mothers' children.
No overseer brandished the whip that is so prominent a
feature upon the stage, or in the abolition books of fiction.
Back to me, through the mists of nearly half a century,
comes once more the vision of the young Puritan mother, who
followed the man she loved into this exile from every
association of her youth, and yet was happy in that love
because she worshiped him next to her God.
Now I see her upon a Sabbath afternoon, with all her
slaves assembled in the hallway, dressed in their Sunday
clothes. Young and old, her own children and her servants,
are gathered about her to listen to the word of God.
I have heard many great orators and preachers in my day,
but never a voice like that of my mother, as she read and
expounded the Holy Word to her children and her slaves.
In later years, I have heard great voices and great melodies,
but never sweeter sounds to mortal ear than those of my
mother and her children and her slaves, singing the simple
hymns she read out to them on those Sabbath afternoons
at Only, in the days of slavery.
Then came the lessons in the catechism taught to children
and slaves in the same class, where, before God, the two
stood upon equal terms, the blacks sometimes proving
themselves to be the quicker scholars of the two.
Such was my childhood's home; and such was many
another home in that land which, year by year, is being; more
and more depicted by ignorance and prejudice as the abode
of only the brutal slave-driver and his victim.
The beautiful month of October, 1850, with its wealth of
color and its exquisite skies, rolled round. All seemed well at
home. My father, once more immersed in political life, was
absent in Richmond, a delegate to a great constitutional
convention, where all his energies were directed towards
adjusting the true basis of representation in the legislature
between the sections of Virginia where slavery existed and
those where no slaves were owned. It was a difficult
question, on which he had taken ground in favor of a
manhood suffrage as opposed to suffrage based upon
representation of the property owners. Nearly every mail
brought letters to mother announcing the progress of the
fight, in which she seemed deeply absorbed. The reputation
which her husband was making resulted five years later in
his election as governor, and she clearly foresaw that result.
This prospect reconciled her to the separation, and made her
look bravely forward to an expected event.
One day I missed my mother, and was told that she was
ill. Servants were hurrying back and forth, and soon the
doctor arrived. Bedtime came, and Eliza, the white nurse,
took me away from the nursery adjoining my mother's
chamber, and put me to bed in a strange room. There, after
undressing me, she made me kneel and, in saying my
prayers, ask God to bless mamma. When I was tucked away
in bed, she sat beside me, and
stroked my long tresses, and sighed. It was all very strange.
"Mammy Liza, is mamma very sick?" I asked. "No, my child,
I hope not," said she, and then bade me go to sleep, and soon
I closed my eyes.
It was not for long, for in an hour or two I heard voices in
the hall, and hurrying footsteps, and, awakening and sitting
bolt upright in bed awhile, I finally slipped down to the floor,
and made my way, in my thin nightclothes, into the hall,
where I found the servants assembled, and weeping as if
their hearts would break, uttering loud lamentations.
"What is it, Aunt Mary Anne?" said I, cold, and shivering with
fright. "Oh, my po' baby, yo' mamma is dead, - yo' mamma is
dead! Oh my po', po' mistis is dead - dead - dead!" she
screamed, at the same time seizing me, and wrapping me in
her shawl, and bearing me back to the warmth.
Night wore away mournfully enough, until at last, with a
faithful slave beside me, I sobbed myself asleep, crying more
because others about me wept, than because I knew the real
cause for my grief. Morning came, and when I awoke, I could
not yet fully understand the solemn silence of all about me,
or the meaning of the strange black things I saw. Breakfast
over, the old nurse came to me to go with her and see
mamma. In silence, and amid the sobs of every servant on
the place, I and my little brother and sister were led into a
darkened room. There on the bamboo bedstead which she
had brought as her favorite from Rio, lay mamma,
apparently asleep, a tiny baby resting on her breast. By her
side, his head buried in the pillow, and sobbing as if his
heart would break, was my oldest brother, - not her own
child, but one who had loved her as his own mother, and who
now mourned a second mother dead. Gazing out of the half-opened
window, dressed in solemn black, stood the physician
who had
sought in vain to save her. I was frightened and awed beyond
utterance.
The next day the Fashion, Captain Hopkins's best vessel,
lay to at the Only landing. A fearful-looking black box
covered with velvet was borne aboard the Planter with
solemn steps. Her sails were hoisted. With the freshening
breeze she bore away, and, as the evening sunlight made a
shining pathway on Onancock Creek, the vessel pursued her
course westward until she became a tiny speck and
disappeared. They told me that my mother was in heaven.
Since that day, whenever the route to heaven arises to my
mind, I see the white sails of a vessel gliding westward in
the golden pathway made upon dancing waters by the
brilliant sinking sun of a clear autumn evening.
The home-coming of father, some weeks after this sad
event, was pitiful indeed.
He had been advised of my mother's death by a
messenger, who rode forty miles down the Peninsula, crossed
the bay to Norfolk, and thence telegraphed to Richmond.
Such were the difficulties of communication, even at that
recent date. When the news first reached him, the body was
on its way to Baltimore, and thither he repaired to meet it,
and accompany it to its last resting-place. After this, he had
been compelled to return to his duties in the convention at
Richmond, a widowed relative having meanwhile assumed
charge of his family, and holding them together until he
could return.
In the darkness of a drizzling winter evening, after a long,
cheerless ride, he drew near his desolate home. A chill
nor'easter storm, which had lasted for two days, made the
passage across the Chesapeake, in the stuffy little
steamboat Monmouth, exceedingly disagreeable. The few
friends he met at the wharf expressed their sympathy
more by subdued speech and close grasp of the hand
than in actual utterance. A storm-stained gunner, clad in
oilcloth, who had just made his landing from his goose-blind
to ship his game to market, came up to the carriage and
handed in, as tribute of his interest, a beautiful brace of
brant. As he shook the rain from his tarpaulin, remarking
that it was a great day for shooting, he uttered no word of
consolation; but his manner and his act were as delicately
suggestive of his reasons as if he had been bred to the
manners of a court.
Although the vehicle sent for father was amply supplied
with curtains, aprons, and robes, the rain beat in upon him
as he drove facing the storm, its cool moisture not ungrateful
to his fevered cheek. Ordinarily, the homeward ride on such
occasions was relieved by cheerful conversation between
master and man concerning domestic matters and the
progress of farm work. To-night, the weeds of mourning and
the sunken cheek and eye had awed the faithful slave into
respectful silence, which the master seldom saw fit to break.
Homeward they sped in silence, with little to vary the
monotonous pitapat of Lady Ringtail's hoofs in the shallow
pools with which the storm had filled the level roads.
He lay back with folded arms and half-closed eyes,
resentfully brooding upon the hard fate which had twice
made him a widower. At a turn of the road they passed a
silver maple, whose faultless form and beautiful coloring in
springtime and in autumn had so excited the admiration of
his wife that the children had named it "mamma's tree." It
was leafless and bare to-night. A scurrying blast, shaking it
as they passed, blew down from it a shower of raindrops, as
if in mockery.
At the outer farm-gate the driver alighted, and, as father
walked the mare slowly through the open gate, he
caught sight of the twinkling light which shone from the
chamber where mother had died. It had ever been a beacon to
him in days gone by. There, many a day, had she sat and
watched for his return; and many a night had she drawn back
the curtain that he might see her signal first of all. The sight
of it had always warmed his heart. Now, he almost shuddered at the thought of;
returning home. As they entered the yard, and drove around the circle leading to the doorstep, he turned his face
away from her terraced garden, only to look upon the arbor,
where, in days gone by, she had delighted to sit and watch the
sunsets.
Before the vehicle drew up at the door, news of the father's
and the master's arrival had spread through all of the
household. Wide open flew the doors, and down the steps,
bareheaded and heedless of rain or wind, we children rushed,
shouting "Papa - papa - papa!" and springing into his
arms with rapturous kisses. One by one we were snatched
and hugged and kissed, and pushed backwards up the steps,
with orders to run in out of the rain, while he busied himself
for a moment giving directions concerning his luggage and
the care of Lady Ringtail.
Poor little ones! How insensible they were to the great
calamity that had befallen them! How little they realized
his loss or their own! In the short weeks since our mother's
death, - weeks filled with deep affliction to him, - our
mourning-clothes had become familiar to us; our kind old
aunt had taken mother's place in all our thoughts and for all
our wants; our mamma was only a beautiful vision of the
past. We laughed and romped, and greeted papa with joyous
faces; unconscious alike that we had cause for sorrow, or that
his heart was bleeding afresh at sight of us.
The welcome awaiting him within was different from the
joyous babble of the little ones outside. There, almost
dreading to meet him, was the half-grown daughter of his
first marriage. She was old enough to know and feel what a
deep, irreparable loss had come upon her just when she most
needed the love and care and guidance of the one now dead.
It was not, and yet it was, her own mother that had died.
And there was the tender-hearted woman who had come to
keep together his little flock until his return. She had truly
loved his wife, and now, herself a widow, she had seen him
twice bereft.
As these two twined their arms about him, and buried
their faces upon his shoulder sobbing, the prattling
motherless children paused in their merriment to wonder
why their grief should give itself new vent upon an occasion
so joyous as papa's return.
But let us not dwell longer upon a scene so mournful.
Before leaving Richmond, father had written home
directing that a chamber should be prepared for himself as
far as possible from his former apartment. He could not
brook the thought of living surrounded by the familiar
objects of her chamber. Although he had been much absent
of late, and much engrossed in other ambitions, he was a
man devoted to his family, and deeply interested in his
home. He knew, whenever he reflected upon the facts, that
his apparent neglect of these duties of late was because of
political objects he could not abandon, and that his course
had been taken with his wife's approval; but ever and anon
the thought came back to him that she had been alone when
she died, and, in spite of all philosophy, the memory of that
lonely death distressed if it did not actually chide him. He
determined that, even at the sacrifice of ambition, he would
henceforth devote himself to the duties he owed to his
children and his home, and
make to her memory the atonement for what he could not
help regarding as neglect of her when she lived.
To this resolution I was indebted for four or five of the very
happiest years of my life. To this day, my fancy takes me
back to that great chamber where father made me his
bedfellow and constant companion; to that high tester
bedstead where, many a night, tucked away amid
comfortable linen, I watched the great hickory logs flicker
and sputter upon the andirons, and closed my eyes, at last,
lulled by the never-ceasing scratching of father's goose-quill
pen at a great writing-table in the centre of the room; to the
delightful half-consciousness of being folded in his arms
when, late in the night, he joined me, and hugged me to his
heart.
We were early risers, we two chums and companions. By
daybreak, the servant came in and built a roaring fire. By
sunrise, father and I were dressed, and out upon the farm, or
at the stables or the cowpens, followed by Boxer and Frolic,
our Irish terriers. The fashionable folk of to-day affect the
Irish terrier, and imagine that they have a new breed. Father
had a brace of them over forty years ago, and they were sure
death to the rabbits of Only. Many and many a day we came
back to breakfast with one, two, or three molly-cottontails
caught by Boxer and Frolic in our morning excursions upon
the farm.
Then there was hog-killing time, when, long before day,
the whole plantation force was up with knives for killing,
and seething cauldrons for scalding, and great doors for
scraping, and long racks for cooling the slaughtered swine.
Out to the farmyard rallied all the farm hands. Into the pens
dashed the boldest and most active. Harrowing was the
squealing of the victims; quick was the stroke that slew
them, and quicker the sousing of the dead hog into the
scalding water; busy the scraping of
his hair away; strong the arms that bore him to the beams,
and hung him there head downward to cool; clumsy the old
woman who brought tubs to place under him; deft the strong
hands that disemboweled him. And so it went. By the time
the sun was risen, how bare and silent were the pens where
hogdom had fed and grunted for so long a time!
How marvelous to youthful eyes the long rows of
cleanscraped hogs upon the racks; how cheerful the blazing
fires and boiling pots, and how sweet the smell of the hickory
smoking in the cold air of daybreak; how merry and how
happy seemed every one upon the place, old and young, men
and women, girls and boys, in the midst of this carnival of
death and grease! Up with the earliest, I was one of the
busiest men in all the company, - now frying a pig-tail upon
the blazing coals beneath the scalding-pots; now claiming a
bladder to be blown up for Christmas; now watching the
wonderful process of cleansing, or lard-making, or sausage-grinding.
My! what tenderloins and spare-ribs were on the
breakfast-table! my! how, for a fortnight after hog-killing,
what sausages and cracklin, and all sorts of meat, we had!
The skin of every darkey on the place shone with hog's
grease, like polished ebony; and even Boxer and Frolic grew
so fat they lost their interest in rabbit-hunting.
Then came the lovely springtime, when the ploughing
began, and I followed him about the farm until my poor
little legs were ready to give way beneath me. And the great
red-breasted robins and purple grackle lit in the new-
ploughed ground, from which such sweet aroma rose. And
the golden plover, sweeping past, fell to father's unerring
gun, I scrambling after them through the crumbling loam.
Then followed the harvest time, when birds'-nests and
young hares were in the stubble, and when the children rode
upon the straw-loads. And the summer days, when father
took me sailing in the Lucy Long, and sea-trout fishing at
the lighthouse, or built and rigged and sailed for me such
boats as no other boy ever had!
After that came the autumn time, when my uncle, a
famous Nimrod, appeared with dog and gun, and taught me
the mysteries of quail-shooting, so that I could tell how
Blanco the setter stood, and how Bembo the pointer backed,
and how Shot retrieved, and talked about these things like a
veteran sportsman.
And there, also, was our annual visit, in charge of Eliza,
the white nurse, to our grandmother in far-off Philadelphia.
This was the period of good behavior and restraint, neither of
which I always practiced; and, as I viewed it, it bore hard
upon my other engagements. A short city residence was not
altogether distasteful to me; but there were so many horses
to ride, and so many boats to sail, and so many dogs to work,
and so many fish to catch, and so many things to do at Only,
that I looked on the Philadelphia trip as time wasted from
more entrancing employments. I felt that I was growing
rapidly, and that there were a great many things which I
might grow past, if I did not keep going all the while; and
thus it was that at seven years old I was regarded as what
we call an enterprising youth.
Nor was I too young to detect that there were marked
differences between methods of life and thought at home,
and those which prevailed in Philadelphia.
My mother's family, especially the dear old grandmother,
to whom my mother's death had been a great blow, were
exceedingly kind, and did everything to make the visits
enjoyable; but there was a something in their treatment of
us little orphans which approached to patronizing
and, young as I was, my pride rebelled against the
idea that any one could condescend towards us.
One day, when I heard an aunt refer to me as her "little
savage," I grew furiously angry; and another day, when the
white servant referred to me as a slave-owner, I let her
understand that I did not own a slave who was not her
superior in every quality, good manners and good looks
included. These were only episodes in what were otherwise,
on the whole, very happy visits; but, young as I was, I early
learned that between the people of my father's and my
mother's home there was brewing a feeling of deep and
irreconcilable antagonism, the precise nature of which I
could not altogether comprehend.
As early as the autumn of 1862, I was made very happy by
being sent to school. As was the case in almost every section
of the South, the village school-teacher at Onancock was a
Northern man. My brother Richard, three years older than
myself, was my companion. We were furnished with red-topped
boots, red neckerchiefs, warm overcoats, warm caps
with coverings for the ears, and tin luncheon-pails, and never
were we more elated than on our first triumphal march to
Onancock, a mile away. As we passed the farmyards and the
fields where our old friends the slaves were at work, many
were the cheery words spoken to us.
"Dat's right," said saucy Solomon; "I spec' you'll be as
big a man as Mars' Henry hisself when you is done school."
"You'd better not pass through Mr. Tyler's yard. He's got a
pow'ful fierce dog," shouted Joshua.
And the last thing said by old George Douglas, who was
something of a tease, was, "Don't you let none of them
Onancock boys lick you, for you comes of fightin' stock."
Thus began our education, and a good beginning it was; for
we were blessed with a conscientious teacher, school at a
healthy distance, and at once entered the class with a red-headed
girl, clever as she could be, with whom I fell in love,
and who put me to my trumps every day to
keep her from "cutting me down" in the spelling-class.
Thus passed away the happy days of childhood, - days
unlike those which come to any boy anywhere nowadays;
days belonging to a phase of civilization and a manner of life
which are as extinct as if they had never existed.
Yet in those times, but nine years before war and
emancipation came, there was no thought that either was
near at hand. My brother and I, on our return from school,
were put across the creek at Onancock wharf. One sunny
evening, we found father at old Captain Hopkins's store at
the wharf, the spot where the village post office was kept. He
had been rowed up to the village in his yawl, the
Constitution, and was waiting to take us home with him.
The mail had just arrived, and an eager throng was listening
to the news of the presidential election. The old captain
read the returns, which told that Franklin Pierce was to be
the next President, and the crowd cheered vociferously.
Father was called upon for a speech, and briefly expressed
his gratification at the result. The thing which most struck
my ear was father's congratulation of his friends that the
election of Pierce set at rest all fears as to slavery and
secession, or concerning
the abolitionists. He told how Pierce, being a Northern
man, must prove acceptable to the North; and how, being
sound upon the slavery question, his administration would
allay the fears of the slave-owner, and quiet the threats of
secessionists. Everybody agreed that this was so, and
everybody hurrahed for Pierce and King; and, as the
Constitution rushed homeward on the placid waters,
under the strokes of two sable oarsmen, I puzzled myself to
guess what were the fears of the slaveholder, and what were
the threats of the secessionist, and who were the
abolitionists.
Now, I was a young gentleman who, when athirst for
knowledge, held not back. Accordingly, I opened my inquiries
in a series of questions, and received answers much after
the following order: -
"What are the fears of the slaveholder?"
"Why, my son, there is a small number of fanatics in the
North who demand that slavery be abolished immediately,
and the slaveholders are apprehensive of them."
"What is a fanatic, and what is an abolitionist?"
"A fanatic is a wild enthusiast, who will listen to nothing
which interferes with his demands; and an abolitionist is
one who demands that the slaves shall be freed."
"Are there many people of that kind in the North?"
"Yes; more than we know about."
"Is Pierce that sort of man? "
"Oh, no. He is not in favor of freeing the slaves."
"Well, now I know what the slaveholder fears, tell me
next what is the threat of the secessionist."
"Young man, you listen too closely. Secession means that
a State, like our Virginia, being dissatisfied with the way
the Union is managed, would withdraw from the Union, and
establish an independent government of her own, or form a
new one with other States which withdrew with her.
Secessionists are men who threaten to do that."
I paused a minute, and thought over all this; then, looking
up, said: -
"Well, if we secede, we shall not be the United States any
more, shall we?"
"And if we shall not be the United States anymore, we
shall not have the stars and stripes for our flag, and the Old
Constitution and the Columbia frigates won't
belong to us any more, will they?"
"No, not if we secede."
"Well, now, papa, don't let's secede. No, sir; don't let's
secede. You are not for secession, are you, papa? Think of
what a horrible thing it would be to give up the
government grandpa and General Washington made, and
the flag, and the ships, and all that, and start another thing
all new, without any history or anything. You are not a
secessionist, I know, because you said you were not. Are
you, papa?"
"No, no, my boy. Far from it. Nobody loves the Union
better than I do. Nobody has better cause to love and
honor and cherish it. I was reared in the home of a
grandfather who fought for it by the side of Washington; I
was taught from my earliest infancy to venerate the flag of
the Union. My manhood, at home and abroad, has been
dedicated to its service; and God grant that the Union may
never be rent asunder in my day by the fanaticism of the
North or the passion of the South. Heaven be praised, the
election of Mr. Pierce seems to put at rest all fears on that
score from any direction."
We were nearing the landing. The autumn sun had sunk
into the distant bay. The long shadows of the grove at Only
were thrown towards us across the pooly waters. Earth,
air, and sky were bathed in the glories of an Italian sunset,
as these fervid words fell from father's lips; and never in all
his life had he spoken more eloquently or more truly. What
he had said soothed and comforted me, to whom the
thought of the possibility that Virginia could be aught but
part of the
American Union, or that we might lose the American
flag, had never come before.
Thus it was that I learned my first lesson in politics and
was well and firmly assured that that could not possibly
happen which did actually happen within the next nine
years.
DURING the next three years, we had things pretty much
our own way at home, as far as female control was concerned.
The dear old aunt who presided over father's household,
although we loved her very much, was too indulgent to be a
successful manager of children; and while Eliza, the Irish
nurse, was firm and strong enough, we were rapidly growing
beyond her control.
Then there was my aunt's son, a most attractive fellow, just
entering upon manhood, - a thorough-paced childspoiler. It
was no uncommon thing for him to take me to the county seat,
or the neighboring villages, where, while he pursued his
amusements, I found companions and playmates that were
improving neither to manners nor ideals of life. The association
was delightful, nevertheless. On these excursions, there was
no whim of fancy which that partial young relative was not
more than ready to gratify. Our attachment was lifelong, and in
after years the deep and abiding interest of my old-bachelor
cousin in all that concerned me never abated until he died. At
home, I had a thousand things to make boyhood happy. With
the grown-up slaves I was a great favorite; and, as was often
the case in plantation life, the little darkeys near my own age
were my playmates and companions, and accepted me as their
natural leader and chief. By the time I was eight years old, I
could shoot, and ride, and fish, and swim, and sail a boat; I had
a yoke of yearling
oxen broken by myself; my own punt in which to go fishing;
fishing-lines and crab-nets; a dog and a colt; and had become a
breeder of most prolific chickens. Nothing pleased me more
than dropping corn in planting-time, or hauling wood and straw
with my own team. For months at a time I would go barefoot,
during the summer season, dressed in brown linen and a straw
hat. All this laid in a store of health and strength that was of
great value in after years. In truth, I was a most bustling,
energetic lad with no end of vitality, but lacked the parental
government and care of a mother; and it was a blessed day for
me when my father married again.
My father's third wife was a refined and cultivated woman, of
suitable age, and possessed a most lovable disposition. It was
not long before she established her dominion in our
household, - a dominion of love.
I was taught to observe meal-times; to appear with hair
brushed and face and hands washed; to attend family prayers;
to spend less time at the negro quarters; to account more
precisely for my nomadic wanderings; to devote regular hours
to studies; and in many ways to adopt much more orderly
methods than I had been accustomed to pursue of late. All
which came in good time, for I was soon to become a city boy.
In 1855, a great political contest occurred in Virginia. A
faction known as the Know-Nothing party, or the American
party, had sprung up suddenly, and had triumphed in a
number of the Northern States. It was a secret organization,
with oaths and grips and passwords. Its rallying cry was that
Americans should rule America. Incidental to this watchword
was a real or fancied hostility to foreigners, particularly the
Irish, and to the Catholic Church. Until it reached Virginia, it
had been successful everywhere. Father believed in the
teachings of
George Washington that secret political organizations were
dangerous to republican liberty, and in the teachings of
Thomas Jefferson that no man should be proscribed on
account of his religion. He maintained that neither Irish
men nor other foreigners should be oppressed or ostracized
by reason of their religious faith or their nationality.
The result of the approaching conflict seemed exceedingly
doubtful when he was chosen as the Democratic candidate
for governor of Virginia. The circumstances of his selection
were not altogether flattering or hopeful. Many of his
political associates preferred him as the man in their
opinion best fit to make the desperate fight, but there were
others who preferred him because they believed the struggle
was hopeless and secretly desired his defeat. He accepted
the nomination; and although, at the outset, the Know-
Nothing party had an enrolled majority of ten thousand of
the entire voters of the State, he entered upon one of the
most remarkable campaigns in Virginia politics, and after a
brilliant canvass was elected by ten thousand majority.
It is seldom a boy nine years old is deeply interested in
politics, but this campaign was one that enlisted the
intense enthusiasm of young and old.
In American politics, we have recurring periods of political
"crazes." Of late years we have witnessed several
such. The Greenback craze, the Granger craze, the Silver
craze, have each in its turn arisen, and, for the time being,
made whole communities drunk with excitement. Friends
of many years are estranged by these ephemeral issues.
They are carried into business, into church, into the
household, everywhere, until entire commonwealths are so
wrought up that even women and children take part until
election day, and after that we hear no more about them.
Such commotions are like brushfires,
which, igniting instantly, burn and crackle and fill the
whole heavens with smoke, as if the world was on fire, and
then die out as suddenly as they sprung up.
The Know-Nothing craze of 1855 was just such an
excitement. Our community was divided into factions.
Everybody took sides. Men who had never been known to
show an active interest in politics became intense partisans,
and political discussion went on everywhere. One of the first
results experienced by me was a black eye and a bloody nose,
received in a hard fight with the son of the village
blacksmith. Exactly how the row began, neither of us could
clearly explain; but we were on opposite sides, and that was
sufficient. It was a drawn battle, for the blacksmith
interfered, having no intention of losing a valuable trade by
reason of political differences. In the little village of
Onancock, the rival organizations found vent for their
enthusiasm by building and flying two immense kites, with
the names of their respective party candidates emblazoned
on them conspicuously. Many an evening, after school was
dismissed, I saw half of the villagers of the place out on the
green flying their Know-Nothing and Democratic kites, as if
the result depended upon which flew the highest.
In due course came election day. Father being absent, the
young cousin above referred to represented him at the
polling-place, and took me with him. In those days, voting
was done openly, or viva voce, as it was called, and
not by ballot. The election judges, who were magistrates, sat
upon a bench with their clerks before them. Where
practicable, it was customary for the candidate to be present
in person, and to occupy a seat at the side of the judges. As
the voter appeared, his name was called out in a loud voice.
The judges inquired, "John Jones (or Bill Smith), for whom
do you vote?" - for governor, or
for whatever was the office to be filled. He replied by
proclaiming the name of his favorite. Then the clerks
enrolled the vote, and the judges announced it as enrolled.
The representative of the candidate for whom he voted arose,
bowed, and thanked him aloud; and his partisans often
applauded.
All day long I sat upon my cousin's knee, or played about
the platform. Nobody smiled more broadly, or applauded
more vigorously, at votes cast for father; and nobody was
more silent or haughty when votes were cast against him. At
sundown, the polls were closed, and, to my infinite
mortification, the majority at the precinct was announced as
in favor of the Know-Nothings. The craze had simply taken
possession of the place and run away with it. The ignorant
and the vain had all been captured by the signs and grips
and secret passwords of Know-Nothingism. For the first time
in his life, father was defeated at his home. I thought we
were done for. When we were safely bundled in the vehicle,
and headed for home, I felt like crying, and the Know-Nothing
cheers still rung in my ears most depressingly. What
mortified me most of all was the fact that I knew of a
bantering compact between the owners of the rival kites that
the victorious party should own the kite of the vanquished,
with the privilege of flying it tailless and upside down. The
thought of seeing our beloved kite in such ignominious plight
nearly prostrated me. As a matter of fact, the result at this
precinct had been fully anticipated by the grown folks, and
gave them no serious concern as to the general result. The
Know-Nothing majority was really less than they had
claimed. Seeing how I was cast down, my cousin, holding me
between his legs in the one-seated buggy, endeavored to
explain that there was no cause for alarm. Long before he
finished, he discovered
that, worn out by the fatigue and disappointment of the day,
I was fast asleep, and in that condition he bore me into the
house in his arms, laid me on the broad settee in the hall,
and covered me with the lap-robe.
More cheering news from other places came thick and fast
in the next few days, and it was not long before I was
delightedly watching the Know-Nothing kite sailed tailless
and upside down by father's friends.
Then came the preparations for removal of our residence
to Richmond for four years.
No life could have been more in contrast with that at Only
than the one to which I was now introduced. January 1, 1856,
father took the oath of office as governor, and we proceeded
to establish ourselves in the Government House, as it was
called.
It is a fine old structure, simple in exterior, very capacious,
surrounded by pleasant grounds, fronting the Capitol Square at
Richmond. The house at Only seemed like a wren-box contrasted
with this great residence. With play-grounds, and stables, and
conservatory, and outhouses, it was indeed a most attractive
place. Young gentlemen nine years of age are not apt to
underestimate their own importance in such a situation, and I
was no exception to this rule. The legislature was in session in
the Capitol, and as a large majority of the members were in
political sympathy with father, I received a great deal more
attention and petting from them than was good for me. My
bump of reverence never was over-developed, and under the
influence of this sort of thing, I rapidly became very pert. But
there were other directions in which I did not find life "all beer
and skittles."
A school was selected where, beside a decided lack of
enthusiasm for any school, I found this particular one not
altogether a bed of roses. Being the best school obtainable,
it was attended by the sons of the most prominent
people of the place. And therein lay the trouble. If their
fathers' views had controlled the election of governor, our
residence at Only would have been undisturbed. The city
was the stronghold of Know-Nothingism in Virginia. In a
vote of nearly four thousand, father had not received
exceeding nine hundred votes, and they were for the most
part from the humbler classes. The Richmond Democrats
were so few in numbers that they were called the "Spartan
Band." The rural votes gave father his majority, especially
in the splendid yeomanry of the Shenandoah Valley, among
whom very few slaves were owned. They were the men who
afterwards, drawn into the war to fight the slave-owners'
battles, won with their valor the immortal fame of
Stonewall Jackson.
Father had notions about manhood suffrage, public
schools, the education and the elevation of the masses, and
the gradual emancipation of the slaves, that did not suit
the uncompromising views of people in places like
Richmond. It was the abode of that class who proclaimed
that they were Whigs, and that "Whigs knew each other by
the instincts of gentlemen." The slave market was a
flourishing institution in Richmond, fully countenanced if
not approved and defended. The majority of Richmond
people hated the name of Democracy, and, almost always
defeated by it, were willing to unite with the Know-Nothings
or any other party to defeat their enemy the
Democracy.
At school, I very soon discovered that the Richmond city
boys were disposed to turn up their noses at me, not only as
a country boy, but because I was my father's son. I had
several fistic encounters with them, and after that things
went on more smoothly, but not very pleasantly.
There never was such a place as Richmond for fighting
among small boys. The city is built over a number of hills
and valleys, and in those days the boys of particular
localities associated in fighting bands, and called
themselves Cats. Thus there were the Shockoe Hill Cats,
the Church Hill Cats, the Basin Cats, the Oregon Hill Cats,
the Navy Hill Cats, etc.
About this time we were seized with the military fever. In
those days, the State of Virginia had a large armory at
Richmond, and a standing army of a hundred men! The
command was known as the "Public Guard," but the
Richmond boys called them the "Blind Pigs." The syllogism
by which this name was reached was unanswerable. They
wore on their hats the letters P. G., which certainly is P I G
without the I. And a pig without an eye is a blind pig. Q E D.
The public guard was as well drilled and oared for as any
body of regulars in the United States army. It guarded the
penitentiary and public grounds, and was a most valuable
organization in many ways.
Captain Dimmock, commanding officer, was a West
Pointer, I think, and the beau ideal of a soldier. His son
Marion and my brother, three years my senior, conceived the
idea of forming a boy's soldier company. Father encouraged
the idea, and caused a hundred old muskets in the armory
to be cut down to the proper size for boys. Captain Dimmock
entered heartily into the scheme. The boys were drilled
assiduously. Their uniform was neat cadet gray; and for
several years the "Guard of the Metropolis" was one of the
most striking institutions of Richmond. It always paraded
with the Public Guard, and the precision of its drill
astonished and delighted all beholders. Seven years later,
William Johnson Pegram, the first lieutenant of that
company, attained the rank of brigadier-general in Lee's
army before he was twenty-one
years old, and although killed in battle, is still remembered as
one of the bravest and most brilliant artillery commanders of
the civil war. Many other members were utilized as drill-masters
at the outbreak of the war, and subsequently became excellent
officers.
Too young to carry a musket, I was made marker of this
famous company, and was as proud of my uniform and little
marker's flag as a Frenchman of the Cross of the Legion of
Honor.
THE present generation finds it difficult to realize the
position in the Union occupied by Virginia, even as late as
1856-60, to which period our narrative now brings us. People
recall, in a general way, that Virginia was once the theatre of
many historic events; that she gave birth to many great men in
the early days of the Republic; and that she was the chief
battle-ground in the civil war.
A romantic interest attaches to her in consequence, and
there is a certain tenderness for Virginia felt towards no other
State, even in sections which were once arrayed against her.
But from many causes, a decline in her social and political
importance has occurred within the last forty years, which, in
its rapidity and in its extent, presents one of the most
remarkable instances in history. Let us not stamp it as
degeneracy. The day when she produced men of the type of
Lee and Jackson is too recent to justify despair.
It is made doubly difficult to judge her by the character of
the writings concerning her. On the one hand, we have
extravagant eulogiums and fond laments of those who laud
her old-time history and people, and admit no defects in them;
on the other, the always unfair and often ignorant
denunciations of the anti-slavery folk, who are unwilling to
admit, even at this late day, that any good could come out of
the Nazareth of slavery. Both are wide of the mark. The social
and economic conditions
of Virginia were neither utopian, as the one loves to
depict, nor bad and vicious, as the other would
represent them.
It is undeniably true that, between the two extremes
of society, as it existed there prior to 1865, was an
awful gulf, upon one side of which were green pastures
and still waters, and on the other noisome bogs filled
with creeping reptiles. It was a condition incompatible
with every theory of republican equality among men,
and beyond question repugnant to the ideas and
sensibilities of free communities.
Whether what has followed will ultimately result in a
better civilization is as yet far from settled; but
whether for better or for worse, it is certain that a
social, economic, and political earthquake, never
surpassed in suddenness and destructive force, burst
upon that people, working changes that have left little
trace of what was there before.
If the Virginian who died forty years ago could revisit
his native commonwealth, he would find it difficult to
recognize the place where he lived. If he located it by
the streams which still flow to the sea, and the
mountains still standing as sentinels through the
centuries, he would soon learn, even concerning these,
that many are no longer landmarks of Virginia, but,
snatched from her in the hour of her weakness against
her will, are now possessions of an alien State. For the
less enduring things, - for men such as he knew, for
their very habitations, their mode of life, the fashion of
thought of his day, for its wealth, its refinement, its
culture, for its lofty incorruptibility and high-mindedness,
- he would search sadly and in vain.
In the day of which I write, Virginia, among the
States of the Union, was, in territorial area, second
only to
Texas. Her western boundary was the Ohio River;
northward, her Panhandle projected high up between Ohio
and Pennsylvania. Her wealth made her credit at home
and abroad above question. Her bonds sold higher in
New York and London than those of the federal
government. Her political importance placed her sons
in commanding positions in the cabinet, on the bench,
and as representatives to many important foreign
governments. In every national assemblage her voice
was hearkened to as that of a potent and conservative
and reliable guide.
Richmond was admittedly the centre of a society
unsurpassed in all America for wealth, refinement, and
culture. Nearly every distinguished foreigner felt that
his view of America was incomplete unless he spent
some time in the capitol of the Mother of States and
Statesmen. Soldiers, authors, sculptors, artists,
actors, and statesmen sought Richmond then as
surely as to-day they visit New York and Boston.
The actual population of the city was small. It is difficult
to realize that in 1860 Richmond had but thirty-eight
thousand inhabitants. But the truth is, that its real constituency
was much greater; for it was the assembling-point
of a large class of wealthy persons who resided on
their plantations upon the upper and lower James, and
in Piedmont, Tidewater, and the South Side.
It is not uncommon nowadays to see references to
Southern society of that period as uncultured, and
rather sensual than intellectual in its tastes. This
historic falsehood, like many others assiduously told
for a long time, may find permanent lodgment in the
belief of the future. No statement was ever more
unjust. With inherited wealth, with abundant leisure,
with desire to excel in directing thought, and to attain
that command of men which knowledge affords, with
an innate passion for oratory,
a thorough education was the natural ambition of a
Virginia gentleman. True, his efforts were not directed
towards acquiring practical or scientific knowledge; for these
were in those days possessed, for the most part, by men who
expected to apply them to earning a livelihood. But in
education in the classics, in the study of ancient and modern
languages, in history, in philosophy moral and political, in
the study of the science of government, in the learned
professions, no men in America were better equipped than
the wealthy Southerners of that period.
It is true, there was no public-school system, and the
reason for it was very plain. The wealth of the upper classes
enabled them to have private tutors. The paucity in numbers
of the lower classes of the whites, and the distances at which
they lived apart, rendered public schools impracticable for
them. Education of the blacks was, of course, contrary to all
ideas of slavery. Suppose we depended upon the wealthy to
inaugurate public schools, - how many should we have? Yet
nobody suspects that they are indifferent to education. The
best proof of the care of the slaveholding Southerner for
education may be found in the lives of distinguished
Northern men who grew up fifty years ago. In many
instances, they record the fact that their first employments
were as tutors in wealthy Southern families. The private
libraries of Virginia destroyed in the war, or burned in the
old Virginia homesteads, would have filled every public
library in the North to overflowing. Every current periodical
and publication of that day, American and foreign, was upon
the library table of the Virginian not later than it was in the
Northern reading-room.
Conversation at social gatherings did not run to games
and sports, and dress and dissipations, and gossip and
amusements, but to the great events of the day, to the
latest productions in literature and art, and to things worthy
of man's noblest thought and discussion. It is an insult to
the memory of those most intellectual people to describe the
men as a breed of swearing, drinking, and gambling fox-hunters,
and the women as pampered, candy-eating dolls.
The per cent. of youth educated at foreign universities was
greater in proportion to white population, at the outbreak of
the war, in Virginia than in Massachusetts. This was
natural, in view of the greater individual wealth.
It is true that every enterprise dependent upon what is
known as public spirit, or originating in the demand or
desire of common use, was sadly lacking. Wealthy people
seldom coöperate. Each buys, for private use, things which
all might well use in common if the price was an important
consideration; and none, perhaps, have as much, or as good,
as all might more cheaply obtain if they acted conjointly.
In times of slavery, there never was a decent hotel or public
livery in the South. The private establishments were so large
that their hospitality was deadly to the success of public
houses, or other provision for the public comfort. Of a thousand
or two thousand visitors to the city of Richmond, not one
hundred would seek public accommodation. They either had
town residences of their own, or were taken in charge by friends
and relatives as soon as they reached the city. Everybody was
kin to everybody. Visitors were ushered into vacant chambers
that were already yearning for them, attended by the servants
that were idle in their absence, furnished with equipages and
horses that needed use and work, and fed of an abundance that
had been wasted before they came. All this was repaid by their
mere presence, which banished ennui, in those days when public
amusements were rare and inferior.
The domestic luxury and comfort of these people was all that
heart could wish for. Their houses were furnished
sumptuously in every detail. From drawing-room to chamber,
everything was provided which wealth could wish. Mahogany,
rare china and glass ware, massive silver, and the choicest of
damask and linen were found in the dining-room, which was an
important feature of every home. But there was a singular lack
of the elaborate ornamentation and gilding so prevalent at
present. The servants were in numbers, in thorough knowledge
of their duties, in considerate care of their guests, and in
respectful deference to their superiors, such as never were
surpassed anywhere, and such as are now found on no portion
of the earth's surface, unless, perhaps, it be in England. The
Virginia cook and the Virginia cooking of that time were the full
realization of the dreams of epicures for centuries. They also
have passed away, like many of those precious gifts which are
too delightful to be of long continuance. The dress of the
period was, considering the opulence of the people, remarkable
for its simplicity. Of diamonds and precious stones and jewelry
there was abundance, and they of the most costly kind, and in
quality the costumes of the women were of the best; but
neither in number nor in extravagance of make-up was there
any such display, especially in public, as later times have
developed.
Male attire was exceedingly simple. As late as 1858, several
of the old gentlemen wore the queues we see in pictures of
Washington and his contemporaries, but those instances were
exceedingly rare. Among elderly men, no such thing as a beard
was admissible. The clean-shaven face was almost without
exception. Young dandies began to wear hirsute adornments
about the time Ned Sothern appeared in "Our American
Cousin," and made "Lord
Dundreary" side-whiskers the fashionable fad. Elderly
gentlemen wore broadcloth, with tall silk hats, high standing
collars, and white or black stocks. This was varied among
country gentlemen by broad slouch hats of felt or straw, and
expansive white or nankeen waistcoats. During the heated term,
a fashionable attire was an entire outfit of white or brown linen
duck.
