The thread for our muslins was dyed a deep plum color. In the

case of each of our four dresses, the warp was the same: twelve

or fourteen threads of the plum color and three threads of white

alternating with the plum color and white thread the width and

length of the cloth. The older daughter and I had ours filled in

solid with plum color, which, with the narrow white stripes in

the warp, made a very neat dress. The two other girls had theirs

checked with white, so as to form a square with the white stripe

in the warp; then small bits of crimson merino were placed in the

centre of the square. Our muslins reminded me of “Swiss muslins,”

with their raised flowers of silk or fine wool thread. When we

first appeared in them, they were mistaken for the genuine imported

muslins.

Soon after completing and wearing our home-made muslins, news came

into our settlement that a steamer had run the blockade, and that

the city of Eufaula had secured some bolts of prints and other

notions. The Saturday following the report, Mr. G---- ordered

Ben to harness up the horses, and we were driven to Eufaula, not

to buy, but simply to have a look at these imports. Sure enough,

on the shelves in the store that had long lain empty, there were

tastefully disposed a few bolts of English prints, some ladies’

straw hats, a bolt or two of fine bleached stuff, some calico, and

a few pairs of ladies’ shoes. These were the magnets which had

drawn us eleven miles! We had fondly imagined ourselves satisfied

with our home-made cloth, and had said of it, as David of the sword

of Goliath, “There is none like that; give it me.” When we had

held aloft our knit and cloth-made shoes and slippers, with the

words, “What do we care for the blockade when we can make such as

these?” we had little dreamed that our firmness would so suddenly

collapse before about three bolts of calico and a few pairs of

black morocco shoes, lined with red and deep blue leather, laced

high and scalloped around the top edge. Yet so it was, for when

the merchant unfolded to our view his brand-new prints, looking

so fresh and novel, we four had nine yards apiece cut off, paying

twelve dollars per yard for it. It was something over a yard wide,

and as we knew nothing of the ruffling, puffing, plaiting, tucking,

or shirring of overskirts or polonaises outside the blockade, nine

yards were amply sufficient for a dress.

The design of that print is yet vivid to my memory. The background

was a pale blending of violet with white; the foreground was

dotted with violets of a deep purple color. I bought the same day

a plain brown straw hat, paying one hundred dollars for it, and

a half quire of small white note-paper for forty dollars. A pair

of morocco gaiters cost one of the daughters three hundred and

seventy-five dollars. We surely will be pardoned, if we felt some

pride in wearing muslins that we had manufactured with our own

hands, and fresh new calicoes which had cost each of us one hundred

and eight dollars.

Our neighbors, as soon as it was noised about in that quiet

settlement (where it seemed almost impossible for tidings of the

outside world to come) that we had new store-bought calicoes, all

paid us a visit in order that they might see how a new print looked

amidst so much home-woven cloth; and a bit of the scraps left was

given each visitor. I sent a small scrap of my new calico--our

war-time calicoes, as we then and afterward called them--in

a letter to my relatives in Georgia. Whenever any one was so

fortunate as to secure a new print, small scraps of it were sent in

letters to friends and relatives, so rare were new calicoes.

Indeed, it was not at all uncommon for friends or relatives to

send small samples of new homespun cloth to one another in letters

whenever what was thought to be a particularly good pattern had

been devised, or the colors were exceptionally brilliant.

A woman who was a neighbor of ours made herself what really was an

elegant dress for the times. The material was an old and well-worn

black silk dress, altogether past renovating, and fine white lint

cotton. The silk was all ripped up, and cut into narrow strips,

which were all raveled and then mixed with the lint cotton and

passed through the cotton cards two or three times, so as to have

the mixture homogeneous. It was then carded and spun very fine,

great pains being taken in the spinning to have no unevenness in

the threads. Our neighbor managed to get for the warp of her mixed

silk and cotton dress a bunch of number twelve thread, from cotton

mills in Columbus, Georgia, fifty miles from our settlement, and

generally a three days’ trip. She dyed the thread, which was very

fine and smooth, with the barks of the sweet-gum and maple trees,

which made a beautiful gray. Woven into cloth, it was soft and

silky to the touch, and of a beautiful color. It was corded with

the best pieces of the worn silk, and trimmed with pasteboard

buttons covered with some of the same silk.

Some very rich-appearing and serviceable winter woolen dresses were

made of the wool of white and brown sheep mixed, carded, spun and

woven just so; then long chains of coarser spun wool thread dyed

black and red were crocheted and braided in neat designs on the

skirt, sleeves, and waist of these brown and white mixed dresses of

wool.

Of course braid and tape could not be bought, nor could we weave

that sufficiently narrow to make a neat appearance on dress goods;

but we soon found that long chains of crochet-thread would answer

nicely for braiding. Balls of it were crocheted of various colors;

black, white, red, blue, and dark brown were the colors most used.

It was braided on in various ways; sometimes singly, at times we

would sew three or four chains together of colors to blend, making

the tape an inch or more wide. And thus it was placed upon our

dresses.

The extent and variety of our cloth manufacture, our fertility

in making designs, our different ways of weaving, were really

remarkable. We made cloth in stripes broad and narrow, and in

checks wide and small. We made plain cloth, twilled cloth, jeans,

and salt-and-pepper cloth, the latter by alternating one thread

of white and one thread of black the width and length of the

warp, and the same in the woof. This was a slow process, as the

shuttles, with the quills of black and white thread, were changed

at every tap of the batten. Plaids were woven both of wool and

cotton thread. They required three and four shuttles and as many

varieties of color. We had “dice”-woven homespun, or “basket

plait,” as some would call it, which required three or four

treadles and as many different ways of tramping them to form the

plait. When the warp was dyed a solid red or deep garnet and filled

in with blue, or perhaps purple, slate, or black, as one wished, or

when the warp was dyed blue and filled in with whatever other color

pleased the eye, such cloth we called our “chambrey.”

Sometimes lint cotton was dyed a deep and a pale blue, and then

carded and spun as dyed. If the warp was of deep blue the woof

would be pale blue; or the woof would be deep blue thread and the

warp pale blue. It was woven solid and tipped with bright bits of

silk, cassimere, merino, or other fine woolen scraps, which, cut in

small pieces, were woven in the meshes of thread.

Cloth was woven with two, three, four, and five treadles. An

ingenious way the weaver had of tramping the treadles would throw

up on the right or upper side of the cloth whatever design was

placed in front of the weaver’s eye. Some beautiful carpets of

wool, dyed a variety of bright colors, were woven on our common

house-loom; and large woolen coverlets as well as woolen and cotton

flannels were made in the same manner.

I often wonder how we were able so quickly to adapt ourselves to

the great changes rendered necessary in our modes of life by the

blockade. But be it remembered that the Southerners who were so

reduced and so compelled to rely entirely upon their own resources

belonged to the Anglo-Saxon race, a race which, despite all prating

about “race equality,” has civilized America. The reflection to

which memory gives rise when I recall war times in the South is

this, that “blood will tell.”

As to our cotton flannel, while it was rather heavy for every-day

wear, it was just the thing for capes and cloaks, and was often

made into blankets. The filling was spun rather coarse and very

softly twisted. If it was to be used for capes or cloaks the raw

cotton was dyed whatever color was made choice of before carding

and spinning; if the flannel was to be used for blankets the lint

cotton was carded and spun white. When placed in the loom for

weaving the treadles were tramped in a manner which threw up the

coarse, soft spun woof very nearly all on the upper side of the

cloth. Two or three heavy beats of the batten were given to pack

the filling close and dense. When so much had been woven and was

still smoothly and tightly drawn over the breast-beam, one of a

pair of cotton-cards was used by the hand to raise the lint of the

coarse, soft-twisted, tightly-packed filling, till it was perfectly

smooth and downy. It would then be passed over the cloth-beam, and

again so much would be woven; then it left the loom-bench, and with

the card the lint was raised again in the same manner. And so the

process of weaving and stopping to raise the lint with the cards

would go on to the end of the warp. It was a slow and tedious way

of making cotton flannel, but a large quantity was made. That which

was dyed a very dark brown, and with which great pains had been

taken in raising the lint, was, at some little distance, sometimes

mistaken for sealskin. So much for the ingenuity of the women of

southern Alabama.

Soon after we had finished our self-imposed task of carding and

spinning the warp and woof for our four dresses, and it had been

noised far and wide in our neighborhood that we had had patience to

hold out until the task was completed, one of our acquaintances,

a young lady, set to to excel us, in that she was not only going

to card and spin the warp and woof for a new homespun, but was

herself going to weave the thread she had spun into cloth for her

dress. She finally arrived at the loom with her warp and woof and

commenced with great joy the weaving. Her homespun warp proved

to be quite defective. There were more or less broken threads to

mend in the run of any warp, even that spun at the cotton mills,

which was always stronger than hand-spun warp. At first, when the

threads of warp would break on either the cloth-beam or thread-beam

side, she would leave the loom-bench and mend the broken threads;

but she became impatient and wearied at the oft-breaking threads

(sometimes three or four would snap asunder at once), and by the

time she had woven three or four yards she had tired altogether of

mending and piecing, so she began to leave the threads hanging

wherever they happened to snap apart, and soon a thick fringe of

thread was hanging from the sides and middle of the cloth on both

sides the harness and sley. She kept on weaving, however, saying

she had enough for the plain skirt, and, as it narrowed, that

would cut the waist, and if it narrowed yet more, why that would

make the sleeves; but the more threads that broke the fewer were

there to sustain the remaining ones, so that the cloth, from being

a good yard wide at the beginning, narrowed to less than half a

foot, and after the first two or three yards was useless for any

purpose, and there ended that homespun that was to be the wonder

of the settlement. We felt nowise inclined to exult over our

friend’s failure, for we no doubt would have suffered defeat had we

attempted to weave our spun warp. It required no little patience

to work with warp the threads of which were every now and then

breaking, for every thread had to be mended as soon as it broke,

or if not, thin, flimsy places would occur all through the web,

and the cloth would not wear long enough to pay for the trouble of

carding, spinning, and weaving.