Until the year 1858, there was little difference between the
costumes of old and young men, except in neckwear. Among
youngsters, colored cravats were worn. About that year came,
among the ultra fashionables, a remarkable outfit, consisting of
short, double-breasted reefing jackets, trousers immense at the
hips and tapering to the ankles, Scotch caps, and "Dundreary"
whiskers. But a country youth would have scorned such wild
imaginings of tailors. A city man thus equipped, walking beside
a woman in hoops and a broad-faced bonnet, would give Fifth
Avenue a genuine sensation if he reappeared today.
The private equipages were handsome. Rogers, of
Philadelphia, and Brewster, of New York, built nearly all of the
carriages in use among the Virginians, and the horses were
Virginia or Kentucky thoroughbreds. There was rivalry to
possess the handsomest teams, and the equipages on Franklin
Street compared favorably, in number and style, with those in
any city in this country. One remarkable old lady, a Mrs. Cabell,
had a vehicle swinging upon immense C-springs, drawn by large
Andalusian mules of her own importation, with liveried
coachman and footmen. But that was never adopted as a
model. Even at that late day, a few people drove to the White
Sulphur in their private vehicles, and a drive of forty miles to
visit friends in the country was a mere episode. The sociability
of the period was great.
Concerning the mode of life, there were but two important
meals daily. Breakfast, except for business people or
schoolchildren, was rather late. Morning visiting among the
ladies was from one o'clock until three P. M. The dining hour
was generally at three P. M. From dinner time until about 7.30
P.M. came a leisure period for driving; and then an informal
repast, consisting of tea, coffee, chocolate, biscuits,
sandwiches, and light cakes, served in the drawing-rooms. At
this hour the family, its guests and visitors, were generally
assembled in their best dress. The meal, if such a light repast
could be so designated, was served by butlers bearing great
trays. Every drawing-room had its "nest" of tiny tables on
which to place the plates and cups. The repast did not even
interrupt the flow of conversation. In pleasant weather, many of
the guests sat upon the porticoes and were served there. This
was the time when young folks, male and female, interchanged
visits.
Music, vocal and instrumental, and dancing varied the
enjoyment of those charming evenings. The wit of the time was
brilliant and refined. There was Littleton Tazewell, remembered
as having declined a proffered cup of tea by dryly saying:
"No, thank you, I would be azwell without the T." There was
Tom August, whose wit was like Sheridan's. He it was who
refused to bet on the great four-mile race between "Red Eye "
and "Revenue" because, as he said, the result was already
certain. When asked why it was certain, he replied, "The first legal maxim I
ever learned was, 'Id certum est, quod certum
Reddi potest.'" On another occasion, responding to the
frightened inquiry, "Who is that?" when a neighbor heard
him falling downstairs, he promptly replied, "'Tis I, sir, rolling
rapidly." Sweet Tom August, - courtly to dames, loving to
friends, brave in war, brilliant at the
bar, gentle and loving to the last, - green be the grave
that covers thee! Dying July 31st, he laughed, an hour
before he died, and remarked, "For once, the first and
last of August have come together."
And then there was mincing and primping John R.
Thompson, the poet, and young Price, now a grave professor of
Columbia, and handsome, dashing Willie Munford, to-day a
white-haired minister; and Jennings Wise, and Brandfute
Warwick, and John Pegram, - the last three dead in the battle
front before five years had rolled by. And there were young
Randolph Barksdale and Randolph Harrison, twin Apollo
Belvideres in youthful beauty. And red-faced George Pickett, in
his army clothes, before Gettysburg immortalized him, leading
his charming petite sister to the piano to flood the house with
melody like that of the mocking-bird. There, too, was the brilliant
Lucy Haxall, whose exuberant wit made all the welkin ring; and
sweet Mary Power Lyons, who made men better for beholding
such exquisite refinement and maidenly beauty; and the rich
Penn heiress from New Orleans; and the gentle Morsons; and
Pages and Carters and Lees by the score.
In the quiet corners sat matrons smiling on this scene of
pleasure, - Dame Scott, of Fauquier, with her great white
turban, her intellectual face looking like a queen's;
Mrs. Judge Stanard, handsome and charming; Mrs. James
Lyons, young and beautiful as the most blushing debutante;
stately Mrs. Fowle, of Alexandria, and, by her side, hospitable
Mrs. McFarland, and beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Seddon,
of Goochland. Last, but by no means least, were the middle-aged
and elderly representative men of the city and State,
engaged in courteous attention to the ladies, or grouped in
drawing room, library, or veranda, discussing the living issues
of
the times. There was James Lyons, one of the leaders of the
Virginia bar, the handsomest man of his day; and noble-looking
John B. Young, who, in the forefront of his profession, still
found time to read Dickens until he was a walking
encyclopædia of Dickens's wit; and William H. McFarland,
Richmond's king of hospitality, portly and imposing, in ruffled
shirt and spotless black; and Judge Robert Stanard, whose
very presence was suggestive not only of the bench, but of a
certain weakness he had for whist and "Lou" and "Bragg;"
and George W. Randolph and Roscoe B. Heath, the rising men
of the bar; and the Reverends Joshua Peterkin and Charles
Minnegerode, spiritual doctors; and Doctors Deane and Haxall,
doctors of the flesh, - all mingling in most delightful and
refined exchange of courtesy and thought.
Once or twice a week the public band played in the Capitol
grounds. The park was illuminated. The citizens generally
promenaded up and down the great parade and enjoyed the
music. Our home was opened on such occasions to father's
friends, and with clean-washed face and most approved attire,
I flitted in and out: now petted in the drawing-room; now
stealing away with a biscuit or a cake for some little pet darkey;
now out in the public square with my boy acquaintances.
School occupied our mornings, and three afternoons of the
week were allotted to our French. When older, I should never
have begrudged that time to so charming a companion as Mlle.
Vassas, theinstitutrice, but we looked upon her then as our
natural enemy. Afternoons and Saturdays were left to us to
indulge in boyish diversions. At first, these were harmless and
domestic enough. In the spacious grounds about the
Government House, we had pet pigeons, tame squirrels, a
rabbit-warren, an improvised
gymnasium, and other things to make home happy. Old Harry,
our slave coachman, often accompanied us on horseback rides;
and the boys of our acquaintance were glad to avail themselves
of the attractions at our home. We were warned against playing
in the streets, or wandering into other portions of the city, and
for a long time obeyed such commands very well. But in time, I
found many excuses for absence. Between the visits to the
state barracks, where our soldier company drilled, and to the
Penitentiary, where ingenious convicts, without regular
employments, built us boats, and engines, and cannon, and
wagons, and all sorts of toys, there were always plausible
excuses for frequent and long absences, the real nature of
which were never very closely investigated.
Then came the excitement of another presidential election. I
hear you exclaim, "Now what possible interest could a
presidential election possess for a boy ten years old?" You
ask that question because you do not know the society I am
describing. Not a day passed that I did not hear something
about the dangerous condition of the political situation. Long
before James Buchanan was nominated by the Democrats, I
knew that Stephen A. Douglas, "the little giant," with his
views of squatter sovereignty, could not command the vote of
the Southern Democracy. Father was a warm supporter of Mr.
Buchanan as the representative of the conservative element of
Democracy. Accordingly, when Buchanan was nominated,
largely through the influence of the Virginians, I felt a personal
interest in the success of "Buck and Breck," and was their
avowed advocate in all places. Richmond was still unreconciled
to Democracy; and the American ticket, headed by ex-President
Fillmore and Andrew Jackson Donelson, was a hot favorite in
Virginia's capital. As for the new and third party, known
as Republican and led by Fremont and Dayton, it literally had
no following there. Out of the 160,000 votes cast in Virginia
in the presidential election of 1856, only 1800 votes were
cast for the Republicans, and they were nearly
all cast in the Panhandle.
But the supporters of Buchanan and of Fillmore made a
great noise in Richmond. They were united in ridiculing
Fremont, but divided in all else. Nearly every night, open-air
political speaking took place, with parades, banners,
red lights, and bands of music, and great orators visited
the city. From these, and from the political cartoons, which
were very plentiful, I learned a great deal about Buchanan
and Breckinridge, and about Fillmore and Donelson; but I
was led to regard the candidacy of Fremont as a political
farce, and chiefly heard of him as finding woolly horses in
the Rocky Mountains, and running away with Jessie
Benton, daughter of Missouri's great senator. I did not
realize that, although the storm of abolition had not yet
assumed full force, it was rapidly gathering, with its centre
in this Republican ticket; nor appreciate that, in many
Northern States, Fremont was drawing to his support a
great following, which, with its "wide-awake" processions
and other demonstrations, excited an enthusiasm not seen
in politics since the time of "Tippecanoe and Tyler too."
Even when the election occurred and Buchanan was chosen,
I did not know that the real battle had been between
Buchanan and Fremont, and that, for the first time, a solid
North had been arrayed politically against a solid South.
No; however seriously a scrutiny of the returns may have
affected older and more thoughtful people, young folks, and
many older folks than I, looked only at the results, and
regarded the election of Buchanan as once more putting at
rest the plans of the abolitionist and
the fears of the slaveholder. Little did I foresee that
within eight years from the time I was hurrahing for
"Buck and Breck," I should be led in battle by Breck in an
assault on Buck, and upon everything that Buck and Breck
stood for in the great election of 1856.
The result of the election of 1856 gave great satisfaction
at our home. In the year 1857, passing through
Washington on our return from the annual visit to
Philadelphia, I had the distinguished honor of visiting a
President for the first time. In company with a friend of
father's, we children were taken to the White House. The
President was a charming old gentleman, of very
distinguished appearance. His greeting was cordial and
simple. I looked him over carefully, and wondered why he
had one hazel and one blue eye, and why he had never
married. Then I reflected that perhaps that was the real
reason, for the dear old fellow seemed exceedingly fond of
children, and perhaps, after all, would have had a wife and
children, if he could have found a lady who would be
content with a pair of misfit eyes. Very sweet and tender eyes
they were, however. After looking through the President's
conservatory and receiving some pretty flowers, and eating
a fine piece of President's cake, and being intrusted with some
kind messages for father, we felt that we had not made any
mistake in supporting Buchanan for President.
Soon after this, we had an opportunity of seeing an
eminent representative of the other side in politics.
Personal animosities did not enter so largely into politics
in those days as they do now, although the stakes of the
political game were greater, and the issues really more
vital.
An abolitionist in the abstract, as conceived by us under
the teachings surrounding us, was a very frightful
creature. We had heard much of past negro insurrections
inspired by secret Northern emissaries. It was part of
my early education to learn of a fearful massacre, led by a
desperate negro named Nat Turner, in the county of
Southampton a few years before I was born. I had been
taught to believe that Nat Turner and his deluded followers
had really had no cause of grievance, but that secret
abolition emissaries had gone among them, and with devilish
malignity had stimulated them to rise in the night, and
put to death a number of innocent people who had been good
to them all their lives, to whom they owed every debt of
gratitude for becoming their masters here and making
Christians of them, instead of leaving them savages in
Africa. All this seemed reasonable, with no arguments on the
other side; and the fact that Nat Turner and all who joined
him were wiped off the face of the earth seemed a natural
result of Nat's lack of appreciation of the good state in which
he lived. In a general way I had heard, and heard it with
regret, that the real culprits, the abolitionists, who had
made Nat Turner do these horrid things, had escaped, and
from time to time contemplated the possibility that such
fiends still existed, and still prowled at night about negro
quarters, and induced them to run away. Of course, I had no
idea that such a thing as a negro insurrection could occur in
our community with a body of troops present like the Public
Guard. But why talk of such possibilities? Were not the
negroes perfectly content and happy? Had I not often talked
to them on the subject? Had not every one of them told me
repeatedly that they loved "old Marster" better than
anybody in the world, and would not have freedom if he
offered it to them? Of course they had, - many and many a
time. And that settled it.
All this being true, I looked upon an abolitionist as, in
the first place, a rank fool, engaged in trying to make
people have what they did not want; and in the next place,
as a disturber of the peace, trying to make people wretched
who were happy, and a man bad at heart, who was bent on
stealing what belonged to his neighbor, or even inciting the
murder of people for slaveholding, as if slaveholding were a
crime, when it was no crime, but a natural and necessary
condition of society.
With views like this concerning abolitionists in general,
my curiosity was greatly excited when I heard that one
William H. Seward, the acknowledged leader of the
Republican party in the North, was not only in the city of
Richmond, but was visiting and being entertained by the
Hon. Jargon Lyons, a connection and supporter of my father.
When I was presented to Mr. Seward, I was greatly
surprised to find him a natural-looking person, with most
attractive manners, genial, bright in companionship,
laughing in his talk, and actually going so far as to call his
host Lyons, and the other gentlemen by their given names.
Mr. Seward surprised me also by eating and drinking and
smoking, and having a good time generally; and I watched
him long and in vain to see some distinguishing mark by
which I might thereafter recognize an abolitionist. I
discovered none, except it be a wonderfully large nose, which
was also a characteristic of John Brown and Abraham
Lincoln, his brother abolitionists.
I listened in vain for some utterance of abolition views
from Mr. Seward, but the party seemed more interested in a
decanter of old Madeira, and a discussion of some passing
social event, than in the all-absorbing question of slavery,
and so Mr. Seward's convictions were reserved for future
expression. I thought he might possibly give money to Austin
the butler, with which to escape from slavery, but, so far as
was ever discovered, nothing like
that occurred. Mr. Seward came and went. He enjoyed his
visit, and his host enjoyed his company. But neither made
much impression on the political views of the other.
Many other things were happening which drew my
attention to the subject of slavery. During our next visit to
Philadelphia, everybody was talking about a book and a play
called "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I had heard mention of the book
at home, as a very powerful but very "pernicious" book. More
than once the subject had come up in conversation in my
presence; and I had heard the work spoken of as a cruel
travesty upon Southern life, disgusting in its sentimental
sympathy with the negro. I was surprised to find that
everybody in the North was reading "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
and pronouncing it a remarkable production; and when it
was proposed, on our next visit to Philadelphia, to take me to
a theatre to see this wonderful play of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I
was delighted. Never did theatrical performance open to
any one more gratifyingly than that wonderful drama. In
my heart I had a feeling that our Northern kinsfolk thought
their homes were finer than those in our beloved South. I did
not think so. When, in the opening act, I saw the beautiful
Southern home, with its flowers and bowers and sunshine, I
said to myself, "Now they will see how we live, and will envy
us." Yes, old Uncle Tom and all his family were just such
darkeys as were in Virginia. And as for Eva, there she was,
looking like a hundred little girls I knew, and infinitely
sweeter in voice and eye than the prim Northern girls
surrounding me. And Eva's father! I knew a hundred
charming young fellows just like him. Her mother? Well,
there was no denying it that now and then we saw one like
her, but she was not a common or attractive type. And
Topsy? Yes, there were darkeys just like
her, even within my limited knowledge. I laughed and
enjoyed myself along with the others over Topsy's queer
antics.
The play moved on. In time the slave auction came, and the
negro-buyers, and the terrible domestic tragedy to Uncle
Tom, and the fearful Mississippi River trip, and the
whipping of Eliza's husband, - her flight, the bloodhounds'
and all the ghastly story which thrilled a nation. I was too
young to grasp the moral of that story, yet old enough to feel
my heart rebel against things which I had never before seen
laid at the door of the people I loved and among whom I lived.
I believed that many of them were the mere creations of a
malignant enemy, who had conjured them up out of her own
imagination to prejudice the outside world against my kith
and kin, and I indignantly denied, when questioned
concerning the play, that such scenes were possible. I had
never witnessed them, or heard of them, in the home of my
father. I resolved to denounce and forget this new phase of
slavery which that night had revealed to me, and the anger
and the pity which I heard expressed by the people about me
confirmed me in the belief that they were sentimentalists on
subjects of which they were ignorant, and that the
denunciation of slavery by Northerners sprang from
prejudices engendered by just such outrageous exaggerations
as those of "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
But the play made a deep and lasting impression upon
me. The sweet vision of little Eva, the inexpressible
pathos of Uncle Tom, the freaks of Topsy, came back to
me time and time again. Alas! they returned yoked in
my memory with the wretched figure of Legree, the bloodhounds,
and the misery of the other scenes, and the
possibility that it all might be true revealed itself to me in a
way that I little expected. I knew there was such a thing
as a negro-buyer. On one or two occasions I had had such
men pointed out to me. I had been taught to regard them as
an inferior class of humanity; but this knowledge came
principally from the negroes themselves, for the grown
people of my own class seldom referred to them, and they
received no sort of social recognition. I had, in fact, seen in
the newspapers advertisements of the sale of negroes, side
by side with little figures of a man with a pack on his back,
and the offer of a reward for a runaway. But never until my
return from the North was my curiosity sufficiently aroused
to make me locate the place of selling negroes, or determine
me to see a sale.
Among my Northern kinsfolk was a young uncle, a
handsome, witty fellow, much younger than my mother.
Notwithstanding her death, he had kept up his affection and
intimacy with father. Influenced partly by his regard for
father and partly by pride as a Pennsylvanian, he had
become an ardent supporter of Mr. Buchanan. He occupied a
rather prominent position as a Democratic member of the
Pennsylvania legislature. Controlled doubtless by his warm
attachments in the South, he had no squeamish feelings
about slavery. He loved the Union, and sincerely believed
that the only way to preserve it was by recognizing the
existence of slavery, and by protecting the slaveholders in all
lawful ways. He believed also that men like his brother-in-
law were convinced that slavery ought to be abolished; and
that the best way to bring that result about, without
disunion and conflict, was to trust to its gradual
accomplishment by the slave States themselves acting
under the influence of men such as he knew, instead of
attempting to coerce them by outside influence, which, as he
believed, would arouse their antagonism and defiance, so as
to defeat or delay the end desired. This was the honest
feeling which made many a Northern man
Democrat in those days. It may have been an error in
judgment, but it was an error, if error at all, on the side of
Union and fraternity, springing from a knowledge of their
Southern brethren, a respect and regard for them, and a
desire for the peaceful solution of a most perplexing
problem. Let no man at this day denounce that feeling as
cowardice or lack of principle. The man of whom I write felt
that way and acted that way to the last. But when the
"irrepressible conflict" came, he laid down his life with a
smile for the Union, while many a man who had precipitated
the struggle never went to the front. And he was but one of
thousands.
It was he who had taken me to see "Uncle Tom's Cabin;"
and it was he who had petted me, and taken me about the
streets of Philadelphia, and spoiled me in many ways; and
it was he who had taken me to visit the President; and now
he had come to visit us, and spend a week of leisure with his
favorite brother-in-law.
My oldest brother had recently returned from Paris. He
had been absent as Secretary of Legation in Berlin and
Paris for nearly six years. He and my uncle were nearly of
the same age, and devoted friends. Father loved this oldest
son as the apple of his eye, and the feeling of that son for his
father was little short of adoration. The relations between
these three - father, son, and brother-in-law - were of the
most intimate and beautiful kind. Together they conferred,
as if they were men of the same age, and, being in full accord
on public questions, their views were always harmonious,
whether looking to some social pleasure, or some
coöperation for the advancement of their political plans.
Father had higher ambitions than he had yet realized. He
was becoming prominent as a possible candidate for the
presidency. Both from a natural inclination and a desire to
promote his candidacy, my
brother had become editor of the "Richmond Inquirer," the
leading Democratic journal of Virginia; my uncle was heart and
soul enlisted in securing support for father among his own
constituency. It was believed that his well-known
conservatism on the subject of slavery, and his intense
devotion to the Union, would make his prospects very good
for the nomination.
I had unrestrained access to the library, where this trio
frequently assembled; and, without being admitted into their
graver conversation, heard it, and understood its general
tenor. The occupations of my father and brother left their
visitor to find his own amusements until the evening hour, and
he diverted himself at such times by reading or sight-seeing, or
in diversions with the children, of whom he was very fond.
One Saturday, thus left alone with me, the subject of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin" came up. He asked if I had ever seen a slave
sale. "No," said I, all alert, for since I saw the play I had
resolved that I would some time see a slave auction; "but I
know where they sell them. I saw the sign a few days ago. Let
us go and see what it is like." So off we started. Out of the
beautiful grounds and past the handsome residences we went,
turning down Franklin Street towards the great Exchange Hotel,
which was at that time the principal public place of Richmond.
Beyond it we passed a church, still used as such, although the
locality had been deserted by residences, and stables and little
shops surrounded it. As we proceeded, the street became more
and more squalid and repulsive, until at last we reached a low
brick warehouse, with its end abutting on the street and
running far back. Over the place was the sign, with the name of
an owner and the words "Auction House" conspicuously
painted. At the door hung a red flag, with an advertisement
pasted on
its side, and up and down the street a mulatto man walked with
another flag, ringing a large bell, and shouting, "Oh yea! Oh,
yea! Oh, yea! Walk up, gentlemen. The sale of a fine, likely lot
of young niggers is now about to begin." To these he added, in
tones which were really merry, and with an expansive smile,
that they were "all sorts of niggers, belonging to the estate of
the late - sold for no fault, but to settle the estate;" and that the lot
embraced all kinds, "old ones and young ones, men and
women, gals and boys."
About the door, and on the inside, a few men were grouped,
some in their shirt-sleeves. For the most part, they had the
appearance of hostlers. The place itself looked like a livery
stable within the building. For a long distance back from the
street, there were no sidelights or skylights. In the rear only
was it light, where the structure projected beyond those on
either side of it, and there the light was ample, and the
business in hand was to be transacted.
We moved cautiously through the dark front of the building,
and came at last to the rear, where a small platform occupied the
centre of the room, and chairs and benches were distributed
about the walls. Another large mulatto man appeared to act as
usher, standing near a door, through which from time to time he
furnished a fresh supply of slaves for sale. A large man, with
full beard, not a bad-looking fellow but for the "ratty"
appearance of his quick, cold, small black eyes, acted as
auctioneer. A few negroes sat on the bench by the door, they
being the first "lot" to be disposed of. The purchasers stood
or sat about, smoking or chewing tobacco, while the auctioneer
proceeded to read the decree of a chancery court in the
settlement of a decedent's estate under which this sale was made.
The lawyers representing
different interests were there, as were also the creditors
and distributees having interests in the sale. Besides these
were ordinary buyers in need of servants, and slave traders
who made a living by buying cheap and selling for a profit.
We took seats, and watched and listened intently.
After reading the formal announcement authorizing the
sale, the auctioneer became eloquent. He proceeded to
explain to his auditors that this was "no ordinary sale of a
damaged, no-'count lot of niggers, whar a man buyin' a nigger
mout or mout not git what he was lookin' fur, but one of those
rar' opperchunities, which cum only once or twice in a
lifetime, when the buyer is sho that fur every dollar he pays
he's gittin' a full dollar's wuth of real genuine nigger, healthy,
well-raised, well-mannered, respectful, obejunt, and willin'."
"Why," said he, "gentlemen, you kin look over this whole
gang of niggers, from the oldest to the youngest, an' you won't
find the mark of a whip on one of 'em. Colonel, for whose
estate they is sold, was known to be one of the kindest
marsters, and at the same time one of the best bringers-up of
niggers, in all Virginia. These here po' devils is sold for no
fault whatever, but simply and only because, owin' to the
Curnel's sudden death, his estate is left embarrassed, and it
is necessary to sell his niggers to pay his debts, and for
distributin' some ready money amongst numrus 'aars. Of
these facts I assure you upon the honor of a gentleman."
Having thus paved the way for good prices, he announced
that among the slaves to be offered were good carriage-drivers,
gardeners, dining-room servants, farm hands,
cooks, milkers, seamstresses, washerwomen, and
"the most promisin', growin', sleek, and sassy lot young
niggers he had ever had the pleasure of offerin'."
The sale was begun with some "bucks," as he facetiously
called them. They were young, unmarried fellows from
eighteen to twenty-five. Ordered to mount the auction-block,
they stripped to the waist and bounced up, rather amused
than otherwise, grinning at the lively bidding they excited.
Cautious bidders drew near to them, examined their eyes,
spoke with them to test their hearing and manners, made
them open their mouths and show their teeth, ran their
hands over the muscles of their backs and arms, caused
them to draw up their trousers to display their legs, and,
after fully satisfying themselves on these and other points,
bid for them what they saw fit. Whenever a sale was
concluded, the successful bidder was announced, and the
announcement was greeted by the darkeys themselves with
broad grins, and such expressions as "Thank Gord," or
"Bless de Lord," if it went as they wished, or in uncomplaining
silence if otherwise. It was surprising to see how thoroughly
they all seemed to be informed concerning the men who were
bidding for them.
The scenes accompanying the sales of young women were
very similar to those with the young men, except that what
was said to them and about them was astonishingly plain
and shocking. One was recommended as a "rattlin' good
breeder," because she had already given birth to two
children at seventeen years of age. Another, a mulatto of
very comely form, showed deep embarrassment when
questioned about her condition.
They brought good prices. "Niggers is high" was the
general comment. Who bought them, where they went,
whether they were separated from father, mother, brother,
or sister, God knows. Let us hope the result was as humane
as possible.
chile-barin' woman," said the auctioneer. "She is puffectly
helthy, and without a blemish. Among the family, she
is a universal favorite. I offer her with the privilidge of
takin' her husban' and two chillen with her at a very
reduced price, because it is the wish of all concerned to
keep 'em together, if possible. Get up here, Martha
Ann." A large-framed, warm, comfortable-looking,
motherly soul, with a fine, honest face, mounted the block
"Now, gentlemen," said he, continuing, "ef you'll cast
yo' eyes into that corner, you will see Israel, Martha
Ann's husband, and Cephas and Melindy, her two
children. Israel is not what you may call a real able-bodied
man. He broke his leg some years ago handlin' one of
the Curnel's colts, and he ain't able to do heavy work;
but I am asshoed by everybody on the place that Israel
is a most valuable servant about a house for all kind of
light work, and he can be had mighty cheap."
"Yes, sir," spoke up Israel eagerly, "I kin do as
much en ennybody; and, marsters, ef you'll only buy
me and de chillun with Martha Ann, Gord knows I'll
wuk myself to deth fur you."
The poor little darkeys, Cephas and Melinda, sat
there frightened and silent, their white eyes dancing
like monkey-eyes, and gleaming in the shadows. As her
husband's voice broke on her ear, Martha Ann, who
had been looking sadly out of the window in a pose of
quiet dignity, turned her face with an expression of
exquisite love and gratitude towards Israel. She gazed
for a moment at her husband and at her children, and
then looked away once more, her eyes brimming with
tears.
"How much am I offered for Martha Ann with the
privilidge?" shouted the auctioneer. The bidding
began. It was very sluggish. The hammer fell at last.
The price was low. Perhaps, even in that crowd,
nobody wanted
them all, and few were willing to do the heartless act of
taking her alone. So she sold low. When the name of
her purchaser was announced, I knew him. He was an
odd, wizen, cheerless old fellow, who was a member of
the Virginia legislature from one of the far-away
southside counties adjoining North Carolina. Heaven be
praised, he was not a supporter of father, but called
himself an Old-line Whig, and ranked with the
opposition. He seemed to have no associates among the
members, and nobody knew where he lived in the city.
He was notoriously penurious, and drew his pay as
regularly as the week rolled around.
"Mr. - buys Martha Ann," said the auctioneer. "I
congratulate you, Mr. - . You've bought the cheapes'
nigger sold here to-day. Will you take Israel and the
young uns with her?"
Deep silence fell upon the gathering. Even
imperturbable Martha Ann showed her anxiety by the
heaving of her bosom. Israel strained forward, where he
sat, to hear the first word of hope or of despair. The old
man who had bid for her shuffled forward, fumbling in
his pockets for his money, delaying his reply so long
that the question was repeated. "No - o," drawled he at
last; "no - o, I'm sorry for 'em, but I railly can't. You
see, I live a long way from here, and I ride down to the
legislatur', and, when I get here, I sell my horse and
live cheap, and aims to save up enough from my salary
to buy another horse and a chile-barin' woman' when
the session's done; and then I takes her home, ridin'
behind me on the horse. Thar ain't no way I could
provide for gittin' the man and the young uns home,
even if they was given to me. I think I'm doin' pretty
well to save enough in a session to buy one nigger,
much less a whole fambly." And the old beast looked up
over his spectacles as
he counted his money, and actually chuckled, as if
he expected a round of applause for his clever
business ability.
A deep groan, unaccompanied by any word of
complaint, came from the dark corner where Israel
sat. Martha Ann stepped down from the platform,
walked to where he was, the tears streaming down
her cheeks, and there, hugging her children and
rocking herself back and forth, she sobbed as if her
heart was breaking.
My companion and I looked at each other in
disgust, but neither spoke a word. I was ready to
burst into tears. The old creature who had bought
the woman lugged out his hoarded money in
sundry packages of coin and paper, and, as he
counted it, said, "Martha Ann, cheer up; you'll find
me a good marster, and I'll get you a new
husband." He might well have added, "and the
more children you have, the better I'll like you."
Thank God, the scene did not end there. The
silence was oppressive. The veriest savage on
earth could not have witnessed it without being
moved. "Let us go away," I whispered. At last the
suspense was broken. A handsome, manly fellow,
one of the lawyers in the case, exclaimed, "By! I
can't stand this. I knew Colonel well. I know how
he felt towards Israel and Martha Ann and their
children. This is enough to make him turn in his
grave. I am unable to make this purchase; but
sooner than see them separated, I'll bankrupt
myself. Mr. - , I will take Martha Ann off your
hands, so as to buy her husband and children, and
keep them together."
"Well, now, you see," drawled the old fellow,
pausing in his work, with trembling hand, "if you
feel that way, the time to speak was when the gal
was up for sale." His eye glittered with the thought
of turning the situation to advantage. "You see
she's mine now, and I consider
her a very desirable and very cheap purchase:
Moreover if you want her, I think you ought to be
willin' to pay me something for the time and
trouble I've wasted here a-tryin' to git her."
The proposition was sickening. But the old
creature was so small himself that his demand of
profit was likewise small, and the matter was soon
arranged. Whether he remained and bought
another "chile-barin'" woman is unknown; for,
sick at heart at the sights we had witnessed, we
withdrew, and walked slowly back in the glorious
sunlight, past the neighboring church, and up to
the happy abodes of Virginia's best civilization,
little inclined to talk of the nightmare we had been
through. From that hour, the views of both of us
concerning slavery were materially modified.
Throughout the day, the horrors we had witnessed
came back and back again to me; and,
recuperative as I was, I was very, very unhappy.
That night, the experiences of the morning were
the subject of a long and anxious and earnest
conversation between father, my brother, and my
uncle. At its close, I felt much relieved and proud of
them, and better satisfied, because they were all
agreed that a system in which things like that
were possible was monstrous; and that the
question was, not whether it should be abolished,
and abolished quickly, but as to the manner of its
abolition.
Within seven years from that time, my brother
and my uncle were both dead, - killed in battle on
opposite sides in a struggle resulting from slavery.
Father's fortune and happiness were engulfed in
the horrible fraternal strife which grew out of this
cancer on the body politic, - a cancer which all
three of those men were honestly anxious to
destroy.
Virginians! you who in our day were led by Lee
and Jackson! have you read this chapter? Is it
true or untrue?
Ask yourselves calmly. The time has now come when
you ought, in justice to yourselves, to try to satisfy yourselves
wherein your old system was wrong and unjustifiable, as well
as wherein it was right. One who loves you wrote this story;
one who was your comrade in the fight we lost; one who has
no word of blame for you, but, on the contrary, believes that we
had every provocation to fight; one who, as long as he lives,
will glory in the way we fought, and is proud of his own scars,
and teaches his children to believe that the record of
Confederate valor is a priceless heritage.
It is not written when the truth can do you harm. It is not
written by an alien in feeling, or an enthusiast for an abstract
idea. It is written to make you think, - to make you ask
yourselves whether you can, before God, claim that all was as it
should be when we had slavery. It is written to reconcile you to
your loss by showing you from what your children were
delivered.
It is penned in the firm belief that some day, while brooding
upon the happiness, the wealth, the culture, the refinement
then possessed by the South, and to so large an extent lost to
her now, you may realize that all these, delightful as they were,
did not justify the curse and misery of human slavery. I seek to
make you realize, if not admit, that its abolition was a greater
blessing to us even than to the slaves, and that emancipation
was worth all we surrendered, and all the precious lives that
were destroyed; to bring you to confess, the brave and
generous men I know you to be, that the time has come at last
when, through our tears, and without disloyalty to the dead, in
the possession of freedom and union and liberty, true
Confederates, viewing it all in the clearer light and calmer
atmosphere of to-day, ought to thank God that slavery died at
Appomattox.
IN the last chapter I spoke of the return of my brother
Jennings from France. After graduating at Bloomington, Ind.,
and studying law at William and Mary College, and before he
attained his majority, he had received from President Pierce an
appointment in the diplomatic service, and was sent to Berlin
as attaché of the American Legation He spent three years in
Berlin and Heidelberg, and was thence transferred to Paris as
Secretary of Legation, where he further improved himself by
study, and by contact with the most polished society in
Europe. When he returned to Virginia in 1857, at the age of
twenty-five, he was well equipped for a brilliant career. His
homecoming after a long absence was the occasion of great
rejoicing in our family. It was as if a new light had sprung up in
the household. My brother was so modest and unaffected that
his acute intellect and varied information were not always
revealed to strangers. His disposition was so amiable that in all
his life he never had a boyish quarrel with any one. Of
singularly mature and sedate nature, he had been his father's
loved and trusted companion before his departure for foreign
parts; and now that he had returned and was about to assume
life's serious responsibilities, they became inseparable
companions. He at first entered upon the practice of law; but
although he scoured reasonable employment, and was
thoroughly trained in common, civil, and international law, he
found the practice irksome, and lacking in excitement. His
ambition was for political distinction, and very soon he quit
the law, and became editor of the "Richmond Enquirer," the
Democratic organ of Virginia. The touch
of a master hand was quickly revealed in that journal. His
familiarity with foreign politics, and the new lights shed
upon them by his knowledge and criticisms, attracted
widespread interest on the part of his fellow journalists, as
well as the public. In domestic politics, his ardent nature
was soon made manifest upon every page. Since the death of
Father Ritchie, its once famous editor, the "Enquirer" had
lost ground, and descended to the level of a staid and
humdrum commonplace newspaper.
Within a short time the paper again stood foremost
among Southern journals, and my brother's name became as
well known as that of his father. His social successes were
not less marked than his professional triumphs. Women and
children idolized him. And well they might, for he preferred
their society to that of men. Passionately fond of music and
of dancing, it was his delight to steal away from the sombre
circle of his own sex, or leave the after-dinner cigar and wine,
to join the ladies in the drawing-room. There he would linger
with unsatisfied delight, listening to the music, or dancing
until all others were exhausted. An accomplished linguist,
with all sorts of interesting knowledge of the world,
delightful in conversation, he possessed an indescribable
charm for women. Yet, although he was brought into daily
contact with exquisite creatures, whom it was almost
impossible not to love, his fondness for the other sex seemed
altogether platonic.
If a child saw him once, it never forgot him. Children
flocked about him as if he had been the Pied Piper of
Hamelin. He rejoiced in this sovereignty, and ever went
prepared with trifles to surprise and delight them.
One of the most remarkable things about him was his
unaffected piety. He never made a profession of religion, yet
he was as punctilious in church attendance as an elder; and
in the silence of his chamber, where no one saw him, he
prayed every night before retiring. Unlike the many blasé
youths who are spoiled by residence in France, a long life in
Paris had produced no visible effect upon his purity of life or
childlike faith. Whoever was thrown with him, young or old,
superior or inferior, first wondered at his sweet simplicity,
and then loved him for his unaffected naturalness, sincerity,
and gentleness. This charming young brother, returning after
so long an absence as if from the dead, was a revelation
and a source of wonderment from the time I awoke in the
morning until I closed my eyes at night. This was literally
true, for until his coming, I had never seen anybody open the
day, winter and summer, with a plunge into an ice-cold bath;
likewise, until his arrival with his Parisian love of the
theatre, I had never closed the day at the playhouse with a
companion always glad to go, be it ever so bad a show.
My brother Richard, near my own age, had been sent off to
boarding-school; leaving me sole occupant of our sleeping
apartment. The chambers of the Government House were
large and lonesome, and it was with unspeakable pleasure
that I obtained consent of the newcomer that my little bed
should be placed in his chamber. From this association
sprung pleasures innumerable. The marvelous things from
Paris and Berlin were sources of unending interest and
information. There were the great German Schlagers, or
dueling-swords, used by the Heidelberg students in the
contests among their fighting corps, and in time I was fully
informed about the habits of the German universities. How
it tickled me to hear the
story of young Sidney Legare, of South Carolina, who
joined the Saxon Corps, and, armed with one of these
selfsame Schlagers, fought and won his battle with a
German baron! The inscriptions on the hilt bore the names
of the young Americans who maintained the pluck of the
United States among the Continental youth.
There also were fencing-foils and masks, with which he
had become so expert in beautiful Paris that he was known
in every salle d'armes. With these we had many a
friendly bout, until I considered myself quite a rattling
blade with the foils. Then at times our conversation was in
French; especially when I required cash, or proposed
some amusement, I plunged away at him with all the
French I could command, until I really improved in
speaking. From him also I learned much of Parisian court
life in the time of Louis Napoleon, and many a day laughed
at the stories of the intimacy between Napoleon III. and
the Hon. John Y. Mason, of Virginia, the American Minister
to France, in whose house my brother had been regarded
almost as one of the family.
My bright and joyous room-mate, bustling about of
mornings, making his toilet after his exhilarating bath,
often sang snatches of Parisian operas, or repeated long
passages from Shakespeare, Byron, and Walter Scott, for
he was full of romance. Thus I became familiar with
operatic airs, and could repeat many of the striking poetical
quotations. And there were the Parisian clothes and
toilet articles and preparations, - wonderful French
waistcoats and cravats and neckerchiefs, and boots and
shoes, and eau de quinine for those curly locks, and
pomade for that downy mustache; every one of them
strange and new and very captivating to me. I would
rub my own frowsy mop of hair, hitherto only half
brushed, with that eau de quinine, until my scalp was as
red as a lobster, and sighed that I had no mustache on
which to test the perfumed stick pomatum. What is there
on this earth more delightful to the small boy than
rummaging among the toilet outfit and dress of a grown-up
brother? And he told me wonderful stories of knights and
ladies and tournaments, and put me to reading Sir Walter
Scott; and gave me a famous copy of "Charles O'Malley,
the Irish Dragoon," and laughed with me over "Handy
Andy;" and in the evenings, when lessons were difficult,
lifted me along with Cæsar and Virgil or mathematics, that
we might go together later to the show. Then there were
the German wines he had brought home, four hundred
varieties; for, while he was abstemious, and cared little for
spirituous or malt liquors, he loved to sip the Rhine wines
with his cigar; and I, who was by no means averse to them,
was soon an expert in Niersteiners, and Laubenheimers,
and Moselle Auslice, and Lietfraumilch and
Johannisbergers, and all the rest; but above all, I loved the
sparkling Moselles, which have all my life reminded me of
that beloved companion of those happy days. Oh, never
had boy a friend and mentor like him - so lovable, so
affectionate, so considerate, so pure so stimulating to
honest work, so willing, so resourceful in innocent
amusement.
One night we attended the play of "East Lynne" at the
old Richmond Theatre. The performance was poor
enough, to be sure, to a young man fresh from Paris, but I
thought it was great. On our way home, he remarked that
the only performer of merit in the caste was the young
fellow, John Wilkes Booth. In him, he said, there was the
making of a good actor. The criticism made an impression
upon me, who remembered the man and the name. Little
did I imagine then that in seven years my beloved
companion would be one of the victims of our
great national tragedy, or that, at its close, the callow
stripling who played before us that night would shock
the civilized world with the awful assassination of the
President.
And now we come to the antithesis of all these happy
incidents. I have dwelt upon him at length with a
purpose, - he illustrated a peculiar phase of that civilization.