VIII.

One of our most difficult tasks was to find a good substitute for

coffee. This palatable drink, if not a real necessary of life, is

almost indispensable to the enjoyment of a good meal, and some

Southerners took it three times a day. Coffee soon rose to thirty

dollars per pound; from that it went to sixty and seventy dollars

per pound. Good workmen received thirty dollars per day; so it took

two days’ hard labor to buy one pound of coffee, and scarcely any

could be had even at that fabulous price. Some imagined themselves

much better in health for the absence of coffee, and wondered why

they had ever used it at all, and declared it good for nothing any

way; but “Sour grapes” would be the reply for such as they. Others

saved a few handfuls of coffee, and used it on very important

occasions, and then only as an extract, so to speak, for flavoring

substitutes for coffee.

There were those who planted long rows of the okra plant on the

borders of their cotton or corn fields, and cultivated this with

the corn and cotton. The seeds of this, when mature, and nicely

browned, came nearer in flavor to the real coffee than any other

substitute I now remember. Yam potatoes used to be peeled, sliced

thin, cut into small squares, dried, and then parched brown; they

were thought to be next best to okra for coffee. Browned wheat,

meal, and burnt corn made passable beverages; even meal-bran

was browned and used for coffee if other substitutes were not

obtainable.

We had several substitutes for tea which were equally as palatable,

and, I fancy, more wholesome, than much that is now sold for tea.

Prominent among these substitutes were raspberry leaves. Many

during the blockade planted and cultivated the raspberry-vine all

around their garden palings, as much for tea as the berries for

jams or pies; these leaves were considered the best substitute for

tea. The leaves of the blackberry bush, huckleberry leaves, and

the leaves of the holly-tree when dried in the shade, also made a

palatable tea.

Persimmons dried served for dates.

Each household made its own starch, some of the bran of wheat

flour. Green corn and sweet potatoes were grated in order to make

starch. This process was very simple. The grated substance was

placed to soak in a large tub of water; when it had passed through

the process of fermentation and had risen to the surface, the

grated matter was all skimmed off, the water holding the starch

in solution was passed through a sieve, and then through a thin

cloth to free altogether from any foreign substance. A change of

clear water twice a day for three or four days was made to more

thoroughly bleach the starch. It would then be put on white cloth,

placed on scaffolds in the yard, and left to drip and dry. Starch

of wheat bran was made in the same manner. It was as white and fine

as any ever bought.

A good makeshift had soon been devised for putty and cement, and

the artlessness of it will perhaps cause a smile to flit across

the face of glaziers. But no cement could be bought, and this was

useful in many ways, as panes of glass had to be set in, or a break

to be mended; the handle broken from a pitcher to be placed on

anew, or repairing done to table ware. When it was necessary to

repair any such breaks, a Spanish potato (none other of the species

of that esculent root answered so well) was roasted in hot ashes,

peeled while yet hot, immediately mashed very fine, and mixed with

about a tablespoonful of flour; it was then, while warm, applied to

whatever need there was. This paste, when it had become hardened,

remained fixed and firm, and was as durable as putty.

In place of kerosene for lights, the oil of cotton seed and ground

peas, together with the oil of compressed lard, was used, and

served well the need of the times. For lights we had also to fall

back on moulding candles, which had long years lain obsolete.

When beeswax was plentiful it was mixed with tallow for moulding

candles. Long rows of candles so moulded would be hung on the lower

limbs of wide-spreading oaks, where, sheltered by the dense foliage

from the direct rays of the sun, they would remain suspended day

and night until they were bleached as white as the sperm candles

we had been wont to buy, and almost as transparent as wax candles.

When there was no oil for the lamps or tallow for moulding

candles, which at times befell our households, mother-wit would

suggest some expedient by which the intricate problem of light

could be solved.

One evening at a neighbor’s, where we had gone to tea, when we

took our seats at the supper-table we were diverted by the lights

we were to eat by, the like of which, up to that time, we had not

seen, nor even thought of.

In the absence of any of the ordinary materials for lighting,

the good woman of the house had gone to the woods and gathered a

basketful of round globes of the sweet-gum tree. She had taken two

shallow bowls and put some lard, melted, into them, then placed

two or three of the sweet-gum balls in each of the vessels, which,

soon becoming thoroughly saturated with the melted lard, gave a

fairylike light, floating round in the shallow vessels of oil like

stars.

At other times rude lamps or candles were improvised, anything

but attractive in appearance, though the light was fairly bright.

Medium-sized bottles (of course any proper sized bottle would

answer) were taken, and several strands of spun thread twisted

together to form a wick two or three yards long were well steeped

in beeswax and tallow, and coiled around the bottle from base to

neck closely and evenly. When ready for lighting, one or more of

the coils of thread would be loosed from the bottle, raised above

the mouth an inch or so, and pressed with the thumb to the neck of

the bottle. When the wick had burned to the bottle’s mouth, the

same process of uncoiling and pressing the wick to the bottle would

be repeated. This gave a steady flame. When beeswax could not be

had, tallow was used for steeping the strands.

Sewing societies were formed in every hamlet, as well as in our

cities, to keep the soldiers of the Confederacy clothed as best

we could. They met once every week, at some lady’s house, if it

was in the country. To such societies all the cloth that could

be spared from each household was given and made into soldiers’

garments. Socks, gloves, blankets, woolen coverlets, and even

home-made bed-quilts were donated; wool scarfs, knitted on long oak

or hickory-wood needles, were sent for our soldiers in the bitter

cold of Virginia, to wrap around their necks and cover their ears.

In many settlements there were spinning “bees.” Many women whose

husbands were in the army found it uphill work to card and spin

all that was necessary to clothe a numerous family. In such cases,

as often as was needful, there would be a gathering of ladies of

the settlement, both married and single, for the “spinning bee.”

Wheels, cards, and cotton were all hauled in a wagon to the place

appointed. On the way, as often as not, a long flexible twig would

be cut from the woods, and attached to one of the spinning-wheels;

from the top of such flagstaff would play loosely to the wind, and

jolts of the wagon, a large bunch of lint cotton, as our ensign.

Sometimes as many as six or eight wheels would be whirring at the

same time in one house, and assistance was also given in weaving,

cutting out, and making up clothing for such families.

Ah, those stormy days of our convulsed country had their guileless

pleasures, as well as sorrows! We were drawn together in a closer

union, a tenderer feeling of humanity linking us all together,

both rich and poor; from the princely planter, who could scarce

get off his wide domains in a day’s ride, and who could count

his slaves by the thousand, down to the humble tenants of the

log-cabin on rented or leased land. I have now a letter written

by a Southern woman, whose husband and oldest son belonged to

an Alabama regiment, which was ordered to Island No. 10, in the

Mississippi River; and soon surrounded there as it was by the

Federal army, communication was cut off between our soldiers and

the home ones. Soon the island was captured by our enemies, and her

husband and son were taken prisoners. She was then thrown upon her

own resources entirely to provide for a family of ten, no longer

receiving the government pay of eleven dollars per month each for

husband and son. Her two oldest daughters were large enough to give

her some help in her battle to keep the wolf from the door. These

people were of those who had never owned a slave in their lives,

and who had but a few acres of land, but they were just as true and

devoted to our cause as those who numbered their slaves and acres

by the thousand. I cannot forbear quoting here a few lines of this

brave, good woman’s letter.

“We had a hard time [she writes]; myself and two oldest daughters

making a living for ten in the family. There was no work the little

boys could do. We spun and wove cloth to sell, day by day, and we

took in sewing, which was done by night. We knit a great deal, and

worked, oh, so hard! and I thank God that it was so, for had it

been otherwise, had I had time to sit and ponder over all the sad

details that the daily news brought me, I should have failed. But

when night came on, my weary, aching limbs and troubled heart were

soon at rest; and I awoke refreshed, and ready for another day’s

trials; and I am proud to say we never went to bed hungry.... We

even had some merry days, neighbors and friends meeting together,

telling our trials, and even laughing at them; feeling that the

sacrifice was little, could we but gain our cause. There is one

thing I am proud of, and that is, the advantages we took of our

resources, and our own independence. I can hardly see how such a

people could be conquered.”

She lives to-day in the “Lone Star” State, surrounded by nine of

her children, who are all good and useful citizens. Her husband

died in a Northern prison. The oldest son, who was taken prisoner

when his father was, was paroled soon after the South’s surrender,

and returned home, as thousands of others did, to join a broken

home circle.

We often thought, and said too, that it was well for us all in

the South that our minds were so taxed in devising temporary

expedients, and our hands so busied in carrying them into effect;

we really had no time to brood over the sorrowful news that the

papers were daily depicting. We were being led in a way we knew

not: and like the humble woman of the cottage, we even made merry

over our inevitable privations and inconveniences. Indeed, we grew

so accustomed to them that they scarcely seemed privations.

While hemmed in on all sides by the blockade, we used to think

that if no war were raging, and a wall as thick and high as the

great Chinese Wall were to entirely surround our Confederacy, we

should not suffer intolerable inconvenience, but live as happily

as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden before they tasted the

forbidden fruit. We used to say, “How can we be subdued, when we

have so cheerfully and uncomplainingly given up every luxury, and

in a measure even the comforts of life; and yet with what crude

resources are at hand, we are feeding and clothing the whole people

of the South, civil as well as military?” We felt all the more

pride, when we remembered that at the beginning of hostilities

we were unprepared in almost every essential necessary to the

existence of our Confederacy; yet now, the best part of two years

had gone, and the South was holding her own.

Our day of adversity had not come; it was not unnatural that we

sang with fervor and animation, “We conquer or die,” and “Farewell,

Brother Jonathan.” But we did not forget to call upon the Lord in

the day of our success, as well as in the day of our adversity.

Often the inhabitants of our settlement--and it was just the same

all over the Southern States--were called to the house of worship

to sanctify a fast. What comfort and consolation we gathered from

the reading of the first and second chapters of the book of

the Prophet Joel; how fervently and devoutly we prayed that God

would stay up the hands of our armies, till victory was won; and

trusting God we would return lifted up in spirit to our homes and

to our labor. It was well for us that we had not prophetic vision

to foresee the result of the contest. We fasted, we prayed, we

trusted; but victory did not crown our armies.

IX.

It may excite some amusement to record the fact that among the

thousand and one industries and makeshifts which blossomed into

life in southern Alabama during the period of the war, the making

of hoopskirts, which were worn extensively before, as well as

during, and even for some time after, hostilities between the North

and South, was not neglected. One of the ladies of our county

devised a means of weaving the hoopskirt on the common house-loom.

It mattered not if the tapes were all broken, and the casing all

worn off the steels, a new farthingale was warranted, if only the

steels of the worn skirt came.

There were raids made upon garrets for all old broken-up hoopskirts

and pieces of steel belonging to such skirts, which we either

carried or sent to the renovator of dilapidated hoopskirts. Her

first move was to tightly wrap the steels one by one with homespun

thread, three or four strands double, but not twisted, piecing the

steels, when necessary. An old hoopskirt not so worn was her guide

as to the proper number and length of steels. The thread for the

warp of the skirt was passed through the harness eyes and reeds of

the sley about an inch wide, which was to answer for the tape of

the skirt; a space of threads, six or more inches, was skipped in

the harness and sley; the thread for the tape again passed through

the harness and sley; another skip, and so on the length of the

sley. When ready for weaving, one of the encased steels was placed

in the openings of the narrow strips of warp, the steel projecting

about three inches on each side of the outside tape; the steel was

woven in; then about two inches or more of tape was woven; another

steel was placed in; the same length of tape woven; another steel,

and so on till all the steels required for the skirt were woven in.

The space of tape for the top of the skirt was then woven, and half

of the skirt was finished. The other half was woven in the same

manner; the projecting ends of the steels were joined and closely

wrapped, and the hoopskirt was complete so far as the weaving was

concerned.

These skirts were neat and satisfactory when finished off by hand.

The weaving was slow and difficult, however, because the shuttle

could not make a clean shoot through the narrow openings of warp,

but had to be passed through each one by hand. The maker above

referred to was another humble cottager whose husband and son were

in our army, and to use her quaint expression, she was trying “to

make both buckle and tongue meet,” while husband and son were

fighting for our cause.

It was really ridiculous, our way of making raids upon what

remained of our fine bed-linen, pillow-shams, and slips, for

garments of finer texture than our own home-woven cloth. I well

remember that once, when I stepped into a friend’s room, her very

first words were, “This is the last bleached, seamless bed-sheet

I’ve got, and now I must cut it up for garments!” I doubt very

much if a fine sheet could have been found in any house in our

settlement when the war closed. Perhaps there was not one in the

blockaded South.

Fine white pillow-shams were cut up and made into white waists, to

wear with our heavy home-made skirts in the hot summer. Sometimes

a family would happen to have a bundle of scraps of blue striped

bed-ticking, which would be divided around among the neighboring

girls. We would ravel it all up, taking care to save every blue

thread (which was a fast color) to embroider flowers on the front,

collar, and cuffs of our white waists, made of pillow-shams and

slips; and we did think them beautiful and prized them all the more

highly because of the narrow pass to which we had arrived for fine

material to tide us over till our cause should be won; and if we

used up all the fine sheets, pillow-slips, and shams of ante-bellum

days for our wear, soft homespun, home-woven sheets took their

place.

Cloth that was called thirded was woven for sheets and

pillow-slips. Two threads of warp would be passed through the reeds

of the sley for all plain or twilled cloth. For single sleyed cloth

one thread only was passed through the sley-reeds. For cloth woven

“thirded” the weaver would begin by drawing two threads through the

first reeds of the sley and one thread through the next reeds, two

threads again, and then one, thus alternating the width of the warp

two and one. When filled in with soft fine-spun filling, this stuff

was soft and yielding, and easy to handle in the wash.

Some real nice towels were woven of the thirded cloth, and edged

with wide or narrow blue borders of our home-made indigo, as that

was ever a fast color. A fringe would be formed at both ends of

the towel by raveling out an inch or so of the woof; they had to

be inspected closely to note the difference between them and those

bought in the usual manner.

Many of our women, when cotton was at its prime in opening, and

before any rain had fallen on it, would select and pick themselves

from the bolls that were the longest and fullest of the white

fleecy staple, enough for their finest knitting purposes. They

would also pick the seed from the white silky locks with their

fingers, which would spin a longer, finer thread than if it had

been ginned. I have seen socks and stockings knit of such prepared

cotton that, in point of fineness of texture, were almost the

equal, and in lasting power were more than the equal, of those

bought at stores. One of my pupils, who is yet living in southern

Alabama, prepared enough of such thread with her own hands to give

me as a present, with the expressed desire that I should knit for

myself a pair of stockings. I used very fine knitting needles, and

took great care to draw every stitch on the needles so as to have

no unevenness. Three or four inches above the instep I commenced

knitting “shell-work,” which was in fashion then. We could not have

our hose as fine as that which we had once bought, but we tried

to cover that defect by all manner of fancy designs in knitting,

such as “leaf and vine,” “clock-work,” “shell-work,” and plain or

twisted “ribs.” These covered all the upper part of the foot, and

had they been knit of fine white floss they could not have made a

better appearance.

Another article which we learned how to produce was “hair oil.”

We had plenty of roses, fragrant ones too, which we gathered, and

then filled quite a large bowl with their petals, among which we

put enough fresh, white hog’s lard to fill the bowl to the brim.

When melted, a piece of glass was placed over the bowl securely;

it was then put on a scaffold out in the yard, where the rays of

the sun could shine down upon it all day. There it remained for two

or three weeks day and night, until the petals became crisp and

transparent. The mixture was then strained through a thin muslin

cloth into a mug or other small vessel, and we were content with

it, knowing that it contained nothing deleterious to the scalp or

hair.

Although war was raging all around, both on sea and land, yet in

our quiet valley which, we were vain enough to believe, rivaled the

far-famed Vale of Cashmere, everything moved on the even tenor of

its way. We were happy and contented, both master and slave. Late

on Saturday afternoons, the weekly rations for the slaves were

given out; and in addition to them would be given for Sunday cheer,

flour, lard, butter, sugar, and some substitute for coffee, as real

coffee had been given before the war. They had the privilege also

of vegetables and fruits. On Sundays the slaves would do their

own cooking. On week days a negro slave was regularly detailed to

cook for the laboring hands, and even provender for the plow stock

was placed in the feed troughs by the “trash-gang,” as they were

called, composed of negro boys and girls not old enough for regular

field work. On week days the laborer had only to take the gear off

the mule and turn it in the lot gate, and then go to dinner ready

waiting for him.

Farmers not owning more than fifteen or twenty negro slaves

generally had all the cooking for white and black done at the same

time. I have often heard farmers say since the war, and laugh

over it, that they had really eaten no good cabbage, turnips, or

collard-greens since slavery times. It used to be necessary to

cook so much bacon for the slaves that vegetables and “greens”

of any variety were well seasoned. During the war when bacon was

very scarce, it often happened that the white household would deny

themselves meat to eat, so as to give it to the slaves, as they had

to toil in the field.

If a negro was sick, a doctor, who was already paid, was called in

all haste, as planters used to engage a doctor by the year, at so

much for each slave whether large or small.

One negro boy called “Jim,” about eighteen years of age, was quite

sick of a fever one fall. His master and mistress had him brought

from the “quarter” over to the dwelling-yard and placed in the

cook’s cabin, so that he might be given close attention. One or the

other watched him day and night (for he was a very valuable boy)

and gave the medicine. One Saturday during his illness his master

had to go to the city for some purpose, and he asked me to help

his wife and daughter care for Jim that day, saying, as he stepped

into his buggy, “Now be careful of Jim, and see to it that he lacks

for nothing; if he dies, I’ve lost one thousand dollars, good as

gold.” It was nothing uncommon then for able-bodied young negro men

to be valued at from one thousand to eighteen hundred dollars. If

Jim be living to-day, I know he has not forgotten our giving him

his medicine and gruel at the regular hours, heating hot bricks and

placing them at his feet as the doctor ordered, nor how I burned my

fingers muffling the hot bricks.

Very often the sick negroes would be brought right into their

masters’ houses, so as to be more closely watched.