Gentle as was that brother, - tender and loving
as he was to every one, devoted as a slave to his father,
deferential to his mother as if she had been a queen,
courteous and considerate towards the humblest servant
who ministered to his wants, honored and beloved by
everybody with whom he was thrown, - he was
nevertheless as fearless and uncompromising in certain
things as the fiercest knight who ever entered the lists.
He was, more emphatically than any man I ever knew,
the type of the class to which he belonged. He had been
educated in a school, at home and abroad, which not
only recognized the code duello, but accepted it as the
most rational mode of settling private differences.
Of private differences personal to himself, my brother
had none. But father's reputation was the object of his
care above all others. On one occasion, when asked if his
heart had not yet been touched by woman, he replied,
"No. My love for father - my desire for his
advancement - is the absorbing passion of my life. It
leaves no place for other deep affection. Female society is
indeed most attractive, but beside the other feeling, it is
a mere passing thought. I have no time for other
serious love." What an odd speech for the latter half of
the nineteenth century! Does it not sound mediæval?
In the course of public discussion of public men,
there were criticisms of his father, - some facetious,
some severe. Concerning such, he had determined upon
a line
of action. Quick and hot and insulting came the reply to
every comment of this kind. Then followed, in due
course, the inquiry as to authorship, the avowal, the
demand of a retraction, the refusal, the challenge, the
duel. To the young editor, there was nothing alarming
in all this, there was nothing improper, there was
nothing unexpected. He had resolved that whoever
criticised his father should do so at his peril, should be insulted,
should be fought if it was so desired, and that to this
line of conduct he would adhere until such criticism
stopped, or he himself stopped a bullet.
How absurd, how utterly Quixotic, such a course seems
to us to-day! Yet, in that time, not only was it deemed
no absurdity, but a great number of the community, in
fact a majority, regarded it as natural and manly,
evincing chivalry of the very highest order.
Now, whatever other commodities may have been
scarce in Virginia markets of that time, fighting was as
easily obtainable as blackberries in June. Not many
young Virginians were his peers in intellect and
accomplishments, but there were many who were as brave and no
more intimidated by the danger of a duel. Many such
were opposed to him in politics, and were unwilling to
forego, from any fear of fighting, the decided expression
of their opinions on politics in general, or of his father
in particular.
The result was that he had all the dueling the most
enthusiastic advocate of the sport could desire, for the
next two years. A cabal of father's political antagonists
held a conclave, if reports were true, and determined
that the son was an obstacle in their way, to be
disposed of, in furtherance of their arrangements to
defeat the father. Under these refined, humane, and
highly civilized conditions, my brother Jennings
actually fought eight duels in
less than two years. It all seems ludicrous to us, in our
prosaic, commonplace, and common-sense way of looking
at things nowadays; but it was no joke to me, when every two or
three months I missed my beloved companion from his room
and bed for several days, only to learn that he was engaged in
fighting another duel. Pitiful and anxious indeed were the
days and nights passed on such occasions, waiting to know the
result. To me it was an enigma past my comprehension. What
it was all about, I could not understand. I would read, and
read again, the publications leading to these fearful duels, and
for the life of me I could not comprehend what there was in
them to drive men to seek each other's lives. I could not
conceive the mental or moral processes by which my sweet
brother, who never quarreled with anybody, could bring
himself, without anger, to shoot at another man with deadly
intent. And when he returned, laughing at the eagerness of my
embraces and welcome, and apparently bearing no ill-will
towards anybody or anything on earth, and when I saw him
say his prayers at night, and go to church, and mingle in gay
society, just as he had done before, the mystery only deepened.
My brother most certainly seemed to bear a charmed
life, for no one ever hit him in these many encounters. On
the other hand, it was no mystery to me that he hit nobody
himself, for I knew that a more execrable shot never went
afield. Sometimes, after this abominable dueling began, we
practiced with dueling-pistols. His foreign education had
trained him only in the use of the broad sword and the foils,
and these were not American weapons. On several occasions,
I saw enough of his bad marksmanship to know that if he
hit anybody it would be by accident; for he was both
inexpert and inapt with firearms and I easily outstripped
him in marksmanship.
The thing went on; duel after duel occurred. In one of
them, the gallant fellow, after his opponent fired, discharged
his pistol in the air, because his adversary was near-sighted
and at his mercy. In another, after ineffectual exchange of
shots and the customary palaver, matters had been
adjusted. At last, on another occasion, the antagonists had
actually started to leave the field, when his adversary
demanded another shot. His demand was acceded to, and at
the next fire my brother succeeded in hitting him, and
seriously wounded him. Little credit he deserved for
marksmanship; it was another instance like that of the
shooter portrayed in "Punch," in which a sportsman, hitting
a bird after many failures, appealed to the Scotch game-keeper:
"Ah, Sandy, I hit that one." "Yes, sir," was the reply,
"they will fly into it sometimes." But whether designed or
accidental, this last performance, after making a great
hubbub for a few days, resulted in giving him a breathing-spell,
and he had no more duels prior to the outbreak of the
war.
UNVEILING OF WASHINGTON'S STATUE, AND REMOVAL OF
MONROE'S REMAINS, 1859
IN all her history, from the formation of the federal
government until the hour of secession, no year stands out
more prominently than the year 1858 as evidencing the
national patriotism of Virginia. To one participating in the
scenes enacted in Richmond, and listening to the speeches of
her leaders, the statement that within three years the old
commonwealth would renounce allegiance to the federal
Union would have seemed preposterous.
The State, at great expense, had reared a noble
monument to the memory of George Washington. It consists of a
central shaft surmounted by an equestrian statue of
Washington, with six smaller plinths, on which are placed
heroic figures of Virginians, representing different periods of
her greatness.
Not one of these men, was famous for deeds done on
behalf of Virginia alone. The fame of each and every one of
them rests upon public services, or sacrifices for the nation.
Among such, Virginia finds her greatest names. There was
Washington, her son, father of his country; there, too, Andrew
Lewis; who penetrated the unexplored wilderness of the
Northwest and made it hers. Yet she joyously ceded all
claims upon it to the nation, as her contribution to perpetual
union and fraternity, imposing only the conditions that
slavery should never exist there,
and that alternate sections of land should be dedicated to
public education. There was also Patrick Henry, who roused
thirteen colonies to revolution with his immortal eloquence;
and George Mason, who drafted a bill of rights epitomizing
the aspirations and safeguards of republican institutions in
language which, from then until now, has furnished the
substance of the written charts of government of all the
newly admitted States; and Thomas Jefferson, sage,
philosopher, and seer, author of the Declaration of
Independence, the Statutes of Religious Liberty, and founder
of Virginia's university; and General Thomas Nelson, who
devoted his fortune to the Continental struggle, and trained
an American cannon upon his own house when it was the
headquarters of Cornwallis at Yorktown; and John
Marshall, who began his public career as captain in a
Virginia regiment, served at Valley Forge and Monmouth,
and afterwards, as Chief Justice of the United States, was
the peerless expounder of that Constitution which he had
fought to establish.
Oh, what a galaxy of men, encompassing the very heavens
of our national life! What other commonwealth could
produce its like then? What other can produce it now?
Is it surprising that the Virginians, whose State was
mother of the nation's father, whose great Chief Justice, the
youngest of the immortal group, was the lodestar of
constitutional construction, loved that Union and rejoiced
in it, and honored it from their hearts' inmost depths?
In other States, jealousies and animosities against the
Union may have existed, but, up to that time at least, such
sentiments found little lodgment in the breasts of the
Virginians.
With beating hearts and honest pride, they assembled
from every section, February 22, 1858, to unveil the
equestrian statue of Washington. The figures of
Henry and Jefferson had preceded that of
Washington, and were on their appropriate plinths.
Poor Crawford, the sculptor in charge of the work,
had died from over-exertion in Rome after the
Washington figure was cast and shipped to
America. The presence of his widow lent an
additional and pathetic interest to the scene about
to be enacted.
The vessel bearing the statue arrived at
Richmond from Italy some weeks before the
unveiling. The male population of the city, men
and boys, dragged the statue through the streets
from the wharves to the Capitol grounds, a
distance of over a mile. Enthusiasm was
unbounded on every hand.
Of all these new sights I there beheld, that
which captivated me most was the corps of cadets
of the Virginia Military Institute. The State owned
an arsenal at Lexington, in the valley between the
Blue Ridge and the Alleghanies. Prior to 1839, she
kept a guard at this arsenal. In that year, she
established there a military school, in charge of
Captain Francis H. Smith, a distinguished
graduate of West Point. It was organized strictly on
the lines of the United States Military Academy,
as to drill, discipline, tuition, and all else. At first
the number of cadets was limited to a few, who
received board and tuition free, and in return
guarded the property of the State, and agreed to
teach school for a certain period after graduation.
By degrees, a large number of cadets were
admitted upon condition that they pay for board and
tuition. The school grew; extensive buildings were
erected; and in 1858 the Virginia Military Institute
had over three hundred cadets, and was the best
establishment of the kind in the United States,
except the United States Military Academy. It
resembled the latter in everything but in the
liberality of appropriations,
and the assurance of an appointment to the army.
Its original superintendent remained in charge,
and he continued to hold the office for fifty years.
To this uniformity of administration much of the
high reputation of the school was no doubt
attributable.
The appearance of the corps on the above
occasion, the first on which I ever saw it, was
sufficient to excite the wildest enthusiasm of a
small boy. Never before had I seen such trim, alert
figures; such clean, saucy-looking uniforms; such
machine-like precision and quickness of drill;
such silence and obedience. From the first day my
eye rested on the cadet corps, the height of boyish
ambition was to be a cadet. Four companies of
infantry and a section of artillery drawn by "rats"
constituted the cadet outfit.
The "rats" referred to were not genuine rats
like those attached to Cinderella's coach, but
"plebes" or new cadets, who, until they remain a
year and hear "Auld Lang Syne" played at the
graduation exercises, are called "rats." The only
thing about this fine body that struck me as in any
way lacking in soldierly appearance was the
commandant of the infantry battalion. He was not
my ideal of a soldier, either in military bearing, or
in the manner in which he gave his commands.
His uniform was not new; his old blue forage-cap
sat on the back of his head; and he stood like a
horse "sprung" in the knees. His commands were
given in a piping, whining tone, and he appeared to
be deeply intent upon his business, without paying
much regard to the onlookers. On the other hand,
the officer commanding the section of artillery was
the model of a martinet. He was petite, quick as a
lizard, straight as a ramrod, and his commands
were delivered like the crack of a whiplash. I
thought him a perfect commanding officer.
The cadets were quartered in the Richmond Lyceum.
When the ceremonies were over, the small boys collected
about the corps like flies about molasses, and, when the
cadets marched off to their quarters, followed them, I
among the foremost. I knew several of the cadets. When
the command was halted near its quarters, we boys
crowded around it in such a way that we inconvenienced
the officer in charge. He passed along the line, tapping us
back with the flat side of his sword, exclaiming in a
deprecatory voice, "Get away, little boys! Get away
get A-W-A-Y!" It was ludicrous, and I could detect
smiles, even on the faces of the thoroughly disciplined
cadets; but something in the manner of the officer made
the boys get away, and get away in a hurry.
When the parade was dismissed, on inquiring about the
officers, I learned that the odd-looking commandant was
familiarly called "Old Jack;" that his real name was Major
Jackson; and that the cadets, while disposed to make light
of him for his eccentricities, dared not trifle with him. As to
the other officer, Major Gilham, all agreed that he was the
best drill-officer and tactician they had; that he was far
superior to Major Jackson; and they spoke with profound
respect of the infantry tactics of which he was the author.
At the grand reception given that night by my father, I
again saw both these officers, and their bearing confirmed
me in the judgment that there was no question which was
the superior soldier. Major Jackson was plainly dressed,
wore coarse shoes, had a weary look in his blue eyes, took
very little part in conversation, seemed bored by the
entertainment, neither ate nor drank, and, after paying his
respects to the governor, and to General Winfield Scott,
commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States,
quietly disappeared. Colonel Gilham, on
the other hand, was urbane, ubiquitous, and remained
until the close of the entertainment.
In after years, I had occasion to revise my opinion of the
relative ability of these two men, for Major Jackson was
none other than the immortal Stonewall; and Major
Gilham, while brave enough, never rose beyond the rank
of colonel, and retired from active service in 1862 to
resume his professorship at the Institute.
And "Old Fuss and Feathers!" - bless his colossal old
soul! was ever a name more appropriately bestowed? - I
saw him also that day, for the first time. What a monster in
size he was! Never was uniform more magnificent; never
were feathers in cocked hat more profuse; never was sash
so broad and gorgeous. He was old and gouty, keen for
food, quick for drink, and thunderous of voice, large as a
straw-stack, and red as a boiled lobster. His talk was like
the roaring of a lion, his walk like the tread of the elephant.
No turkey-gobbler ever strutted or gobbled with more self-importance
than did the hero of Lundy's Lane. The women
flattered him, and he liked it. The men toasted him, and he
never refused to join or to respond. As long as he
remained, he was the cynosure of all present. When he
withdrew, a characteristic incident occurred. In the great
hallway, he called for his wraps and his galoshes. The
servants were quick to hurry forward with them. Several
cadets had been invited to the entertainment, and were
standing about awestruck in the presence of the
commander-in-chief.
As the servants offered him his cloaks and overshoes,
he waved them away imperiously, and in his commanding
voice thundered out, "No, no! Let the cadets attend upon
me. Here, you cadets! Help me with my overshoes and
wraps. It is not every day that I can get such orderlies,
and it is not every day that you can wait
upon the general of the armies." The boys leaped forward to
his assistance, delighted at such distinguished condescension,
and soon had him fully caparisoned. With his
arms about their shoulders, he laboriously descended the
sleety marble steps, shouted back some cheery words to
those watching on the portico, entered the fine carriage which
awaited him, slammed the door, and drove away, snorting
and puffing, in all his majesty.
What a wonderful mixture of gasconade, ostentation, fuss,
feathers, bluster, and genuine soldierly talent and courage
was this same Winfield Scott of blessed memory! A great
smoking mass of flesh and blood! So devoted to epicurean
enjoyment that, even when he was candidate for President,
he lugged into his public papers allusion to his "hasty plate
of soup." But for all that, a splendid soldier in the service of
his country for over fifty years. What a contrast he presented
to his favorite companion, - gentle, quiet Colonel Lee!
It was days after this glorious celebration before its
excitements subsided sufficiently to enable me to
concentrate my reluctant mind upon Latin, French, and
mathematics.
Delightful, inspiring to patriotism, exhilarating, as were
the ceremonies at the unveiling of the Washington statue,
the scenes enacted in Richmond in July of that same year
outstripped them far in gorgeousness, and in the display of
fraternal feelings between the North and South.
In the month of April, the Virginia legislature made
provision for the removal of the remains of Ex-president
James Monroe from the city of New York to the capital of
Virginia.
Mr. Monroe had been buried in New York with
appropriate honors, interred in a private cemetery vault,
purchased
by his daughters, and there his ashes "awaited the
call of his native State" for twenty-seven years. At the time
the Virginia legislature made that call, his only surviving
descendants were three children of Mrs. Gouverneur. The
eldest, bearing his name, deeply afflicted by Providence, and
the second, a daughter, spoke through their father, Samuel
L. Gouverneur of Frederick County, Maryland; the third,
Samuel L. Gouverneur, Jr., spoke for himself. All assented
to the removal.
The public announcement of the intention of his native
State to reclaim his ashes was the signal for a great
outburst of patriotic fervor in Virginia and in New York.
Virginians residing in New York held meetings looking to
the disinterment there with appropriate ceremonies; the
city authorities at once passed the necessary resolutions.
Committees of conference were sent from Virginia. A
steamship was chartered to convey the remains, and the
New York military vied with one another for the honor of
acting as military escort. So great was the enthusiasm that it
culminated in a tender, by the Seventh Regiment of New
York, of their escort of the remains at their own expense, as
a guard of honor from New York to Richmond. This being
accepted, that splendid body of citizen soldiery chartered
the Ericcson steamer, and made ready for their patriotic
pilgrimage.
The Richmond military were all busy with preparations
to receive their guests. The public grounds, the Capitol,
all public places, were filled with workmen erecting arches,
painting patriotic emblems, hanging thousands of colored
lanterns, and draping the city in mourning. The Fourth
of July fell that year upon Sunday. Consequently, the
arrival of the remains and the military escort was timed
for Monday, July 5. At daybreak and at sunrise the
Fayette Artillery, a local volunteer organization, fired the
national salute in the Capitol Square. At six o'clock, the
flags upon the public buildings, hotels, and shipping were
placed at half mast. The citizens were still engaged draping
their residences and places of business in the habiliments
of mourning. The Henrico Light Dragoons, the Public Guard,
the First Virginia Regiment, the Young Guard Battalion,
and the Rocky Ridge Rifles from the neighboring town of
Manchester formed line at seven o'clock and marched to
Rocketts, the landing place of the steamer Jamestown,
bearing the remains of President Monroe. Upon the
neighboring hillsides were gathered thousands of people,
men and women, white and black, of every condition in life.
Carriages, omnibuses, and baggage-wagons were drawn up
in long lines near the wharf; marshals and field-officers rode
hither and thither giving orders, and scattering the crowds
to right and left before them. Flaunting flags, and signals at
half mast, were visible everywhere; civic organizations with
bands and banners followed the military. The whole
community was in a ferment of expectation.
"The day opened clear and beautiful, the intense heat
relieved by a pleasant southerly breeze. The local troops
stacked arms, and waited the arrival of the steamers.
"The Jamestown came in sight at ten minutes past
eight o'clock, and slowly approached the wharf, with flags
and signals at half halliards. As the ship came alongside
her wharf, the committee and guests from New York stood
on the upper deck, and regarded with much interest the
exciting scene on shore.
"The remains of President Monroe having been removed
from the forward saloon to the upper deck and placed under
an awning, the governor and mayor proceeded on board the
Jamestown and received the guests and an interchange of
friendly greetings took place. The
remains were attended by a detachment of the New York
National Guard, but after their arrival, they were relieved
by a platoon of the Richmond Grays, detailed for the
purpose.
"The steamer Glen Cove, with the New York Seventh
Regiment on board, came in sight at ten minutes past ten,
and, despite the solemnity of the occasion, the younger
portion of the assembled throng gave vent to their feelings
in a cheer. As the steamer approached the wharf, her
appearance was really imposing. The soldiers, with their
glittering arms, were paraded ready for debarkation, while
the splendid band of the Seventh, stationed on the forward
deck, played a solemn dirge.
"The Virginia troops were drawn up in line, facing the
river, ready to receive the visitors, and without unnecessary
delay the Seventh left the boat, and passed on to the right
of the line, the Virginia military presenting arms as they
marched by.
"The hearse, drawn by six white horses, attended by six
negro grooms dressed in white, now proceeded to the
steamer, and, under the direction of the pall-bearers,
received the remains. The troops presented arms, flags were
lowered, drums rolled, and trumpets sounded, after which
the Armory Band played a dirge, while the hearse proceeded
to its place in the line. Minute-guns were fired and bells
tolled, continuing during the progress of the procession to
the cemetery.
"The procession moved at half past eleven o'clock.
"The route lay directly up Main Street to Second, down
Second to Cary, and thence out to Hollywood. All along the
route of the procession, a distance of more than two miles,
the sidewalks were lined with spectators; every balcony,
porch, and window overlooking the street, every available
spot on the line, was crowded with ladies, children,
and men. The minute-guns continued firing, the bells
in the vicinity of the route tolled, answered by peals from
others in the distance; business was universally suspended;
and the attention of the entire community was
concentrated on the imposing pageant in honor of the
memory of the illustrious man whose bones were now on
the way to their earthly resting-place.
"The troops marched with reversed arms, and the bands
played music appropriate to the occasion.
"The grave of Monroe is located in the southwest corner
of Hollywood, on an eminence commanding a magnificent
view of the city, the river, and the environs.
"After the line was formed around the grave, the coffin
was removed from the hearse. When the remains were
lowered into the grave, the troops presented arms, the
Seventh Regiment rested on arms, and the band played a
dirge. This portion of the ceremony being over, the governor
appeared on the front of the platform and spoke: -
"'COUNTRYMEN AND FELLOW CITIZENS: The
General Assembly of the Commonwealth has ordered that
the remains of James Monroe, one of the most honored and
best beloved of her sons, shall, under the direction and at
the discretion of the governor, be removed from the public
burying-ground in the city of New York to the cemetery at
the city of Richmond. The remains are removed, the
cenotaph is open, and we are here assembled to inter them
in their last resting-place with becoming ceremonies.
. . . . . . . .
"'Venerable Patriot! - he found his rest soon after he
retired. On the 4th of July, 1831, twenty-seven years ago, he
departed, like Jefferson and Adams, on the anniversary of
the Independence. His spirit was caught up to heaven, and
his ashes were enshrined in the soil of his adopted State,
whose daughter he had married, - of that
grand and prosperous Commonwealth whose motto is
"Excelsior," our sister New York, the Empire State of the
United States of America. Virginia was the natural mother
of Monroe, and New York was his mother-in-law, - Virginia
by birth and baptism, New York by marriage and burial.
This was well, for he gave to her invaders the gloved hand of
"bloody welcome" at Trenton, and New York gave to him a
"hospitable grave." Virginia respectfully allowed his ashes to lie long enough to
consecrate her sister's soil, and now has dutifully taken
them to be "earth to her earth and ashes to her ashes," at home
in the land of his cradle. New York has graciously bowed
to their family request, has disinterred the remains, has
laid them out in state, and has sent the elite of her chivalry
to escort them with banners and trumpets, in military
and civic procession, to our cemetery. Who knows
this day, here around this grave, that New York is of the
North, and that Virginia is of the South? "The North has
given up," and "the South shall not hold back," and they are
one, even as all the now proud and preëminent thirty-two
are one.
"'We affectionately, then, welcome New York, and cordially
embrace her around the grave of him, Virginia's
son, to whom she gave a resting-place in life and in death. And
now I call the minister of God to pray for his blessing on this
passing scene. I ask the righteous man to pray fervently and
effectually for the example of this patriot's life to
be blessed to the youth of our country, -
blessed to the people of this generation; blessed to the
public men of New York and Virginia and the United
States; blessed to the cause of truth and justice and human
freedom; and blessed to the perpetual strength, peace,
liberty, and union of this confederacy, "one and indivisible,
now and forever!" May the good which this
patriot did be revived by the disinterment of his bones,
and may monuments of wisdom and virtue like his be so
multiplied and raised around yonder Capitol of the Mother
of States, that the very statues of her heroes and
sages and patriots dead and departed shall be the moral
guide-marks of her living and active servants, to preserve
this Commonwealth, untorn in destiny and untarnished in
glory, to "the last syllable of recorded time," when the
tenants of Hollywood, this beautiful city of the dead, shall
rise to immortal life!'"
Of these inspiring scenes I was a silent but interested
witness. Every manifestation of patriotic and fraternal
feeling thrilled me to my inmost soul. From time to time I
had heard the mutterings of discontent and the prophesies
of approaching conflict, but the scenes which I
beheld, and the burning words and thundering shouts I
heard that day, put at rest the last feeling of fear for the
future of my country.
At the close of the ceremonies at the grave, the
artillery, stationed outside the inclosure, fired three
salvos.
Upon the day following, the delirious city was given a
specimen of the drill and efficiency of the glorious Seventh
Regiment. Its appearance and perfection in drill and
discipline were beyond all expectations. After a review by
the governor, Colonel Duryee drilled the regiment, without
music, in various battalion movements.
I stood agape at every evolution. The Virginia troops,
which I had theretofore regarded as perfection itself,
seemed to me now a mere incongruous lot of painted toys,
contrasted with this homogeneous mass of military, neat,
brilliant in cleanliness, and absolutely without gaudiness. In
the Richmond regiment no two companies were of the
same size, and no two uniformed alike. The Grays were
gray, the Blues were blue, the Montgomery Guard was
green as the waters of Niagara, the Riflemen blue and
green, the Young Guard blue and red. One company had
plumes of white, another short pompons, a third red
and white plumes. When they were drawn up in line, they
looked deplorably irregular, contrasted with the absolute
uniformity of the handsome Seventh.
It seemed incredible that I, a protégé, in fact a veteran,
of the Richmond military, - I, who until now had looked
upon the First Virginia Regiment as the finest body of
troops on earth, - could come to regard it as almost
contemptible in the short space of twenty-four hours.
Yet there were others like me.
Said one paper: -
"The recent visit of the Seventh Regiment of New York to
our city, it is to be hoped, will have a good effect on our
volunteer organization. We could but regard the simple
uniform of the entire regiment, and the neat and
unostentatious dress of its officers, as presenting a wide
contrast with the parti-colored line of our volunteers, and
the fine decorations and pompous display which meet the
eye in surveying our regimental parades.
"We have not a doubt that the volunteer force of the city
would be strengthened, would be increased in numbers
and improved in discipline, if they would consolidate
themselves into one regiment, abandon their uniforms,
and adopt a new and plain dress for the whole body of
soldiers."
Little did the writer know, and less did the Seventh
Regiment suspect, that upon this visit they fixed, in the
Southern mind, a type of uniform which, within three
years, was substantially adopted by the Confederate
States.
Three years after this date, the First Virginia Regiment
had fought in the battle of Manassas; and the Seventh
was encamped at Arlington Heights, but fifteen miles'
distant, being part of a hostile force moving against Mount
Vernon and Richmond. Such was the rapid march of events.
After the scenes above described had closed, and the
military had departed, the remainder of the year glided
away uneventfully; but the glorious memories of July 5
lingered, and all Richmond was busy in the effort to have a
real military force such as it had seen, and to abandon the
past methods of its volunteer system. As for patriotic
national feeling, it is safe to say that, when the year 1859
opened, in spite of Southern fire-eaters and Northern
fanatics, there were not, in the whole State of Virginia, five
thousand men who had any sort of sympathy with the idea of secession.
THE declamation against disunion and the mutual
pledges of fraternal love between North and South, which
attended the banquet to the Seventh New York Regiment in
Richmond, arose in great part from a knowledge of sectional
feeling, threats of disunion, and of partisan recriminations
between politicians, but too familiar to all
who spoke. At the same time, an intense
antagonism to slavery existed in sections of the North and
West, accompanied by the determination to abolish it by
any means in their power, lawful or unlawful.
Little effort has been made to record the fact, yet it is
nevertheless true, that many Southern men were working
earnestly and loyally towards the adoption of some plan of
gradual emancipation which, while it would free the slave,
would not destroy the labor system of the South or leave the
slave-owner impoverished. The abolitionist did not believe
this. He was uncharitable in his judgment of the humanity
of the slave-owner; and his demand that a difficult problem,
requiring time for its solution, should be disposed of at once
and in his way - per fas aut nefas - was strongly
provoking. The attitude of the people of the North generally
concerning escaped slaves seemed to the Southerners
inconsistent, and tended to increase the friction between the
sections. The people of the North professed great reverence
for their constitutional obligations, and constantly
disclaimed a purpose to
interfere with slavery where it existed. They insisted that they
were only opposed to the spread of slavery into the free States
or Territories, and would respect the rights of the slave-owner
where slavery already existed. Yet, whenever a slave escaped,
the Northern community in which he sought asylum was
practically unanimous in thinking it a great outrage and
hardship if he was pursued into their territory and taken back to
his owner. It is often said that, before the war, only a small
portion of the Northern people belonged to the abolition party.
Whether that was true or not, it is certain that a vast majority of
every Northern community was in sympathy with obstacles
thrown in the way of recapturing escaped slaves. Everybody,
North and South, was well aware that in many instances the
slave was enticed from his home by abolition emissaries. Yet
when he reached the North, thousands who would not have
gone South to incite him to escape did all they could to make
the work of the emissaries effectual.
In such a condition of affairs, the practical difference
between the abolitionist and the sympathizer, to the man who
lost his slave and could not recover it, was very nebulous.
From certain descriptions of these times, one would think that
all the threats and taunts were made, and all the provocations
were given, by the Southerners. At this late day, such a
contention is nonsense. No more defiant, vindictive, or
aggressive speech was ever made than that of Charles Sumner,
senator from Massachusetts, in the United States Senate in
1859, on the "Barbarism of Slavery." He had a personal
grievance, it is true; he had been brutally assaulted in that
chamber years before, and his speech bore every mark of being
the result of
"The patient watch and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong."
It is not justifying the assault made upon Mr. Sumner by
Preston S. Brooks to say that no man ever did more to provoke
an attack upon himself than did Mr. Sumner. His speech in 1856
was able, studied in its malignity, and all the more provoking
from its strength. Nor was Sumner the only man of that class.
We may search through the congressional debates in vain for
more coarse and insulting language than that used by Senator
Ben Wade, of Ohio, upon the floor of the Senate. Every
opportunity was taken by him to lead the debates in the Senate
into sectional channels.
Acquisition of Cuba is more advocated in the North to-day
than in the South. In 1860, the project was branded by the
Republicans in the Senate as a slaveholder's scheme for
securing additional representation. The proposition then made
by Senator Slidell, to purchase Cuba for thirty million dollars,
was flouted by Wade and his party as a mere ruse for providing
"niggers for the niggerless." Jealousy, antagonism, and hatred
between the sections animated the representatives of both, and
neither lost any opportunity to vituperate and recriminate.
While this was the condition of feeling among the
politicians, it had not yet extended to the masses. For several
years, the conflict had been in progress between the free-soilers
and pro-slavery men in Kansas. The Virginians were
conservative in their views about that struggle. They realized
that the men engaged in it on both sides were a bloodthirsty
and disreputable lot. Leading Virginians, supporters of Mr.
Buchanan, warned him not to go too far in subserviency to the
extreme pro-slavery men, or to force a pro-slavery constitution
upon the State. Virginians, while they heard of the fanatical
and bloody butcheries committed in Kansas by one "Old
Brown," and men of his class, also heard of equally
horrid crimes committed by the pro-slavery men. They
held both in abhorrence, and indorsed neither.
It was not the Kansas trouble that occasioned them
concern, or excited their apprehensions concerning the
Union. It was the announcement by Abraham Lincoln, of
Illinois, in his debate with Douglas in 1858, that the Union
was a house divided against itself, and that slavery and
union could not coexist. It was declarations like those of
Senator Seward, of New York, that "an irrepressible
conflict" existed between the North and South. It was
speeches of men like Charles Sumner, breathing deep
malice against the South, and denouncing it in polished
oratory. These and a hundred others like them from men
of the North, less prominent but not less representative,
made Virginians realize that the times were perilous, and
say to themselves: "If this temple of union is divided
against itself and must fall, if slavery and union cannot
coexist, if an irrepressible conflict is upon us, if Mr.
Sumner expresses the state of Northern sentiment, it is
manifest that the hour of disunion is here. The only thing
remaining for us to do is to begin to consider which side
of us the line of cleavage shall come, north or south."
Virginians were no more angels or philanthropists than
people to the north or to the south of them. They were
moved by their affections, their interest, and their resentments,
just as humanity is moved to-day. Their strongest
social ties were with the Southern people. They had a
great part of their wealth invested in slaves; and, while
far in advance of the States to the south of them in the
desire for some plan of gradual emancipation, they were
not willing to have their property unceremoniously jostled
out of their hands without compensation, to gratify Mr.
Lincoln, Mr. Seward, Mr. Sumner, Mr. Wade, or the
constituencies which they represented. They thought the
conditions of future association announced by these men
a rather high and hasty price for the privilege. And, lastly,
their very love of the Union inflamed them against men
who, as they viewed it, were making union impossible,
except on terms involving humiliating surrender to the
abolitionist.
It is often said by writers that Mr. Lincoln and Mr.
Seward, when they spoke of a divided house, the impossibility
of the coexistence of union and slavery, and the
"irrepressible conflict," were simply stating abstract
propositions, and did not mean that they would counsel a
physical assault upon slavery or the enactment of
unconstitutional laws, and that their figures of speech
referred only to the logic of the political situation. Their
language may have been intended as statements of
abstract principles; but, assuredly, what they said was
susceptible of, and received, quite another construction.
By their followers and opponents they were understood as
declaring war on slavery, immediate and uncompromising.
As for Mr. Sumner and Mr. Wade, nobody pretended
that they meant anything else. The Southerners may
have been more demonstrative and noisy in their
quarrels; but they were not a whit more stubborn,
aggressive, defiant, or irritating than the men of the
North. The Southern man scoffed the pretense that the
Northern man really desired union, when he refused to
subordinate his demands concerning slavery to any other
consideration. The Northern man denounced the
Southern man as hating the Union, because he would not
consent to remain in it, even if he believed that the North,
while professing the purpose of respecting his right, at
heart intended to deprive him of his slave property on the
first opportunity.
This political warfare was very intense in 1858-59.
The
debates between Lincoln and Douglas on the slavery question,
in the autumn of 1858, kindled the fires of slavery and anti-slavery
discussion on every hilltop. In 1859, the awful tragedy
in which Senator Broderick was killed by Judge Terry in
California, in a duel growing out of the slavery question, lent
fuel to the flame.
Just at this crisis an event occurred, which was made a test, in
the mind of the average Virginian, of the real feeling of the
North towards the South. After it happened, he set himself to
determining what was the real meaning, the real tendency, and
what was to be the outcome, of the doctrines announced by Mr.
Lincoln, Mr. Seward, Mr. Sumner, and others during the years
1858 and 1859. He believed that in the expressions of the North,
concerning this event, he would find the best evidence of what
their real sentiments were towards the South.
The attack of John Brown upon Harper's Ferry came upon
Virginia like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky.
In the afternoon of October 17, 1859, I was passing along
Main Street in Richmond, when I observed a crowd of people
gathering about the bulletin board of a newspaper. In those
days, news did not travel so rapidly as now; besides which, the
telegraph lines at the place from which the news came were cut.
The first report read: -
"There is trouble of some sort at Harper's Ferry. A party of
workmen have seized the Government Armory."
Soon another message flashed: "The men at Harper's Ferry
are not workmen. They are Kansas border ruffians, who have
attacked and captured the place, fired upon and killed several
unarmed citizens, and captured Colonel Washington and other
prominent citizens of the neighborhood. We cannot
understand their plans or ascertain their numbers."
By this time an immense throng had assembled, agape with
wonder.
Naturally reflecting that the particulars of an outbreak like
this would first reach the governor, I darted homeward. I found
my father in the library, roused from his afternoon siesta, in the
act of reading the telegrams which he had just received. They
were simply to the effect that the arsenal and government
property at Harper's Ferry were in possession of a band of
rioters, without describing their character. I promptly and
breathlessly told what I had seen on the bulletin boards, and,
while I was hurriedly delivering my news, other messengers
arrived with telegrams to the same effect as those posted in the
streets. The governor was by this time fully aroused. He was
prompt in action. His first move was to seize the Virginia code,
take a reference, and indite a telegram addressed to Colonel
John Thomas Gibson, of Charlestown, commandant of the
militia regiment within whose territory the invasion had
occurred, directing him to order out, for the defense of the
State, the militia under his command, and immediately report
what he had done.
Within ten minutes after the receipt of the telegram, these
instructions were on the way. Similar instructions were flashed
to Colonel Robert W. Baylor, of the Third Regiment of Militia
Cavalry.
The military system of the State was utterly inefficient,
having nothing but skeleton organization. The telegrams
continued to come rapidly, describing a condition of
excitement amounting to a panic in the neighborhood of
Harpers Ferry. The numbers of the attacking force were
exaggerated, until some reports placed them as high as a
thousand. The ramifications of the conspiracy were of course
unknown.
I was promptly dispatched to summon the Secretary of
the Commonwealth, the Adjutant-General, and the colonel and
adjutant of the First Regiment. I found almost immediately all
but the adjutant, for whom I searched long. At last this young
gentleman was discovered, all unconscious of impending
trouble, playing dominoes in a German restaurant, and regaling
himself with the then comparatively new drink of "lager."
Hurrying back with my last capture, we found the others
assembled, and instantly the adjutant received instructions to
order out the First Virginia Regiment at eight o'clock P. M.,
armed and equipped, and provided with three days' rations, at
the Washington depot.
In those days, the track ran down the centre of the street,
and the depot was in the most popular portion of the city.
News of the disturbance having gone abroad it was an easy
task to assemble the regiment, and, by the time appointed, all
Richmond was on hand to learn the true meaning of the
outbreak, and witness the departure of the troops. Company
after company marched through the streets to the rendezvous.
The governor transferred his headquarters to the depot, where
he and his staff awaited the last telegrams which might arrive
before his departure. Telegrams were sent to the President and
to the governor of Maryland for authority to pass through the
District of Columbia and Maryland with armed troops, that
route being the quickest to Harper's Ferry. The dingy old
depot, generally so dark and gloomy at this hour of the night,
was brilliantly illuminated. The train of cars, which was to
transfer the troops, stood in the middle of the street. The
regiment was formed as the companies arrived, and was resting
in the badly lighted street, awaiting final orders.
The masses of the populace swarming about the soldiers
presented every variety of excitement, interest, and curiosity.
As for me, my "mannishness" (there is no other word
expressive of it) was such that, forgetting what an insignificant
chit I was, I actually attempted to accompany the
troops.
Transported by enthusiasm, I rushed home, donned a little
blue jacket with brass buttons and a navy cap, selected a
Virginia rifle nearly half as tall again as myself, rigged myself
with a powder-horn and bullets, and, availing myself of the
darkness, crept into the line of K Company. The file-closers
and officers knew me, and indulged me to the extent of not
interfering with me, never doubting the matter would adjust
itself. Other small boys, who got a sight of me standing there,
were variously affected. Some were green with envy, while
others ridiculed me with pleasant suggestions concerning what
would happen when father caught me.
In time, the order to embark was received. I came to
"attention" with the others, went through the orders, marched
into the car, and took my seat. It really looked as if the plan
was to succeed. Alas and alas for these hopes! One
incautious utterance had thwarted all my plans. When I went
home to caparison myself for war, the household had been too
much occupied to observe my preparations. I succeeded in
donning my improvised uniform, secured my arms, and had
almost reached the outer door of the basement, when I
encountered Lucy, one of the slave chambermaids.
"Hi! Mars' John. Whar is you gwine?" exclaimed Lucy
surprised.
"To Harper's Ferry," was the proud reply, and off I sped.
"I declar', I b'leeve that boy thinks hisself a man, sho' nuff,
said Lucy, as she glided into the house. It was not long before
she told Eliza, the housekeeper, who in
turn hurried to my invalid mother with the news. She
summoned Jim, the butler, and sent him to father with the
information.
Now Jim, the butler, was one of my natural enemies.
However the Southern man may have been master of the negro,
there were compensatory processes whereby certain negroes
were masters of their masters' children. Never was autocracy
more absolute than that of a Virginia butler. Jim may have
been father's slave, but I was Jim's minion, and felt it. There
was no potentate I held in greater reverence, no tyrant whose
mandates I heard in greater fear, no ogre whose grasp I should
have felt with greater terror. This statement may not be fully
appreciated by others, but will touch a responsive chord in the
heart of every Southern-bred man who passed his youth in a
household where "Uncle Charles," or "Uncle Henry," or
"Uncle Washington," or uncle somebody wielded the sceptre of
authority as family butler. Bless their old souls, dead and gone,
what did they want with freedom? They owned and
commanded everything and everybody that came into their
little world. Even their own masters and mistresses were
dependent upon them to an extent that only increased their
sense of their own importance. What Southern boy will ever
forget the terrors of that frown which met him at the front door
and scanned his muddy foot-marks on the marble steps? What
roar was ever more terrible - what grasp more icy or relentless -
than those of his father's butler surprising him in the cake box
or the preserve-jar? What criminal, dragged to justice, ever
appeared before the court more thoroughly cowed into
subjection than the Southern boy led before the head of the
house in the strong grip of that domestic despot?
report of my escapade, "is that young rascal really trying to
go? Hunt him up, Jim! Capture him! Take away his arms, and
march him home in front of you!" Laughing heartily, he
resumed his work, well knowing that Jim understood his orders
and would execute them.
Think of such authority given to a negro, just when John
Brown was turning the heads of the slaves with ideas of their
own importance! Is it not monstrous? I was sitting in a car,
enjoying the sense of being my country's defender starting for
the wars, when I recognized a well known voice in the
adjoining car, inquiring, "Gentlemen, is any ov you seed
anythin' ov de Gov'ner's little boy about here? I'm a-lookin' fur
him under orders to take him home."
I shoved my long squirrel-rifle under the seats and followed
it, amid the laughter of those about me. I heard the dread
footsteps approach, and the inquiry repeated. No voice
responded; but, by the silence and the tittering, I knew I was
betrayed. A great, shiny black face, with immense whites to
the eyes, peeped almost into my own, and, with a broad grin,
said, "Well, I declar'! Here you is at las'! Cum out, Mars'
John." But John did not come. Jim, after coaxing a little, seized
a leg, and, as he drew me forth, clinging to my long rifle, he
exclaimed, "Well, 'fore de Lord! how much gun has dat boy
got, anyhow?" and the soldiers went wild with laughter.
In full possession of the gun, and pushing me before him,
Jim marched his prisoner home. Once or twice I made a show
of resistance, but it was in vain. "Here, you boy! You better
mind how you cut yo' shines. You must er lost yo' senses. Yo'
father told me to take you home. I gwine do it, too, you
understand? Ef
you don't mind, I'll take you straight to him, and you know
and I know dat if I do, he'll tare you up alive fur botherin' him
with yo' foolishiss, busy ez he is." I realized that it was even
so, and, sadly crestfallen, was delivered into my mother's
chamber, where, after a lecture upon the folly of my course, I
was kept until the Harpers Ferry expedition was fairly on its
way.
What I learned of events at Harper's Ferry was derived
from the testimony of others. The First Virginia Regiment
reached Washington; but, on arrival there, the Richmond
troops returned, in consequence of the news of the capture of
all the insurgents at Harper's Ferry by the United States
Marines.
This mad effort, so quickly and so terribly ended, was in
itself utterly insignificant. John Brown, its leader, was the
character of murderous monomaniac found at the head of
every such desperate venture. He has often been described as
a Puritan in faith and in type. It is not the province of this
writer to inquire into the correctness of this classification. He
was an uncompromising, blood thirsty fanatic. Born in the year
1800, he lived for fifty-six years without any sort of prominence.
He was never successful in business ventures, had farmed,
raised sheep, experimented in grape culture, made wine, and
engaged in growing and buying wool. At one time in his life,
and up to a period not long before his death, he was regarded
as an infidel by his associates, although at the time of his
death he declared himself a true believer. In October, 1855, he
appeared in Kansas, and at once became prominent as a leader
of armed bands of free-soilers. On his way to the defense of
Lawrence, in 1856, he heard of the destruction which had taken
place there, and turned back He resolved to avenge the acts of
the pro-slavery horde. He reckoned up that five free-soil men
had been killed,
and resolved that their blood should be expiated by an equal
number of victims.
"Without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of
sins," was a favorite text with Brown. He called for volunteers
to go on a secret expedition, and held a sort of Druidical
conclave before starting out. Four sons, a son-in-law, and two
others accompanied him. He had a strange power of imbuing
his dupes with his own fanaticism. When he avowed his
purpose to massacre the pro-slavery men living on
Pottawatomie Creek, one of his followers demurred. Brown
said, "I have no choice. It has been decreed by Almighty God
that I should make an example of these men."
On Saturday night, May 24, 1856, John Brown and his band
visited house after house upon Pottawatomie Creek, and,
calling man after man from his bed, murdered five in cold
blood. They first visited the house of Doyle, and compelled a
father and two sons to go with them. The next morning, the
father and one son were found dead in the road about two
hundred yards from the house. The father was "shot in the
forehead and stabbed in the breast. The son's head was cut
open, and there was a hole in his jaw as though made by a
knife." The other son was found dead about a hundred and
fifty yards away in the grass, "his fingers cut off and his arms
cut off, his head cut open, and a hole in his breast."
Then they went to Wilkinson's, reaching there after
midnight. They forced open the door and ordered him to go
with them. His wife was sick and helpless, and begged them
not to take him away. Her prayer was of no avail. The next day
Wilkinson was found dead, "a gash in his head and side "
Their next victim was William Sherman. When found in
the morning, his "skull was split open in two places,
and some brains were washed out. A large hole was cut in his
breast, and his left hand was cut off, a little piece of skin on
one side." The execution was done with
short cutlasses brought from Ohio by Brown.
"It was said that on the next morning, when the old man
raised his hands to Heaven to ask a blessing, they were still
stained with the dry blood of his victims."1 In his life by
Sanborn is a picture of him made about this time. It represents
him clean-shaven, and is, no doubt, the best picture extant by
which to study the physiognomy of a man capable of these
things.
The tidings of these executions caused a cry of horror to go
up, even in bloody Kansas. The squatters on Pottawatomie
Creek, without distinction of party, met together and
denounced the outrage and its perpetrators. The free-state men
everywhere disavowed such methods. The governor sent a
military force to the Pottawatomie to discover the assassins.
The border ruffians took the field to avenge the massacre. One
Pate, feeling sure "Old Brown," as he was called, was the
author of the outrage, went in search of him. Brown met him,
gave battle, and captured Pate and his command.
Kansas was in a state of civil war; the governor ordered all
armed companies to disperse; and Colonel Sumner, with fifty
United States dragoons, forced Brown to release his prisoners,
but, although a United States marshal was with him, made no
arrests.
This gives an insight into the character of John Brown,
"the martyr." Drunk with blood, inflamed by the death of one of
his sons in these border feuds, impelled to further deeds of
violence, no doubt, by the immunity secured from those
committed in Kansas, John Brown began, as early as the fall of
1857, in far-away
1. See Rhodes's History of the United States vol. ii.
p. 162, etc.
Kansas, to formulate his plans for an outbreak in Virginia. His
confederate Cook, in his confession, has left the whole story.
Inducing Cook and eight or ten others, over whom he seems
to have possesed complete mastery, to join him, they started
east to attend a military school, as it was said, in Ashtabula
County, Ohio. The party united at Tabor, Iowa; there, in the
autumn of 1857, he revealed to this choice band that his
ultimate destination was the State of Virginia. His companions
demurred at first, but his strong will prevailed. They shipped
eastward two hundred Sharp's rides that had been sent to
Tabor for his Kansas enterprises the year previous. In May,
1858, Brown held a convention in Chatham, Canada, in a negro
church, with a negro preacher for president, and adopted a
constitution, which, without naming any territory to which it
was to apply, said: "We, the citizens of the United States, and
the oppressed people, who, etc., do ordain and establish for
ourselves the following provisional constitution and
ordinances." This constitution, drawn up by John Brown, and
adopted by himself and half a dozen whites, and as many more
negroes in Canada, provided for legislative, executive, and
judicial branches of his government. It also provided for
treaties of peace, for a commander-in-chief, for communism of
property, for capturing and confiscating property, for the
treatment of prisoners, and for many absurd things besides.
After providing for the slaughter or the robbery of nearly
everybody in the United States who did not join the
organization, or voluntarily free their slaves and agree to keep
the peace, it culminated in a declaration: -
"Art. 46. The foregoing articles shall not be construed so as
in any way to encourage the overthrow of
any state government, or of the general government of the
United States, and look to no dissolution of the Union, but
simply to amendment and repeal, and our flag shall be the
same as our fathers fought under in the Revolution."
No one can read the absurd jargon and believe the it was
the product of the same brain. Yet the last declaration of the
document is no more inconsistent with the facts than were the
repeated declarations of Brown after he had killed a number of
people at Harper's Ferry, that he proposed no violence. Nor
was it a whit more absurd than the pretended loyalty to State
and country of those who applauded his career of murder and
robbery, and treason both state and national.
From May, 1858, to October, 1859, Brown pursued his
plans. He rented a farm near Harper's Ferry, and there
collected his arms and ammunition, without exciting suspicion.
Delays occurred from lack of funds, etc. An
anonymous letter was sent to the Secretary of War, in the
spring of 1859, revealing his plans and purposes, but it seems
to have made no impression, although the Secretary of War
was a Southern man.
Shortly before Brown made his demonstration, his cohorts,
to the number of twenty, black and white, assembled at his
farmhouse, and Sunday night, October 16, 1859, they
descended upon Harper's Ferry. About 10.30 P. M., they seized
and captured the watchman upon the railroad bridge across the
Potomac, and proceeded with him to the United States
armory, of which they took possession. Brown then sent forth
a party, headed by his lieutenant, Cook, to capture Colonel
Lewis Washington and Mr. Allstadt, leading citizens, who
were to be held as hostages. These gentlemen were compelled
to leave their beds, and accompany the invaders. Their
slaves, to the
number of thirty, were also compelled, against their will, to join
the party. Colonel Washington was a grandnephew of George
Washington, and a member of the staff of the governor of
Virginia.
A sword of Frederick the Great, which had been presented to
George Washington, was "appropriated" for use by John
Brown. At this point we are introduced to the word selected
by Brown as descriptive of his taking other people's property.
He did not call it stealing, or robbery, or violent seizure. He
invariably referred to it as "appropriating," and he pronounced
the word in a peculiar way, - putting the whole emphasis upon
the second syllable, as if it were a-prop-riating. It was a
favorite and oft-repeated word with him. Here also we see, in
his appropriating the sword of Frederick the Great to be worn
by himself, that overshadowing egotism which was one of his
most prominent characteristics, - the inordinate vanity of
lunacy.
It was an ill omen for his venture that the first person killed
by his band in the early morning was an inoffensive colored
man, a porter at the railroad station, who, being ordered to stop
and seeking to escape, was shot as he ran away. The next
victim was a citizen killed standing in his own door. The next,
a graduate of West Point, who, having heard of the trouble at
the Ferry, was shot from the armory as he rode into town on
horseback armed with a gun.
It is impossible to describe the consternation which these
scenes produced among the citizens of Harper's Ferry.
When the marines had completed their lawful and proper
work the following morning, John Brown lay on
the grass desperately wounded. His entire party was
killed, wounded, or captured, and the dead bodies of two
of his sons were beside him. It was a ghastly ending of a horrid
venture. As has been truly said of it by an eminent Northern
historian: "In the light of common sense, the plan was folly;
from a military point of view, it was absurd." The first question
which arises in the mind of every one is, Did John Brown know
the nature of his own acts? As far as man may answer such a
question, he answered it himself on many occasions.
While in the engine-house, receiving and returning the fire
of the marines, one of his prisoners, Mr. Daingerfield, told him
he was committing treason. One of his followers spoke up and
said: "Captain Brown, are we guilty of treason in what we are
doing? I did not so understand it."
"Certainly," said Brown, and coolly kept up his fire.
When examined after his surrender, and upon his trial, he
said he fully understood the nature of his acts and the
consequences, and peremptorily refused to permit any plea of
lunacy to be interposed in his defense.
John Brown was tried for treason, murder, and inciting slaves
to insurrection. His trial occupied six days. He was defended by
able counsel, of his own selection, from Massachusetts and
Ohio. Every witness he desired summoned appeared. The
evidence of his guilt was overwhelming, and he was sentenced
to death. Any other penalty would have been a travesty of
justice, and a confession that the organized governments which
he assailed were mockeries, affording no protection to their
citizens against midnight murder and assassination. Did the
Virginians exult over the wretched victim of his own
lawlessness? NO!
The "New York Herald" published the account of how
that verdict was received: "Not the slightest sound was
heard in the vast crowd, as this verdict was returned
and read; not the slightest expression of elation or triumph
was uttered from the hundreds present. . . .Nor was this strange
silence interrupted during the whole of the time occupied by
the forms of the court."
When Brown was asked if he had anything to say why
sentence should not be pronounced, he said among other
things: "I admire the truthfulness and candor of the greater
portion of the witnesses who have testified. . . . I feel entirely
satisfied with the treatment I have received on my trial.
Considering all the circumstances, it has been more generous
than I expected." He admitted a design to free the slaves, but
denied all intention to commit treason, or murder, or violence in
so doing, and declared that in what he had done he felt fully
justified before God and man.
There was nothing remarkable or unusual in talk like this by
a man like that. It has been the usual jabber of desperate,
unbalanced egotists and law-breakers since vanity, ignorance,
and fanaticism produced the first assailant of organized
government. It was heard again when Wilkes Booth,
assassinating Lincoln, exclaimed: "'Sic semper tyrannis!'" and
again, when Guiteau slew Garfield, claiming that he served his
country in committing the base deed.
The Virginians took the life of John Brown to preserve their
own lives, and the lives of their wives and children, from
destruction. He had, indeed, "whetted knives of butchery" for
them, and had come a thousand miles to kill people who had
never heard his name.
Yet, when the majesty of the law was vindicated, they did
not gloat over his dead body or mutilate his corpse, as he had
done his Kansas victims. They did not boil his bones and
articulate them to be hung in a public museum. When Justice
was satisfied, his body, unmutilated, was delivered
to his wife to bear back to his home, and she is a witness to the
fact that she was shown all the sympathy, all the tenderness,
all the consideration, of which the awful situation admitted.
When the Virginia people first came into possession of the
facts of the John Brown fiasco, they did not believe the
outrage had been promoted or would be justified by any
considerable number of sane, law-abiding people anywhere.
With an inborn love of courage, the bearing of John Brown
was so fearless throughout that, even in their anger at his
impotent violence, they admired his fortitude. Even the
governor of the State testified to this. Describing his
appearance as he lay wounded before him, he said he could
liken his attitude to nothing but "a broken-winged hawk lying
upon his back, with fearless eye, and talons set for further fight
if need be," and such was undoubtedly the man; such have
been many others like him. The quality of perfect courage,
coupled with an unbalanced judgment, narrow-mindedness,
and fanaticism, has produced a hundred characters in history
like Brown. Pity, pity, pity it is to see that splendid quality
perverted and destroyed by such fatal accompaniments. It was
with a genuine sigh of admiration for this fortitude that,
without one doubt about their duty, the Virginians imposed the
penalty for his crime upon John Brown.
To one who knows the truth, the most tantalizing reflections
upon the John Brown raid are these: The man who, as colonel
in the army of the United States, captured Brown; the governor
of Virginia, under whose administration he was justly hung;
ay, a majority of the people of Virginia - were at heart opposed
to slavery. Uninterrupted by madmen like Brown, they would
have accomplished, in good time, the emancipation of the
slave without the awful fratricidal scenes which he precipitated.
Of course there are those who will still deny this, and
conclusive proof is impossible. History took its course. Yet it is
hard that one madman was able to warp that course, and it is
wrong to glorify him as saint and martyr, while men infinitely
his superiors in intellect, in broad philanthropy, in civilization,
and his equals in moral and physical courage, were driven by
his folly into apparent advocacy of slavery. Neither Colonel
Lee nor the governor of Virginia were champions of slavery.
Both rejoiced at its final overthrow, even at the great price in
blood and treasure at which it was accomplished. The
fanaticism which applauded Brown's acts made them feel that
there was no possible peace or union with such people, and
made them resolve that, sooner than submit to such savage
fraternity, they would fight for freedom from its dictation, its
taunts, and its interference.
When Virginia had performed her duty in executing Brown,
her next step was to inquire what sympathy she received in the
hour of her trial. She expected, as she had a right to expect, that
the North, boasting of its superior civilization and its greater
regard for the maintenance of the laws protecting person and
property, would be practically unanimous in condemnation.
Even the half-civilized free-soilers of Kansas had denounced
Brown's barbarism.
When it was learned that, in many parts of the North,
churches held services of humiliation and prayer; that bells
were tolled; that minute-guns were fired; that Brown was
glorified as a saint; that even in the legislature of
Massachusetts, eight out of nineteen senators had voted to
adjourn at the time of his execution; that Christian ministers
had been parties to his schemes of assassination and robbery;
that women had canonized the
bloodthirsty old lunatic as "St. John the Just;" that
philanthropists had pronounced him "most truly Christian;"
that Northern poets like Whittier and Emerson and Longfellow
were writing panegyrics upon him; that Wendell Phillips and
William Lloyd Garrison approved his life, and counted him a
martyr, - then Virginians began to feel that an "irrepressible
conflict" was indeed upon them. Still, they waited to ascertain
how wide-spread this feeling was.
Horace Greeley, editor of the "New York Tribune," the
leading Republican journal of the North, contented himself with
referring to Brown and his followers as "mistaken men," but
added that he would "not by one reproachful word disturb the
bloody shrouds wherein John Brown and his compatriots are
sleeping." John A. Andrew, of Massachusetts, presided at a
John Brown meeting, proclaiming that whether the enterprise
was wise or foolish, John Brown himself was right. The next
year, Mr. Andrew was elected governor of Massachusetts. The
Northern elections in the month succeeding John Brown's raid
showed gains to the Republicans in the North. Lincoln spoke
in February, 1860, at Cooper Institute, New York. His comments
on Brown were looked for with anxiety. He said John Brown's
effort was "peculiar;" and while he characterized it as absurd,
he had no word of censure. Seward spoke soon afterwards in
the Senate. He was a man of more refinement than Lincoln. He
represented a constituency more highly civilized, and one in
which a greater regard for law existed than in the West. He
dared to say that Brown "attempted to subvert slavery in
Virginia by conspiracy, ambush, invasion, and force," and to
add that "this attempt to execute an unlawful purpose in
Virginia by invasion, involving servile war, was an act of
sedition and treason, and criminal in just the extent that it
affected the public peace and was destructive of human
happiness and life."
Seward's detestation of slavery was more widely known than
Lincoln's. Up to that time, he had no formidable competitor for
the Republican nomination for the presidency. It is not
improbable that, in the then excited state of Northern feeling,
the two candid admissions above quoted cost him the
nomination for the presidency.
While these scenes were being enacted, a great change of
feeling took place in Virginia towards the people of the North
and towards the Union itself. Virginians began to look upon
the people of the North as hating them, and willing to see them
assassinated at midnight by their own slaves, led by Northern
emissaries; as flinging aside all pretense or regard for laws
protecting the slaveowner; as demanding of them the
immediate freeing of their slaves; or that they prepare against
further attacks like Brown's, backed by the moral and pecuniary
support of the North.
During the year 1860, the Virginians began to organize and
arm themselves against such emergencies. They knew that,
while James Buchanan was President, the power of the federal
administration could be relied upon to suppress such
violence; but they also knew that his term of office was nearly
at an end, and they had little hope of such protection if the
federal administration fell into the hands of the Republicans.
While the State was still unprepared to secede, her citizens
were - a unit in the resolve that Northern fanatics, who
thenceforth appeared on Virginia soil upon any such mission
as that of John Brown, should "be welcomed with bloody hands to
hospitable graves."
When the troops came back from Harper's Ferry, they
were amply supplied with songs. The first and most popular
was one upon John Brown, sung to the time of "The Happy
Land of Canaan." It had a number of verses, only one of
which I remember, running something thing after this
fashion: -
"In Harper's Ferry section, there was an insurrection,
John Brown thought the niggers would sustain him,
But old master Governor Wise
Put his specs upon his eyes,
And he landed in the happy land of Canaan."
REFRAIN.
"Oh me! Oh my! The Southern boys are a-trainin',
We'll take a piece of rope
And march 'em up a slope,
And land 'em in the happy land of Canaan."
It is surprising how popular this rigmarole became through
the South, and many a time during the war I heard the
regiments, as they marched, sing verses from it. It is in
contrast with the solemn swell of "John Brown's Body," as
rendered by the Union troops. The latter is only an adaptation
of a favorite camp-meeting hymn which I often heard the
negroes sing, as they worked in the fields, long before the
days of John Brown. The old words were: -
"My poor body lies a-mouldering in the clay,
My poor body lies a-mouldering in the clay
My poor body lies a-mouldering in the clay
While my soul goes marching on.
REFRAIN.
"Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
As my soul goes marching on!"
OUR life during the year 1860 was in strange contrast with
the busy and exciting scenes of 1858 and 1859. Father's term of
office expired January 1, 1860. He sold his plantation in
Accomac, and bought another in the county of Princess
Anne, near Norfolk. This change was due partly to domestic
and partly to political considerations.
During a period of rebuilding at "Rolleston," our new home,
I was sent, January 1, 1860, to live with a favorite sister, and
attend a private school presided over by the parish minister, a
Master of Arts of the University of Virginia. The location was
in the county of Goochland, about twenty miles west of
Richmond, in the beautiful valley of the upper James.
From Lynchburg, which is near the foot-hills of the Blue
Ridge, the James River courses eastward to Richmond, a
distance of about two hundred miles, through a valley of great
fertility and beauty. The width of this valley seldom exceeds a
mile, and at many points it is much narrower than that. The flat
lands along the course of the stream are known as the "James
River low grounds," an expression which conveys to the mind of
the Virginian an idea of fatness and fecundity such as others
conceive in reading of the valley of the Nile. About
Lynchburg, high bluffs hang over the stream, and the flat
lands are narrow and small in extent; but from Howardsville,
in Albemarle, to Richmond, a hundred miles below the
valley broadens, and the bluffs grow less beetling as the
gently rolling lands of lower Piedmont are reached. In general
characteristics, the section resembles the valleys of the
Genesee and the Mohawk in New York, with a greater
luxuriance of woodland and more extended vistas.
Upon the swelling hills overlooking the James were built, at
the time of which I write, for a distance of a hundred miles or
more, the homes of many of the wealthiest and most
representative people of our State.
No railroad penetrated the valley. The only means
provided for transporting products to market was the James
River and Kanawha Canal, an enterprise projected by General
Washington. It had been completed as far as Lexington,
passing through the Blue Ridge Mountains at the point known
as Balcony Falls, a spot suggestive of the Trosachs pass in
Scotland.
For their own transportation up and down the valley, these
prosperous folk had private equipages and servants. When
the distance was greater than a day's journey, the home of
some friend, generally a kinsman, stood wide open for their
entertainment. The canal was available upon emergency as a
means of travel, but as its speed was only about four miles an
hour, few of the grandees resorted to it. A fine road ran along
the foot-hills, parallel with the canal and river, from Richmond
to Charlottesville, often keeping companionship for a mile or
two with the route of the canal. The hills were of that stiff red
clay celebrated afar for its adaptability to corn and tobacco;
and the soil of the low grounds, often refreshed and
rejuvenated by the overflow of the James, was a deep alluvial
deposit of chocolate loam, inexhaustible in richness and
fertility, and producing all the cereals in marvelous abundance.
Recalling a few of the princely dwellers in this favored
section, one remembers the Cabells of Nelson; the Gaits of
Albemarle; the Cockes of Fluvanna; the Hubards of
Buckingham; the Bollings of Bolling Island and Bolling Hall;
the Harrisons of Ampthill, and Clifton, and Elk Hill; the
Hobsons of "Howard's Neck," and "Snowden," and
"Eastwood;" the Flemings of "West View;" the Rutherfords of
"Rock Castle;" General Philip St. George Cocke of "Belle
Mead;" the Skipwiths; the Logans of "Dungeness;" the
Seldens of "Orapax" and of "Norwood;" the Warwicks; the
Michaux of Michaux's Ferry; the Morsons of "Dover;" the
Seddons of "Sabot Hill;" the Stanards of "Bendover;" the
Allens of "Tuckahoe;" and many others: -
"Their swords are rust,
Their bodies dust;
Their souls are with the saints, we trust."
Scattered along the valley, owning respectively from seven
hundred to two or three thousand acres, with slaves enough
to cultivate twice the lands they owned, they were the
happiest and most prosperous community in all America; not
rolling in wealth, like the sugar cane and cotton planters of the
South, yet with a thousand advantages over them, in the
variety of their productions, in the beauty of their lands, in the
salubrity of their climate, in the society about them, and in
their access to the outer world.
The home of my sister was on one of these fine James River
estates, and her neighbors were of the most highly cultivated
people of whom that region boasted. The plantation had been
purchased from Colonel Trevillian, descendant of an old
Huguenot family, and its name, "Eastwood," had been
bestowed by its former owner, Peyton Harrison. My brother-in-
law, after an education
in Europe, had essayed business, but ill-health compelled him
to adopt a country life. The house stood in a grove of oaks of
original growth, in the midst of an extensive lawn carpeted with
greensward. Behind it were the stables, the inclosures, and the
household servants' quarters. In front, half a mile away, were
the low grounds and river; and to the left again, half a mile
distant, stood the overseer's house, the quarters of the farm
hands, and the farm stables. Up and down the river were
visible the handsome residences of the neighbors. On remote
hillsides or in the wooded points, one saw, here and there,
great barns of brick or wood for storing wheat or corn, and
houses where tobacco was stripped and hung, and smoked
and dried, and pressed into hogsheads interminable lines of
stone or post and oak fences, without one missing panel,
showed, as few other things in farming do show, the
prosperity of the owners of these lands. Great fields - this one
pale green with winter wheat, this sere and brown in pasture
land, this red with newly ploughed clods, and this with a
thousand hillocks whence the tobacco had been
gleaned - were spread out to the vision, glean of weeds and
undergrowth, and cultivated until they looked like veritable
maps of agriculture.
Near at hand, or far away upon the hillsides, one beheld
the working-bands of slaves, well clothed, well fed, and
differing from other workmen, as we see them now, chiefly in
their numbers and their cheerfulness and their comfortable
clothing. Remarkable as the statement may seem, those
slaves, over whose sad fate so many tears have been shed,
went about their work more joyously than any laboring people
I ever saw.
Our school was located a mile away, in rear of the river
plantations, upon a road leading to what was known as "the
back country." A little church built from the private
contributions of the river planters, was used as the
schoolhouse. It was near the parsonage. That point was
selected, not only for its convenience to the teacher, but also
because of its accessibility to the children of the smaller
farmers in this "back country." It is often said that
antagonism existed between this humbler class of whites and
the wealthy nabobs living upon the river. Perhaps there may
have been something of the inevitable envy which the less
fortunate feel everywhere towards the prosperous and great,
but certain it is, there was little manifestation of it there. The
wealthy sought in every way to be upon good terms with the
poor; and one of the best proofs that they succeeded is found
in the fact that, when war came, the two stood up together
side by side, and fought and slept and ate and died
together, - never thinking of which was rich or which was
poor, until a time when such as survived were all poor
together, and those who had always been poor were in their
turn the more fortunate of the two.
Our nearest neighbors were the Seddons, - one of the
loveliest families of people that ever lived. The head of the
house was a gentleman who, after a thorough education, had
achieved distinction at the bar and in Congress, but, owing to
delicate health, had retired to his plantation. He entertained
extreme views on the subjects of slavery and the nullification
doctrines of Calhoun; but for years he had, owing to
precarious health, taken no active part in politics. Polished in
manners, gentle in bearing, hospitable and considerate in
all things, he captivated visitors to his home as soon as they
entered it. And in whatever he failed, his wife more than
atoned for it by her graciousness. She was the accomplished
heiress Sally Bruce. She and her sister Ellen, both beautiful in
person and in character, and thoroughly educated,
took Richmond society by storm upon their first
appearance there in the 40's, and succumbed at last to the
blandishments of two young cousins, married them, bought
adjoining plantations in Goochland, and were now rearing
their children side by side. Such were the families of Hon.
James A. Seddon and James M. Morson, Esq.
Some of the happiest days of my childhood, some of the
most elevating, purifying, and refining hours of all my life, were
passed in these two households. Both Mr. and Mrs. Seddon
were accomplished linguists, and demanded that their children
should be as well educated as themselves. Their library was
supplied with the best thought of the world, and the course of
literary culture prescribed by them for their children was not
only comprehensive, but was made attractive by the way in
which it was pursued. Often the evening gatherings of the
family were converted into reading classes, and, with the
charming voice of their mother added to the attraction of the
subject, the children became interested. That charming voice?
Yes, one of the sweetest that ever sang. Not only was she an
admirable performer upon the piano, but when she sang,
accompanying herself upon the harp, she was a very
nightingale. Her tender Scotch ballads never were surpassed
upon the stage.
Love, intellectuality, refinement, hospitality, made that
home an abode fit for the most favored of mortals; and her
care for their welfare made "Mis' Sallie" the ideal, in the
minds of the servants, of what an angel would be in the world to
come. The children? They were numerous as the teeth in a
comb. Three of the Seddon boys ranging from a year older to
two years younger than myself, were my sworn allies.
Morning, noon, and night, we were together. Of course we all
had horses, - everybody
had a horse. Often the three Seddon boys rode to school upon
the back of one filly, with a young darkey to fetch her home.
Their route brought them directly past the Eastwood gate, and
many a day in 1860 that blessed filly took upon her back a fifth
rider, as I slipped down from the gatepost where I had awaited
their coming. And many a head-punching I received from the
combined forces of the Seddons because I tickled that filly in
the flank, and made her kick until she tumbled the entire load,
four white boys and a darkey, into the muddy road, and then,
kicking at us, scampered away, leaving us to fish our Horaces
and Livys and Virgils out of the mud, and walk the remainder of
the way to school.
The Morson children, first cousins of the Seddons, were also
numerous; and while their residence was at a little distance from
ours, the families were frequently together. At school, during the
week, plans were made for the afternoons and Saturdays, and we
ranged the whole country-side, shooting, or riding, or visiting.
A favorite amusement was excursions up the canal in our
own boat, drawn by our own team, to a famous fishing place at
"Maiden's Adventure" dam. Thither boys and girls repaired
together, making quite a boatload, taking baskets of luncheon
and spending the day.
The school-teacher, the Rev. Mr. Dudley, was an efficient
man, who demanded that his pupils should study hard, and
was not at all squeamish about the proper use of hickory.
Notwithstanding this, he was popular, and joined in the sports
at recess with genuine zest. One of our favorite games was
called "Germany," or "Chermony," in which a paddle, a certain
number of holes in a row, and a hard rubber ball were used.
Under certain regulations, each player claimed a hole in the
ground, and, when the ball went into it, was privileged to hit
some
one else with the ball. Mr. Dudley was a large, fleshy man, and
it was noticeable that, while the boys were always delighted to
have him in the game, he was hit about twice as often as all the
boys put together. However much he may have compelled
them to rub themselves in school, the boot was very much on
the other leg in these little outside pastimes; so much so, that
Parson Dudley, after being "roasted" for a long time,
appeared to lose his enthusiasm for the game.
It was during the recess hour, on a bright May day in 1860,
that a boy rode by, returning perhaps from Richmond, and
gave Mr. Dudley a copy of a newspaper. No sooner had he
disposed himself comfortably to read the news, leaving us
boys to our diversions, than with a loud exclamation he broke
forth, "Ah! that settles it. I feared as much. Abe Lincoln is
nominated for President. He will be elected, and that means
war."
I, who was now in my fourteenth year, and deeply
interested in political matters, was anxious to know why Mr.
Lincoln's election portended war any more than that of any
one else.
"Well," said Mr. Dudley, perfectly sincere in every word he
spoke, "Mr. Seward was the logical candidate of the
Republican party, entitled to the nomination by superior
ability and by long service. He is a man of very pronounced
anti-slavery views, but is a gentleman by birth and
association, and if elected President, would respect his
constitutional obligations and the rights of the Southern
States. Everybody expected him to be the nominee; but his
course and utterances of late, especially his utterances
concerning old John Brown, are not radical enough to suit the
Black Republicans. On the other hand, this man Lincoln has
come to the front, venomous and vindictive enough to satisfy
the most rabid abolitionist." He
then proceeded to draw a picture of Lincoln horrible enough.
He told how he was, in his origin, of that class of low whites
who hate gentlemen because they are gentlemen; how, in
personal appearance, he was more like a gorilla than a human
being; how he possessed the arts and cunning of the
demagogue to a degree sufficient to build himself up by
appealing to the prejudices of his own class against gentlemen;
and how, in his joint debates with Douglas, who had
completely overmastered him, he had nevertheless brought
himself into notice, and secured the nomination of his party, by
going far beyond other leaders in advocacy of radical measures
against slavery, and in abuse of the South.
That settled Abraham Lincoln with me. I was thoroughly
satisfied that no such man ought to be President; but I could
not yet conceive it possible that such a monster would be the
choice of a majority of the people for President. Lincoln's
nomination did not, however, interfere with my happiness or
appetite. In faint, I had faith in the triumph of Mr. Lincoln's
opponents.
A few days after this, I accompanied my sister and brother-
in-law to a breakfast at the Stanards'.
In course of conversation at table, the nomination of Lincoln
was discussed. That gave rise to the inquiry, on the part of our
hostess, whether her guests had read the remarkable sermon
recently delivered in the city of New Orleans by the Rev. Dr.
Palmer, an eminent Presbyterian divine, upon "The Divine
Origin of Slavery." As none of her guests had seen it, and all
expressed the desire to do so, a servant was sent to the library
for the newspaper, and one of the company proceeded to read
aloud the salient points of Dr. Palmer's address. Undoubtedly,
from his standpoint, the great minister put the case very
strongly. His arguments were, however, chiefly based upon
the
divine sanction of the patriarchal institutions of the Old
Testament. I was not a profound Biblical scholar, but a number
of very good women had spent a great deal of time, during the
brief space of my life, hammering into my head portions of the
Old Testament. It so happened also that during breakfast that
morning the Mormon doctrines of Brigham Young had come
up for discussion, for Brigham was much in evidence then, and
everybody, especially the ladies, had joined in denouncing him
as monstrous.
The reading of Dr. Palmer's sermon occupied some time. It
bored me, but I found no opportunity to escape. At its
conclusion, the company agreed that it was an able and
conclusive argument. Mrs. Stanard, who was a witty woman
given to facetious remarks, declared a purpose to mail a copy
of the sermon to Abe Lincoln. I, who was inclined to be pert as
well as facetious, proposed to send another copy to Brigham
Young, "For," said I, "every argument of Dr. Palmer, based on
the slavery of the Old Testament, is equally available for
Brigham Young in support of polygamy; and I sympathize with
Brigham."
It is unnecessary to add that the assembled guests, in their
disgust at my "pertness," dropped the argument on slavery.
Soon after this breakfast, I witnessed the first parade of the
Goochland Troop. The John Brown invasion had given a
pronounced impetus to the military spirit of Virginia. In almost
every county, new military organizations had sprung up. As
the Goochland folk were rich, owners of fine horseflesh, and
every man of them a horseman from his childhood, it was
natural that they organized a command of cavalry.
During the winter, the plan was conceived. The first
meeting looking to its consummation was held at February
court. The preliminary drilling began in the early spring. And
now in May, for the first time, the troop assembled in full
uniform for drill and inspection. Julien Harrison, of Elk Hill was
its commandant. Mr. Hobson, my brother-in-law, at whose
house I lived, was the first lieutenant. The company was
composed of the very flower of the aristocracy of the James
River valley, and the capital invested in the arms, uniforms, and
the horseflesh of the Goochland Troop would have equipped a
regiment of regulars.
At their first parade and review, they were the guests of the
master of Eastwood. Every man vied with every other in his
mount. There were not ten horses in the company less than
three quarters thoroughbred. It was indeed a gallant
sight, - those spirited youngsters, men, and beasts. The
uniforms of the privates were fine enough for major-generals.
Their arms they bought themselves, - the carbines and pistols
from Colt, the sabres from Horstmann. The shabrack of a
Goochland trooper cost more money than the whole
equipment of a Confederate cavalryman three years later. Little
did they realize then that within a year they would be part of
the best regiment in the brigade of the immortal Stuart, and
that they would pass into history as the "Black Horse
Cavalry," - a bugaboo scarcely less terrible to the imagination
of their foe than "masked batteries." There was, in fact, but
one company in the Confederacy called "Black Horse Troop,"
and that came from Fanquier County; but they were counted
by thousands in the imagination of the Union soldiers.
Many years afterwards, in conversation with a Union
veteran, something was said of handsome cavalry. He
remarked that the most vivid picture of a perfect soldier
retained by his mind was that of a Confederate cavalry officer
named Captain Julien Harrison, of the Fourth Virginia Cavalry,
who bore a flag of truce in 1861 into the Union lines at
Manassas.
The thing which most impressed itself upon me, during my
residence in Goochland in 1860, was the marked difference
between slavery upon these extensive plantations and slavery
as it existed in the smaller establishments which I had
theretofore known. It could not be truly said of these people
that they were cruel to their slaves, but it was certainly true
that the relations between master and slave were nothing like
so close or so tender as those with which I had been
theretofore familiar. The size of the plantations and the number
of slaves were such that it was necessary to employ farm
managers or overseers, and to have separate establishments,
removed from the mansion house, where the overseers resided,
surrounded by the laborers on the plantation.
As a consequence, the master and his family saw little of
this class of servants, and the servants saw and knew little of
the master. There was lacking that intimate acquaintance and
sympathy with each other which ameliorated the condition of
the slaves where the farm was small, the servants few, and no
overseer came between master and servant.
Wealthy men, too, like several of those in our
neighborhood, had so many slaves that they were compelled
to buy other plantations on which to employ them. For
example, Mr. Morson owned nearly eight hundred Negroes.
In order to sustain them, he purchased large plantations in
Mississippi. A portion of his time was passed there looking
after his interests, and thither, from time to time, it was, in the
nature of the case, necessary to transfer some of his Virginia
slaves, for they increased rapidly, and the
Virginia plantation could furnish employment and sustenance
for only a limited number. Such transfers were made as
humanely as possible. Families were removed together, in order
to avoid harassing separations, and the change bore as lightly
as possible upon the blacks. But, after all, it was an
unsympathetic proceeding; for the negro race has the
strongest of local attachments, and old Virginia was, and still
is, the dearest spot of earth to the native darkey.
The weeping and wailing among those who were ordered
South was pitiful. Although they were going to their master's
plantation, it was in a strange land and under the government
of unknown people, who felt none of the softening influences
of early associations. Above all, it was without regard to any
consideration of their wishes or their prejudices, and the
expression of either would have been vain.
The slaves upon our place presented another repulsive
feature of the institution. The master and mistress were both
young persons of pure, elevated Christian lives, incapable of
brutality, and most ambitious to deserve and to possess the
loyal love of their slaves. They could have had no country
establishment without the possession of slaves; and, both
being members of large families, they could not hope to acquire
by gift a sufficient number of slaves to carry on their
plantation. As a consequence, they were compelled to buy the
essential quota. These purchases were made by families, as far
as possible, but the aggregate was made up of negroes who
came from different places, and were strangers to each other.
Great circumspection was exercised in the effort to secure the
proper kind of servants, and large prices were paid in order to
secure such. But everybody knows how little reliance is to be
placed in the advance characters given to servants, and
how often, when strange servants are brought together, unforeseen
incompatibilities of temperament, or new conditions,
affect them. Thus it was that the new establishment at
"Eastwood," wealthy and luxurious as it seemed, had its
troubles and its trials like all the rest of the world. The darkeys
were jealous of each other. The ones represented as marvels
of diligence and obedience turned out to be lazy and
impertinent. And so it went. The most flagrant instance of this
kind was a butler named Tom, a handsome fellow, quick,
intelligent, and represented as a phenomenal servant. When
Tom arrived, he was a joy and a comfort to master and mistress,
and they felt that he was worth the $2500 they had paid for him.
In a little while, Tom appeared, from time to time, in a condition
of excitement or irritability or stupor, and his conduct was
exceedingly perplexing. Suspecting liquor as the cause of his
strange behavior, strict watch was kept upon the wine cellar
and the sideboard, but no liquor was missed. At last, Tom
developed a distinct case of mania a potu, and then it was
discovered that he had been steadily imbibing from a large
demijohn of alcohol to which he had access. As his distemper
developed an inclination to knock the heads off his fellow
servants, male and female, on the slightest provocation, his
presence made matters very uncomfortable; and while his first
offense was overlooked and forgiven, under solemn promises
of reform, he soon relapsed into bad habits, and became so
violent that it was necessary to have him seized and bound by
Alick the gardener and Ephraim the hostler, in order to prevent
murder.
Now, what would our humane and philanthropic friend,
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, think of a case like this? And how
would the dear old lady have disposed of it? This was one of
many of the perplexing situations of slavery.