Then there were the annual barbecues that each and all planters

gave without fail to their slaves when the crops had all been laid

by, which semi-holiday weeks embraced the last of July and the

first of August. I remember in particular one barbecue roast that

I witnessed one night in company with the household. The “pits”

were some little distance from the mansion, and were half filled

with red-hot coals of oak and hickory wood, over which the flesh

of whole dressed beef, mutton, and shoats were slowly roasting,

lying on a grate made of split staves of oak or hickory wood. A

goodly-sized vessel, containing vinegar, butter, salt, pulverized

sage, pepper, and thyme, all mingled together with a “swab,” stood

in close proximity to the barbecuing meat. Every now and then the

roasting flesh would be turned over with long oak sticks sharpened

smoothly to a point at one end, which answered the place of forks;

deep and long incisions would be made in the barbecuing meat, and

with the swab a good basting of the mixed condiments from the

bowl would be spread over; the process of turning the roasting

flesh over the glowing red coals and basting with the seasoning

continued till the meat was thought to be thoroughly done. It would

sometimes be far beyond the hour of midnight before the barbecuing

meat was removed from the “pits,” and I yet think that such

barbecued meats cannot be surpassed by any other sort of cooked or

roasted meats. When cold and sliced, it was certainly delicious.

A night barbecuing was a weird scene. Blazing pine-torches heaped

on the rude stands improvised for the occasion threw a ruddy glow

out over the dark forest, giving an uncanny aspect to the long

thick moss swaying sylphlike in the night breeze. Some of the

negroes would be tending the roasting flesh; some with the swab,

basting with the seasoning; some laughing loud enough to wake the

sleeping echoes; some lazily stretched out on the ground thinking

of to-morrow’s feast. Now and then some one would “pat Juba,” as

they called it, while the dim light of the moon and stars peeping

through the heavy foliage, together with the savory smoke rising

from the pits, enhanced the strangeness of the fête.

When the morrow came, two or three long tables were set in the

far-reaching shade of grand old oaks, whose every limb was hung

plentifully with the long gray moss that is so common in the

southern part of the Southern States, and which imparts to the

trees in that section an aspect strikingly patriarchal.

The tables would be weighted with the flesh of the ox, mutton,

pork, and great pans of chicken pies, as well as fruits,

vegetables, and light bread and cakes of our bolted meal. Seats

were arranged all around, and old and honored negroes, called to

preside at the heads of the tables, would bid them all to seat

themselves,--by fifties, it often was,--when, with hands uplifted,

they invoked the divine blessing.

Many in southern Alabama yet retain a vivid recollection of these

regular annual barbecues, given to the slaves when the crops had

all been “laid by.”

X.

Often have we sat on the colonnade of that lovely Alabama home, and

wondered if any part of the world could be more beautiful. We would

number the stars at night as they peeped forth one by one, in the

clear blue vault above, until they became innumerable, and then

the full moon would deluge the whole scene with its shining flood

of light. Or perhaps it would be in the deepening twilight, when

the heavens were unrelieved by moon or star, that the soul would

be touched, as the drowsy hum of nature’s little wildwood insects

came stealing gently on the ear. Not infrequently the mocking-birds

would trill their varied notes, or we would hear the faint tinkle

of bells as “the lowing” herds wound “slowly o’er the lea.” In the

distance the negro plowmen were returning homeward chanting their

“corn song.” Ah! but those old “corn songs” had melody then! They

lent enchantment to all the surroundings. Even yet they call from

out the misty shadows of the past a host of memories, when they

fall upon ears that were wont to listen to their quaint refrain in

days gone by.

Often Uncle Ben, on the colonnade or in the hall, would while off

on the violin that his master had given him pleasing plantation

melodies, accompanying his performance with his rude singing. He

would seem almost transported with ecstasy, as he used to stand

with head thrown back, eyes shut, and foot vigorously keeping time;

and often as he drew forth his artless strains a dozen or more

negroes, old and young, would be dancing in the white, sandy yard,

as merrily as “birds without barn or storehouse.”

Sometimes, in the solemn hush of the closing Sabbath eve in the

country, sweet strains of song would float out upon the air from

the negroes’ quarter. Many large planters had preachers employed

to teach and preach regularly to the slaves. One Sabbath night I

yet remember above all the others. Our day of gloom was drawing on,

we could no longer close our eyes to the fact that our cause was

drooping; our soldiers were meeting with reverses on all sides,

hope was only faintly glimmering. Cast down and disquieted as we

were that night, the services at the negro church made a deep

impression upon our minds. They sang an old time song, the refrain

of which we could just catch. When they began the first verse,--

“Where, oh where is the good old Daniel?

Where, oh where is the good old Daniel?

Who was cast in the lion’s den;

Safe now in the promised land.”

When they would strike the refrain,--

“By and by we’ll go home to meet him,

By and by we’ll go home to meet him,

Way over in the promised land,”

we could almost imagine they were on wing for “the promised land,”

as they seemed to throw all the passion of their souls into the

refrain, and fancy would almost hear the rustle of wings, as the

deep swelling anthem rolled forth. Again it would be,--

“Where, oh where is the good Elijah?

Where, oh where is the good Elijah?

Who went up in a chariot of fire;

Safe now in the promised land.”

And the chorus,--

“By and by we’ll go home to meet him,”

would peal forth again in loud-shouting strains. I hushed my breath

to hear the mellow strains of that song, and seemed to see the

mantle of our lost cause descending.

It was about this time that a letter came from my father, saying

one of the soldier brothers was at home on a twenty-one days’

furlough. This was the first’ home-coming since the commencement

of hostilities in 1861. My presence was again desired at home, to

meet with the long-absent brother. But by some irregularity of the

mail, it so happened that my letter had been delayed, and I saw by

the postscript and date that my brother would be leaving for the

front again before I could possibly reach my father’s house. Yet a

great yearning came over me, on reading his kindly letter, to see

my father again. Soon I was homeward bound once more, disappointed

and pained at not being in time to see my brother. I gave little

heed to the landscape spread out as the train swept onward; but my

heart gave a glad bound when the waters of the Chattahoochee river,

sparkling in the bright sunlight, greeted my eyes, for now I should

soon be at my father’s house.

Here and in all the surrounding neighborhood, as far as I could

see, the same vigorous efforts were put forth to feed and clothe

the soldiers of our Confederacy, as well as the home ones,

that I had witnessed in southern Alabama. There was the same

self-sacrifice, without a thought of murmuring for the luxuries

enjoyed before the war. Yet with the nicest economy, and the most

studied husbandry,--however generously the earth might yield of

grain, fruits, and vegetables,--the South was awakening to the

painful reality that the produce grown on our narrowing space of

Confederate soil was inadequate for the sustenance of those at

home, our soldiers, and the Northern soldiers whom we held as

prisoners. We were not only encompassed by land and water, but the

Confederacy was divided in twain by the gunboats of the Federals

on the Mississippi River. With nearly all the soldiers from west

of the Mississippi River in the eastern half of our Confederacy,

we had no communication whatever from beyond the great “Father of

Waters.” All aid and succor as regarded provisions and clothes for

our army was at an end from beyond the Mississippi. We were caged

up like a besieged city. There was neither egress nor ingress for

men or means. Our soldiers from the west had to share what little

provisions were grown in our circumscribed limit. They also shared

what clothing could be manufactured in the more and more straitened

condition of the South.

If a soldier from the west drew a furlough he could not get to his

home. Those who had relatives or friends east of the Mississippi

River would spend their leave of absence with them. Sometimes the

soldier from the west would give the furlough he drew to some

friend he had made on this side; or perhaps it would be that the

soldier of our side of the river would send his comrade of the west

to his people and home with a letter of introduction.

I remember a good man and neighbor, who lived near my school,

who had four grown sons in the army, one by one killed outright

in battle, one at Fort Donelson, one at the battle of Franklin,

in Tennessee, another near Chattanooga, the last and youngest at

Chickamauga. A while before the last two were slain, one had drawn

a furlough to come home, but there being in his regiment a comrade

from the State of Texas, to whom he was very much attached, and who

was by no means well, though on duty, this son had the furlough he

had drawn transferred to his Texas comrade, whom he sent to his

father’s with a letter of introduction, asking for his Texas friend

the same welcome that would have greeted himself.

Mr. Saunders, the Texan, came, and was welcomed in Mr. Weaver’s

family as warmly as one of his own sons would have been, the more

kindly by the family and all the neighborhood because he was

debarred from visiting his own home. He spent three weeks in our

settlement, and returned to camp much invigorated in health and

spirits. In less than six months, both the sons were slain in

battle, and a few weeks afterwards Mr. Saunders also fell and was

buried in north Georgia.

My employer also had Texas relatives in our army, who came on their

leave of absence to his home. They could not so much as hear from

their own homes.

To make our situation worse, all the rice-growing lands of Georgia

and South Carolina were overrun by Northern troops; and all the

negro laborers of the large rice plantations, as well as those

lying contiguous to the rice-growing districts, had been decoyed

off by Federal troops, which more and more crippled the eastern

half of our Confederacy, which was then burdened with the whole

Confederate army, as well as thousands of Northern prisoners, to

say nothing of the Federal army camped on this same half of the

South. Corn and what little wheat could then be grown, with rice

and sorghum syrup, formed the base of our supplies. Of course

fruits and vegetables were grown, but being perishable were

worthless for our soldiers or prisoners, so limited were our means

of transportation.