There was nothing to do with Tom but to sell him with all
his infirmities on his head. Of course the abolitionist will say it
was awful; but to have given him away would have been
imposing upon the friend to whom he was presented, and to
set him free was offering a premium to drunkenness and
faithlessness. Tom shed tears of repentance, and the family
shed tears of regret and humiliation. But as there were young
children and women all about him, - women and children of his
own race as well as the white race, - and as he was liable to get
drunk and violent, and to knock the heads off of any or all of
them at any moment, the question recurs on the original
proposition. What was to be done with Tom?
But enough of these instances. This and many others only
confirmed me in the opinion, planted when I saw the sale of
Martha Ann, and growing steadily thereafter, that slavery was
an accursed business, and that the sooner my people were
relieved of it, the better.
June came, and with it the end of the school term and my
return to my father's home. I had made decided advances in
knowledge. I had read the first six books of Virgil; been drilled
in Racine and Molière and Voltaire; finished Davies's
Legendre; and was fairly embarked in algebra, besides a good
grounding in ancient and modern history and a smattering of
natural philosophy.
So I boxed my books, packed my trunk, gathered together
my effects, - including my gun, with which I had become quite
proficient, and a coop containing a gamecock and pullets of
the choicest James River stock, - and tried myself homeward.
THE proverb that a calm precedes a storm was never better
illustrated than in the peaceful days of the summer and
autumn of 1860, and the winter of 1860-61.
Our new home opened up a phase of existence entirely
different from any I had theretofore known. Although it was
within five miles of the city of Norfolk, which was easily
reached either by land or by water, Rolleston, my father's new
plantation, was as secluded a spot as if no city had been within
a hundred miles. It was the ancient seat of the Moseley family,
one of the oldest in the State. Located upon the eastern branch
of the Elizabeth River, it embraced, besides a broad area of
cultivation, a handsome body of timber of original growth,
running from the water's edge back for a mile or more. The
dwelling and cartilage were near the river, and the cultivated
land, which was on its easternmost side, was bounded by a
large millpond. Across the mouth of the pond a dam was
erected, with floodgates admitting the tide and confining it at
high water for the use of a gristmill.
Beside the gristmill, the new purchaser erected a saw mill on
the woodland tract for his own use in erecting new buildings,
and for the sale of lumber in the adjacent city. When I reached
the place, a number of mechanics were remodeling the
dwelling, and building new farm houses and barns. Every boy
who has lived on a farm knows the joys of the youthful heart
at having access to
a carpenter's bench, and to all the lumber and tools and nails
he wants.
Besides myself, I had as companions and playmates my
brother, a nephew near my own age, a white boy, - the son of
the miller, - and my own slave, black John. From rosy morn till
dewy eve, during all the vacation of 1860, this precious
company was busy with new enterprises. The adjacent waters
swarmed with fish and terrapin and crabs and oysters and
clams, and every variety of sea food. The fields and forests
and marshes abounded with game. The Elizabeth River was a
beautiful sheet of water for sailing, and father had provided
himself with the stanchest and fastest boats to be obtained.
The milldam and pond were our favorite rallying-point. There
we anchored our craft, and fished and swam and sailed our
miniature boats, and engaged in the many pastimes which
make boyhood so happy a period. To-day, we were occupied,
busy as bees, building hen-houses. To morrow, the all-engrossing
subject was a new boat, devised and constructed
by ourselves. Another time, we might be seen, all hands, riding
the high side of our fastest boat in a clipping sail to Norfolk,
and, again, bending to the oars like tried seamen, rowing
homeward in a calm. To-day would be devoted to fishing in
deep water, to-morrow to crabbing on the shoals; another time,
to setting weir mats across the mouths of the little estuaries to
catch "fatbacks" or jumping mullets when the tide went out;
and another time, the whole company would be busy baiting
and sinking terrapin traps. Sometimes we would drive away in
the farm-carts to Lambert's or Garrison's Fishing Shores, ten
miles away upon the Chesapeake Bay, to seine-hauling, from
which we would return at evening, our carts loaded down with
fish for salting and use during the winter season. On other
days, we made up fishing
excursions in our sloop, the Know-Nothing, down to the deep
waters of Hampton Roads, for sea trout and sheepshead.
Every day had its new and busy occupation and delight, and
for several months we never put shoes upon our feet, save
when we were called upon to visit the city. With great straw
hats and brown-linen shirts, and trousers rolled up above our
knees, we were almost amphibians, and were sunburnt as
brown as Indians.
It may not have been a period of great intellectual growth,
but it certainly was a time in which our physical health was
highly developed, and the qualities of enterprise and self-reliance
were highly stimulated.
In the month of August, the Great Eastern, the largest ship
then afloat, came to Hampton Roads, which was the signal for a
general holiday, and everybody who was anybody, far and near,
went to visit her. We went down the harbor with Captain Oliver
upon our sloop, the Know-Nothing, to inspect the English
monster. From the city to the Roads where the Great Eastern lay,
ten miles below, the waters of Norfolk harbor were alive with
river-craft, crowding all sails and decked in their best bunting,
firing small cannon and waving salutes. We had bent the racing-sails
of the Know-Nothing for the occasion, and she showed her
heels not only to the vessels of her own class, but to many far
larger than herself. I was very proud of being one of the
company of the smartest craft in Norfolk waters.
The Great Eastern, it will be remembered, was an immense
ship, of a length and size never since equaled, unless it be by
the new steamer Oceanic, now under construction. She was
680 feet in length, with a width of beam of over 80 feet, and a
draft of 27 feet of water. Her contrast with other ships of that
time was, however, much greater than it would be with the
ships of to-day.
In general outline, she was, of course, very much like other
vessels of her kind. When she first came in view, I felt
disappointed; for there were no other objects near her with
which to contrast her. But after a large steamer of the Old
Dominion line passed the Know-Nothing on the way down the
harbor, looming high above us, and rocking us in her wake until
our washboards were almost submerged, and then passed on
towards the Great Eastern, where, by the side of the latter, she
appeared to be no larger than a tug, I began to realize the size
of the magnificent newcomer. When the Know-Nothing sailed
up and around the visitor, her topmast not five feet above the
rail of the Great Eastern, the matter grew plainer; and when our
party boarded the Great Eastern and traversed the great spaces
within, I found it difficult to realize that she was the work of
men, or that the colossal whole moved and was directed in
every motion by the control of one human mind.
While the ship proved a failure, the ideas first advanced in
her were developed and applied to other ventures, in such a
manner that she produced a revolution in the construction of
ships for merchant marine service, little less marked than that
in naval warfare resulting from the convict in Hampton Roads
two years later.
The visit of the Prince of Wales to America occurred about
the same time as the arrival of the Great Eastern.
I was to remain at home during the next school year. One of
our neighbors, with a large family, had secured the services of
a young university graduate as private tutor, and I was to
attend his school, about two miles distant. Consequently,
early in September, I went to Goochand to bring back some
schoolbooks and other belongings. It was on this visit that I
happened to be in Richmond at the time of the visit of the
Prince of Wales,
and was in St. Paul's Church upon the Sunday when the
prince attended divine worship there.
During our residence in Richmond, many eminent Englishmen
had visited the city from time to time, and a mere
English lord was no very great sight; but my interest was
most decided in a British heir-apparent not much older than
myself.
The young fellow was a typical Anglo-Saxon. His tawny
hair, fair complexion, and blue eyes were exactly what one
familiar with the type would have expected to see. At that time,
he was rather slight in build, and did not display the best of
physical development. His shoulders were drooping, and his
hips rather broad; his movements were awkward, and his
manner altogether boyish. I had no opportunity to converse
with him, for, being a small boy, I secured no introduction; but
I saw him several times, and wondered at the deference shown
to him by the distinguished-looking old gentlemen who were
his traveling companions, as well as by several of the leading
citizens, friends of my father, by whom the prince was
entertained.
One who saw him in 1860 would find it difficult to discover
in the stout, bald, elderly, well-fed man of the world, still
known as the Prince of Wales, whom I saw in London several
years ago, any trace of the awkward boy who visited
Richmond in 1860.
Never had boy more glorious liberty or greater variety of
sport, and never did reckless youth pursue its bent more
indifferent to the graver affairs going on about it. One day in
October, I drove into Norfolk, and, seeing a great crowd
assembled, paused and heard part of a speech by Stephen A.
Douglas. I was greatly impressed by his tremendous voice,
every tone of which reached me more than a block away, and I
loudly applauded his Union sentiments.
But having obtained the supply of powder and shot I
needed, I soon forgot Douglas. Not long afterwards, I heard,
without its making a great impression upon me, that on one of
those gorgeous November days Douglas had been defeated
for President, and Abraham Lincoln had been elected President
of the United States. More than once I heard, without believing
it, that there was serious and imminent danger of civil war as a
result. "Let it come," was my only reflection; "who's afraid?"
Before the close of the year 1860, many men from Southern
States rode out to Rolleston from Norfolk to visit and confer
with father about the course Virginia would pursue in view of
that of South Carolina and other States. Some of them
remained to meals, and some stayed overnight, and so I heard
their conversations. Some of them had new and strange flags
pinned upon their lapels, or little palmetto rosettes, which they
gave me. When I visited the city, I heard new tunes like "Dixie"
and "The Bonnie Blue Flag;" and men said that Virginia
would secede with other Southern States. But father still
declared that he was opposed to secession, and believed that,
if any fight was necessary, the South should "fight in the
Union." I did not know what it all meant, and did not believe it
could result in actual war, and in fact had become so
engrossed in the pleasures of life at Rolleston that I gave little
attention to aught else but the pursuit of my boyish
diversions.
I was a little over fourteen years of age when the civil war
began. No pair of eyes and ears in all America were more alert
than mine. Every event, as it wound off the reel of time,
excited my most intense interest, and made its indelible
impression.
As State after State passed ordinances of secession, the
disunion sentiment gained ground in Virginia. Father was hotly
opposed to secession, but he always coupled that declaration
with the further one that he was equally opposed to Northern
coercion.
The Virginia legislature called a convention to consider what
course the State should take in the impending crisis. The
election for delegate from our county, Princess Anne, was
exciting, and the result was in great doubt. Father was a
candidate, opposed by Edgar Burroughs, Esq., a popular and
outspoken Union man. Mr. Burroughs was a native of the
county, had a large family connection, and was supported by a
strong following, who wanted neither secession nor fighting. It
required all the prestige of my father's name, and a careful
declaration of his modified views upon secession, to elect him,
and he was returned by a small majority.
Poor Burroughs, like many another who resisted secession
to the last, went into the Confederate service, and sacrificed
his life for his State.
The convention remained in session a long time before it
took decisive action. When it assembled, it was composed of a
safe majority of Union men, and a minority of secessionists.
My father held unique views, and had a very small following.
Opposing secession, he at the same time advocated
preparations by the State for defense against what he
considered the threatened aggression of the federal
government. In his own book, "Seven Decades of the Union,"
he has fully set forth what he meant when he advocated
"fighting in the Union." It is sufficient to say that, at the time,
his views were regarded as impracticable, and that he failed to
impress them upon the body, or to gain any considerable
following.
The issue seemed likely to be decided in favor of the Union
men, until the occurrence of two events which precipitated
secession. The first of these was the firing upon Fort
Sumter. The second was the call issued by President Lincoln
upon the States, Virginia included, for troops to suppress the
rebellion.
It has been said that the Southern leaders fired upon Fort
Sumter in order to force these issues, well knowing that
Virginia could not be relied upon to withdraw from the Union
in any other way. Whether this be so or not, this result was
accomplished.
The Virginians realized that they had come to the parting of
the roads. The question presented was no longer, Shall we
fight? War was flagrant. The only question to be decided was,
On which side shall we fight?
Virginia was reduced to the alternative of furnishing her
quota of troops to the Union, or of refusing to do so, which
was the equivalent of secession. It was a hard situations
made doubly hard by the fact that, even at the moment when
these things happened, a peace conference, presided over by
her venerable ex-President John Tyler, was in session at
Washington, vainly endeavoring to bring about a bloodless
solution of the trouble.
Now, however, no time was to be lost in further
negotiations. Indecision in such a crisis would have been little
less than cowardice.
One by one, men who had steadily voted with the Union
men transferred their support to the secessionists. Knowing
that war was inevitable, they decided to fight for and with
their friends. The ordinance of secession was passed three
days after Mr. Lincoln's call for troops; and while the
schedule provided for its indorsement by the people, the
march of events was so rapid that popular indorsement
was not obtained until long after the State had taken
an unmistakable attitude in the conflict.
While these things were progressing, I visited Norfolk
daily to ascertain, and keep the family informed concerning
the progress of public affairs.
From the time Sumter was fired upon, and Mr. Lincoln's
proclamation was made public, business was almost
entirely suspended. The people assembled upon the streets,
discussing the situation, breathlessly awaiting the decision
of the convention at Richmond, and listening to popular
harangues. The local military, anticipating the result,
assembled, and paraded the streets with bands and
Southern flags. When the telegraph flashed the announcement
that the secession ordinance had been passed,
it was greeted with great cheering, the firing of guns, and
every demonstration of excited enthusiasm.
It is impossible to describe the feelings with which I saw
the stars and stripes hauled down from the custom house,
and the Virginia state flag run up in their place I had
become rampant for war, but never until then had I fully
realized that this step involved making the old flag under
which I was born in Brazil, and which, until now, had
typified to me everything of national patriotism and
national glory on land and sea, henceforth the flag of an
enemy.
It was a beautiful spring morning. Across the harbor at
the Gosport Navy Yard, the United States flag still floated
from the garrison flagstaff, and from the ships, - the
Pennsylvania, the Cumberland, the Merrimac, the
Germantown, the Raritan, and others whose names were
famous in our naval annals. Father had been chairman of
the Naval Committee of the House of Representatives for
many years, and had become, while minister to Brazil
personally acquainted with nearly all the prominent naval
officers. Upon those ships, lying there, were many men who,
but a short time before, were welcome visitors at our home.
It was almost incredible that they were now, and
were to be henceforth, enemies, or that they might at any
time open fire upon the town which they had originally come
to protect. A certain Confederate general was ridiculed for
saying, after the war ended, that he had never seen the old
flag, even in the battle-front, without tears in his eyes. That
was doubtless a figure of speech. It was rather hyperbolical
and beyond any feeling I had; but I can understand the
emotion of every man who, having loved and honored the
stars and stripes, could not bring himself, even while the
war was going on, to hate them, or shut out from his
remembrance what they had been to him.
The day after the State seceded. General Taliaferro, a
militia general, arrived at Norfolk and assumed command.
Troops from the South began to arrive. Among them I recall
particularly the Third Alabama Regiment, one of the finest
bodies of military I ever saw. It numbered full one thousand
men, the best representatives of Montgomery, Selma,
Mobile, and other places in Alabama. It was uniformed like
the New York Seventh Regiment, and commanded by
Colonel Lomax, a superb soldier. Those wealthy young
fellows of the Third Alabama brought with them not less
than one hundred servants, and their impediments were
more than was carried by a division in Lee's army three
years later.
All attention was concentrated now upon the navy yards and
ships in possession of the United States. The advantage of
securing the latter was fully understood. No less than six or
seven vessels were sunk in the channel below the city, to
prevent the ships from passing out. A demand for the
evacuation of the navy yard and the surrender of the ships was,
it was understood, made by General Taliaferro upon
Commodore Paulding. Friday the 19th and Saturday the 20th
were consumed in negotiations. Saturday,
a party of Union officers landed at the Roanoke dock
with a flag of truce, and proceeded under escort to General
Taliaferro's headquarters at the Atlantic Hotel. A long
conference ensued, and then they returned to their ships. The
fevered populace could gain no information concerning the
interview or its probable results.
Meanwhile, several companies of local military proceeded
to old Fort Norfolk, which was on our side of the river
just below the town, and removed a large quantity of
ammunition stored there, unprotected by the Union troops.
That ammunition was largely used in the first battle of
Manassas, which occurred three months later.
It was nearly dark, Saturday, April 20, when, despairing
of getting further information, I secured my horse and
vehicle, bought all the thrilling newspaper bulletins I could
lay hands upon, and, tearing myself away from the
excitement of the town, started for home. The erstwhile
silent woods skirting the homeward road were now
transformed into camps. Places whose deep silence at night,
in time of peace, had been broken only by the uncanny call of
the whippoorwill, or the hooting of owls, were lighted up
with camp-fires, and resounded with the joyous laughter of
the soldiers, the calls of sentinels, the stroke of the axe, or
the singing of the cooks and servants. Verily, this thing
called war was a fascinating sport. My heart sickened at the
thought that it would probably all be over before I was old
enough to be a participant in its glorious exhilaration.
At home, the family, impatient at my tardy return,
devoured every item of news in the papers, and hung
breathless upon every report of what was going forward in
the city. Thoroughly fagged out by excitement, I went early
to bed, wondering "What next?" Things happened so fast in
those days that, as soon as one thing occurred, we
began to expect something else, and in this case we were not
disappointed. Some time after midnight, the household was
aroused by a series of explosions in the direction of Norfolk,
and on going out, we beheld a dense canopy of smoke
hanging over the city, illuminated by fires, and flashing
almost momentarily with the light of new explosions. It was
easy to conjecture the meaning of this. The United States
forces had abandoned and blown up the Gosport Navy Yard.
I was keen to return at once to the city, but concluded to
remain until daylight.
The next morning was Sunday, and bright and early I
accompanied a party of our workmen in our sloop to the
city. What a sight of devastation greeted us. The
Pennsylvania and the Merrimac and other ships had been
burned to the water's edge. Some of their guns had been
loaded, and exploded as the heat of the fire reached them,
but fortunately the ships had listed heavily before the
discharge, and the shots had gone into the water high over
the town. The ship sheds were all destroyed. A futile effort
had been made to blow up the dry dock. The barracks and
officers' quarters and the machine shops had all been fired.
Some of these fires had been extinguished, while others
were still burning. The long rows of guns in the navy yard,
fifteen hundred in all, had in many instances been spiked,
or disabled by breaking their bunions with sledge-hammers.
Old sails and clothing and masses of papers
strewed the parade, and, altogether, it was marvelous to
behold what destruction and disorder had been wrought
within the space of a few hours where all had been
construction and perfect order for many years.
As for the late occupants, the following were the facts:
About nine o'clock Saturday night, the Pawnee had come
up from Fortress Monroe, easily passing the obstructions. She
doubtless brought the orders what to do. After knocking the
navy yard into smithereens, and transferring all the valuable
papers and the sailors to the Pawnee and Cumberland, and
burning the Pennsylvania. Merrimac, and other ships, the
Pawnee and Cumberland steamed down the harbor to Fortress
Monroe. On their downward passage, the sailors manned the
yardarms, and cheered the Union flag, as it was lit up by the
blaze of the burning ships. The ease with which these vessels
had passed the obstructions and escaped was a sore disappointment
to the Confederates.1
We spent the greater portion of the day wandering about
through the abandoned navy yard, and inspecting the first
real devastation of war which we had yet beheld. Little did we
realize that it was possible to rebuild the dry dock, or that in it,
out of the charred remains of the Merrimac, would be
constructed a ship which was destined to revolutionize naval
warfare. Still less did we realize that this scene of destruction
was, as contrasted with what we were yet to witness, as
insignificant as the burning of a country smoke house beside
the conflagration of Moscow.
Immediately after the evacuation of Norfolk by the Union
forces, the fortification of the harbor began. Batteries were
erected at Craney Island, Lambert's point, Sewell's Point, and
elsewhere. Obstructions were placed in the harbor to prevent
the return of Union vessels. Long lines of intrenchments were
erected in rear of the city, extending from the eastern branch
of the Elizabeth River to Tanner's Creek. The military forces
were distributed along what was known as the intrenched
camp
1. For full and graphic description of this, see Rebellion Records, vol. i. Doc. p. 119.
and the fashionable amusement of the time was to visit the
various encampments, and witness the drills and parades.
Our house, but a mile or two beyond the lines, was
constantly filled with visitors, and was gay beyond all
precedent.
Almost immediately after the passage of the secession
ordinance, father received a commission as brigadier-general in
the Confederate service, with directions to repair to West
Virginia, recruit and organize a brigade, and protect that section
of the State against any hostile advance. His preparations for
departure were immediately begun; and I was desolate at
learning that my brother Richard, now seventeen, was recalled
from William and Mary College to accompany him as aid-de-camp.
Just before their departure, the family was roused late one
night by a loud knocking upon the door, and the appearance of
my brother Henry and two cousins who lived upon the eastern
shore peninsula. My brother was an Episcopal minister, and
had been up to this time in charge of a church in West
Philadelphia. He was exceedingly popular with his
congregation, and no man owed parishioners more for love and
kindness than he did. Hoping against hope, he had clung to his charge, thinking that
possibly something might happen to avert hostilities.
Meanwhile, the feeling there had become intense.
One day, having occasion to visit the barber-shop of the
Girard House, the barber by some means discovered who he
was, and, seeking from him some assurances of loyalty to the
Union which he could not conscientiously give, the barber
threw down his razor, and refused to finish shaving a rebel.
Leaving the place, as a crowd was assembling, he hurried
homeward, to find that his residence had been protected from a
mob through the prudent exhibition
of a Union flag by a small
boy whom he employed; and under advice of friends, he left
the city forthwith, and journeyed homeward via Wilmington,
Del., down the eastern shore peninsula, to the home of two
young cousins in Accomac. They joined him, and the three
crossed the Chesapeake Bay in a small boat from Cape
Charles, and reached our home as described.
My brother brought us the first tidings we had for a
long time from our relatives in Philadelphia, and from
his description they had become as intense partisans of
the Union side as were we of the South. Poor fellow! He
took the situation very much to heart. While loyal to
kith and kin, he, even at that early day, declared that
we did not know the power, the resources, or the
numbers of our adversaries, and that the struggle of the
South for independence was hopeless folly. We were all
elated, and felt no doubts whatever. We were disposed to
regard him as controlled in his feelings by his deep
aversion to parting with a noble and devoted
congregation.
A few days later, my eldest sister, wife of Dr. A.Y.P.
Garnett, of Washington, D. C., arrived at our home
with her family of children. They had abandoned their
home and reached Richmond on one of the last trains
which came through. When they joined us at Rolleston, our
family was a very large one. The teacher of my school
volunteered, and the school closed. My father and young
brother Richard departed for the war in West Virginia.
My oldest brother Jennings was about this time
elected captain of the Richmond Light Infantry Blues, a
volunteer organization founded in 1793. His company joined
my father's forces, and became A Company, Forty-six
Virginia Regiment, of Wise's brigade.
Bravely and gayly they all sallied forth to rendez-vous
at the famous White Sulphur Springs. Thence,
after organizing, they proceeded to Charleston Kanawha.
Every report from our own was watched for with intense
eagerness, of course, but the things occurring near at
hand were of the most exciting character.
After the evacuation of Norfolk by the Union forces,
the sound of cannon was almost hourly in our ears. In a
few days, Craney Island, Sewell's Point, Lambert's
Point Pig Point, and other places commanding the
entrance of the Elizabeth and Nausemond rivers, were
fully fortified by the Confederates.
At these points, our own troops were constantly
exercised in target practice; and the Union forces at
Fortress Monroe and the Rip-Raps (then called Fort
Calhoun now Fort Wool), and the Union ships in
Hampton Roads and the Chesapeake Bay, were engaged
in similar drills. At times, the reports, all of which we
could hear, were so loud and so frequent that we
believed an engagement was in progress.
Confederate cavalry patrolled the beach of the
Chesapeake to guard against the landing of the enemy
for an attack upon Norfolk in rear. Major Edgar
Burroughs, my father's competitor for delegate to the
Secession Convention, was in command of a squadron of
this cavalry, encamped near Lynnhaven Bay, to protect
the seine-haulers there who supplied Norfolk and the
troops with fish.
The camp was in a grove of live-oaks, behind the
sand dunes on the beach, but must have been visible
with glasses to those on the ships, and was easily in
reach of guns of the Union cruisers constantly
moving back and forth along the coast between
Fortress Monroe and Cape Henry. Later in the war, that
camp would have been instantly bombarded; but at this early stage,
the
combatants were not altogether prepared to kill each other on
sight.
The possibility of such an attack was, nevertheless, sufficient
to make the place very attractive; and many day,
going down to the shore under pretext of securing fish
from the seines, I remained in the cavalry camp all day,
often watching the passing Union vessels through field-glasses,
which made everything and everybody upon them
plainly visible.
Then came the insignificant affair at Big Bethel. Exaggerated
accounts of it frenzied us with joy. "The Happy
Land of Canaan" was once more utilized for versification,
and every little chap of my acquaintance went about
singing: -
"It was on the 10th of June that the Yankees came to Bethel,
They thought they would give us a trainin',
But we gave 'em such a beatin'
That they never stopped retreatin'
Till they landed in the Happy Land of Canaan."
My poor little mare Pocahontas paid heavily for all this
war fervor. Not content with banging away half the day with
the rifles at targets erected on land and water, I was
ambitious also to become a cavalryman and a lancer. We
had tournament every day; that is, riding at a run, trying to
carry off suspended rings with a long pole. Then we would
caparison ourselves with sabres and dash at dummy heads.
In these exercises the riders changed; but the horse was the
same, and no doubt Pocahontas felt deep regret at the
condition of affairs which gave her such constant and violent
exercise.
Then came the battle of Manassas. Until then, I had
never conceived the intensity of feeling, the exaltation of
exultation, to which men are aroused by the first deep
draught of blood and victory. Fierceness, as we know it
in peace times, is, contrasted with human war-passion, as
the sweet south wind beside the desert simoom. Around the
telegraph offices in Norfolk, great throngs of citizens and
soldiers stood, roused to the highest pitch of excitement, as
bulletin after bulletin was read aloud announcing a great
Confederate triumph.
Men whose names had never been heard before leaped at
one bound into the front rank of the world's heroes, in the
minds of that delirious audience. Beauregard, Joe Johnston,
Stonewall Jackson, Bee, and Bartow were the names on
every tongue. The magnitude of the engagement was
represented as equal to the greatest of ancient or modern
battles. The throngs gloated in the stories of unprecedented
carnage. One telegram announced a field so covered with the
dead bodies of gayly dressed Union Zouaves that it
resembled a French poppy farm. The conduct of the Southern
troops was represented as surpassingly brave and chivalric,
while that of "the Yankees" was referred to as
correspondingly base and cowardly. The boast that one
Southerner could whip ten Yankees seemed fully verified.
The prediction followed that within a month the Southern
army would be encamped about New York, and that it would
dictate terms of peace within sixty days.
It was many a year before I learned the historical fact
that the little battle of Manassas was one of the oddest
episodes in military history, in that it was fought at right
angles to the line of battle selected by both commanders,
and was virtually won by the Union forces when they
became panic-stricken and fled. It is almost incredible now,
remembering how it was represented at the time, that only
750 men were killed in both armies, and less than 2500
were wounded.1
1. Official war records: Union, killed, 481;
wounded, 1011; captured, 1460.
Confederate, killed, 269; wounded, 1483; captured, none.
The war had begun successfully enough to the Confederates
to fan and inflame into the most exaggerated proportions
the vanity of a boy concerning Southern valor.
As the summer advanced, no other startling battle occurred.
Even at that early day, General Lee was the man to
whom the Virginians looked with more confidence and more
hope than towards any other Southern leader. His
preëminence had been somewhat eclipsed by the brilliant
success of Beauregard and Johnston at Manassas; but great
things were expected of him in his campaign in West
Virginia against McClellan. Lee's western campaign
proved, as we all know, a failure. The mountainous
character of the country was such as to preclude successful
military operations.
My father, commanding to the south of General Lee, was
forced, by the situation of the armies to the north of him, to
retire from the Kanawha valley. Before doing so, he had
made a successful foray upon the enemy at Ripley. The
Blues, and some other troops under command of my
brother, had surprised the enemy and captured a few men It
was a very insignificant affair, but we exaggerated it into a
deed of great valor and importance. The Confederate
forces retreated to the lines of the Gauley, Floye won a
handsome victory over the enemy at Carinfax Ferry, and my
father's command took a strong position on Sewell's
Mountain, awaiting attack and confident a victory.
Shortly after this, Floyd retreated with his command to a
place called Meadow Bluff. He ranked my father, and
ordered him to withdraw his forces to that place. This
my father flatly refused to do, and his insubordinate led
to an angry controversy, necessitating the presence of
General Lee. Upon General Lee's arrival, he fully sustained
the military views of General Wise; but it was
evident that two civilians like Wise and Floyd could not
coöperate in harmony, and both were ordered elsewhere.
The exposures and excitements of the Virginia campaign
resulted in a protracted illness of my father, and for weeks
he lay at the point of death in Richmond. While he was thus
prostrated, campaigning in West Virginia petered out, and
both sides, Union and Confederate, realized that the
fighting must be done elsewhere, and the troops were
withdrawn. McClellan became commander of the Army of
the Potomac.
General Lee was ordered to Charleston to superintend the
fortifications there, followed by the sneer of the cynical but
brilliant editor of the "Examiner," John M. Daniel, that it was
hoped that he would do better with the spade than he had done
with the sword. Floyd dropped out of public view and died soon
afterwards, and my father's brigade was ordered to Richmond to
reorganize and await a new assignment.
I shall never forget the impressions made by that brigade
when it returned from the West Virginia campaign in
December of 1861. They were the first troops I had seen
return from active campaigning. During the very rainy season
in the mountains, all the gilt and newness of their uniforms
had disappeared. The hair and beards of the men had grown
long, and added to their dirty appearance. A famous charger,
named "Legion," had been presented to
to my father at Staunton as he went out in the spring,
and my brother had taken with him an exquisite
chestnut thoroughbred filly. Exposure in bad weather and
bad feed had baked their coats and filled them with mange, and
had made these two, and all their companions, look like
so many bags of bones. When, spiritless,
dejected, and half starved, they were led from the box-cars in
which they arrived, I could not believe they were the same
horses I had known.
Altogether, a decided reaction had taken place since the
wonderful battle of Manassas. It had not been followed up
by the extermination of "the Yankees," as I expected it would
be.
Although but two hundred and sixty-nine Confederate
soldiers had been killed at Manassas, many of them were our
friends. But the deaths in battle were as nothing compared
with other deaths. We were beginning to dread measles and
mumps and typhoid fever and dysentery in the camps. We
were learning the ghastly truth that, for every man who dies in
actual battle, a dozen pass away ingloriously by disease.
The skeleton had not yet clutched any of our family but,
my! how many of our friends were already in mourning!
And the war seemed no nearer to its end than when it
began.
Six months before that, the town would have turned out
to see the brigade pass through. To-day, under the command
of the senior colonel, it marched through the city
quietly enough, and went into camp on the outskirts, without
attracting great attention.
When father's health was partially restored, he return to
our home near Norfolk to complete his recuperation. One day
we visited the Gosport Navy Yard, and saw them building a
great iron monster upon the origins framework of the
Merrimac. My father felt great pride and interest in this, for he
it was who, before he had departed for West Virginia, sent
General Lee a description and model of a marine catapult,
designed years before by Captain Williamson; and he always insisted that
this was the first suggestion for the construction of the
boat.
It was a very happy period, that time in the autumn of 1861,
when my father and brother were at home with us. I was no
longer anxious to see them in the field. I had heard too much of
the exposures and dangers and deprivations of camp life. But in
time the orders came. My father was assigned to the command of
Roanoke Island. The brigade came down from Richmond. It
was mightily spruced up and benefited by its sojourn in
Richmond, and its soldierly appearance made a good impression
as it passed through Norfolk.
At the head of his command in the 46th, my darling brother
Jennings marched. When he saw me, he came out and patted and
kissed me, and asked about everything at home. Before we
parted, be sure he pressed into my hand a crisp new
Confederate bill, for he and I were "partners."
The brigade was embarked on barges to pass down through
the Albemarle Canal to Roanoke Island, and the last I saw of them
was as they floated away, towed by the tugs, singing "The
Bonnie Blue Flag."
The thing which made me feel very proud was the news told me
by quite a number of the officers that in the reorganization
near at hand, my brother was to be the colonel of
the 46th. I asked him about it. He laughed and said it was all
nonsense, and refused to discuss the subject. But I knew it was
true, for everybody in the regiment turned towards him lovingly
as the "best and bravest and simplest and purest man among
them.
I was lonesome enough January 3, 1862, when father and
his staff rode off from Rolleston to join the brigade
at its new station. They journeyed by land along the coast to Nag's Head, on the outer
coast of North Carolina, whence they were to cross by ferry to Roanoke
Island.
I felt a deep foreboding that trouble was in store for us from this new venture.
THERE are certain names whose mere mention
produces feelings of horror, or pain, or sadness from
association. To me, that of Roanoke Island is one of these.
The island commanded the passage by water through
Hatteras Inlet and Pimlico Sound to Albemarle and
Currituck sounds. It was a most important strategic point, for
a force of Union troops passing it had at their mercy several
towns upon the North Carolina coast, could cut off the
supplies and railroad and canal communications of Norfolk,
and were in position to attack that city in rear.
About January 1,1862, my father was assigned to
the command and defense of Roanoke Island. Major-General
Huger was the commander of the department
embracing that position.
General Huger was one of those old West Point
incompetents with whom the Confederacy was burdened.
He was both by birth and personally a gentleman, and no
doubt a brave man; but the only reason on earth for his
being a major-general in command of an important
department was that he was a graduate of West Point.
The Confederacy felt this influence much more than the
United States. Mr. Davis, our President, was a West Point
graduate as was everybody else connected with our military
organization General Bragg, his favorite military
counselor, was the martinet of the old army; and Generals
Hardee and Cooper, the leading advisers at headquarters;
and Generals Lee and Johnston, the commanders in the
field, were all West Point graduates.
I am not belittling the great advantages secured to the
Confederacy by service of a number of very superior West
Point officers, who joined their fortunes with hers; but with
them came also a very inefficient and inferior lot, unfit for
the high commands to which they were assigned, - men
who stood in the way of better officers, and who were
appointed and retained merely through favoritism. To this
latter class belonged Major-General Benjamin Huger, the
officer in command of Norfolk.
The Secretary of War at the time was Judah P. Benjamin,
in many respects the most remarkable person in
the Confederate States. The Confederate leaders were as a
rule, men of deep feelings and convictions, or men of
intense or passionate natures. Not so with Benjamin: he
had more brains and less heart than any other civil leader
in the South. He was an English Jew, and a
lawyer of the first rank. He entered upon employment as
attorney for a client. For that client he worked with
surprising acumen, with great learning, with boundless
capacity for endurance, with unquestioned loyalty, and
absolute fidelity. If his client was in any case hanged, it was
only after Benjamin had done all in his power for him; but
after Benjamin had exhausted the resources of defense
and come to the end of the business for which he was retained,
he possessed the power of completely dismissing
his client's affairs from his mind. Likely as not, he would be
having a bottle of Madeira and a cigar at his club at the
moment the hanging was taking place. His nature was
such that he had no sentimental attachments, and seldom
troubled himself about the troubles of others. His
convictions were clear, vigorous, and strongly urged;
they were never passionate, or clouded by affection or
hate; he was never harassed by reminiscences. When a case
was lost, he did not bemoan it; he found another. He played
his part in the Confederacy as if he held a hand
in a game of whist; a skilled professional, he lost no
trick that could be saved, and did everything possible to win
for himself and his partner. When he lost, he indulged in no
repinings; he tore up the old pack, lighted a fresh cigar,
moved to another table, called for a fresh pack, took a new
partner, and played another game. His last game proved to
be much more successful than his Confederate venture, for
he moved to England, and became justly eminent at the
English bar. The Confederacy and its collapse were no more
to Judah P. Benjamin than a last year's bird's-nest.
When my father was assigned to the command of Roanoke
Island, it was well known at the war department that
General McClellan was fitting out an expedition to attack
and capture the position.
The disastrous termination of the operations of 1861 in
the mountains of West Virginia had not enhanced my
father's military reputation, or that of any other general
who was in the mountains. On the Union side, McClellan
had suffered, and even the prestige of Lee had been
damaged, in those impossible campaigns, so that he had
been assigned to the fortifications of Charleston followed by
the jeering taunts of John M. Daniel, the satirical editor of
the "Richmond Examiner."
But while my father lacked the advantages of a military
education he had a remarkably correct apprehension of
topography and was quick to see the strategic value of
positions. As soon as he visited Roanoke Island, he grasped
its importance, and saw that it was not only practically
defenseless, but unsupplied with any adequate is of
erecting fortifications. He hurried back to the
headquarters of General Huger at Norfolk, and doubtless
harassed that easy-going and high-living soldier with his
importunities. Failing to obtain any assistance from General
Huger, he repaired to Richmond, and endeavored to impress
upon the Secretary of War the necessity for prompt action.
Mr. Benjamin was an attorney, and not a soldier. He looked
for instruction to his client, who in this case was General
Huger. He doubtless thought that the West Pointer knew
much more of such matters than the civilian, and regarded it
as little less than insubordination for a brigadier-general to
seek the department direct. Then, too, Mr. Benjamin was
an easy-spoken, cool, suave Jew, quiet and diplomatic in
speech, never excited. It disturbed his nerves to have General
Wise in his department, - ardent, urgent, pressing, declaring
that past neglect had been criminal and present delay
was suicidal, and even guilty occasionally of some indignant
swearing at the galling indifference shown to the urgent peril
of the situation. The upshot of all this was a peremptory
order from the war department to General Wise to return
forthwith to Roanoke Island, and to do the best he could with
what he had in hand.
After the inevitable disaster, the Confederate Congress
declared that General Wise had done everything in his
power, and that the blame for defeat lay entirely at the door
of General Huger and the Secretary of War; but that never
repaired the wreck, or gave us back our dead. 1
1. The report of the investigating committee, Confederate House of
Representatives (Series I. vol. i. p. 190): -
"The correspondence on file of General Wise with the Secretary of War,
General Huger, his superior officer, the governor of North Carolina, and
others, proves that he was fully alive to the importance of Roanoke Island,
and has devoted his whole time and energies and uproar to the defense of
that position, and that he is in no way responsible for the unfortunate
disaster which befell our forces upon the island on February 7 and 8.
"But the committee cannot say the same in reference to the efforts of
the Secretary of War and the commanding officer at Norfolk, General
Huger. It is apparent that the island of Roanoke is important for the
defense of Norfolk, and that General Huger had under his command at
that point upward of 15,000 men, a large supply of armament and
ammunition, and could have thrown in a few hours a large reinforcement
upon Roanoke Island, and that himself and the Secretary of War had
timely notice of the entire inadequacy of the defenses, the want of men
and munitions of war, and the threatening attitude of the enemy, but
General Huger and the Secretary of War paid no practical attention to
these urgent appeals of General Wise, sent forward none of his important
requisitions and permitted General Wise and his inconsiderable force to
remain to meet at least 15,000 men, well armed and equipped. If the
Secretary of War and the commanding general at Norfolk had not the means
to reinforce General Wise, why was he not ordered to abandon his
position and save his command?
"But, on the contrary, he was required to remain and sacrifice his
command, with no means, in his insulated position, to make his escape in
case of defeat . . . .Whatever of blame and responsibility is justly
attributable to any one for the defeat should attach to Major-General
B. Huger and the late Secretary of War, J. P. Benjamin."
Our home was on the route between Norfolk and Roanoke
Island. My father's haggard, perplexed appearance, as he
passed back and forth on these fruitless trips, revealed only
too plainly his knowledge that he had been placed in a
death-trap. Indeed, we all knew, as well before as
afterwards, what would be the result.
It was on the 8th of February, 1862; a cold, blustering
northeast storm had prevailed for several days; the leaden
skies hung low; the rain, blown in sheets by the gusts, swept
against the windows; all farm work had been suspended;
the tides were driven in high upon the marshes; and the only
time I left the house during the day was in an oiled
sou'wester and gum boots, to look after the feeding of the
cattle and the sheep, huddled in their sheds of myrtleboughs,
and to see that the stock was cared for in the
evening. I was now the head of the plantation. A gloomy
dusk was closing in; the cold
winds swept so keenly that they fretted the shallow puddles
collected in the yard.