Northern journals often ask why it was that the South gave Northern

prisoners nothing to eat; and I must say here, that there is

a sorrow deep-felt at the knowledge that our soldiers and the

Northern prisoners both suffered for the want of sufficient food to

nourish; they suffered both as to quantity and quality. But I ask

in all candor, how could it be otherwise, hemmed in as the South

was? Not one tenth of the government tithes of grain and meat,

west of the Mississippi River, could reach us; the blockade was all

around; the Federal army’s tents were pitched on Southern soil;

detachments of the Union army were invading the narrowing space of

territory left to raise provisions on, and were decoying off the

laborers and destroying and laying waste the country through which

they marched; every means we had to feed either our army or the

Northern prisoners was disabled.

My brothers wrote home (without murmur or discontent) that they

were living the greater part of the time on parched corn, which

they either bought or begged; that they were foraging around in the

country, on the mountain sides, and in the valleys, for succulent

roots, leaves, and berries to allay the pangs of hunger; sassafras

bushes were stripped in a trice of leaves, twigs, and bark, and

eaten ravenously. They wrote that sometimes for two or three months

they never saw so much as a slice of bacon, and then perhaps for

a week or two a rasher of bacon the size of a pocket-knife would

be issued to each man of their regiment. One of my brothers once

drew from his pocket, when asked about his slice of bacon, the

pocket-knife which he brought home after the war was over, and

said: “It is a fact; the rasher of bacon was no longer, and about

just as thick and wide as this knife.”

Such a slice they held over the fire with bread underneath to catch

the drippings, so as to lose none. A brother-in-law of mine told

me that he, as well as other soldiers of his division, lived on

parched corn most of the time; sometimes they had roasting ears,

either roasted in the ashes or eaten raw; that if they had money,

they would buy the corn; if not, beg it; and at times they would

be so crazed with hunger that if neither money nor begging would

get it, they would steal it. At first the men were punished for

stealing something to eat, but at last the sight of our hollow-eyed

and ragged, emaciated soldiers appealed so to the sympathies of

the officers that they could not find it in their hearts to punish

their men for trying to keep soul and body together with pilfered

corn. Times were almost as hard with citizens all over the South

the last year of the war, as with our soldiers. Corn was twelve

and thirteen dollars per bushel, and our government’s pay to its

soldiers was only eleven dollars per month; so one whole month’s

wages would not quite buy a bushel of corn.

What could be grown of provisions, in the waning of our

Confederacy, was shared equally and willingly between our soldiers

and their Northern prisoners. I verily believe, in the pressing

need of the times the prisoners had the greater share. That was

little enough, to be sure, but in that narrow space that was left

to us as the Northern army advanced, where we had to hold our

prisoners, there was almost no food or forage to be had. When the

great “book of remembrance” is opened to view, on its pages white

and fair the North will surely see, not that the South would not,

but that the South could not, better feed the Northern prisoners,

with all the mighty pressure that was being brought to bear

against us. And of this fact I am very sure that, had there been

an exchange of prisoners between the North and South toward the

last days of our Confederacy, such as there was at first, and such

as the whole South from our chief executive down to the humblest

citizen was begging and praying for, as much for the unfortunate

prisoners among us, as to have our soldiers in the ranks of our

army again, there never would have been an Andersonville.

XI.

Leaving a broken home circle, I returned to southern Alabama, where

everything was moving on as before; the thump of the house-loom and

the whirring of the spinning-wheel were just as regular in every

household; substitutes and expedients were still being devised or

improved upon. There was no diminution of patience or perseverance,

and we still felt, in that section, none of the effects of war,

saving the privations and inconveniences to which allusion has been

made.

We still had our merry social gatherings. Now and then a homespun

wedding would occur, in which the bride and all who were bidden

would be in homespun out and out. We were invited to one such

marriage in our settlement. I wore a homespun dress of my own

labor, but I neither carded, spun, nor wove it. I had become

quite skillful in crocheting capes, vandykes, shawls, scarfs,

and gloves, and as I had had more than enough work carding and

spinning my second homespun dress, I took a neighbor at her word,

when she said: “I’ll give you a hank of thread to crochet me a cape

like yours.” The hank would weave one yard of cloth, and I could

crochet two capes per week, besides discharging my school duties

faithfully. I thus made two yards of cloth clear, as the thread

was furnished for whatever piece I crocheted. More or less in cuts

of thread were paid, according to the article I furnished, whether

shoulder-cape, vandyke, shawl, or gloves. At one time I had so many

hanks of homespun thread that they were quite a weight to lift,

and I was proud of them, too, so proud that if a neighbor came to

spend the afternoon, I always drew forth that bunch of thread from

the large wardrobe where I kept it hanging, for her to view. Beside

having enough for another full homespun dress, and all my knitting

and crocheting, I sent to my mother as many as twenty hanks,

that had been paid me for knitting and crocheting shawls, capes,

vandykes, and similar articles for neighbors.

I had the thread for the dress just mentioned dyed blue with our

home-made indigo, and a deep garnet with a strong tea of pine-tree

roots. One-half was dyed blue, the other half garnet. In the warp

it was four blue, and four garnet threads. Two shuttles were used,

one with a blue quill of thread, the other with a garnet quill, and

the result was a neat and simple plaid. I cut the buttons out of a

gourd shell, and covered them with scraps of red merino. We always

took pains to take such buttons off when our homespuns required

washing. When the stuff had been starched and ironed, we stitched

the buttons on again.

The bride’s dress was woven a solid light gray color, warp and

woof; the buttons were made of gray thread, overcast with white

thread. Special pains had been taken with some white cotton

flannel, three rows of which, about three inches wide, were placed

around the bottom of the skirt, with about three inches’ space

between each row. The cuffs, collar, and shoulder-cape were trimmed

with this white cotton flannel; and from only across the room it

appeared as if the bride wore a real fur-trimmed dress, and the

effect was graceful in the extreme.

Thread was often spun, both wool and cotton, with the band crossed,

so as to knit and crochet with single thread. The wheel-band was

crossed only in twisting thread for sewing or knitting purposes. In

spinning the single strand the band was always uncrossed, unless

we wanted to knit or crochet something very fine and soft, and did

not want it double and twisted. Then it was spun with the band of

the wheel crossed, so that in crocheting or knitting it would not

become untwisted. The cotton thread was bleached by placing it on

a line in the yard, where it hung for two or three weeks in the

sun and dew. It was a common thing to see long rows of hanks of

cotton thread hanging on a line out in the yards or gardens of all

the dwellers of our settlement. Such thread would bleach almost as

white as snow.

Now and then the stern fruits of war were forced upon our community

by the home-coming of some Confederate soldier seriously or fatally

wounded; or by the arrival of the corpse of some one of our

soldiers whom we had seen quit the neighborhood in the flush of

health and confident that the demands of the South would soon be

allowed.

On one occasion I wept with a widow bereft of her only son and

child, who had died in a hospital near Richmond, from wounds

received in battle. She told us that when he had left for the

front, in the midst of her terrible grief, her last words to him as

she held his hand had been, “My son, remember it is just as near

heaven in Virginia as it is here in our home in Alabama.” Years

after the young man had been buried, I happened one Sunday to be

attending divine service in Hamilton, Georgia, and in the course

of his sermon the Rev. William Boothe, a godly Methodist minister,

enforced his text by relating an incident. He told how a young man

native of Alabama, wounded in battle, lay dying in a hospital near

Richmond. The minister, in visiting that hospital, speaking words

of cheer and comfort to the sick, was touched by the sight of the

young man, who, it was plain to see, was in immediate danger of

death. Taking the hand of the dying boy, Mr. Boothe had said in a

kindly, fatherly way, “My son, is there any message or word you

would like me to send, or, perhaps, that I can bear myself to your

people, wherever they may live?” A glad smile lighted up the pale

face of the soldier, who quickly replied, “I am so thankful that

some kind friend will bear a message to my mother, who is a widow

living down in Alabama. I am her only son and child. Please say to

her from me these words: ‘Remember that it is just as near heaven

in Virginia as it is in our home in Alabama.’ There has never been

a night on the tented field, or when entering into battle, when

those words, my mother’s words, and spoken as I left her, have not

been with me.” So speaking, the soldier’s face was lighted up by a

seraphic smile, and he expired.

We were fighting hard at home to keep the upper hand of the

difficulties which hedged us in; we were working and fasting

and praying that victory might reward all our sacrifices and

sufferings, yet day by day the newspapers brought news of defeat

after defeat; day by day they told us of the inexorable advance of

the Federal troops; day by day the conviction strengthened with us

that, struggle as we would, we were on the losing side, and ours

was to go down to history as “the lost cause.” Our soldiers were

living on parched corn, as they had been for a year; they were

going into battle ragged and barefoot and half-starved--in vain.

What a fearful day it was for us, when, in April, 1865, word came

into our placid valley that the Northern army was almost at our

doors! I could not begin to describe our chagrin and terror. In

life one is likely to remember always the exact circumstances under

which the first shock of bad news was received. I know that the

first tidings of the approach of the Yankee forces came to me as I

was about to open the gate leading out on to the public road from

Mr. G----’s homestead. I was on my way to the school, when a man

rode up, and halting an instant said, “General Grierson and his

army are marching from Mobile to Eufaula, and they will probably

reach Eufaula to-night, or early to-morrow morning!”

As Mr. G---- lived near the main highway, he did not expect to

escape the invading army. Now, it seemed, we were to be awakened

from the even tenor of our way, perhaps to know another meaning

for “hard times.” Fear was depicted on every face, for who could

tell but that the morrow’s sun would cast its beams upon a heap of

smoking ruins, and we be bereft of all the property we had.

Teaching school was not to be thought of until our suspense was

over. The blue heavens, so vast and serene, seemed no longer to

clasp, mildly and lovingly, our quiet home in all-embracing arms,

nor to smile upon us in peace and love. “Now,” thought we, “we

shall realize in part, perhaps fully, what ‘Old Virginia’ and the

Border States have passed through for four years, while with us, in

the blockaded interior, all has been so quiet and undisturbed.”

How vividly I remember that day of suspense, as the courier

heralded from house to house his unwelcome message, “The Yankees

are coming!” The explosion of a bomb in each one’s yard could not

have created greater excitement. Planters hastily fled to the

swamps and the deep, unfrequented woods, with their stock and

valuables. At intervals throughout the day, droves of cattle and

hogs were driven past my employer’s residence to hiding-places in

the woods; and wagons and carriages, filled with whatever valuables

could be quickly gotten together, were also passing by.

It was amusing, as well as sad, to see a feather-bed protruding

at least a quarter of its length from a carriage window. In our

great anxiety, appearances were not regarded. The single thought

of the people was to protect themselves and their property as

expeditiously and securely as possible. In the mean time we were

confused and distracted by conflicting rumors. At one time the

report would be, “The army is not a mile off;” then we imagined we

heard guns firing. Again it would be, “They are not coming this way

at all.” Then, “They are only half a mile off,” and we were sure we

saw the smoke from some burning dwelling or gin-house.

It was a day of unceasing flurry and excitement, and as the

lengthening shadows gave warning that night was drawing on, with

troubled feelings we looked from face to face, for no one was left

to meet the Federal army, should it pass by on our road, save women

and children and the negro slaves. Mr. G---- was in a deep swamp,

about half a mile from his dwelling, with all the stock and what

was most valuable. His presence with us would have done no good,

for if the enemy had come, he might have been hung before our eyes;

or he might have been tortured to make him tell where his gold and

silver were hidden. Men were so treated in many instances.

There were some comical places thought of in which to hide gold,

silver, jewelry, and other valuables. A lady of our settlement

wrapped her watch and chain, bracelets, and a valuable breast-pin,

together with some other jewelry, in an old faded rag, and tossed

it into the middle of a large rose-bush in her front yard. There

it remained secure, although the house and yard were filled with

Yankee soldiers, who searched the house, turning up beds and

mattresses, pulling the clothing out of the wardrobe and bureaus;

and yet that rose-bush kept its secret.

Another young woman took her father’s bag of gold and silver, and

ran to the hen-house and put it beneath the nest of a setting hen.

An old lady put all her jewelry in a small jar, cemented the top

tightly on, placed it in an old bucket, and let it down into her

well. When all things had settled down quietly, and it was safe

to draw the jar from the well, nothing was found to be soiled or

injured in the least. Another filled an old ash-hopper with bacon,

covered it with a cloth, put ashes over that about half a foot

deep, then with straw built a hen’s nest or two, and placed some

eggs in them; and of course the Yankee soldiers cared nothing for

that insignificant ash-hopper and its hen’s nest.

As darkness closed in, we sat with folded hands and bated breath,

listening for the tramp of the mighty Northern host, with the

unexpressed thought, “Woe is me, that I sojourn in Mesech, that

I dwell in the tents of Kedar!” In the midst of silent reveries

around the fire, for the night was chill, and a fire had been

kindled, in part to dispel the gloom and dread of our feelings,

one of the daughters turned to her cousin and said, “Annie, what

will you do if the Yankees come?” “Ooo-oo-o!” with hands upraised,

was the reply. Then cousin Annie turned to her cousin, after a

long pause, and asked, “Marie, what will you do if they come?”

“Umph-mph-ph,” with eyes dilated, was Marie’s reply. Never a

word was spoken save that question, followed by an inarticulate

exclamation. Finally it seemed so ludicrous that we all broke forth

into merry peals of laughter, which served as a safety-valve to our

genuine depression.

A married daughter of Mr. G----’s was living in a small cottage

near her father’s, built so that he might have his daughter under

his care while her husband was away in our army. The married

daughter did not feel disposed to leave her house exposed, but was

too much alarmed to remain alone that night with her two small

children. So she urged me to stay with her, as her mother would

have the cousin and two older daughters. As I was going down the

colonnade steps, with the two young girls, aged between nine and

eleven, Mrs. G---- called to me, “Miss A----, if the Yankees come,

I shall be sure to send Martha (the colored nurse girl) to tell

you.” “All right,” I replied, “you’ll see how fast I shall get to

you.”

In painful apprehension we sat long on the porch. It was one

of those half-moonlit nights, so calm that the stillness was

oppressive. But exhausted nature demanded her tribute, and finally

we sought rest from the day’s worry and suspense in sleep, uneasy

though it might be. God only knows how fervent and plaintive was

the prayer that ascended that April night in southern Alabama,

from hundreds of dwellings peopled only by women, children, and

negro slaves. As I pillowed my head, I called up soul-comforting

passages from the Bible, none bringing greater solace than,

“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear

Him.” The ninety-first Psalm, that I had committed to memory in

Sabbath-school, now came to mind like a great wave of consolation.

I was just bordering upon the edge of sleep, when I was suddenly

startled by a loud and hurried knocking on the door, and

immediately recognized the voice of the negro girl, who was

excitedly crying out, “Miss A----, missis say come down dar quick,

de Yankees coming.” I sprang with a sudden bound into the middle

of the room, gathered up shoes and stockings in one hand, dress

and other garments in the other, and dashed out in the shadowy

night, with the two little girls, who had just as hastily left

their bed, and now clung on either side of me in their long white

night-robes. A dark cloud skurried across the moon and obscured

its light for a moment, making the night darkish, but in another

instant all the clouds had rolled by, and left the moon clear,

so that the shadows of the great oaks were distinctly outlined,

quivering beneath our feet as we flew past. One of the little girls

tripped, but managed to gather herself up quickly, without ever

letting go of me, to whom she clung with the grip of the Old Man of

the Sea.

As we reached the side entrance of the main yard, and passed

through the gate, we found the yard swarming with the negro

slaves; passing the kitchen, which was detached from the main

dwelling-house (as at all Southern homes in those days), Uncle Ben

and Aunt Phillis were standing in the doorway. They craned their

necks, shaded their eyes with their hands, and peered forth at

us in the darkness, as we passed swiftly by. “Well I’clare fore

God”--The rest of the sentence was lost in our hurried flight. We

jammed against Aunt Jemimah, the regular washerwoman, who held in

her hands a pair of cotton-cards, and on whose arm was hanging a

wisp of white cotton rolls. She threw up her arms at sight of us,

the wisp of rolls floating lightly away on the night breeze. When

she recognized us, she exclaimed, “Lors, chilluns, I did just tink

you was ghosses.”

We entered the house by the back door, just in time to find all in

great confusion, caused by a false alarm. The home guards, composed

of old men and young boys of the county, had that afternoon

disbanded in the city of Eufaula, knowing that General Grierson

would arrive that night or the next morning, and that resistance

would be useless. So they deemed discretion just then the better

part of valor, and here they were, returning home by the road on

which my employer’s plantation lay, their expectation being that

the Federal commander would march his column into Eufaula by a road

on the other side of our settlement.

When the horses’ hoofs struck the bridge that spanned a large

creek, three or four hundred yards from Mr. G----’s mansion, the

sounds, borne on the still night air with startling distinctness,

were naturally mistaken by lone women and children for the advance

of the terrible Yankees. When the Babel-like confusion had ceased

we presented a droll tableau, for, acting on the impulse of the

moment, no one had paused to think of personal appearance.

When asked what she was going to do with the cotton-cards and wisp

of rolls, Aunt Jemimah’s reply was, “Oh, lor bless yer, honeys, I

didn’t know I had ’em.” It had been usual to allow the negroes the

use of the wheels and cotton-cards, and cotton was given them, in

case they wished to spin their own stocking-yarn or sewing-thread

at night.

The negroes, too, had been expecting the Yankee army, and hearing

a great clashing of horses’ hoofs on the bridge, thought with

the rest of us, “They are coming now.” So large and small left

the “quarter” and came over to “Marster’s,” as they called the

dwelling-house and yard, to see the Federal troops. Perhaps some

may have come with the design of going with the Yankees. The

cottage of the married daughter and the negroes’ quarter were about

equally distant from my employer’s residence, but in opposite

directions, so that by the time I had reached the yard of the

dwelling, I found myself in a surging mass of black humanity.

In calling to mind the scenes of that night, I have often thought

that had the Federal army really come, and the two little girls and

I dashed into view in our long white robes, fleeing as if on the

wings of the wind, we should have caused the moving host to halt.

And oft as memory recalls those scenes I rub my eyes and ask, “Can

it be that on that long April night in 1865, while the Federal army

was marching into Eufaula by another road, we women and children,

surrounded by negro slaves, were the sole occupants of that exposed

house?” Yet so in truth it was. We felt no fear of the slaves.

The idea of any harm happening through them never for one instant

entered our minds.

But now, not for my right hand would I be situated as I was

that April night of 1865. Now it would by no means be safe, for

experience is showing us that in any section where the negro forms

any very great part of the population, white men or women are in

danger of murder, robbery, and violence.

XII.

When the morning came after that miserable night, another courier

passed through our settlement, ending our state of uncertainty with

the information that the Northern army was in Eufaula. We had been

entirely passed by, after all our tumult and apprehension. How

thankful we were, Heaven only knows!