With emptied feed-basket on my arm, I was returning; to the
house, when I saw a horseman slowly approaching by the farm
road. He was so muffled as to be unrecognizable, and even
when he reached the yard gate, I did not recognize the jaded
beast that bore him as our pretty little sorrel filly. It was my
brother Richard, my father's aid-de-camp, who for forty-eight
hours had been riding alone along the cheerless beach of the
Atlantic to bring the announcement to General Huger that the
armada of Burnside, consisting of about sixty vessels, had
entered Hatteras Inlet, passed up Pimlico Sound, and was in
sight of Roanoke Island when he left with his dispatches.
These he had delivered to the general at Norfolk, who, as he
reported, seemed almost indifferent to the announcement.
Having performed his task, he had ridden back to our home,
seven miles upon the return journey, and now reached it,
himself and his steed half dead from exhaustion. There was little
to lighten the gloom in the poor fellow's appearance or
conversation, for he reported our father prostrated at Nag's
Head from exposure in the effort to prepare the island for the
approaching assault.
A roaring wood-fire and a hearty supper somewhat revived
his spirits, and for a time we almost forgot war troubles while
he gave marvelous accounts of the great flocks of sea-fowl
through which he had ridden in the storm. The strong winds
and high tides had forced him to ride, sometimes for miles, in
water up to the knees of his horse; and the storm was so fierce
that the geese and brant and ducks, driven in-shore, were
reluctant to fly, and oftentimes barely moved out of the way of
his horse.
and security from the storm outside gave us, and wondering
what had happened below, we little realized that upon the day
before, and on that very day, the battle of Roanoke Island had
been fought and lost, and that our gallant brother, wounded to
death, lay dying in the camp of his captors.
The battle of Roanoke Island, fought February 7 and 8, was
the first of a series of disasters which befell the Confederates
in the early part of 1862.
Roanoke Island is shaped something like an hourglass. Its
northernmost half is higher ground than its southernmost, and
the waters and wet marshes almost intersect it at its middle
part. The engineers who planned its defenses placed all its
fortifications upon the upper half, bearing upon the channel of
Croatan Sound to westward. Not a work was erected to prevent
a debarkation upon its lower portion. An attacking force
landing there was absolutely safe from the water batteries,
both while landing and afterwards. At the narrow neck of land
which connected the upper and lower half of the island was a
fortification, not one hundred feet in length and only four and
a half feet high, mounting three field-pieces. This captured,
every other artillery defense of the island was at the mercy of
the enemy, who by that manoeuvre were in their rear, - so
emphatically in their rear that the vessels attacking the water
batteries could not fire after the Union troops assaulted the
redoubt, for their shot would have fallen into the ranks of their
own troops.
The sea beach eastward of Roanoke Island, separated from it
by shallow water, is known as Nag's Head. My fathers
headquarters were established at a seaside hotel on the outer
beach. The announcement of the presence of Burnside's
expedition found him prostrated with pneumonia, and the
command of the troops devolved upon
Colonel Shaw, of North Carolina, although my father continued
to give general directions from his sick-bed.
The entire available force of Colonel Shaw consisted of two
regiments of North Carolina troops, numbering 1024 men, and a
detachment of my father's brigade, numbering 410 men, under
Lieutenant-Colonel Anderson, - total, 1434 men.
Upon the morning of February 7, the ships of General
Burnside attacked what was known as the Fork Point battery,
and a ridiculous little so-called fleet of Commander Lynch,
consisting of seven tugs and river steamers. It was dubbed a
"mosquito fleet," and such in truth it was. Although gallantly
manoeuvred, it was no more regarded by Commodore
Goldsbrough than if the vessels had been so many tin pans
armed with potato guns. Pork Point battery was bravely
defended all day, but its guns could only be brought to bear
upon objects within a limited segment.
The bombardment was kept up until night to cover the
landing of the troops at a point known as Ashby's, just below
the narrow part of the island. No serious damage was done to
the battery, and but few men were killed.
Late in the afternoon, three Federal brigades were debarked.
The first consisted of five full regiments under General Foster;
the second, of four regiments under General Reno; the third, of
four regiments under General Parke, - thirteen full regiments in
all, not to mention a detachment of New York Marine Artillery,
with six Dahlgren guns, and Company B. New York 99th
Regiment. The debarkation took place at Ashby's Landing.
Colonel Jordan, commanding the 31st North Carolina
Regiment, was sent to this point with his command under
orders to resist the landing, but he retired without firing a gun.
He had but 450 men, and the overwhelming number of the
enemy, and the vast fleet covering their landing and ready to
open on him as soon as his firing disclosed his position,
perhaps justified Colonel Jordan in returning. So the enemy, by
night-time, in astonishing force, was landed, and ready for next
day's operations.
In his report, General Burnside gives a graphic description of
the beautiful sight when one of his light-draught steamers ran
up, towing a hundred surf-boats loaded down with men, and,
"cutting loose" all at once, the boats were beached side by side
with such precision that four thousand men were landed in
twenty minutes; and this was but one of his three brigades.
Fancy the feelings of that little band of raw North Carolina
troops under Colonel Jordan when, from the adjacent woods,
they witnessed these landings, and not only knew they had
but one thousand comrades to assist them, but that, when the
fight was lost, as lost it must be, there was no hope of escape!
Verily, the first colonists were not more desperately situated.
No one can blame the poor fellows for quietly withdrawing up
the dark and narrow road to the earthworks at the causeway
connecting the two sections of the island, a mile and a half
distant. There they found the Virginians and the 8th North
Carolina Regiment, numbering less than one thousand men in
all. The earthwork facing south, and commanding the
causeway by which the Union forces must approach, was so
insignificant in size that even the small number of
Confederates available more than filled it, and a part of
Jordan's regiment was placed in reserve in the fight next day.
The engineers who had erected this little work had reported
that the marshes to the right and left were impassable. The
same rainy, gusty night already
described settled down on our wretched soldiers, while, less
than two miles away, between twelve and fifteen thousand of
the enemy were building camp-fires, cooking their ample
supplies of provisions, and preparing to advance upon the
earthwork in the morning.
Anxious to obtain information, Colonel Anderson ordered
Captain O. Jennings Wise, of Company A, 46th Virginia, with
twenty of his Virginians, to reconnoitre the position of the
enemy. In that wretched swamp, reconnoitring meant simply
going down a narrow road until they struck the enemy. The
road ran directly south, through the main embrasure of the
earthwork, over the sunken causeway. In front of the work, for
several hundred yards, the timber was cleared away. Beyond
the clearing, the road entered the woods, and, turning to the
right, ran down to Ashby's Landing where the enemy was
bivouacked.
The task assigned to the brave fellows was simple enough.
All they had to do was to walk right down through the silent
pines until they came to the enemy's picket guard; when that
happened, somebody was likely to be shot, and somebody
likely to run away.
It all sounds very simple, does it not, dear reader? I am
conjecturing, as I pen these lines, whether you ever had any
such experience. If not, and if you really are anxious for a
novel sensation, you can obtain it whenever you go on one of
these little reconnoissances.
Cheerfully, and as uncomplainingly as if the allotted task
was of their own choosing, the little party sallied forth. Across
the opening they trudged in the gray darkness, and plunged
into the silent woods beyond. In Indian file and in silence they
pursued their route. Tramp, tramp, tramp, - on, on, on, every
step bearing them, as all knew, nearer and nearer to the enemy
they
were seeking. Now and again they paused and listened for
some sound; then onward they pressed, the tension
constantly becoming greater. No picket fire warned them.
Of a sudden, "Who goes there?" came forth huskily out of
the darkness from a picket not twenty yards away. Quick as a
flash, they made a dash for him; but he fired and fled, followed
by two or three companions, who, like him, fired backwards as
they ran, and our boys gave them a volley, knocking one of
them over. Pursuit was too dangerous, for the sounds of the
firing had aroused the camp, and loud calls and hurrying
voices, not far distant, made it too plain that discretion was the
better part of valor. So, picking up the cap and gun of the man
who had been shot, the scouts started on a double-quick back
to the redoubt. What was learned was only that the enemy had
gone into camp near the spot where he landed. Prepared for
sleep by this little march and its excitements, my brother and his
men lay down on the wet ground behind the breastworks, and
slept, some of them, their last earthly sleep.
A heavy fog hung over Roanoke Island the morning of
February 8, so dense that the fleet opposite the Pork Point
battery was unable to open fire, except in a desultory way. It
was eight o'clock before the mists lifted sufficiently for the
attack, and then the gunboats fired cautiously lest their shells
should fall among their friends who were advancing towards
our works.
General Foster's brigade, accompanied by the six Dahlgren
guns, moved, about eight o'clock, up the narrow roadway
leading from Hammond's or Ashby's landings to the redoubt.
Their advance was completely concealed from the
Confederates, until a sudden turn to the left in the road
brought them to the clearing in front of our
earthworks. Then the Dahlgren guns, under Midshipman
Porter, went into position and opened fire,
supported by the 25th Massachusetts and 10th
Connecticut regiments.
The disposition of the Confederate forces was as follows:
three field-pieces, a 24-pounder, an 18-pounder
and a 6-pounder, were mounted on the intrenchments.
For all three, they had nothing but 6-pounder ammunition.
The 6-pounder was at the centre of the embrasure;
commanded by young William B. Selden, lieutenant of
engineers. The infantry supporting this artillery behind
the breastworks consisted of two companies of the 8th
North Carolina, two companies of the 31st North Carolina,
and two companies of the 46th and 59th Virginia
regiments, in all about five hundred men. The Rangers of
the 59th Virginia under Captain Coles were deployed as
skirmishers to the right of the earthwork; and the Blues
of the 46th Virginia under Captain Wise were deployed
as skirmishers to the left, in order to guard against any
attempted flank movement. Every engineer and every
scouting party who had examined the ground had
pronounced the deep and heavily wooded marshes to the
right and left of the Confederate position to be
impassable.
General Foster, as soon as he engaged the fort with
his artillery and leading regiments, ordered the 23d and
27th Massachusetts regiments of his brigade to pass into
the swamp on the right, with directions to spare no effort
to penetrate it, and, if possible, turn the Confederate left
flank. Moving rapidly along the edge of the clearing,
these two regiments with great pluck entered the bog
and undergrowth, and, toiling knee-deep in the muddy
ooze, soon hotly engaged the Blues in the effort to turn
our left flank. The fighting in front was stubborn, so stubborn,
indeed, that in three hours the 25th Massachusetts
exhausted its ammunition and was relieved by the 10th
Connecticut; and the artillery, having used all but a few
rounds of its ammunition, was ordered to suspend its fire.
Meanwhile, Reno's brigade, coming up, moved to the left
and penetrated the dense woods in the attempt to turn
our right flank. The assault of Reno's brigade was met
by the Ben McCulloch Rangers, alone. Poor Coles, their
commander, was killed. The onslaught of Reno was
irresistible, and, as soon as his men could extricate
themselves from the morass and gain the higher ground
where the Rangers were posted, they drove the latter
before them like chaff before the wind.
Then came tremendous cheering from Reno's men,
announcing their success in turning the right flank of the
fort. This so inspired the brigade of General Parke,
which had now come up and was deploying to the right
to aid the attack of Foster's flanking column, that the last
regiment of Parke (9th New York), while in the act of
passing the causeway, hearing the sound of Reno's
cheering and seeing a slackening of the fire from the
Confederate earthworks, changed direction and charged
the works in brilliant style. Whoever else may have been
appalled, young Selden still worked his gun, which bore
directly upon the advancing regiment. A discharge
passed over their heads. Deliberately lowering his piece
and reloading, he seized the lanyard in his own hand and
attempted to fire. The primer failed. Coolly securing and
adjusting a new primer, he once more sighted and
screwed down his gun so that it would rake mercilessly
through the ranks now close upon him. He straightened
himself from sighting, stepped back, and was
actually making the motion to jerk the lanyard, when a
bullet from the rifle of a Union soldier not thirty yards
away pierced his brain, and he fell forward across his gun.
On the left, the Massachusetts men, inspired by the shouts
from Reno's and Parke's commands, moved up and drove back
the Blues. Captain Wise, scorning the protection of the trees
behind which, by his command, his men were concealed,
passed back and forth along his attenuated line, counseling
the men to keep cool and fire close. In such a position, under
the fire of two regiments concentrated upon a single company,
his conduct was almost suicidal. It was not long before his
sword arm fell helpless by his side, fractured near the wrist by
a minie-ball. Untying a handkerchief about his neck, he
bandaged the wounded limb, laughingly remarking that he was
fortunate it was no worse; but he had scarcely resumed
command of his men, when he fell mortally wounded.
His soldiers were passionately attached to him, and,
although the fire was by this time becoming murderous, two of
the Blues spread a blanket, lifted him gently upon it, and,
bearing him between them, trotted off sullenly to the rear as
the Union troops were climbing over the Confederate redoubt
to their right.
All was over as far as the defense of Roanoke Island was
concerned. Two small reinforcements landed on the north end
of the island that morning, one under Colonel Green, another
under Major Fry, but neither were in time to participate in the
fight.
Our little band had done its best; two hundred and fifty-one
killed and wounded in the Union rattles (more than half as
many as our whole force engaged) testified to the honest
fighting of our men.
The capture of the redoubt placed the Union forces directly
in rear of the Confederate shore batteries; and,
as no other positions on the island were defensible, Colonel
Shaw surrendered his entire force.
My poor brother was borne by his men along an
unfrequented path to the eastern side of the island. There
they found a small boat, and, obedient to his earnest desire,
were conveying him to my father's headquarters at Nag's
Head, where he would have died. Unfortunately, a party of the
9th New York under Colonel Rush Hawkins pursued the same
path as themselves, and, seeing the boat, opened fire upon it
and ordered it to return. One of these shots gave my brother a
third wound. A letter written thirty-two years afterwards by
Colonel Hawkins, who in these days of restored amity I am
proud to number among my friends, tells the sad, sad story of
the death of that sweetest brother boy ever had.
A few days later, a flag-of-truce boat brought up the bodies
of our dead. When, in the Capitol of Virginia at Richmond, I
gazed for the last time in the cold, calm face; when I saw the
black pageant which testified to the general mourning as they
bore him to his last resting-place in beautiful Hollywood, - I
began to realize as never before that war is not all brilliant
deeds and glory, but a gaunt, heartless wolf that comes boldly
into the most sacred precincts, and snatches even the sucking
babe from the mother's breast; that the most cherished
treasure is its favorite object of destruction; that it ever plants
its fangs in the bravest and tenderest hearts; and that that
which we prize the most is surest to be seized by its insatiate
rapacity.
But, reader, the death of a dear one in war does not bring
with it the chastened sorrow of a peaceful death. It inflames
and infuriates the passion for blood; it intensifies the thirst
for another opportunity to see it flow.
The feeling which possessed me then, I well remember.
It was, "How long, oh, how long, will it be, before I can bury
these hands in the heart of some of those who wrought this
deed!"
In less than a month, the Confederate war-dogs tore, before
my very eyes, their bleeding victims in a way that seemed an
answer to my prayer for vengeance.
THE building of the iron-clad afterwards famous all over the
world as the Virginia, or the Merrimac, was a subject of daily
conversation in our household from the time the Gosport
Navy Yard was burned and abandoned by the Union troops
in April, 1861.
My father, during his service in Congress, was for some
years upon the Committee on Naval Affairs; his acquaintance
with naval officers resulting from that fact, and from his long
residence at Rio de Janeiro, was unusually widespread.
Commodore James Barron was one of his constituents and
warm friends. Commodore Barron was the gallant but
unfortunate officer who killed Decatur in a duel, and was
himself severely wounded. Besides other contributions of
value to the navy, he conceived the idea of an impregnable
steam propeller, armed with a pyramidal beak, and a terrapin-shaped
back at an acute angle to the line of projectiles fired
from its own level. He called it a marine catapulta, and had
complete models, plans, and descriptions, which he exhibited
to the naval committee, in the effort to have a ship
constructed on these lines. He made little impression,
however; for in those days steam navigation had attained no
very great success, - much less the utilization of iron upon
ships. He subsequently presented the model to my father,
who had also a large number of models of other vessels.
In our rummaging about the place, we boys found these
models in some old boxes, and took them down to our
millpond, where we anchored them as part of our miniature
fleet. The Barron model, and one constructed by Lieutenant
Williamson of the navy, were the most conspicuous, making
quite a proud addition to our naval display. This was in 1860.
We also possessed a brass cannon about eighteen inches
long, which had been cast for us by a convict in the Virginia
Penitentiary. That cannon was stamped with the words
"Union and Constitution," but its use by its possessors was
most lawless. Modeling slugs for it by pouring melted lead
into holes made by sticking our rammer in the sand, we were
constantly firing these slugs, to the great peril of everybody
in the vicinity.
One of our neighbors, a Captain Johnson, an old sea man,
living about a mile down the creek, had a flock of geese; and
from one of his voyages in Indian seas he had brought back
six coolie boys, who were probably apprenticed to him. These
coolies were passionately fond of the water, and were almost
constantly in sight, bathing, or rowing, or sailing a felucca-rigged
boat. After trying the range of our gun upon Captain
Johnson's geese, we began to practice upon the coolies. On a
certain evening, Captain Johnson appeared in full marine rig at
our landing, rowed by his six coolies, and, announcing to our
father the sport in which we had been engaged, gave notice
that he had a gun of his own, with which, if we did not
promptly cease our diversion, he would open a return fire.
My father, who was a friend of Captain Johnson, and
indignant at our reckless misconduct, gave us all a bad half
hour in consequence of this visit. We were summoned before
him, and, after considerable discussion concerning the
punishment we should receive, were marched in a body to the
landing and made to apologize to the
coolies, who grinned and showed their teeth. After that we
were good friends of the coolies, and our future operations with the
gun were confined to the millpond on the opposite side of the
farm. In our new field, it promptly occurred to us, as it would
to most boys, that the best targets for our cannon were the
models of the iron-clads anchored out in the pond.
Unfortunately, they had no iron upon them; and, such was the
precision we had acquired in our practice upon Johnson's
geese and coolies, that in a few days the models of
Commodore Barron and Lieutenant Williamson were riddled,
and ignominiously disappeared. They were resting in the mud
at the bottom of our millpond when the war broke out.
The following spring, after visiting the navy yard and
seeing the partially burned Merrimac, my father became
enthusiastic upon the subject of raising her and building
upon her frame an iron-clad ship on the lines of Commodore
Barron's model. Imbued with this idea, he instituted rigorous
inquiries for the model; but, for reasons which may well be
understood, none of us boys aided him much in the search.
Failing to find his model, he wrote to General Lee, who was
then commander-in-chief of the Virginia forces, an elaborate
description of Commodore Barron's invention, and made
rough drawings, urging the use of the Merrimac for carrying
out the design. He always believed and declared that this was
the first suggestion which led to the building of the Virginia.
We all knew that an iron-clad ship was being built, and from
time to time informed ourselves of the progress made; and
great things were expected from her. So deep was my father's
interest in her, that he several times visited the navy yard to
inspect her. He repeatedly expressed the opinion that she
was being built to draw too much water, and that her beak or
ramming prow was improperly
constructed in this, that it was horizontal at the top
and sloped upward from the bottom, whereas it should
have been horizontal on the bottom and made to slope
downward to a point. When the ship was launched he was
indignant because the lower edge or eaves of her armor-clad
covering stood several feet out of the water, and it was
necessary to ballast her heavily to bring her sheathing below
the water line. This increased her draught to eighteen feet,
which was, as he declared, entirely unnecessary. He insisted
that this condition was due to the failure of the naval
architects (in calculating the water which she would draw
when sheathed with iron) to deduct from the weight of her
sheathing the weight of masts, spars, rigging, and sails, which
were dispensed with.
Admiral Buchanan, Commodore Forrest, Captain Brooke,
and all the prominent naval men connected with the Norfolk
Navy Yard were personal and warm friends of my father. He
did not hesitate to express his views concerning these things,
but they, as professional men generally do, made light of the
criticisms of a layman. Nevertheless, I think that many naval
authorities are now disposed to admit that the chief reason
why the Virginia did not triumph completely over the Monitor
was her great draught of water, the loss of her prow, and the
twisting of her stem in ramming the Cumberland.
After the disaster of Roanoke Island, my father returned to
his home on sick leave, where for some time his life was in
danger from pneumonia, aggravated by exposure on the
retreat from Roanoke Island. Our house was visited almost
daily during this period by distinguished military and naval
officers from the city, who came to express their interest and
sympathy.
It was before the day of steam launches, and the appearance
of the distinguished officers and of the naval boats
which came up, manned by a dozen oarsmen, whose stroke
fell as that of one man, was very striking. During these visits,
they diverted my father with full descriptions of the progress
made in arming and equipping the Virginia, and we were
advised that the time of her completion, and the attack upon
the vessels in Hampton Roads, was rapidly approaching.
There was dear old Commodore Forrest, tall, dignified, and
with a face as sweet as that of a woman, surmounted by a
great shock of white hair like the mane of some royal beast;
and Captain Buchanan, far less striking in appearance, quiet,
kindly, and as unpretentious as a country farmer, but with an
eye which age had not dimmed, and which even then was
filled with the light of battle. They were both old men.
Commodore Forrest was sixty-five and Captain Buchanan
sixty-two. There was also Captain Brooke, taciturn and
dreamy; and Lieutenant Catesby Jones, a quiet man of forty;
and Lieutenant Minor, young, quick, and fidgety as a wren;
and all the rest of them, mingling with us simply and
unostentatiously, as if unconscious that the issues of one of
the greatest struggles the world ever witnessed were
committed to their keeping, and that they were to emerge from
it with names which will be remembered as long as the records
of naval warfare are preserved.
Almost daily we boys went to Norfolk for the mail, or on
some domestic mission. We preferred our boat, and seldom
failed, before we left Norfolk harbor, to stand over toward the
Gosport Navy Yard and sail around and take a look at the
Merrimac. Such we called her; for we had never become
accustomed to the new name, Virginia. My father was now
convalescent, and secured the
promise that he would be advised when the ship was
ready to sail for the attack. On March 7, he received a note
from Commodore Forrest, or one of those who knew, advising
him that the attack would be made upon the following day. He
consented that my brother Richard and myself should
accompany him, and the next morning the horses, which now
had been well fed and rested for a month at home, were
saddled and ready for us at the door.
When we reached the city, the Merrimac, accompanied by
two little gunboats, the Beaufort and the Raleigh, had already
passed out, and all three were below Fort Norfolk. The
waterway is more circuitous than that by land, and we were
sure we should reach Sewell's Point, the most favorable
position for observing the conflict, before the slow-moving
vessels; in this we were correct. After a sharp gallop of eight
miles, we rode out upon the sandy hills facing Hampton Roads
at Sewell's Point.
The scene was truly inspiring. Hampton Roads is as
beautiful a sheet of water as any on the face of the globe. It is
formed by the confluence of the James, the Nansemond and
the Elizabeth rivers. The James enters it from the west, the
Nansemond from the south, and the Elizabeth from the east.
The tides in the Roads run north and south, and pass to and
from the Chesapeake Bay through a narrow entrance at the
north, between Old Point Comfort and Willoughby's Spit.
Midway between these is the fort then known as Rip-Raps,
the proper name of which was Fort Calhoun, now changed to
Fort Wool. On the eastern side of the Roads the Confederates
had fortified two points, - Sewell's Point, where we were, and
Lambert's Point, at the mouth of the Elizabeth. On the
southern side, between the mouths of the Elizabeth and
Nansemond rivers, were the Confederate fortifications on
Craney Island. On the western side, at
the entrance to the Roads, is Fortress Monroe. From there the
land runs westwardly to Hampton, thence southwardly to
Newport News, which marks the entrance of the James River.
The Roads are about four miles in width and seven in length.
From where we stood, looking north, Fortress Monroe and the
Rip-Raps were perhaps, four miles away; looking westward
across the Roads, Newport News was five miles away; and,
looking south, Lambert's Point and Craney Island were plainly
visible three miles off.
Upon the battlements of Fortress Monroe and the Rip Rap's
great numbers of Union troops could be seen through field-glasses,
and we could also make out the camps and
fortifications of the enemy at Newport News, and between that
point and Hampton, while our own people lined the shores and
crowded the ramparts at Craney Island and Lambert's Point.
Anchored in the Roads were a great number of vessels of
every description, steam and sail, from the smallest tugs and
sloops to the largest transports and warships. Rumors of the
attack had brought down to Sewell's Point a number of
civilians, and the whole appearance of the scene was
suggestive of the greatest performance ever given in the
largest theatre ever seen. The Merrimac and her attendants
had passed Craney Island, and were coming down the channel
east of Craney Island light
when we arrived. As she passed our fortifications, she was
saluted and cheered, and returned the salutes. From the way
in which she was shaping her course when first seen, it looked
to the uninitiated as if she proposed to sail directly upon
the Rip-Raps. Such hurrying
and scurrying was seen among the non-combatant craft in
the Roads as was never witnessed before. From great three-masters
and double-deck steamers to
little tugs and sailboats, all weighed or slipped anchor and
made sail or steam for Fortress Monroe, except three dauntless
war vessels, - two steamers, the Minnesota and the Roanoke,
and one sailing vessel, the St. Lawrence, - whose
duty called them in the opposite direction. A long tongue
of shoal, running out from Craney Island, compelled the Merrimac
to go below Sewell's Point before she struck the main channel;
then she swung into it and pointed westward, showing her
destination, for she headed straight for Newport News, where the
masts and spars of the Congress and the Cumberland were plainly
visible.
It was now past midday. The Merrimac on her new course
was nearly stern to us, and grew smaller and smaller as she
followed the south channel to Newport News. The three
United States vessels - Minnesota, Roanoke, and St.
Lawrence - started after her by what is known as the north
channel. It was a bitter disappointment to us that the battle
was to be waged so far away, but the ships and their
movements were still in view. The sun was shining, and a fresh
March breeze would, we thought, blow away the smoke. It
seemed an eternity before the first gun was fired. The
Merrimac, Cumberland, and Congress were nearly ranged in
our line of vision. The Merrimac appeared to us as if she was
almost in contact with the nearest of the two vessels. Captain
Buchanan states in his report that he was within less than a
mile of the Cumberland when he commenced the engagement
by a shot at her from his bow gun. We saw a great puff of
smoke roll up and float off from the Merrimac; a moment later,
the flashes of broadsides and tremendous rolls of smoke from
the Congress, the Cumberland, the batteries on shore, and the
Union gunboats; and then came the thunderous sounds, following
each other in the same order in which we had seen the
smoke. The engagement had begun.
It was a time of supreme excitement and supreme suspense;
for the details, we who had no glasses were dependent upon
those who had. "She has passed the congress!" exclaimed an
officer, who was straining forward, trying to descry the
positions of the ships through the smoke, which now
enveloped the point of Newport News and the water beyond.
Bang - crash - roar - went the guns, single shots and
broadsides, making all the noise that any boy could wish.
"She is heading direct for the Cumberland!" shouted another
between the thunders of the broadsides. "She has rammed the
Cumberland!" was announced fifteen minutes after the first
gun was heard, and our people gave three cheers. Our teeth
chattering with excitement, we awaited the next
announcement; it soon came: "The Cumberland is sinking!"
and again we cheered. Then came an ominous lull, the
meaning of which we did not know. Those watching through
the glasses notified us that three steamers were in sight,
standing down James River, and we knew it was Commander
Tucker with the Patrick Henry, Jamestown, and Teazer. Think
of it! The Jamestown, which, but four years ago, had brought
the remains of President Monroe to Richmond, with the New
York Seventh Regiment, on that visit of fraternity and good-will.
Here she was, armed as a war-vessel, fighting, those very men!
Once more the cannon belched and thundered. This time
what we saw and heard was alarming: "The Merrimac is
running up the river, away from the Congress and other
vessels; she is fighting the shore batteries as she goes." It
looked indeed as if she was disabled in some way; again a lull
and anxious waiting. "The Merrimac
is turning around and coming back!" Again the roar of a hot
engagement with the forts; another lull and another heavy
roll. "She is back pounding the Congress and raking her fore
and aft. The Congress is aground." Again our people went
wild with enthusiasm. Poor fellows on the Congress! When
the Merrimac withdrew and passed upstream, it was only to
gain deep water in order to wind her, for where she had
rammed the Cumberland, her keel was in the mud and she
could not be put about. The fearless sailors on the Congress,
deluded by the appearance of retreat, believed that she had
hauled off, and, leaving their guns, gave three cheers. Having
brought his ship around into position to attack the Congress,
Captain Buchanan now came back at her, and, as he
approached, blew up a transport alongside the wharf, sunk
one schooner, captured another, and proceeded to rake the
Congress where she had run ashore in shoal water.
Describing this stage of the fight, Captain Buchanan says
in his report: "The carnage, havoc, and dismay caused by our
fire compelled them to haul down their colors and to hoist a
white flag at their gaff and half mast, and another at the main.
The crew instantly took to their boats and landed. Our fire
immediately ceased, and a signal was made for the Beaufort to
come within hail. He then ordered Lieutenant Commander
Parker to take possession of the Congress, secure the officers
as prisoners allow the crew to land, and burn the ship. This
Captain Parker did, receiving her flag and surrender from
Commander Smith and Lieutenant Pendergrast, with the
sidearms of those officers. They delivered themselves as
prisoners of war on board the Beaufort, and afterwards being
permitted, at their own request, to return to the ship to assist
in removing the wounded,
never returned. The Beaufort and Raleigh, while alongside the
Congress after her surrender, and while she had two white
flags flying, were subjected to a heavy fire from the shore and
from the Congress, and withdrew without setting her afire,
after losing several valuable officers and men.
Then Lieutenant Minor was sent to burn the ship, when he
was fired upon and severely wounded. His boat was recalled,
and Captain Buchanan ordered the Congress to be destroyed
by hot shot and incendiary shell.
By this time the ships from Old Point opened fire upon the
Merrimac. The Minnesota grounded in the North channel; the
shoalness of the water prevented the near approach of the
Merrimac. The Roanoke and St. Lawrence, warned by the fate
of the Cumberland and Congress, retired under the guns of
Fortress Monroe. The Merrimac pounded away at the
grounded Minnesota until the pilots warned her commander
that it was no longer safe to remain in that position; then,
returning by the south channel, she had an opportunity to
open again upon the Minnesota, although the shallow water
was between the two; and afterwards upon the St. Lawrence,
which responded with several broadsides. It was too
tantalizing to see these vessels, which in deep water would
have been completely at her mercy, protected from her
assaults by the shoals. By this time it was dark, and the
Merrimac anchored off Sewell's Point. The western sky was
illuminated with the burning Congress, her loaded guns were
successively discharged as the flames reached them,
until, a few minutes past midnight, her magazine exploded
with a tremendous report.
Thus ended the first day's doings of the Merrimac. Soon
after she anchored, some of her officers came ashore, and we,
who had been waiting all day, and who had now
decided to remain all night in order to see the next day's
operations, were gratified with a full and graphic description
of the fighting. Captain Buchanan, Lieutenant Minor, and the
other wounded were sent to Norfolk. Having been tendered
the hospitality of Sewell's Point by some of the officers, our
party remained, and were lulled to sleep by the firing of the
guns of the burning Congress, and rudely aroused about
midnight by the tremendous explosion of her magazine.
Up betimes in the morning, we saw the Minnesota still
ashore. She was nearly in line with us, and about a mile nearer
to us than Newport News. A tug was beside her, and a very
odd-looking iron battery. We expected great things from this
day's operations. About eight o'clock, the Merrimac ran down
to engage them, firing at the Minnesota, and occasionally at
the iron battery. She was now under command of Lieutenant
Jones. We confidently expected her to be able to get very
near to the Minnesota, but in this the pilots were mistaken.
When about a mile from the frigate, she ran ashore, and was
some time backing before she got afloat. Her great length and
draught rendered it difficult to work her. Notwithstanding
these delays, she succeeded in damaging the Minnesota
seriously, and in blowing up the tug-boat Dragon lying
alongside her.
While this was going on, the iron battery, which looked
like a cheese-box floating on a shingle, moved out from
behind the frigate and advanced to meet the Merrimac. The
disparity in size between the two was remarkable we could
not doubt that the Merrimac would, either by shot or by
ramming, make short work of the cheese-box but as time wore
on, we began to realize that the newcomer was a tough
customer. Her turret resisted the shells of the Merrimac, and
not only was she speedier
but her draught was so much less than that of her antagonist that she
could run off into shallow water and
prevent the Merrimac from ramming her. There was no lack
of pluck shown by either vessel. The little Monitor came right
up and laid herself alongside as if she had been a giant. She
was quicker in every way than her antagonist, and presented
the appearance of a saucy kingbird pecking at a very large
and very black crow.
The first shot fired by the Merrimac missed the Monitor,
which was a novel experience for the gunners who had been
riddling the hulls of frigates. Then, again, when the eleven-inch
solid shot struck the casemates, knocking the men of
the Merrimac down and leaving them dazed and bleeding at
the nose from the tremendous impact, they realized that the
cheese-box was loaded as none of the other vessels had
been. Neither vessel could penetrate the armor of the other,
both tried ramming unsuccessfully: the Monitor had not mass
sufficient to injure the Merrimac; the Merrimac only gave the
Monitor a glancing ram, weakened by the Monitor's superior
speed; and then the Monitor ran off into shallow water, safe
from pursuit.
Twice we thought the Merrimac had won the fight. On the
first occasion, the Monitor went out of action, it seems, to
replenish the ammunition in the turret, it being impossible to
use the scuttle by which ammunition was passed unless the
turret was stationary and in a certain position. The second
occasion was about eleven o'clock,
when a shell from the Merrimac struck the Monitor's pilot-house,
and seemed to have penetrated the ship. She drifted
off aimlessly towards shoal water; her guns were silent, and
the people on board the Minnesota gave up hope and
prepared to burn her. This was when Lieutenant Worden,
commander of the Monitor, was
blinded and the steersman stunned. Their position was so
isolated that no one knew their condition for 80 minutes;
then Lieutenant Greene discovered it, took command, and
brought the vessel back into action.
Shortly afterwards, Lieutenant Jones withdrew to Merrimac.
In his report of the action, he said: "The pilots declaring that
we could get no nearer the Minnesota, and believing her to be
entirely disabled, and the Monitor having run into shoal
water, which prevents our doing her any further injury, we
ceased firing a twelve o'clock and proceeded to Norfolk. The
stem is twisted and the ship leaks; we have lost the prow,
starboard anchor, and all the boats. The armor is somewhat
damaged, the steam-pipe and smoke-stack both riddled the
muzzles of two of the guns shot away."
When from the shore we saw the Merrimac haul off and
head for Norfolk, we could not credit the evidence of our
own senses. "Ah!" we thought, "dear old Buchanan would
never have done it." Lieutenant Jones was afterwards fully
justified by his superiors, but it did seem to us that he ought
to have stayed there until he drove the Monitor away. Beside
the reasons assigned above, Lieutenant Jones declared that
it was necesary to leave when he did, in order to cross the
Elizabeth River bar. The inconclusive result of that fight has
left to endless discussion among naval men the question,
"Which was the better ship of the two?" It is not within the
scope of this volume to investigate that problem. It is certain
that, up to the time the Monitor appeared, the Merrimac
seemed irresistible, and that but for the presence
of the Monitor, she would have made short work of
the Minnesota. It is equally certain that the Monitor
performed her task of defense. It is said she was anxious to
renew the fight; but two weeks later, the
Merrimac went down into deep water, where the Monitor
was lying under the guns of Fortress Monroe, and tried to
coax her out, but she would not come, and even permitted the
Jamestown and Beaufort to sail up to Hampton and capture
two schooners laden with hay. The truth is that, if the
Merrimac could have induced the Monitor to meet her in deep
water, she would easily have rammed and sunk her.
On our ride back to the city, my father, while greatly elated
at what had been done, continued to deplore the errors of
construction in the Merrimac, which the two days' fighting
had made all the more manifest; but we boys thought she had
earned glory enough, and joined the others in the general
jubilation.
Everybody in Norfolk knew the officers and men on board
our ships; many of them were natives of the town. When they
were granted shore leave, they were given a triumphal
reception. Some time since, I read an account of the Dutch
admiral, De Ruyter, who, the day after his four days' battle
with the English fleet, was seen in his yard in his shirt-sleeves,
with a basket on his arm, feeding his hens and sweeping out
his cabin. It reminded me of the simple lives and
unpretentious behavior of those splendid fellows who
handled the Merrimac. Yesterday, they revolutionized the
naval warfare of the world; to-day, they were walking about
the streets of Norfolk, or sitting at their firesides, as if
unaware that fame was trumpeting their names to the ends of
the earth.
NOTWITHSTANDING our elation over the performance
of the Merrimac, which every one in the Confederacy
regarded as brilliant victories, the fact that Norfolk was in
imminent peril became more and more apparent.
The lodgment gained by the Union forces at Roanoke and
their possession of the sounds and rivers on the North
Carolina coast, had given them control of the canals
tributary to the city, and their presence was a constant
menace to the railroads, which were now the chief remaining
means of supplies. Union troops could at any time be
transported up the North Carolina rivers to within a few
miles of the Seaboard and Petersburg lines.
If our army should at any time retreat from the lower
peninsula between the York and the James, the Petersburg
line would be further imperiled; for in that event, it would be
easy to throw a force of Union troops across the James to
cut the railroad. The fifteen thousand Confederate troops in
and about Norfolk would then be in a
position of extreme danger.
These things were, of course, much more apparent to
those in command than to us boys; but throughout March
and April we saw and heard enough to make us realize that
there was a grave prospect that Norfolk might at any time be
evacuated, and our home left within the Union lines.
approaching evacuation of Norfolk that he suspended farming
operations, directed the sale of surplus stock to the
Confederate commissary, ordered that all the hogs should be
killed and cured, and that all the corn upon the place should
be ground and sold. Out of abundant precaution, the family
was removed in the latter part of April to the vicinity of
Richmond, and thither also were sent a number of the young,
able-bodied slaves.
Meanwhile, his military duties called him to Richmond,
where he was placed in command of the inner line of
defenses at Chaffin's farm, on the James River.
Our home was thus left in the temporary custody of the
miller, a white man, and a few of the old trusted slaves, my
father having arranged with a friend in Norfolk, a man past
the age of military service, that, in the event of the
evacuation of the city, he would move out and take
possession of Rolleston, occupy it, and as far as possible act
as protector.
About May 1, satisfied that the crisis was near at hand, my
father gave my brother Richard a leave of absence, and he
and I, with an orderly, were sent to Rolleston to do what we
could towards disposing of the remaining stock, and
shipping our movables to a place of safety.
The plans of the military authorities were of course
guarded with as much secrecy as possible, but upon our
journey to Norfolk, the crowded condition of the railroads
and the immense shipments of government stores and
munitions not only confirmed us in the opinion that this was
preparatory to evacuation, but satisfied us it was almost
idle to hope to secure transportation for our private
effects.
Still, we hustled around in a very lively way. We sold
some horses and cattle to the government, and, with a
little more time, would have succeeded fairly well in stripping
the old place "down to bare poles," as the sailors say. It
was a sad and lonely mission. The farm was just beginning to
assume an orderly and well-kept appearance. Two years of
hard work, and the expenditure of a large amount of money in
new buildings and fences and in painting, had brought it out
wonderfully. New roads had been built, trees had been
planted, and ragged spots had been cleaned up, until
Rolleston, while nothing grand or fine, was a sweet, home-like
old farm, endeared to us especially by the memory of the
delightful days of boyhood which we had spent there. Now
everything about it was gloomy and sad enough. Not a human
being was in the house with us, except Skaggs, the white
orderly, who was sent to assist us, and old Aunt Mary Anne,
the cook, and Jim, the butler. Jim my father regarded as his
man Friday. Jim was to accompany us on our return to
Richmond. Nobody doubted that one so faithful and so long
trusted would prove true in this emergency.
We wandered back and forth through the old house,
looking over the deserted rooms to see what particular articles,
most prized, we might wrap in small packages for removal, in
case we could not arrange for the transportation of everything.
It was a difficult problem to solve. The house was filled with
souvenirs from all parts of Europe and North and South
America. That was before the days of bricabrac, but our house
abounded with the things now so called. Our drawing-room
contained several pictures of great value, and many valuable
historical relics. Among the pictures were the original of Herring's
Village Blacksmith; a beautiful Bacchante, painted in
1829 by Pauline Laurent, presented to my father by Baron
Lomonizoff; and a set of exquisite Teniers (paintings of Dutch
drinking-scenes), beside sundry works of less note but great
value. The cabinets were literally
loaded with pretty souvenirs of foreign travel, and articles of
historic interest.
We determined that these things should be first packed and
shipped, and had succeeded, on our visit to the city the day
before, in securing a promise from a friend in the
transportation department that, if we had them in Norfolk the
next day, he would send them through for us, even if they
went along with government goods. Accordingly, we had
ordered up the lumber for boxing them, and with Skaggs and
Jim were just preparing to pack, when, looking out of the
window, we saw, rapidly approaching in a buggy, the friend
whom our father had engaged to occupy the farm in case
Norfolk was evacuated. As he drove up to the yard gate,
opened it hastily, and hurried to the front steps, he exclaimed
excitedly, even before alighting, "The Yankees are coming! The
Yankees are coming! You had better get out of here quickly, if
you don't want them to catch you!" Then, in calmer tones, he
told us that the city was being evacuated; that the garrison
from Sewell's Point and Lambert's Point had been withdrawn
during the night, and, together with the troops in the
intrenched camps between us and Norfolk, had all been
marched into the city, and transported quietly under cover of
darkness to the south side of the Elizabeth River; that the work
of destroying the Gosport Navy Yard at Portsmouth had
begun; that the Merrimac had sailed out of the harbor to go up
James River; that the enemy at Fortress Monroe were landing
troops at Sewell's Point and Willoughby's Spit; that they were
rapidly approaching, if they had not already reached, the city;
and that there was not a Confederate soldier between us and
them.
It took us about two minutes to decide upon our course of
action. By taking the Princess Anne County road via Great
Bridge, we could pass around the head of the
eastern branch of the Elizabeth River, and, going thence
westwardly to Suffolk, get once more within the Confederate
lines. We bore in mind that the Union troops in North Carolina
were probably acting in concert with those at Fortress
Monroe, and, marching up from the South, might intercept us.
Skaggs hurried to the stable, harnessed four mules to a farm
wagon, and went straight to the smoke house. We harnessed
a pair of carriage horses to our best carriage, and proceeded to
the house. The faithful Jim was on hand to aid in loading the
carriage with such silverware and valuables as it-would hold,
and such of the farm hands as were left aided Skaggs in
loading the wagon with meat.
Just before we were ready to start, Jim disappeared. In vain
we called and searched for him. We never saw him again. The
prospect of freedom overcame a lifetime of love and loyalty.
There never was an hour of his life at which he could not have
had his freedom for the asking. He had several times refused
it. But now the opportunity was irresistible.
Skaggs with his wagon drove out ahead of us. My brother
for the last time disappeared in the house. When he returned,
he had in his hands a long roll of canvas. He had with his
knife cut "The Village Blacksmith" out of its frame, and
wrapped it upon a roller. We tied it firmly, and strapped it in
the top of the carriage. After the war, we sold that picture for
fifteen hundred dollars, and the money came at a very good
time. During the present year (1897), the press has announced
its sale in England at a very large sum. Some years afterwards,
I found the Bacchante of Pauline Laurent in the parlor of a
Union volunteer general in Washington, and have it now. He
delivered it upon a very persuasive note from General
Schofield, then Secretary of War. Our Teniers
paintings, and several others of considerable value, have never
been recovered. Soon after the war ended, General Brown of
the Freedmen's Bureau, returned to my father a valuable
meerschaum pipe, the gift of the King of Holland to a friend;
and when I was in Congress, General B. F. Butler presented me
with a cup made from the original timber of the United States
ship Constitution, received by my father from Captain
Percival, of the navy. Thus, from time to time, a few of the
things we left that day drifted back to us; but the great bulk of
them were swept out by the tide, and lost upon the all-
engulfing sea of war. My father's correspondence, which was
very extensive, was left in his library. It was placed by the
Union authorities in the hands of the late Ben Perley Poore, of
Boston, for examination. It was said that the chief purpose of
such searches was to find, if possible, disloyal
correspondence between Southern leaders and people in the
North known as Southern sympathizers. Many years after the
war, a box of unimportant letters was returned to me by one of
the departments. The valuable portions of the correspondence
were missing. When Mr. Poore died, a few years ago, his
effects were advertised for sale, and among them were a great
number of letters from my father's files.
We bade farewell to Rolleston with heavy hearts, and bent
our cheerless way to Great Bridge. Even before we left, the
explosions in Norfolk began, and we heard them as we drove
along. We were very anxious lest the enemy,
coming up from the South, should reach Great Bridge
before we did, but we passed it safely, and late in the
night reached Suffolk. It was a profound relief when
we found ourselves once more safely within the
Confederate lines. We saved our bacon in more senses than
one: for a party of Union troops reached our place a few
hours
after we left it, and the next day the Union forces occupied
the route we had traveled to Suffolk. Not long after our arrival
there, we heard an unusually loud explosion, which, as we
afterwards learned, was the blowing up of the magazine of the
Merrimac, an event which depressed us greatly.
Reaching Richmond after several days' quiet driving, we
were directed to proceed to my sister's home in Goochland
County, whither the women of our family had preceded us.
There I remained until shortly after the seven days' fighting
about Richmond, when I was sent in charge of some of our
slaves to a temporary home secured by my father in the
mountains of southwest Virginia, at Rocky Mount, in Franklin
County. He correctly foresaw that, whatever happened, no
enemy would penetrate into that remote region.
Before our departure for Franklin County, I made several
visits to Richmond, which was now on all occasions crowded to
overflowing with troops. The most vivid impression of
handsome soldiery made upon me during the war was by the
Third Alabama Regiment. In the two months which had elapsed
since the evacuation of Norfolk, I had not seen the regiment. Of
its splendid conduct in the battle of Seven Pines, and in the
other engagements, I had of course heard, and, knowing many
of its members, was naturally interested in everything concerning
it. Passing along the streets of Richmond one day, I
saw three or four soldiers, looking as ragged and dirty as the
average, and I should have passed them by without further
attention but for hearing my name called. Then it was I
recognized a party of the dear old boys whom I had known in
the intrenched camp at Norfolk. It is impossible to convey any
idea of the change which I had been wrought in their
appearance by two mostly of
hard campaigning on the Peninsula. Their uniforms, once so
neat, were worn and torn and patched, marked with mud and
clay, and scorched by camp-fires. Their bright buttons and
trimmings had lost all lustre. Their flair was long, the freshness
of their complexions gone, and their eyes seemed lustreless
and bleared by camp-fire smoke. Even their voices were
softened and subdued. Oh! nobody knows, until he has seen
it, how marching and fighting by day, and sleeping under the
stars or in the storm at night, can wear men out. The Third Alabama
had had many a hard knock since we parted. In one of
its earliest engagements, it had been subjected by the mistake
of some commander to a murderous attack, in which it lost its
noble colonel, Lomax, whose body was never found. I was
shocked and surprised, upon inquiry for this or that light-
hearted fellow whom I had known in the gay days of mandolin
and guitar and moonlight sails, when they camped at Norfolk,
to hear that he was killed at such a place, or wounded at such
a place, or lay ill in such and such hospital, or was granted
sick leave. Nothing I had ever seen or heard before so brought
home to me the vivid realization that this war was becoming all-
consuming and all-devouring.
"And where is the regiment now?" I asked. It was on the
nine-mile road, facing the enemy, about seven miles from the
city, near the Chickahominy bottoms, waiting to yield up yet
other victims to the Confederate cause in the seven days'
fighting about Richmond. That evening I rode down to see
them, but there was little to cheer one in the visit. There were
no more tents, or cooks, or attendant servants, or bright
uniforms, or bands, or dress parades. The camp was located
in a copse of pines in rear of a line of breastworks from which
the Union troops had been driven in the battle of Seven
Pines, and
which were now made to face the enemy. The men slept on
the ground, without any covering. The few camp fires were
built along the line, and the soldiers were cooking their own
rough fare. Out at the front, picket firing resounded all along
the line, and the men seemed to be silently brooding upon the
deadly storm then gathering. The seven days' fighting, from
Mechanicsville to Malvern Hill, began a little later, and many
another friend among them yielded up his life in those sultry
summer days of 1862.
As we were returning to Richmond that afternoon, attracted
by artillery firing upon the Mechanicsville pike, we rode out to
Strawberry Hill, a beautiful farm overlooking the
Chickahominy valley, and witnessed an artillery duel between
Captain Lindsay Walker's battery and a Union battery
stationed in a field just above Mechanicsville. The firing was
across the Chickahominy valley. Through field-glasses, large
masses of the enemy were plainly visible about
Mechanicsville, and the spires of Richmond were the
background of the battery at which the Union troops were
firing. One of General McClellan's anchored balloons rode
high in the heavens behind Mechanicsville, and altogether
the sight was exceedingly inspiring. The distance between the
combatants was not more than two miles; but the damage
done in these encounters, with the short-ranged artillery of
that day, was insignificant.
It was on this occasion that I first saw President Davis,
who had ridden out with several members of his staff to
inspect the lines. Mr. Davis was an excellent horseman, and
looked well on horseback. He had a passion for military life,
and was a man of cool nerves under fire. His presence was
always greeted with considerable enthusiasm by the troops,
although he never had the hold upon their
hearts possessed by "Ole Joe,"
or "Mars' Robert," as
General Johnston and General Lee were called. I do not
recollect distinctly who accompanied him, but have an
impression that his young secretary, Burton Harrison, was one
of the party. It was a time of deep solicitude for Mr. Davis, no
doubt, as the army had just changed commanders General
Johnston had been wounded at Seven Pines, and General Lee
had been relieved from duty at Charleston and appointed to
succeed him.
The war had by this time produced two comparatively new
industries. One was the issuing of "shinplaster" currency, and
the other was the manufacture of fruit brandy.
The United States laws relating to currency and revenue no
longer obtained, and the Confederate laws had not been put
into enforcement. The lack of small currency soon gave rise to the
issue of one dollar and fifty-cent and twenty-five-cent bills, by
nearly all the towns and counties of the State. Private bankers
also issued these bills, and even private individuals. I
remember particularly one Sylvester P. Cocke, an old fellow
who had formerly kept a country store at Dover Mills, in
Goochland County. In 1862, he had a little office upon the
bank of the "Basin" or terminus of the James River and
Kanawha Canal, in Richmond. The office was not exceeding
ten feet square, and stood in the corner of a large vacant coal-
yard. Mr. Cocke's banking facilities consisted of a table, a
small safe, a stack of sheets of bills, and a stout pair of shears.
He had his I. O. U.'s printed on ordinary letter-paper. They
had in one corner a picture of a mastiff lying in front of an iron
safe, holding its key between his paws, and, besides the date,
declared, "On demand I promise to pay to bearer" one dollar,
fifty cents, or twenty-five cents, or ten cents, and were
signed by Sylvester P. Cocke in a clerical hand. There he sat
signing, or clipping his promises apart with his shears, and,
although Mr. Cocke's means of redemption were an unknown
factor, his notes passed current with people in Richmond, and
all through the valley of the James, as if they had been
obligations of the Bank of England.
Everybody in the country was engaged in converting his
fruit into brandy. Wherever there was a clear stream and a
neighboring orchard, there was sure to be a still. Where all
these stills and worms and kettles came from, nobody could
conjecture. It was a great fruit year, and there were no markets,
and it was apparent that liquor would be scarce and high. In
July, 1862, I drove our horses and carriage from a point just
above Richmond to the abode of the family in Franklin County,
a distance of two hundred miles or more, and I feel confident
that there was not ten miles upon the route in which I did not
pass one or more fruit distilleries.
The passion for speculating in things which were likely to
become high-priced as the war progressed took possession of
everybody about this time. Staple articles, like sugar and
coffee and flour, were growing scarce. Prudent housekeepers
who had the means to procure these things laid in large
supplies. Speculators were buying them up, and storing them
for the rise which was sure to come. About this time also, in
view of the scarcity of sugar and molasses, people began to
cultivate sorghum, which thrived in our climate, and yielded a
reasonably good substitute for cane molasses.
But the spirit of speculation was not confined to the larger
products; it extended to every variety of small manufactured
articles. On my drive to Rocky Mount I stopped one night in
Buckingham County with an old fellow
who had a wayside tavern and a country store. During the
evening, conversation turned upon the increased price of
everything, and the profits to be made by purchasing and
holding articles which it would soon be difficult to procure. I
became infected with the trading spirit and on the following
morning my host admitted me to his store to inspect his stock,
and determine whether there was anything which I particularly
desired.
War had made sad changes in the appearance of country
stores. The shelves, once filled with bright prints and cloths
and rolls of gleaming white goods, were now almost empty.
Only here and there were a few bolts of common cloth, such as
the Confederate mills could produce. The posts were no longer
decorated with bright trace-chains and horse-collars and
currycombs, but simply displayed a few rough shuck collars
and improvised farming gear. The showcases had been utterly
cleaned out of their stock of ribbons and laces, cakes and
candies, and cotton and scissors and gilt things. Perfumed
soaps and toilet articles, the glory of country stores in peace
time, had disappeared. A few skeins of yarn for knitting socks,
and cakes of home-made soap and moulds of beeswax, a few
chunks of maple-sugar, all at very high prices, constituted
about all the stock in trade that was left. I cast about in vain for
rare articles in which to invest for a rise, until at last I spied,
upon a dusty shelf, a box of watch-crystals! Timidly I inquired
the price, and it was not very high.
"Do you think they will increase in value?" I asked
hesitatingly.
"Increase?" said the storekeeper; "young man, you have
a trader's instincts. Increase? Why, in a year
there will not be a watch-crystal in the Confederacy. You
can name your own profit, and anybody will be glad to give it."
So I bought the nest of watch-crystals, feeling
sure I had a fortune in them. Perhaps I should have made a
great profit. With this idea firmly in my mind, I nursed them
carefully for several days, fully intending to put them aside
until watch-crystals were at the top notch of Confederate
prices, and then pocket a princely gain; but unfortunately,
before I reached the end of that journey, I one day, in a fit of
absent-mindedness, sat down upon the seat in the carriage
beneath which my watch crystals were stored, and thus ended
my first and last Confederate speculation.
ROCKY MOUNT, our place of refuge, was a typical Virginia
mountain village. Even at this present time, when it has its
railroad and telegraph, one in search of seclusion from the
outside world might safely select it for his purpose. Month
after month, year after year, roll by without other things to
vary its monotony than the horsetradings, or public
speakings, or private brawls of court days, or an occasional
religious "revival."
But in the summer of 1862, the excitement of war, and the
feverish anxiety to know of its progress, and the unusual
activity in every sort of trading, pervaded even that secluded
locality.
The nearest point to us reached by railroad or telegraph was
a station named Big Lick, upon the Virginia and Tennessee
Railroad, in the county of Roanoke. Round about Big Lick,
whose population did not exceed thirty persons, the valley of
the Roanoke River was, as it still is, a veritable land of Goshen.
The adjacent farms, now covered by the populous city of
Roanoke, were in a state of excellent cultivation, and counted
among the most fertile in that beautiful valley. Hereabouts
were the stately homes of the Tayloes, the Wattses, the
Prestons, and many other representatives of the oldest and
wealthiest families of southwestern Virginia.
When a visitor known to them arrived at Big Lick, it was
useless, whithersoever he was bound or howsoever
urgent his mission, to decline their generous hospitality. He
was sure to encounter some of them at the station and no
protestation availed against first accompanying them to their
homes, and then accepting their equipages in lieu of the
public conveyance for the remainder of his
journey.
My brother Henry, being a clergyman and non-combatant,
was in charge of our family in Franklin. After driving our
horses across country and conducting our slaves to their new
abode, I again went East for some household effects, and he
and I, returning together to Big Lick, were there seized upon
by some friends, detained for several days, and finally
dispatched to our journey's end in the private vehicle of a Mr.
Tinsley. His home stood near the river bank, in a handsome
inclosure, surrounded by fields of harvested wheat, where the
very heart of the city of Roanoke is now located.
His adjoining neighbors, not far distant, were the Tayloes,
whose mansion stood in a stately grove with well-kept lawns,
at a spot where engine-shops and the houses of railroad men
are built at present.
The thing which impressed me most, upon the visit to
these good folk, was the absence of all the males of fighting
age. The Tayloes of Roanoke were prominent people, and in
all public affairs had figured conspicuously as representatives
of their county and their section. The only members of the
family at home to welcome the stranger within their gates
were the aged, white-haired head of the house and four or five
daughters and daughter in-law, clad in
mourning. We were received with faultless
courtesy, and entertained with exquisite hospitality.
Tremulously and anxiously the fine old gentleman, with
his female brood about him, asked for the latest news from
the front. Eagerly they plied us with new questions
concerning the progress and prospects of the struggle.
Insatiable and unabated seemed their desire to talk on and on
concerning that bloody phalanx aligned about Richmond,
whence we came.
And well might their deepest interest be centred there, for
every arms-bearing Tayloe - son, brother, husband - was in
the forefront of the fight, save one. He had already fallen; his
portrait hung in the spacious drawing room beside the others.
His name was spoken and spoken again with gentle tears, and
with that reverence which the devout render to the Christian
martyr.
In this spacious, peace-embowered home, nestled close to
the river, under the looming Mill Mountain, whose afternoon
shadows were already creeping across the lawn of oaks and
elms, and maples and hickories, with the summer breezes
stealing around its white pillars and through its wide hallways
and swaying its muslin curtains, with naught but gently
murmured conversation to break the delicious quietude, how
far away seemed the war! How startling was the contrast with
the seething cauldron of strife in which their strong men
struggled about Richmond!
Yet which were suffering the most? Who shall measure the
agony which racked those hearts, outwardly so placid, during
the long years they waited while the strife went on?
Who can picture the desolating sorrow which engulfed
them as, one by one, the strong arms on which that house
depended fell helpless, and the news came home
that the brave hearts for whose safety they prayed had
ceased to beat! for it was so. The war filled grave after grave
in the graveyard of the Tayloe family, until, when
it ended the male line was almost extinct.
Our visit to these good folk was charming, and from
time to time, when wearied of our mountain isolation, we would
return to their lovely valley to mingle anew with such congenial
friends.
To the east and south of them was the Blue Ridge and
beyond it our home. From the railroad station the stage road ran
for a mile or two through the valley then crossed the Roanoke
River by a ford at the base of the mountains, then plunged into
the rugged range. Winding up hill and down vale it went on,
through pass and gorge and over tumbling mountain-stream,
until it emerged into the rough foot-hill country east of the Blue
Ridge, in which was our new home.
Twenty-eight miles of travel over such a route seems much
more than the measured distance, and carried us indeed into a
new class of population, as distinct from that which we left
behind as if an ocean instead of a mountain range had
separated the two communities. Soon the broad pastures and
fields of grain had disappeared. In their place were rough,
hillside lots, with patches of buckwheat or tobacco. Instead of
the stately brick houses standing in groves on handsome
knolls, all that we saw of human habitations were log-houses
far apart upon the mountain sides, or in the hollows far below
us. No longer were pastures visible, with well-bred cattle
standing in pooly places, shaded by sugar maples bathing their
flanks at noontide. No more did we meet smart equipages
drawn by blooded horses. No more the happy darkey greeted
us with smiles.
Up, up, up, - until the mountain side fell far below our track;
down, down, down, until our wheels ground into, and our
horses scattered about their feet, the broken slate of a roaring
stream. Now, following the sycamore along its banks, with
here a patch of arable land and its mountain cabin, whence a
woman smoking a pipe, and
innumerable tow-headed children hanging about her skirts, eyed
us silently; and there another roadside cabin, with hollyhocks
and sunflowers and bee-hives in the yard, the sound of a
spinning-wheel from within, a sleeping cat in the window, and a
cur dog on the doorstep; here a carry-log, with patient team
drawn aside upon the narrow road to let us pass, the strapping
teamster in his shirtsleeves, with trousers stuck into his cowhide
boots, leaning against his load so intent in scrutiny of us that he
barely noticed our salutation; here a bearded man, clad in homespun
and a broad slouched hat, riding leisurely along on is broad-
backed, quiet horse, carrying the inevitable saddle-bags of the
mountaineer; here a woman on horse back, with long
sunbonnet, and coarse, cotton riding-skirt, and bag slung at the
saddle-bow, and small boy, with dangling bare feet, riding behind
her; here a spout-spring by the roadside, where the living water
of the mountain side leaped joyously from a hollow gum-tree log
grown green in service; now mounting upward again until all that
is visible is the winding road, with the blue sky above it, and the
massed tree-tops below, and the curling smoke of some mountain
distillery, with nothing to break far the stillness but the heavy
hammering of the log-cock upon some dead limb, or the
drumming of the ruffed grouse far away. So, on and on we
toiled, until we reached the open country beyond the
mountains, and late the in the evening our steaming horses drew
up at our new home which was strange and different from any we
had below ever had before.
Our house was large, among the newest and most
modern in the village, prettily located on the outskirts on the
highest knoll in the place, and commanded a fine; view of the
little valley and Bald Knob, and the mountains
through which we came. The stage road, after
passing our house, entered the main street of the village
which was a rocky lane upon a sharp decline, with store and
houses scattered on either side, terminating at an inclosure
where stood the court house, clerk's office, and county jail.
Halfway down this street was the tavern, an antiquated
structure, with a porch extending along its entire front, its
brick pillars supporting a second story overhanging the
porch. This porch, which was almost on a level with the street,
was provided with an ample supply of benches and cane-
bottom chairs. At one end of it, suspended in a frame, was the
tavern bell, whose almost continual clang was signal for
grooms to take or fetch horses, or summons to meals.
The tavern porch was the rallying-point of the town: hither
all news came; here all news was discussed; hence all news
was disseminated. From this spot the daily stage departed in
the morning. Here villagers and country folk assembled in the
day and waited in the evening and to this spot came the stage
in the evening, bearing the mail, the war news, and such
citizens as had been absent, visitors who drifted in, or
soldiers returning sick wounded, or on furlough.
Supreme interest centred ever about the arrival or
departure of the stage. In the foggy morning it appeared
with its strong four-in-hand team, and took its place
majestically in front of the old tavern. The porter rocked it as
they dumped the baggage into the boot the red-faced driver
came forth from the breakfast-room with great self-
importance. With his broad palm he wiped away the greasy
remnants of his meal, lit his brier root pipe, drew on his
buckskin gloves, settled his slouched hat over his eyes,
clambered to his seat upon the box gathered his reins and
whip, and cast a glance towards the post-office across the
way; an aged man and a meek-eyed
woman in simple garb slipped quietly into the rear seats,
going perhaps on some sad mission under summons to a far-
off hospital at the front; a dainty miss, with bonnet-box and
bunch of flowers, kissed papa and mamma and took her place
within, full of joyous anticipation doubtless, for even in war
times girls love to visit each other; a fat commissary, returning
from his search in the back country for supplies, came forth,
reeking with rum and tobacco, and swung up awkwardly to the
seat beside the driver. Tom, Dick, and Harry, the new recruits
bound for the front, proud in their new and misfit uniforms,
seized mother, wife, sister, or sweetheart in their arms, kissed
them, bade them have no fear, and scrambled lightly to the
top. The lame and tardy postmaster hobbled forth at last, and
threw his mail-pouch up to the dashboard. The coachman
gave his warning cry of "All aboard," the hostlers drew off the
blankets, the long whip cracked its merry signal; with discord
in each footfall at the start and concord as they caught the
step, the horses pulled away; and the lumbering stage went
grinding up the stony street, its horn singing its morning carol
to those who were awake. As they disappeared over the hill-
top, a last merry cry of parting came back from the bright boys
on the stage-top, and the last they saw of home was the
waving tokens of love from those they left behind.
As the day advanced, the tavern porch again took on an air
of life.
Everybody traveled upon horseback. By midday, the
country folk began to stream in. Up and down the street a
gradually increasing line of saddle-horses were "hitched."
Women, old and young, arrived, - all of conventional dress,
and with horses singularly alike. Their bonnets were the long-
slatted poke-bonnet; their riding-skirts, of
coarse cotton. Alighting at the horse-blocks, they untied and
slipped off the skirts and tied them to their saddle-bows,
revealing their plain homespun dress. Their horses were broad-
backed, short on the leg, carried their heads on a level with
their shoulders, and moved with noses advanced like camels.
They had no gaits but a swift walk, a gentle fox-trot, or a slow,
ambling pace. When they had "hitched the critturs," these
women went poking about the stores, or the tavern kitchen,
or the private houses, with chickens or butter, or other
farmyard produce, seldom speaking further than asking one
to buy; and when their sales were effected and little purchases
made, they went away as silently as they had come.
The men came by themselves. Their principal occupation
seemed to be horse-trading. At times, the neighboring
stables, and even the street itself, were filled with men, leading
their animals about, and engaged in the liveliest of horse-
trading. A considerable proportion of the population ration
belonged to a religious sect known as Dunkards. In
appearance, they were solemn and ascetic. The men wore
long, flowing beards, and their homespun dress was of formal
cut. Their doctrinal tenets were opposed to slavery and to war.
Whenever political or military discussions arose, they
promptly withdrew. They were very strict temperance men,
and decent, orderly, law-abiding citizens, but horse-traders! It
must have been a part of their religious faith. A Dunkard was
never so happy as when he was horse-trading.
There were others, too, to whom temperance was not so
sacred as to the Dunkards. By three or four o'clock, the tavern
bar was liberally patronized. The recruiting office had its full
quota of young fellows inquiring about the terms of
enlistment. The tavern porch was filled with people
discussing war news, and the quartermaster
down the street had more horses offered to him than he
was authorized to buy.
At such times, a favorite entertainment was to draw General
Early out upon his views of men and events, for the
edification of the tavern-porch assemblage.
He was a resident of Franklin, and at that time sojourning
at the tavern. He had been severely wounded in the battle of
Williamsburg in May, 1862, and was now quite convalescent,
but still on sick leave. He was a singular being.
Franklin County had been strongly opposed to secession.
Jubal A. Early was a pronounced Union man, and was elected
from his county as her representative to the Secession
Convention. In that body he had opposed and denounced
secession until the ordinance was passed. As soon as the
State seceded, he declared that his State was entitled to his
services, and tendered them. He was a man of good family, a
graduate of the West Point Military Academy, and possessed
unsurpassed personal courage. In 1862, he was a brigadier-
general, and had been conspicuously brave in the battle in
which he was wounded. His subsequent career in higher
commands was disastrous. After the war, he became notorious
as the most implacable and "unreconstructed" of all the
Confederate generals. He was a man deeply attached to a small
circle of friends, but intensely vindictive and abusive of those
he disliked.
At the time of which I write, he was the hero of Franklin
County, and, although he professed to despise popularity
and to be defiant of public opinion, it was plain that he
enjoyed his military distinction. It had done much to soften
old time asperities, and blot out from the memory of his
neighbors certain facts in his private life which had prior to
the war, alienated from him many of his own
class. In fact, I doubt not he was a happier man then
than he had been for many a year before, or was at a
later period, when he became more or less a social and
political lshmaelite.
He was eccentric in many ways, - eccentric in appearance,
in voice, in manner of speech. Although he was not
an old man, his shoulders were so stooped and rounded
that he brought his countenance to a vertical position with
difficulty. He wore a long, thin, straggling beard. His
eyes were very small, dark, deep-set, and glittering, and
his nose aquiline. His step was slow, shuffling, and
almost irresolute. I never saw a man who looked less like
a soldier. His voice was a piping treble, and he talked
with a long-drawn whine or drawl. His opinions were
expressed unreservedly, and he was most emphatic and
denunciatory, and startlingly profane.
His likes and dislikes he announced without hesitation,
and, as he was filled with strong and bitter opinions, his
conversation was always racy and pungent. His views
were not always correct, or just, or broad; but his wit was
quick, his satire biting, his expressions were vigorous, and
he was interestingly lurid and picturesque.
With his admiring throng about him on the tavern porch,
on summer evenings in 1862, General Early, in my
opinion, said things about his superiors, the Confederate
leaders, civic and military, and their conduct of affairs,
sufficient to have convicted him a hundred times over
before any court-martial. But his criticisms never
extended to General Robert E Lee. For Lee he seemed
to have a regard and esteem and high opinion felt by him
for no one else. Although General Lee had but recently
been called to the command of the army, he predicted
his great future with unerring judgment. The arrival of
the stage not infrequently interrupted
General Early's vigorous lectures. For half an hour or
more before the event, the expectant throng would
increase, and, as those who "brace" themselves for the
crisis were there, as everywhere else, conversation grew
louder and agitation greater as the time approached. Then
the stage would heave in sight in the gloaming, and come
rattling down the rough street, the horseshoes knocking
fire from the flints. Before the smoking and jaded beasts
had fairly stopped, loud inquiries would be made on all
hands, of driver and passengers, for war news.
Somebody would throw down the latest newspaper;
somebody would mount a chair and read aloud; and, just
as the news was encouraging or depressing, there would
be cheering or silence. Then would come the rush for the
mail to the post-office across the way.
The passengers, also, were a source of engrossing
interest. There was young So-and-so, with his empty
sleeve. A year ago he had left the place, and passed
safely through all the earlier battles; but at Malvern Hill a
grapeshot mutilated his left arm. Amputation followed,
and now, after a long time in hospital, here he was, home
again, pale and bleached, with an honorable discharge in
his pocket, and maimed for life. And there, collapsed
upon the rear seat, more dead than alive, too weak to
move save with the assistance of friends, was a poor,
wan fellow, whom nobody knew at first. How pitiful he
seemed, as they helped him forth, his eyes sunken yet
restless, his weak arms clinging about their necks, his
nubs scarce able to support his weight, his frame racked
by paroxysms of violent coughing! "Who is it?" passed
from mouth to mouth. "Good God!" exclaimed some one
at the whispered reply, "it can't be! That is not Jimmie
Thomson. What! Not old man Hugh Thomson's son,
down on Pig River? Why, man alive, I knew
the boy well. He was one of the likeliest boys in this whole
county. Surely, that ar skeleton can't be him! But it was. The
exposure of camp life had done for poor Jimmie what bullets
had failed to do.
There, perched gayly in air, and tumbling down upon the
heads of the bystanders with joyous greeting, was the
sauciest, healthiest youngster in the village, come home on his
first furlough in a twelvemonth, wearing on his collar the bars
of a lieutenant (conferred for gallantry at Seven Pines), in place
of the corporal's chevrons on his sleeve when he marched
away. Camp life had made no inroads on his health. The sun
and rain had only given him a healthy bronze. His digestion
would have assimilated paving-stones. The bullets had gone
wide of him. And his little world, the dearest on earth to
him, - the little world which had laughed and cried over the
stories of his capers and his courage in the field, - stood there
surprised and delighted, with smiling faces and open arms, to
welcome him home, their own village boy, their saucy, gallant
fighting-chap, their hero, - home again, if only for a week!
Each day opened and passed and closed, with its excitements.
It was all very narrow and primitive, the out of-the-way
world of the obscure village in an unknown region. Yet in it
were the same old hopes and fears and joys and tears,
hearteases and heartaches, loves and hates and all the moods
and tenses of human nature, to be found in the most
populous and cosmopolitan hives of humanity.
I was now nearly sixteen. Many youths of my age were in
the army. I had written more than once for my father's consent
to enlist, but received stern denials. The war talk at the old
tavern, the stories of camps and fight and military glory, the
daily enlistments, the desire to appear a man in the eyes of
certain girls, were all coöperating
to inflame my desire to be a soldier. I was growing
mannish and rebellious. My brother saw it all, and heard me
threaten to run away, and wrote father seriously, advising him
that I was getting beyond his control, and urging him to send
me to the Virginia Military Institute, where I would be under
restraint, and receive instruction, instead of growing up in
ignorance and idleness.
It was soon settled. September 1, 1862, I left Rocky Mount,
took the train at Big Lick, went to the neighboring station of
Bonsacks, and there perched myself upon the stage-top,
booked for Lexington. It was a long journey, occupying sixteen
hours. We started at six P. M., and, riding continuously,
reached Lexington at ten o'clock the following morning. It was
a glorious ride in brilliant autumn weather, with moonlight. We
passed through Fincastle and Buchanan, and over the Natural
Bridge.
As we approached Lexington, and I caught sight of the
Virginia Military Institute and its beautiful parade grounds,
and professors' houses and other buildings, my mind was
filled with thoughts of glorious military life, and the
commission in the army which awaited me when I graduated
for I was now a cadet in the West Point of the Confederacy.
GREAT differences in
soil, climate, and scenery exist
between the grand divisions into which Virginia is cut up
geographically. But they are not more striking than the
diversity of the populations, one from the other, in these
several sections, springing from differences in the time and the
manner in which, and the people by whom, her several early
settlements were made.
Two or three centuries of common government would
ordinarily seem sufficient to produce a homogeneous
population ration in a State. While this result has been
attained in Virginia in essentials, it is nevertheless surprising
to observe in each section local peculiarities, types, and characteristics
plainly traceable to its earliest settlement.
We were first introduced to the lower Tidewater section,
where the soil is sandy, the climate balmy, the landscape flat,
viewless, save as it is redeemed from monotony by the
boundless, ever-changing grandeur of old Ocean. The people,
while of her oldest strains, are simple in their mode of living,
and admit neither lineage nor wealth as basis for any caste or
class distinction. Then we turned to the region of the upper
and lower James, with Richmond as its centre, settled later
than Tidewater by the so-called Cavalier immigration of 1649-
60. There, of old, social relations were akin to those of Rome's
patricians and plebeians, patrons and clients. Not alone was
the haughty descendant of Charles I. owner of a plantation
and of slaves, - he was more: the poor whites and the
shopkeepers of country and town alike, consciously or
unconsciously, willingly or unwillingly, rendered him homage
as if he were their superior. And he, while often proclaiming
principles of social equality, seldom practiced them, and
quietly accepted, as his legitimate due, the preëminence
granted him by his humbler neighbors.
Then, with a mere glimpse of the Roanoke region, we passed
into the rocky soil, the wild and mountainous landscape, and
the rough, new, and nondescript population which, from one
direction and another, has collected upon and taken
possession of the eastern slope of the Blue Ridge range. Here,
again, we found a democracy full of independence and
courage, but in all things of education and refinement, far
inferior to that in Tidewater.
Now, at Lexington, we are in the heart of the valley lying
between the Blue Ridge and Allegheny ranges. It is a region
with a different soil, a different climate, different scenery, and
a population more distinctly sui generis than any yet described.
The soil is based upon blue limestone. It is where the grasses
grow. The lands lie tumbled into knobby hills and rolling
fields, with here and there narrow fertile valleys traversed by
limpid streams, whose banks are cedar-clad bluffs of limestone
shale. The great valley is more broken here, less pastoral, and
not so charming as in its lower section to the north, where it
widens, and is watered by the Shenandoah; but this is the
bolder landscape, with a rugged beauty peculiar to self. The
mountain framing of the picture is the same; but the land is
higher, for, as the cloud-capped peaks of the Blue Ridge and
Alleghany ranges draw nearer to each other, the vale between
them is nearer to their own altitude We are in Rockbridge
County, so called because
within its limits is the superb natural arch of limestone
known the world over as the Natural Bridge.
Lexington, the county seat of Rockbridge is near the summit
of the transverse watershed of the great valley. Within a few
miles of the town, streams rise, some pouring their waters
southward into the tributaries of the James, and others
coursing northward, tributary to the Shenandoah, which
enters the Potomac at Harper's Ferry. The place itself is
beautiful. Looking east and south the rolling country falls
away to the base of the Blue Ridge, where the South River and
North River unite and flow onward to join the James, where
their united waters turn eastward through the pass at
Balcony Falls. The magnificent Blue Ridge range bounds the
eastern view and is last seen to southward, where the twin
breasts of the Peaks of Otter rear themselves against the
distant blue. Northward, beyond the wooded bluffs of the
North River, steep hills of farming lands are tilted towards us,
their sides dotted with cattle, their summits crowned with
forests. Beyond these, crest after crest of the smaller foothills
of the Alleghanies appear. To the northwest looming in
isolated majesty, is the House Mountain, with the peak of the
Devil's Backbone behind it, marking the route through historic
Goshen Pass. North and south, as far as the eye can reach,
shading away in their tints from deep emerald to dreamy blue
as they become more and more remote, are masses of hills. To
the west and south west, now strongly outlined, now melting
into the last visible things of the distance, are the azure peaks
of the Alleghanies. Such is the country about Lexington,
where Virginia has her Military Institute. It is a spot almost as
beautiful as West Point, and the school is second only to the
Military Academy in thoroughness. It is an ideal spot for
healthfulness, and the isolation of youth from the
temptations and distracting influences of crowded
communities. The boy who finds allurement to idleness and
vice in that town would discover it anywhere.
It is a community of Scotch-Irish Presbyterians. For more
than a hundred years after the settlement of Jamestown, and
for over fifty years after Richmond was an incorporated city,
this valley remained unviewed by the eye of any white man.
As early as 1608, Newport, on his second visit to the
Virginia colony, brought with him a boat built in sections, to
be transported by him under orders to find the South Sea
beyond the mountains. The extent to which he performed that
order was that he marched to the Monacon country, about
twenty miles west of Richmond, and his company returned
footsore to Jamestown.
One hundred and two years later (1710), Governor
Spotswood wrote to the Council of Trade in London that a
party of adventurers had found the mountains "not above a
hundred miles from our upper settlements, and went up to the
top of the highest mountains with their horses," and looked
over into the valley. This is supposed to have been near
Balcony Falls. It was not until 1716 that the first passage of
the Blue Ridge was effected. Then Governor Spotswood and
his "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe" entered the lower or
Shenandoah valley by way of Swift Run Gap, and took
possession in the name of George the First. Governor
Spotswood's expedition resulted in nothing important. The
only diary of its performance extant is
principally devoted to description of the liquors which
the party carried with it, whereof eleven sorts are enumerated.
A few adventurers may have straggled into the valley after
this, but it was not until 1732-36 that it as settled by any
considerable population.
Shortly prior to 1732, an immense number of Scotch-
Irish and Germans poured into Pennsylvania and the Jerseys.
Within thirty years, the population of Pennsylvania increased
from about thirty thousand to two hundred and fifty
thousand. The Scotsmen, who, for religious liberty, had
originally sought the north of Ireland, were the people who
saved Ireland to William and Mary from Catholic James. Their
loyalty was rewarded by new persecutions for non-
conformity, until they resolved to seek asylum in America. So,
also, about the same time came to America a great migration
of German Lutherans, who were induced to settle in
Pennsylvania. The Scotsmen occupied the regions about
Princeton, New Jersey, Easton, Carlisle, and Washington.
The Germans settled about York, Lancaster, Columbia, and
Harrisburg. Governor Logan, himself a Scotch-Irishman,
enforced some laws about 1730 which were so offensive to the
Presbyterians and Lutherans that great numbers of them left
the Pennsylvania colony, crossed the Potomac west of the
Blue Ridge, in the vicinity of Harper's Ferry, entered Virginia,
and settled the Blue Ridge valley.
As if by agreement, the two bands separated. The
lethargic Germans, as soon as they escaped the Pennsylvania
jurisdiction, occupied the lower valley from Harper's
Ferry to Harrisonburg. The aggressive Scotch Irish pressed
on to the upper valley, then called West Augusta, now
divided into the counties of Augusta Rockbridge, Botetourt,
Roanoke, and Montgomery. From then until now, the two
races have retained possession of and dominated their
respective settlements.