Mr. G---- came in towards night with all his stock, saying he hoped

he should never have to spend another night in that uncanny dark

swamp, with its tall trees all festooned with gray moss, almost

reaching to the ground, and swaying to and fro, as a shiver of

moaning wind would stir the air. The hooting of owls, and croaking

of frogs would sound at intervals, the unrest and stamping of the

tied-up stock, together with the terrible suspense of how it would

fare with his family and his belongings, if the opposing army

should pass his plantation, made it anything but pleasant, it may

well be imagined.

Yet in our great rejoicing that we had been passed by, our hearts

went out in sympathy to our less fortunate neighbors, many of whom

were despoiled of everything valuable. I knew families that were

bereft of everything; who had not so much left as would furnish one

meal of victuals; whose dwelling-houses, gin-houses, and bales of

cotton were all left in smoking ruin. In many instances women and

children would have to stand by helpless, and see their trunks,

bureaus, and wardrobes kicked open. Whatever struck the soldier’s

fancy was appropriated; to the rest of the contents, as apt as not,

a match would be applied, and the labor of years would swirl up in

smoke.

Amid this pillage and plunder, some absurd incidents now and then

occurred, one or two of which I will mention.

Many of the planters, large and small, had turned their attention

to stock-raising, among other industries needful and enforced by

the blockade. One man said, as bacon was so scarce and high priced,

he was going to raise a herd of goats to help along. He got a few

to begin with, and as he had a good range of piney woods for them

to graze in, he soon had a fine herd. These the invading army

passed by as utterly unworthy of their attention.

When the war closed there were some fine young colts, two and three

years old, coming on in the South. A planter who lived near us

had several, which I remember were named after Lee, “Stonewall”

Jackson, and other popular leaders. This planter was very fond of

his young daughter, who usually accompanied him when he walked

out to his pasture-lot. He used to say to the little girl, when

admiring his young colts, “These are papa’s fine stock.” When the

Federal army came, it so happened that this planter got the news

only in time to be just disappearing down a hill near his house,

with all his horses and mules, as the Yankees approached; his young

colts being left in their pasture. Finding no stock in the lot or

outbuildings, the soldiers threatened to shoot a little negro boy

who was in the yard, if he did not tell them where the stock were

hidden. Hearing the threat, the planter’s daughter said, in the

innocence of her heart, “Papa’s fine stock is over there,” pointing

to the field where the young colts were grazing. Away dashed the

soldiers, sure of a rich prize. Meantime the planter had had time

to flee with his stock to a secure hiding-place, chosen for the

occasion which had now arrived.

Great was the surprise of the soldiers, after making a sweep of the

field, to find only a few small colts quietly feeding, unmindful

that they were “papa’s fine stock.” The soldiers returned furious

with disappointment, and played sad havoc with all the buildings,

burned the gin-house and barns, ransacked the dwelling from cellar

to attic, broke up furniture, and appropriated whatever was

valuable that could be easily carried with them. It really seemed

as if the wreck was a greater blow than the loss of the stock

would have been, and for a few days there was sore grief in that

household. But they soon roused themselves, on reflection that they

yet had their stock left to plow the already planted crop, and a

roof over their heads, while many were left without stock to tend

their crop, or house to rest in.

A disabled soldier of our Confederacy, who lived in the southern

part of Alabama, near the Choctawhatchee River, with his wife and

five small children was visiting relatives in our neighborhood.

They had driven through in their own carriage, to which two fine

horses were hitched. They had packed in their carriage what was

most useful and valuable to them as wearing apparel, all their

valuables in jewelry and plate, bed-quilts, counterpanes, a

feather-bed and pillows, bandboxes, hatboxes, trunks, and many

other articles of value. I saw the carriage unpacked, and stood

amazed that such a quantity of stuff could be stowed in such a

small space. They had been careful to take all the best belongings

of their house, because it was expected that the Federal army would

come directly through their settlement, as they were not far from

Mobile, and on the route to Eufaula. In our neighborhood, it was

not believed at first that the enemy would find us, hence they

left their own home to visit the relatives who lived near us. But

rumors began to fly thick and fast when it was known positively

that General Grierson was on the march from Mobile, and then it was

believed that he would surely come by on our road.

So the disabled Confederate soldier and his family packed their

carriage again, and left our settlement. They made for the public

road which, according to their theory, would be the one General

Grierson would be least likely to choose to march into Eufaula by.

They proceeded seven or eight miles undisturbed by anything, and

were congratulating themselves on being so fortunate as to flank

the enemy, when just as they turned a bend of the road that led

into another, alack-a-day! there was one moving mass of “blue,” up

the road and down the road, as far as the eye could see.

They had driven altogether unexpectedly right into the midst of

the Yankee soldiers. I am sorry to say they were called to a

halt immediately; their horses were cut (not unhitched) from the

carriage. The wife begged to be spared the horses, but finding

pleading of no avail, she let loose her tongue in such a way that

one of the soldiers raised his gun and threatened to shoot her if

she did not keep quiet. She stood fair and fearless, and told him

to shoot. He was not so heartless, however, as to put his threat

into execution. Nothing was taken, except the horses. The wife

and children had to remain in the open pine barrens, while the

husband walked several miles before he could get assistance to drag

the carriage to the nearest house. And after all, when this man

reached his own home again, he found that it had not been molested,

inasmuch as the Federal army had passed him by, by several miles.

But one could never tell, in the midst of innumerable conflicting

assertions, what it was best to do.

About six months before General Robert E. Lee’s surrender, business

called Mr. G---- to Columbus, Georgia, and while there he found a

gentleman so embarrassed by debt that he was forced to sell some

of his slaves. Mr. G---- bought two young negro men, Jerry and

Miner by name, paying six thousand five hundred dollars apiece

for them. Mr. G---- would always look on the bright side, and

would never give in to the idea that the South would, or could, be

conquered,--high-toned, generous old Virginia gentleman that he

was! What a laugh we all had when he came home and said, “Well,

I’ve got two negroes now, who must be good for something if the

price has anything to do with them; I’ve paid thirteen thousand for

two young negro boys.” His amiable and gentle wife rebuked him for

his indiscretion in buying negroes at that time, as we believed

that they would soon have an opportunity of leaving, if they chose

to do so. But he pooh-poohed her, saying, “Wait till you get to the

bridge before you cross the river.”

In a very short time the surrender came; the South was overrun

by Federal soldiers; and I smile even now, when I recall one

morning at breakfast, when Aunt Phillis came in from the kitchen

to the dining-room, with a waiter of hot biscuits just from the

oven,--for no one thought of finishing breakfast without a relay

of hot biscuits toward the middle or end of the meal,--and said,

as she handed the biscuits round, “Jerry and Miner done gone back

to Columbus!” I marveled much at Mr. G----’s philosophical remark,

as he paused with cup suspended, “Humph; that’s the dearest nigger

hire I ever paid! Six thousand five hundred dollars apiece for six

months,” sipping his coffee and placing the cup back in the saucer.

I looked at him closely. There was not even the tinge of bitterness

in his remark, and I thought, “Here is philosophy that would shame

the Stoics.” It had not been a twelvemonth back that, when it

became necessary for him to leave the plantation for a day only,

he had given orders that Jim be well cared for; for if Jim died,

he would lose more than a thousand dollars in gold. Now he had

lost in all about eighty or one hundred thousand dollars, all gold

value, gone like the lightning’s flash,--who can doubt but that

a kind Providence tempered the resignation with which we met the

inevitable?

I remained some years after the war in that settlement, and

never a bitter or harsh word, no, not one, did I ever hear my

employer utter against the opposing army, or section of States,

that had caused all the turn-round of affairs in the South; that,

metaphorically speaking, had caused riches to take to themselves

wings and fly away.

The same cannot be said of all the people of the South, but it is

pleasing to think that all can now recall the history of those

days, when the opposing army was marching through the South,

leaving a desert waste behind them, without feeling the bitterness

we then felt, standing in the midst of our desolation; and God

knows that we give heart and hand in cordial welcome to the

soldiers of that Northern host which so despoiled us, as well as to

the people of the Northern States when they make choice, as many

are now doing, of our sunny clime for their own home.

XIII.

The return of our soldiers after the surrender, in their worn and

ragged gray, as they tramped home by twos, threes, and sometimes in

little squads of half a dozen or more, was pitiable in the extreme.

Some were entirely without shoes or hats; others had only an

apology for shoes and hats. They were coming home with nothing; and

we could almost say, coming home to nothing; for many verily found,

when they reached the spot that had been to them a happy home,

nothing save a heaped-up mass of ruins left to them. Often as I sit

in the twilight and drift back into the past, it is not easy to

restrain tears, as memory views those soldiers in their worn gray,

marching home, sad and depressed, with the cause they had so warmly

espoused, lost.

Though not coming rejoicing, as did the Athenians and Spartans from

the battle of Platæa, they were just as dear to the hearts of

their kindred at their ruined homes, as if they had come marching

in triumph, with olive-wreaths encircling their brows.

Need there be wonder if, for a few weeks, it seemed as though we

were petrified,--scarcely knowing which way to turn, to restore

order out of such chaos! Another day of fasting and prayer was

called in our adversity that our spirits might be tempered to

bear the result. But our thoughts soon turned resolutely from the

gloomy picture, the more readily when we remembered how the South

had met emergencies during the war, until she was so environed

and crippled by opposing forces that she _had_ to yield. The same

energy, perseverance, and economy, with the help of an overruling

Providence, would yet make the South smile with peace and plenty.

Our returned soldiers lost no time in making themselves useful in

every sphere of honorable work that then opened. Many of those who

returned in April planted corn and cotton, late as it was, and made

fair crops of both. There was great bother for awhile as to plow

stock, for most of our valuable animals had been carried off by

the invading army.

Three brothers whom I knew, natives of Georgia, owned not one

foot of land nor an animal of any kind, when the war closed. They

reached home among the first of our returning soldiers. They rented

a good piece of farming land, managed to get an ox and an old

broken-down army mule, and set to work in earnest on their rented

land. They “put in” every hour of the sun, and the greater part of

the light of the moon. Neighboring farmers said that at whatever

hour of the night you passed where the brothers farmed, if the

moon shone you would hear them “gee-hawing,” plowing their crop

at night, or the clashing of their hoes in their corn, cotton, or

peas. They are now prosperous farmers, owning broad acres of land

and fine stock. Hundreds of similar cases might be pointed out.

When our soldiers returned we were always deeply interested in

hearing them recount, when we met them at social gatherings at some

neighbor’s house, the straits to which they were reduced toward the

last days of the war, and on the home march after the surrender. A

brother-in-law of mine, who became bare as to pants, and had no way

of getting any in his then distressed state, had recourse to his

army blanket, and having no scissors with which to cut the blanket,

he used his pocket-knife for that purpose. He sharpened a stick

with his knife to make holes in each half of the blanket, which he

tied up separately with the raveling of the blanket: making each

leg of the pants separately. They were tied around his waist with

a string. He managed to get on for quite a while with his blanket

pants, but met a comrade more fortunate than the rest of the

soldiers of our cause, in that, beside having a passable pair of

pants, he had rolled up under his arm a half worn osnaburg pair of

pants, also. These my brother-in-law bought of him for four hundred

dollars. He wore them home after the surrender, and that same

half-worn, four-hundred-dollar pair of osnaburg pants did service

for some time on the farm after the war.

When one of my brothers, who was taken prisoner at Appomattox

during the last days of fighting in Virginia, and who was sent to

Point Lookout in Maryland, was paroled with many others, and sent

by steamer to Savannah, Georgia, he and they had to “foot it” the

greater part of the way to Columbus, Georgia, where most of them

lived, inasmuch as the Federal army had torn up the railroads and

burnt all the bridges. They were all more or less lacking as to

clothing, but one of the comrade’s clothing was in such bad plight

that he could scarcely make a decent appearance on the road, much

less appear in his own settlement. As they were nearing Columbus,

they stopped and advised together as how to overcome the deficiency

in their comrade’s wardrobe. One of the soldiers happened to have a

silver dime (a thing quite rare in those days), which he gave his

needy comrade to buy a pair of pants with. They had the good luck

to get a half worn pair of jeans pants at a small farm-house in the

piney-woods, for the ten cents, and these the soldier wore home.

Five or six years after the war, these two comrades, the one who

had given the silver dime and the one who had bought the pants

with it, met in Columbus, Georgia. They had been together in

camp, in prison, and on that long walk home from Savannah to

Columbus, through the grand stretches of piney-woods, covered with

the green luxuriant wire-grass of southwestern Georgia, and they

recognized each other immediately. One drew from his pocket a crisp

five-dollar bill and handed it to the giver of the silver piece,

saying, “Take this, old fellow, in grateful acknowledgment for that

silver dime I bought those pants with; for I might almost say, ‘I

was naked and ye clothed me.’”

XIV.

Just as soon as the railroads could be repaired and bridges builded

anew, I made haste to get to my father’s again to find how all had

gone with them while our foes were marching through Georgia. I had

tried for three months or more to get a letter or message of some

sort to them, as they had to me, but all communication for the time

being was completely broken up. I had spent many sad hours thinking

of those at home, and was almost afraid to hear from them; but as

soon as a train ran to Columbus, I ventured forth.

I had traveled over the same road time and again, on my way to

and from home, but now as I beheld the ruins of grim-visaged

war, whichever way I cast my eyes, I must confess to a somewhat

rebellious and bitter feeling. There are moments in the experience

of every human being when the heart overflows like the great

Egyptian river, and cannot be restrained. “O thou great God of

Israel!” I cried, “why hast thou permitted this dire calamity

to befall us? Why is it that our homes are so despoiled?” And I

marveled not at the captive Hebrews’ mournful plaint, as by the

rivers of Babylon they hung their harps on the willows.

As the train slowed up on the Alabama side of the Chattahoochee

River, I looked eagerly over to the opposite bank, where the home

of my father was situated. For a few seconds my pulse must have

ceased to throb, as I beheld the ruins of the city of Columbus.

With others I took my seat in an omnibus and was driven to the

river’s edge, there to await the coming of the ferry-boat which had

been built since all the bridges on the river had been burned by

the hostile army. The scene seemed so unreal that like Abou Hassan,

the caliph of fiction, I was thinking of biting my fingers to make

sure I was really awake. Had I not had my coin in my hand to pay

the ferryman, I should have imagined we were all shades, flitting

about on the shore of the Styx!

In musing silence, I could but say, O swift-flowing Chattahoochee,

is it thus I behold thee? Thou flowest in almost pristine

loveliness. Where are your huge bridges, that linked the green

hills of Alabama with the beautiful city of cottages and flowers?

Where are the cotton mills and machine-shops that lined your

banks,--mills which from early morn until the sun set sent forth an

incessant hum? Is it thus that I behold thee, city of my fathers?

My reverie was broken when the ferry-boat reached her landing; but

things all still seemed so strange that I could scarcely believe I

was not dreaming. I realized everything better when I saw soldiers

in blue moving hither and thither. I had heard while on the train,

how General Willson had ravaged, pillaged, and burnt, as he passed

through Alabama. Here were his soldiers who had laid Columbus in

ruins; here were they of whom I had been told that their route

from Columbus to the city of Macon, one hundred miles, could be

plainly traced by the curling smoke arising from burning dwellings,

gin-houses, barns, bridges, and railroad ties.

I was not long in getting to my father’s after I had left the city

of Columbus. And there was a joyous surprise in every respect, for

nothing had been disturbed at his residence save some corn, fodder,

and other food, which had been appropriated by raiding soldiers.

I found both of my brothers home. The one who had been carried to

Point Lookout had arrived only two days before. The one who had

been taken prisoner about three months before the surrender managed

to make his escape the night following the day he was captured.

It was a dark, sleety night, my brother said, and he had found it

quite easy to elude the sentinel. First he went, as he supposed,

about a mile from the camp; then he lay down on the frozen ground

with his army blanket, not daring to light a fire, for fear of

recapture. When the sun rose he took his bearings, and began his

long tramp for home. This journey had occupied many weeks, as all

traveling had to be done at night, and often he was in imminent

danger of being recaptured, as the whole country through which he

was passing was filled with Federal cavalrymen. Creeks and rivers

had to be waded or swum; deep and almost impenetrable swamps had to

be passed. Once in the thick woods he had come near running into

what he supposed to be a deserters’ camp, from the surroundings he

descried by the pale glare of the pine-knot camp-fire, but what

really was a camp of Northern soldiers. He subsisted on roots and

leaves, sometimes calling at a house after dark to beg a few ears

of corn, which he parched and ate; sometimes he enjoyed a rare

dessert in the berries of the hawthorn bush.

One blustering March night, just as the clock had told the hour

of two, the watch-dog at my father’s was heard baying furiously

at the front gate. There was some one at the gate speaking to the

dog, as if trying to quiet him. My father arose, opened the door,

and when he could make his voice heard, he called out, “What’s

wanting?” “It’s N----, ‘Drive’ (the dog’s name) won’t let me come

in.” At the name “N----,” our mother sprang from the bed with a

loud and joyful shout that he who had been mourned as dead was

alive and home again. My sisters, who were sleeping up-stairs, were

also aroused by the furious barking of the dog. They arose and

raised the window-sash just in time to hear, “It’s N----.” Their

window dropped like a flash of lightning, and then such a getting

down-stairs as there was! One or two chairs were knocked over in

the scramble for the head of the staircase, and one toppled the

whole flight of steps, making a great racket, in the middle of

the night, as it thumped the steps one by one. The candle, which

some one had managed to light while the sash was being raised, was

let fall when about in the middle of the flight of steps, and in

the then utter darkness one of my sisters stumbled over the chair

that had preceded her to the bottom of the stairs, and all came

pell-mell into the dark hall. My brother told me afterward that

he could not move for some time, he was so tightly pinioned when

finally taken to his mother’s heart.

* * * * *

What a change from 1861, when all were so buoyant and full of fiery

patriotism, with never a thought of being overcome! Now our cause

was lost, all our homes more or less despoiled, the whole South

seemingly almost hopelessly ruined, every little town and village

garrisoned by the troops who had overcome us by great odds.

Yet after all our great and sore afflictions, I found only

cheerfulness and Christian resignation at the end of these

troublous war times, and the hope that we might yet rise above our

misfortunes.

In closing, I must say that I know that the people of the Southern

States are now loyal to the Union; their reverence for the stars

and stripes is strong and pure; and it pierces like a sword, our

ever being taunted and distrusted. Accepting all the decisions of

the war, we have built and planted anew amid the ruins left by the

army who were the conquerors. We are still poor; but we believe

firmly that in our new life, under God, we are destined to a

brilliant career of prosperity and glory. Come, happy day!

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been

corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within

the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,

and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 34: ‘seams were calked’ replaced by ‘seams were caulked’.

Pg 42: ‘production was was used’ replaced by ‘production was used’.

Pg 126: ‘with ecstacy, as’ replaced by ‘with ecstasy, as’.

Pg 129: ‘communication whatevever’ replaced by

‘communication whatever’.