And a very striking race of men are these Scotch-Irish so
called yet with nothing Irish about them save them
for a little while they tarried in Ireland. Hated by
Irish because they were Protestants, persecuted by the
English because they were Presbyterians, they in turn
cordially detested both, and, in our Revolutionary struggles
were among the earliest and most intense rebels against the
king. For liberty, as they conceived it, whether it was liberty of
conscience or liberty of the person, the Scotch-Irishmen and
their descendants have never hesitated to sacrifice comfort,
fortune, or life. Their mountain origin has always manifested
itself by the places they have chosen in their migrations. The
few who went to the Puritan settlements of New England soon
moved from among them and sought the inhospitable
highlands of New Hampshire, where they bestowed on their
new settlement the name of Londonderry. The little band who
found asylum among the Dutch of New York pressed onward
from uncongenial associates to the mountainous frontier, and
named the county where they settled Ulster, in memory of their
Irish home. Those who wearied of Pennsylvania and went to
Virginia avoided the light society of the Cavaliers in Tidewater
and Piedmont, preferring the mountain wilds of West Augusta.
Wherever they appeared, they seemed to be seeking for
some secluded spot, where, undisturbed by any other sect,
they might enjoy liberty unrestrained, and worship God after
their own fashion.
And great have they been as pioneers. They populated
western New England, northern New York, western
Pennsylvania, and the Virginia valley. Then they pressed
onward through western North Carolina, even to northern
South Carolina. Then they spread westward through
Cumberland Gap to the settlement of Kentucky. In later days,
their Lewis and their Clarke were the explorers of the
Northwest; another Lewis was the first to view Pike's Peak,
and even the territory of Texas was in part reclaimed by Sam
Houston, son of a Rockbridge
County Presbyterian. The pioneer work of the Scotch-
Irish has been greater than that of all other races in America
combined.
Great also have they been as fighters. John Lewis, their
first leader in the Virginia valley, was the terror of the frontier
Indians from the day of his arrival. Never after his coming did
the Indians come east of the Blue Ridge. Another Scotch-
Irishman, Patrick Henry, uttered the immortal sentence, "Give
me liberty or give me death."
General Henry Knox, of Revolutionary fame, the only New
England representative in Washington's cabinet, was a
Scotch-Irishman.
It was the Scotch-Irish of Mecklenburg, North Carollina,
who framed the first resolutions embodying the principles of
the Declaration of Independence. It was of the Scotch-Irish
and their valley home that Washington was speaking when,
in the darkest hours of the Revolution, he declared that, if the
worst came to the worst, he would retire to the mountain
fastnesses of West Augusta, and there, with a few of his
brave followers about him, defy forever the power of Great
Britain. It was from the same spot that Stonewall Jackson,
another of the stock, went forth in our great civil war,
followed by his brave men of Scotch-Irish ancestry recruited
here, to revive, by his grim prowess and their unshaken valor,
the mentors of Old Ironsides and his Presbyterians.
And great have they been as disseminators of learning.
They founded the ancient college of New Jersey now known
as Princeton University. To their efforts are we indebted for
the colleges of La Fayette at Easton and
Washington Jefferson College at Washington in
Pennsylvania and Liberty Hall Academy, now called
Washington and Lee University, at Lexington, Virginia;
and Chapel Hill in North Carolina.
And successful politicians and statesmen have they been;
for Calhoun, Andrew Jackson, Franklin Pierce, James
Buchanan, Ulysses S. Grant, Chester A. Arthur, Grover
Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, and William
McKinley were all rich in this Scotch-Irish blood.
In his great work upon the Puritans, Douglass Campbell
has admirably sketched the Scotch-Irish. Much has been
written of them of late years by writers less distinguished and
just now Professor John Fiske, under the title of "Old
Virginia and her Neighbors," has published a most interesting
account of the great Scotch-Irish migration and its influences
on our American civilization.
At Lexington, Virginia, these folk were and are, as their
ancestors have been for centuries, men of earnest,
thoughtful, and religious natures; simple in their lives to the
point of severity, sometimes severe to the point of simplicity;
intense in their religious fervor, yet strangely lacking, as it
seems to us, in that quality of mercy which is the greatest
attribute of religion; loving and possessing education, yet
often narrow-minded, in spite of thorough training; almost
ascetics in their wants, not bountifully hospitable, but
reasonably courteous and considerate towards strangers,
and methodically charitable; regarding revelry and
dissipation of body or mind as worthy of supreme contempt;
of dogged obstinacy, pertinacity, and courage; dominant
forces in all things wherein they take a part.
I had heard of their race, and heard them described, long
before I went there; and now I was among them, - those old
McDowells, and McLaughlins, and McClungs and Jacksons,
and Paxtons, and Rosses, and Grahams and Andersons, and
Campbells, and Prestons, and Moores and Houstons, and
Barclays, and Comptons, and all the tribe of Presbyterians of
the valley. All they possessed,
and what they were, I curiously scrutinized as a type of
humanity wholly new to me.
Their impress was upon everything in the place. The blue
limestone streets looked hard. The red brick houses with
severe stone trimmings and plain white pillars and finishings,
were stiff and formal. The grim portals of the Presbyterian
church looked cold as a dog's nose. The cedar hedges in the
yards, trimmed hard and close along straight brick pathways,
were as unsentimental as mathematics. The dress of the
citizens, male and female, was of single-breasted simplicity;
and the hair of those pretty Presbyterian girls was among the
smoothest and the flattest things I ever saw.
Shall I describe their habitations? Would it violate the
laws of hospitality to do so? I hope not. We have entered a
hallway, tinted gray, furnished with an oaken hat-rack and
straight oak chair of Gothic features, and passed into a parlor.
Although it is autumn, the polished floors are uncovered
save by strips of deep-red carpet such as one sees in chapel
aisles. There is a fireplace but the fires are unlit. The furniture
is straight up and down mahogany covered over with
haircloth. I have often wondered what a Presbyterian would
do if he could not secure mahogany haircloth furniture for his
drawing room. The room is dark; the red curtains are half
drawn upon the black marble mantelpiece, under a glass
shade are cold, white wax flowers. On the walls are solemn
engravings of Oliver Cromwell, Stonewall Jackson, and The
Rock of Ages. A melodeon, with church music stands in the
corner. If, perchance, it be a pianoforte, it seems like a
profanation. There is also a Gothic table on top of which is
the family Bible, beside it a candle stick, Jay's "Morning
Exercises," and the "Life of
Hannah More." Drawn near to these is a long-armed
low easy-chair. Facing the fireplace are two rocking chairs, and
six others, all in haircloth, stand stiff as horseguards' sentries
about the walls.
If your call is timed in the evening, you will learn the uses to
which these articles are put, for, as nine o'clock approaches,
the sweet little Presbyterian girl you are visiting will begin to
fidget; and when the hour strikes, the family will file into the
room with military silence and precision. Before you know it,
the head of the house will occupy that chair by the table, and
open that Bible, and give you the benefit of at least twenty
minutes of Christian comfort. Then, if you have not the good
sense to leave, he will proceed to fasten the window-blinds.
If your visit is in the daytime, other things will suggest
themselves to your mind. For example, you will wonder what
is the family dinner-hour. If you are so fortunate as to receive
a formal invitation in advance, you will not only learn, but you
will have a bountiful and well-cooked meal, - not, perhaps, an
Episcopalian epicurean feast, but bountiful and nutritious
food. If, however our notion was to drop in unexpectedly, and
take an informal family dinner, let me beg you to give it up.
You may go a hundred times, and the sleek-headed girl in pop
will give no sign, and the bell will never ring. She could starve
before she would ask you out, but she would die before she
would ask you in, for Presbyterians are not built that way. Her
father would immolate her for taking such a liberty. The best
you can hope for, on an occasion like that, is a cold red pippin
on a cold white plate served where you sit shivering, in that
vault-like parlor. If you wish to be frisky with Miss Westminster, it is
possible in but one way. Ask her to go to church. Sunday
morning church is the most tumultuous of her gayeties;
Sunday night service is to her what an ordinary
dancing party would be, as compared with a state ball, to Miss
Litany; and Wednesday evening lectures are to her what
excursions for ice-cream or soda-water are to "unregenerate"
girls.
My! for wild hilarity commend me to a coterie of strictly
reared young female Presbyterians. An evening spent among
them is like sitting upon icebergs, cracking hailstones with
one's teeth.
Yet, dear reader, believe me, after one has tried it awhile,
surprising as the statement may seem, one comes to like it.
Now and again, one of them says something, or does
something, like ordinary mortals; and what she says or does is
in such a fetching, fascinating, feminine way that it makes one
want to go again, and makes one feel glad that such gentle,
pure, refined, simple, and true people countenance an outside
barbarian like one's self in their society.
There is, believe me, a lot of outcome in one of these little,
demure Presbyterian lassies. Of course, if she has no better
luck than to marry one of her own people, that settles it! She
will go through life mooning and mincing about, like a turkey
hen come off her nest. She will pass her life thinking that
going to hear sermons and lectures is the chief end of man,
and that pipping, spiced gingerbread, and cracked walnuts,
served in a chilly parlor, are fit Christian entertainments.
She may even live and die thinking she is happy, not
knowing any better.
But if, perchance, good fortune brings her a knight with a
feather in his bonnet, and it catches her little meek eye, as it
is mighty apt to do; if, after prayerful consideration her strait-
laced parents decide that it is best or her happiness to let her
go, even at her soul's peril; if all doubts and dangers past,
she is borne triumphantly
away, her bonnet-box stuffed with the Shorter Catechism and
all orthodox kirk rudiments, - I assure you it is
surprising how promptly the little bud expands, and how
quickly she adapts herself to new surroundings.
I speak whereof I know.
How long we have been in Lexington without reporting for duty!
LOOKING eastward from the front of the tavern where the
stage-coach deposited us, the barracks, mess-hall, professors'
houses, parade ground, and limits of the Virginia
Military Institute were in view upon a hill about half a mile
distant.
My first care was to send a messenger with a note
announcing my arrival to my cousin Louis, who had preceded
me at the Institute by a year. When he came, he
explained that his tardiness was due to the length of time it
required for an application for permission to leave the limits of
the Institute to pass through the necessary official channels.
His greeting was hearty and joyous, it had been a long
time since he had seen any relative from the outside world,
and this little release was quite a lark. How well and bright-
eyed he looked in his tight-fitting shell jacket! When we
parted at Norfolk a year before, he was an easy-going, slack-
twisted little civilian, without particularly attractive dress or
bearing. Now, he carried himself like a fighting-cock. Exercise
had hardened him and developed his figure, his clothing
fitted him like a glove, and there was an
easy confidence in his manner. In a
word, he had been licked into military shape.
We sallied forth together to report for duty at
office of the superintendent, General Francis H. Smith.
His study was a very attractive place: it was a hexagonal
room, well lit; bookcases stood about the walls, and it was
ornamented with a number of striking military pictures chiefly
French; a bright wood-fire crackled in the open fireplace. In a
former chapter I alluded to General Smith. He had, at the time
about which I write, been superintendent twenty-three years,
although he was then only about fifty.
Your elderly soldier is generally of one of two types: one is
the rubicund, thunderous type; the other, the lean pale,
spectacled, quiet type. There are modifications and variations
of these two generic classifications, of course: but under one
or the other the great mass of elderly soldiers may be
grouped.
To the latter belonged General Smith. He was tall thin, agile;
in youth he had been an extreme blonde, his lithe figure still
bore a soldierly aspect. His face was that of a student, with
that expression emphasized by the gold spectacles through
which he looked keenly; those spectacles were so much a
part of him that he was universally known as "Old Spex." As
he sat in his office in his blue uniform, with one leg crossed
over the other, many a cadet has no doubt wondered how
thin those long legs really were, seeing how close they lay
together. His life had been given up entirely
to his work as superintendent; he
had traveled abroad to study foreign schools and secure
their best features; he was author of several mathematical
treatises, as well as a most admirable teacher. A prominent
churchman; a man of abstemious habits and boundless
industry; one of the best politicians in the
State-he knew every man of importance in Virginia
and had the faculty of enlisting the interest of politicians of all
parties in the success of the Virginia Military Institute. No
matter what might be the acrimony
of factions or the stress of public necessities in other
directions, his legislative appropriations never failed, and
support of his school never flagged. His tact in management
and insight into the character of cadets was marvelous. His
acquaintance with the minutest details of every department in
the school was perfect, and the personal interest which he
manifested in every cadet intrusted to his care was at once a
warning and a stimulus to the boy. He was in truth a very
remarkable man; his peculiarities were as marked as his
excellencies; and, while those peculiarities did not seriously
detract from him, they gave him a distinct individuality. A
monument to Colonel Thayer stands in front of the United
States Military Academy, describing him as the father of the
institution. One like it should be reared to General Smith at the
Virginia Military Institute, for to it he was even more a father
than was Thayer to West Point, or Arnold to Rugby.
Behind those gold spectacles, and with those long, thin
legs lapped over each other, he sat at a table writing as we
entered and stood near the door, caps in hand, at attention.
He seemed engrossed; a moment later, he lifted his eyes;
squinting a little and peering through his glasses, he caught
sight of us and exclaimed, "Ah-h! who's this?" Louis
explained. "Well, young, man, how are you? Glad to see you.
How is your father? What have you studied? How far have
you been is mathematics? In French? In Latin?" And, going
straight at the matter in hand, he plied me with queries until he
knew all that was necessary; then "Fourth-class is best for
him," he said.
Soon fixed up by the adjutant, we started for the
commandant's office across the parade ground. The
commandant of cadets, Major Scott Shipp, was a large man
with close-trimmed black hair and beard, a solemn bearing,
and a deep voice. Although he was then but twenty-one
years of age, I thought he was forty. He remained commandant
for nearly thirty years after this, and is now superintendent. In
its fifty-eight years of life, the school has had but two
superintendents. Our business with the commandant
consisted of securing an assignment to a room and to a
company, and attending to some minor details. Then we
reported to my first sergeant, who was no other than Benjamin
Colonna, our room-mate.
Louis and I found my trunk at the sallyport; whither it had
been sent from the hotel, and lugged it off to the arsenal,
which stood in the quadrangle, for no trunks were allowed in
rooms. Cadet clothing was kept in a large wardrobe, placed in
each room, divided into compartments which were assigned to
the respective occupants.
The cadet barracks was a handsome four-storied building,
occupying three sides of a quadrangle, with towers at the
corners and at a sallyport with central arch. On the inner side
were three broad stoops running all around the building,
reached by stairways upon the stoops. The cadet quarters
opened upon these stoops. At the turrets the rooms were
double, occupied in most instances by tactical officers;
elsewhere, the rooms were single. The ventilation, light, and
heat of the quarters were excellent. The furniture of each room
consisted of a gun-rack, washstand, wardrobe; large oak table
in the centre of the room, under a gas-light; a chair for each
cadet, a book rack and a blacking-stool, beds and bedsteads.
Thirty minutes after reveille, the beds were required to be
rolled up, strapped, and stood in the corner, flanked by the
bedclothes folded. Beds could not be put down until after
tattoo. The occupants of the room were alternately detailed as
orderly for a week, and each was held responsible
for observance of regulations and for the police of the
room, which was inspected at least twice a day.
On arrival at our rooms, I had a bluff but pleasant
welcome from Colonna, who called me "Mr. Rat," and
as it was a rule of the Institute that every plebe should be
"bucked," he and Louis proceeded to attend to my case.
A bed-strap was buckled about my wrists; I was ordered
up on the table and compelled to draw up my knees, over
which my bound arms were slipped; a ramrod was run
under my knees and over my arms, and then I was rolled
over on my side, and Louis and Colonna, with a bayonet
scabbard, spelled CONSTANTINOPLE. The taps given
by these laughing friends were light, but sufficiently
stinging to make me appreciate what it might have been.
"Now, Rat, you have been bucked," laughed Colonna,
as they set me upright and loosened the cords. "If
anybody asks you whether you have been 'bucked,' say,
'Yes, sir;' be sure to say sir, d' ye understand? Then, if
they ask you whose Rat you are, say, 'Mr. Colonna's rat,
sir.' Be sure to say sir, d' ye understand? And then you
take care to say as little more as you can, for it's these
long-tongued Rats that get into trouble, d' ye
understand?" Yes, I understood. I resolved to keep that
mouth, that has gotten me in trouble all my life, shut tight.
Up to now, I had been agreeably surprised. I expected
that I should be seized upon as soon as I entered the
barracks, but so far I had seen very few cadets about. I
did not realize that it was study-hours, at which time the
cadets were in their class-rooms, or confined to quarters,
and were strictly forbidden to visit, or to loiter on the
stoops or about the archway.
"What is that?" I asked, as a drum was beaten in
the area, its sounds reverberating through the
barracks.
"First drum for dinner," said Louis; "dinner rollcall in
five minutes," and he, Colonna, and Phillips began
polishing their shoes.
"Now, Mr. Rat, if you don't want to be bullyagged,
you wait under the arch until I give the command 'Fall in!'
when the clock strikes, and then run to your place in
ranks in front of barracks. My company is on the left; I'll
wait, before giving the command 'Front,' until I see you
are in ranks, so you will not be late."
This thoughtful advice from Colonna I obeyed strictly
so that nobody troubled me. I felt quite proud in ranks
and answered to my name clearly. The companies were
side-stepped together, and then the first captain assumed
charge, broke the battalion into columns of fours, and
marched us off to the mess-hall. I had never seen a
figure quite so trim, or heard a voice quite so clarion, as
the first captain's. The crunching cadence of the step of
three hundred boys upon the gravel walk would have
made a muley cow keep step. Tramp, tramp, tramp we
went up the broad stairway of the mess-hall, and, as we
reached the hall, companies filed away to their
respective seats at the eight long tables. When all were
in place the command "Seats" was given by the first
captain, and in another instant, where all had been silent,
it was a babel of voices. Colonna had his eye on me, and
assigned me a seat; not up with him, of course, but down
at the foot with some other plebes.
It was a good, hot, smoking meal, better than I
expected and every one of us had a good, hot, smoking
appetite, as was evidenced by the quick disappearance
of the food, and the cries from the heads of tables "Beef
here, waiter," "Bread here, waiter," "Potatoes
here, waiter," which soon resounded through the hall.
Nobody but the non-commissioned officers, stationed at the
head and foot of the table, could address the waiters. These
later fairly ran in filling orders. I found a little fellow sitting next
to me who had only been in a day or two, and we had some
quiet, timid talk between ourselves.
"At-ten-tion!" rang through the hall after twenty-five
minutes consumed in consuming. Dead silence reigned where
everybody had been talking. "Rise up!" and we rose, reformed
in front of the mess-hall, were broken into columns of
fours, marched back to barracks, and as the battalion reached
its original position the command came, "Break ranks, march,"
which was the signal for a general mix-up, in a leisure period
of thirty minutes which followed each meal, during which
cadets were allowed to visit one another's rooms, and dispose
of themselves as they saw fit, until "Study drum" beat. I
thought trouble was in store for me then, for I discovered in
the mess-hall not less than a dozen former acquaintances,
most of whom were old cadets, and they discovered me. I
apprehended that they would have something to say to me,
and, knowing of my recent arrival, might amuse themselves at
my expense; but it was not so bad as I expected. Such of them
as I met after the corps was dismissed spoke to me with civility
and passed on. It was, as I afterwards learned, etiquette in an
old cadet acquaintance not to torture a plebe whom he had
known elsewhere. Being old cadets, they would not associate
with a plebe, but, unless he was "impudent," they so far
recognized former acquaintanceship as to let him alone.
Before I reached the sallyport, however, several strange,
saucy, and piratical-looking young Hessians had their eyes
upon me, and my relief was very great when Louis, my
guardian angel, came hurrying down from A
Company, and with an air of authority said, "Here, sir Rat,
you come with me." His whole manner changed as soon as we
were out of their presence, and he said, "Those chaps would
have drawn you into conversation in another minute, and then
they would have had a lot of fun out of you."
The permit to go out of limits, which Louis had obtained in
the morning, was good until dress parade, and he proposed
that we should go out and about. Before we left, I learned the
meaning of his talk about "buying apples with my coat."
During the half hour after dinner, a number of mountain
women, with bags and baskets of apples, appeared in front of
barracks, and the cadets carried on the liveliest imaginable
trading with them, exchanging old clothes for apples.
At West Point, the cadet old clothes are religiously
preserved and sold, and their proceeds are applied to a mess-
fund. The interest on that fund is expended upon the cadet
mess, and the fund has already grown so large that the
character of cadet fare is much improved, and the cost of the
mess to cadets is materially reduced. Think what might have
been accomplished at the Virginia Military Institute if this
same policy had been pursued! Instead of that, for fifty-eight
years the cadets have been allowed to throw away their old
clothes in the most reckless fashion. I have seen many a cadet
jacket traded off for half a peck of apples; and if a cadet were
really hungry, I think he would trade the coat on his back for
one apple-pie.
That afternoon our stroll took us down to the river, where
the terminus of the canal was located. There were in those
days no railroads running into Lexington. The stage coach
and this primitive means of travel were its only public means
of communication with the outside
world. I soon learned where the laundries were, and where the
boys skated in cold weather, and what were the different points of
interest. Louis led me to the house of an old Irishman who sold
cider and cakes to the cadets, and we regaled ourselves. Then
we came back by the rear way up the stream called the Nile,
which runs behind the Institute grounds, and clambered up
the bluffs and stole around to the bakery where old Judge, the
baker, gave us a hot loaf just drawn from the oven, it having
been cooked for the cadets' supper. Louis explained that we
were out of limits now, as cadets were forbidden to visit the
bakery, and, if caught, received five demerits and an extra tour
of guard duty. The sensation of disobeying orders was rather
pleasant, I confess. Judge was a wonderful old negro; he had
been there many years. In appearance, he was a black Sancho
Panza, fat and puffing and jolly; he was a darkey of moods.
Sometimes his mood was religious, sometimes it was profane;
but, whether the one or the other, he was always amusing.
Out of that first introduction grew a long friendship with
Judge, and when he confronted St. Peter, the pile of bread
stacked up against him in Heaven must hare been
tremendous; for every cadet who was at Lexington in the
thirty years of his stewardship received from him at least ten
loaves stolen from the Commonwealth of Virginia. Bless his
hot, jolly, fat, black, flour-smirched, roguish memory! His
portrait, with his baker's cap jauntily tipped, now adorns the
cadet mess-hall in the company of generals and other
distinguished citizen departed.
Then we visited old Reilly, another famous character.
Stone blind, the old fellow earned a good living making hair
mattresses for the cadets. He measured, cut, sewed,
trimmed, bound, filled, and knotted mattresses as well as any
one could do with the finest eyesight. He was an ardent
politician, and a devoted admirer of my father. The old man
was always delighted to receive visitors, and was full of cadet
knowledge and reminiscence as he sat there, blind as a bat, but
working like a beaver.
Then we strolled to the regions in rear of the professors'
houses, where Louis showed me, near the bluffs, in a wooded
spot, a sort of natural amphitheatre, which he described as the
"fighting-ground." Seated on the edge of this depression, he
entered on a vivid and thrilling description of the last great
battle here, which had taken place between the present first
captain, in his third class year, and another cadet; it was very
interesting.
"But," he said, "of course he
would not fight any more. First
and second class men are above fighting. They frown it down
and punish it. Only yearlings like myself and plebes like you
fight, you know."
"Yes," said I; but I did not know any such thing until he
told it to me. Thus we went on, he teaching and I absorbing
like a sponge, all the while having a suspicion that I might see
the "fighting-ground" again some day. Just then we caught
the sound of a drum: "Rap, rap, rap, - rap, rap, rap, - rap, rap,
rap, - rap, rap, rap, rap, - rap, rap, rap."
Springing to his feet, he exclaimed: "Gracious! there is dress
parade; we must run for it." So off we sped, running by the rear
of the professors' houses and scrambling over the stile,
reaching the barracks as the boys were streaming down the
stairways, pulling on their gloves and arranging their
accoutrements. Louis barely saved his distance, and came
tearing through the arch just as the command, "Fall in!" was
sung out by the four first sergeants. I went with a squad of
plebes, who
without arms were marched out after the companies and
formed on the left of the battalion.
It was a brave sight when the drums and fifes struck up (we
had no band in those days); the colors marched forth and
gave the alignment; the companies followed and formed on
the colors, and the officer in charge put the battalion through
its drill. Then we marched back and were dismissed. Evening
parade, supper, study hours, tattoo, taps, came in their regular
order; and as I went to sleep, soon after taps inspection, it
was with the thought that this had been one of the most
eventful and delightful days I ever spent.
Reveille! What part of cadet routine is so well remembered
as that? Awakened at crack of dawn from dreamless sleep by
the long-drawn notes of fife and drum, our first semi-
conscious impulse was to slumber on, soothed by the drowsy
tune. Not long such thoughts, however; for, with a quick rude
of the drums, the tune was changed. A gay and lilting
quickstep took its place, crashing up and down and through
the dormitories. Quick, responsive lights were twinkling in a
hundred rooms, where but a few moments before all was
silence. Three hundred youngsters were hurrying for the
ranks. As if to mock their haste, the tune changed again, and
the music went floating off once more into dreamland, while
tile cadets grew more impetuous in their preparations. Then
the last tune came. This was no sluggard's lullaby. It was a
ringing summons to the front, in which the drums seemed to
be trying to drown the air the fifes were piping gayly. The
latest plebe in barracks knew the words:
"Wake-up-rats-and-come-to Reveille
If-you-want to get-your-corp-orality,
Wake up rats! Come to Reveille
If you want to get YOUR corporalite-e-e-e-e!"
Then, with three long rolls and two final thumps, the music
ceased.
Towards the close of this matin concert, stoops, stairs, and
archway swarmed with hundreds of cadets, half-awake,
hurrying to their places in the forming ranks. As the last
laggard whisked through the sallyport, struggling to avoid
being late, the chill morning air resounded with the commands
of the first sergeants: "Fall in A Compane-e-e-e! Fall in B and
C and D Compane-e-e e!" Then, after a moment's pause,
sergeant after sergeant gave the command, "Front!" and
away they went, rattling off the rolls with surprising noise and
speed. Then came another pause, in which, as the boys stood
shivering in the nipping daybreak, the first sergeants spotted
absentees by repeating their names with marvelous and
unerring accuracy.
Ranks broken, the cadets, with heads drawn in and hands
stuck in their waistbands, went back to quarters in sullen
silence, or with deep anathemas upon reveille.
Yet how beautiful it was! On the eastern face of forest, peak,
and barrack-tower the blush of morning shone, while all else
was in shadow. Against the glowing east, the undulating sky-
line of the distant Blue Ridge was cut clear and strong, with
purple shadows filling in the space between us and them, save
where the valley mists were tipped with morning light.
Correggio could not paint nor Claud attain the limpid high-
lights, the clear-obscure, the deep visible-invisible, of those
exquisite autumn daybreaks in the mountains.
Old boys, wherever you may be, have you forgotten them?
About them, even then, there was a sentiment, - a sentiment
which deepens as the years roll by. We were looking upon the
shining morning face not only of nature,
but of life also. Yes, in memory the shining morning faces
of those schoolboys still live, framed in a setting of mountain
peaks and barrack towers, gilded by the first faint rays of
sunrise.
Thirty minutes after reveille found the plebes assembled
in squads of three or four, and marched away by old
cadets for awkward-squad exercises upon the parade ground.
Drill until the drum for breakfast dispensed
with all need of appetizing tonics.
After breakfast, academic exercises not having been
resumed as yet, the squad drills were continued, and far and
wide on the parade the groups of plebes were to be seen, and
the voice of the drill-master was heard.
So far, all had gone well with me. Beyond some little
chaffing, no old cadet had troubled me, and the squad-
marcher had complimented me on attention and promptness.
We were resting. A squad of plebes, moved at double time,
were brought down to where we were standing and halted
near us, by a stocky, aggressive-looking old cadet. Having
ordered a rest, Sprague (that was his name) came over to
speak to our drill-master. "I'm giving those Rats thunder!"
said he, pointing to the panting plebes. And so he was. Instead
of practicing his squad in setting-up exercises, he was
prancing them all over the parade ground. "What sort of Rats
have you got?" said he, looking us over in an insolent way.
"Oh, a fair enough lot," said our squad-marcher, an easy-going
but efficient man. Sprague looked at us keenly, and asked our
names. Some look of mine, I presume, or the fact that I was
nearest to him, made him continue his probing of me, and I
was not very civil.
"Why, Mr. Rat, you are impudent," said he. Then
glancing around to see that the sub-professor in charge
was not looking, he commanded me to "hold up." That meant
that I was to hold up my hand and let him twist my arm. By
this time I was piping hot, but had sense enough to keep silent.
"Hold up, sir!" said he peremptorily.
"Shut up, sir!" replied I; and there, all the wise counsel
which Louis and Colonna had given me, and all the good
resolves I had made, were vanished into thin air with those
three words.
"Mr. Rat," said he, drawing close to me, and shaking his
finger in my face as he hissed the words, "I will attend to you
as soon as we get back to barracks. I'll take some of that
rebellious spirit out of you. See if I don't." I was about to
answer him with defiance, when our squad was called to
attention and drill was resumed. It is not difficult to appreciate
that the remainder of that drill was far from being a period of
happiness. All the time, I was calculating how to receive the
attack. Finally, I counted that if I could succeed in reaching
our room, I might take a musket, and defend myself with a bayonet.
Sprague looked like a game one, and I knew that he would
have plenty of backers. When the recall beat, our squad was
near barracks. We went in on double time and when the
squad was dismissed, I made a bold lash for the archway. I
thought I was safe, for I had nearly reached the sallyport; but
when almost in, I saw Sprague dismiss his squad and start
after me, calling, "Catch that Rat!"
Through the arch we sped, and it seemed as if I would reach
our room upon the second stoop, for I was nearly at
the stairway. But! but! but! Just at that moment a
tremendous fellow shot like a goshawk from the door I
was about to pass, and, slipping his right arm about my
waist, nearly lifted me from the ground and held me tight
as a vise until Sprague and a dozen others came up.
Infuriated beyond all control, I struck
out like a clever fellow, but they bore me straight along, up the
steps and into the first room on the second stoop, and in a
jiffy had me bound and on a table. In another instant I should
have felt the brass ferrule of a bayonet-scabbard administered
without pity. The room was filled with cadets, all bent on
disciplining a rebellious Rat.
At the very crisis, the crowd near the doorway swayed
back and forth. Some one exclaimed, "Get out of the way, or I'll
plunge this bayonet into you!" and Louis bounded in, with
gleaming eyes, his jaws set like a bull pup's. Rushing up to
Sprague he said, "No, sir! You'll not buck that Rat!"
"Yes, I will," said Sprague.
"Not unless you can whip me!" was the game reply of
Louis, as he began to slip off his jacket. "I bucked him
yesterday, and I asked Boggess all about what happened
on the parade ground, and he says you provoked and
teased the Rat until you forced him to be impudent. You
shan't touch him." With that he sprang towards me to
unloose the fastenings. The crowd grew agitated. Sprague
made a motion to fight, and in another instant we should
have had a pretty mess, when -
"Rap, rap, rap! Rap, rap, rap!" came sharp and
loud upon the door. Everybody knew what it meant.
Somebody, quick as lightning, undid the straps, jerked me off
the table, and stood me on my feet; and Captain
Semmes, the officer in charge, walked into the room serenely.
With a dignified and inquiring look at the cadets now
crowded back against the walls, he said, "Gentlemen, what's
all this disturbance?"
Louis was slipping on his cadet jacket, and, sidling up
to me, said, "Don't say a word. Whatever you do, don't
peach."
"What does this all mean, gentlemen?" repeated the
captain, in louder and more peremptory tones.
Sprague at last spoke up: "Oh, nothing; I just had a little
misunderstanding with that gentleman there," pointing to me.
I was so elated by the unexpected turn things had taken that
my good-nature had returned, and when Captain Semmes
turned to me and asked what it all meant, I said, "Oh, we were
just trying to see who was strongest."
"Go to your rooms, gentlemen, all of you, at once!" said
Captain Semmes, waiting to see that his orders were carried
out; and then he departed, without seeking too many
explanations, for in his day he had been a terror to plebes.
"Well, Mr. Rat!" said Louis, when we reached our rooms,
and found fat Colonna sitting there, still wearing his sword
and sash, laughing at our discomfiture, "you have put your
foot in it, sure enough. You have not only made yourself a
target, but I expect that round-shouldered long-armed, bull-
yearling of a Sprague will beat me to death about this
business."
Then Colonna, who was above the dignity of such scrapes,
but had witnessed my race and capture, nearly had fits
describing how big Wood had seized me, and how they had
turned me upside down going up the steps, and how I nearly
kicked Billy Mason's eye out, and a lot of other things that
did and did not happen; for Colonna was a great tease.
Dinner drum was sounded, and I went down, reflecting
that the first twenty-four hours of my military life were
completed.
A day or two afterwards, academic studies were resumed. With
mathematics, Latin, French, and drawing added to military
duties, there was little time for play.
A half day's holiday on Saturday, during which we were
permitted to leave the Institute limits, gave us but scant
opportunity for diversion. Even the letters of introduction I
had brought, to the families of some of the professors,
remained undelivered for lack of time.
The winter of 1862-63 was cold enough. While the army of
General Lee was encamped about Fredericksburg, after a
gallant defense of the place, we, "the seed-corn of the
Confederacy," as Mr. Davis called us, were very comfortably
cared for in barracks, which were heated and lighted as well
as if no war had been in progress.
There was no lack of news from the front. An older
brother of Louis had been captured at Roanoke Island, and,
while awaiting exchange, was acting as tactical officer of A
Company, and sub-professor of mathematics. He was a sober-
minded, earnest fellow, always watchful over us, and he
occasionally sent for us to come to his quarters, that he might
advise, or warn, or rebuke us in an affectionate and
considerate way. We were devoted to him, and prized his good
opinion more than that of anybody else. He bore my father's
name, and counted me as much in his charge as his own
brother. By our access to his quarters opportunity was given
us from time to time to hear a great deal of news from the
front, for never a great battle came off but numbers of
Virginia Military Institute boys were in it, and they seemed
to have a talent for getting killed or wounded. Those from far
Southern States, instead of going to Alabama or Mississippi
or Louisiana during their short leaves, would come to the
Virginia Military Institute, room with some sub-professor of
their own class, and assist in teaching until sufficiently
restored to return to duty.
Captain Henry A. Wise was a universal favorite with
the graduates, and his quarters were seldom without some
occupant of the class described above. Everybody
connected with the Institute had a nickname: General
Smith was "Old Spex," Colonel Preston
was "Old Bald,"
Stonewall Jackson was "Old Jack,"
General Colton "Old
Polly," Colonel Williamson "Old Tom," Colonel Gilliam
"Old Gill," and down to the youngest
"sub" all were nicknamed, and seldom
referred to save by
their sobriquets. For some reason, Captain Wise was called
"Chinook." Nobody knew exactly why. Among the cadets,
every man of prominence had a nickname: there was "Dad"
Wyatt, so called for age, and "Dad"
Nelson for extreme
youth, and "Duck" Colonna for his
short legs, and "Bull"
Temple for his strength, and "Jane"
Creighton for his
gentleness, and so on, ad infinitum Louis and I escaped
naming until a third cadet of our name arrived. He was an
odd fish, a cousin of both of us, who, while not very studious
in things taught there, had studied "The Adventures of
Simon Suggs" until he knew them by heart, and quoted
them on all occasions. He soon became known as "Suggs,"
and the cognomen spread until all three of us were called
"Suggs J.," "Suggs L.," and "Suggs W.," as if we never had
any other names. One day the corporal of the guard reported
me for noise on the stoop, and inadvertently entered me on
the delinquent list as "Suggs J." The adjutant knew
whom he meant, but reported him for carelessness.
After the battle of Fredericksburg, we heard all about it in
the rooms of "Old Chinook," from men who had
participated in its glories. I forget who they were, but it was
probably "Sheep" Floweree of Mississippi, or "Bute"
Henderson, or "Tige" Hardin, or "Marsh" McDonald, all
of whom, at one time or another, turned up
there. To the outside world, they were colonels and majors,
etc.: at the Virginia Military Institute, they were "Sheep"
and "Bute" and "Tige." Many a day out of study hours,
from their lips we would drink in the story of the repulse of
Meagher's Irish Brigade at Marye's Heights, or how Hayes
made his stand at Hamilton Crossing, or Pender at the
railroad, or how Stuart's Horse Artillery raked Franklin's
Corps on the Rappahannockflats. Very few boys have had
such practical lessons in the art of war.
Poor "Chinook," who longed for his exchange, and chafed
at the delays which made him miss these battles, looked
dreadfully depressed, and as for ourselves, Louis and I felt
it was an outrage that we were penned up and kept away
from these wondrous sights and scenes.
In February, we had a cold, hard freeze; all drills were
suspended; the North River was hard-frozen. At evening
parade on Friday, an order was published announcing
that a supply of ice for the following summer was most
desirable; that, owing to the number of laborers who
had volunteered, the superintendent was unable to secure
the necessary force to save the ice-crop; and that every
cadet who would volunteer for Saturday to work at filling
the ice-houses of the Institute should have three afternoons'
leave, from dinner to dress-parade, the following week, for
skating. At the call for volunteers the corps stepped to the
front as one man. Of course they did; what better fun than
that did anybody want?
The next morning, cadets were ordered to put on old
clothes. The companies were divided into working squads,
and marched to the river. We had all the saws, and axes,
and ice-hooks, and slides, and horses we needed. The
strongest men went out and cut the ice; the smaller
chaps were worked in teams, with ropes to secure it and
drag it to the wagons. Some of the country boys were
detailed as teamsters. Squads were stationed at the ice-
houses to receive and dump the loads. Fires were built
along the river banks. Those drowsy country horses were
never pushed so hard, or heard the whips crack so loudly as
they did that day. We went to work in relays. "Old Spex"
had rations and hot coffee served upon the river bank. And
when the cold sun was sinking in a red western sky, the
corps, its work completely done, filled with joyous
anticipations for the coming week, was trotting homeward
across the bridge at a double-quick, the happiest, jolliest
set of youngsters in the Southern Confederacy.
Then came the skating time. News of our holiday spread
over the town, and all the pretty girls in Lexington, and
many of the citizens, were there to see the sport.
There was no lack of skates; the arsenal, long since
disappeared, stood in the barracks' quadrangle in those
days. It was the general depository of all the things left by
the cadets who marched to the war in 1861. I fear little
regard was paid to their vested rights. Nearly every old
trunk in that arsenal had by this time been rifled. Many a
cadet jacket and trousers, left there by some old cadet with
the purpose of returning for it some day, had been
"appropriated" long ago, worn out, and traded off for
apples. In cadet morals, this is not stealing. The conditions
existing there at any time amount almost to communism;
at the period referred to, the seizure of everything required
was justified under the plea of military necessity.
Fortunately, the arsenal was burned by General Hunter in
1864, so that the absent cadets who had been robbed of their skates doubtless
thought their goods were destroyed by fate of war, and never
knew that they had been used by their own comrades; else
had there been, I fear, after the war, grave charges against
all of us.
Among the débris piled helter-skelter in the arsenal,
after the sundry pickings-over to which its contents had
been subjected, somebody found an old drum-major's shako,
relic of the pomp and panoply of peace times. The first
appearance of this shako in public was on the head of a long-
legged cadet, who wore it in a game of shinny at our ice
carnival. It was not long before a bandy-stick knocked his
shako in the air. That was suggestion enough. Soon another
cadet took a crack at it, and its wearer, dodging and racing,
went streaming, away with fifty fellows following.
Out of this grew a famous game called "tapping the
shako." Whoever was fast enough to catch the wearer, and
tap his shako, became entitled to place it on his head, and
wear it until a fleeter-footed skater won it from him. It was
but a little while, of course, before it fell into the hands of
the best skater and most adroit dodger in the corps; and
then the concentrated energies of a hundred men to
overhaul its owner furnished marvelous excitement and
noble sport. In one of these contests, the race was prolonged
almost, if not quite, to Loch Laird, five miles down the river.
The sport elicited wonderful displays of endurance, agility,
and pluck.
On our last day, we gave an unexpected exhibition. The
weather had moderated, but apparently not enough to
make the ice dangerous. In fact, however, the freeze had
been so sudden that the ice wa
