any peoples, like the Christmas of 1859—on the old plantation. Days
beforehand preparations were in progress for the wedding at the quarters,
and the ball at the “big house.” Children coming home for the holidays
were both amused and delighted to learn that Nancy Brackenridge was to
be the quarter bride. “Nancy a bride! Oh, la!” they exclaimed. “Why
Nancy must be forty years old.” And she was going to marry Aleck, who,
if he would wait a year or two, might marry Nancy’s daughter. While the
young schoolgirls were busy “letting out” the white satin ball dress
that had descended from the parlor dance to the quarter bride, and were
picking out and freshening up the wreath and corsage bouquet of lilies
of the valley that had been the wedding flowers of the mistress of the
big house, and while the boys were ransacking the distant woods for
holly branches and magnolia boughs, enough for the ballroom as well as
the wedding supper table, the family were busy with the multitudinous
preparations for the annual dance, for which Arlington, with its ample
parlors and halls, and its proverbial hospitality, was noted far and wide.
The children made molasses gingerbread and sweet potato pies, and one
big bride’s cake, with a real ring in it. They spread the table in the
big quarters nursery, and the boys decorated it with greenery and a
lot of cut paper fly catchers, laid on the roast mutton and pig, and
hot biscuits from the big house kitchen, and the pies and cakes of the
girls’ own make. The girls proceeded to dress Nancy Brackenridge, pulling
together that refractory satin waist which, though it had been “let out”
to its fullest extent, still showed a sad gap, to be concealed by a
dextrous arrangement of some discarded hair ribbons. Nancy was black as a
crow and had rather a startling look in that dazzling white satin dress
and the pure white flowers pinned to her kinks. At length the girls gave
a finishing pat to the toilet, and their brothers pronounced her “bully,”
and called Marthy Ann to see how fine her mammy was.
As was the custom, the whole household went to the quarters to witness
the wedding. Lewis, the plantation preacher, in a cast-off swallow-tail
coat of Marse Jim’s that was uncomfortably tight, especially about the
waist line, performed the ceremony. Then my husband advanced and made
some remarks, to the effect that this marriage was a solemn tie, and
there must be no shirking of its duties; they must behave and be faithful
to each other; he would have no foolishness. These remarks, though by
no means elegant, fitted the occasion to a fraction. There were no high
flights of eloquence which the darky mind could not reach, it was plain,
unvarnished admonition.
The following morning, Christmas Day, the field negroes were summoned to
the back porch of the big house, where Marse Jim, after a few preliminary
remarks, distributed the presents—a head handkerchief, a pocketknife,
a pipe, a dress for the baby, shoes for the growing boy (his first
pair, maybe), etc., etc., down the list. Each gift was received with a
“Thankee, sir,” and, perhaps, also a remark anent its usefulness. Then
after Charlotte brought forth the jug of whisky and the tin cups, and
everyone had a comforting dram, they filed off to the quarters, with a
week of holiday before them and a trip to town to do their little buying.
[Illustration: JAMES ALEXANDER MCHATTON]
The very last Christmas on the old plantation we had a tree. None of
us had ever seen a Christmas tree; there were no cedars or pines, so we
finally settled upon a tall althea bush, hung presents on it, for all
the house servants, as well as for the family and a few guests. The tree
had to be lighted up, so it was postponed till evening. The idea of the
house servants having such a celebration quite upset the little negroes.
I heard one remark, “All us house niggers is going to be hung on a tree.”
Before the dawn of another Christmas the negroes had become discontented,
demoralized and scattered, freer than the whites, for the blacks
recognized no responsibilities whatever. The family had abandoned the old
plantation home. We could not stand the changed condition of things any
longer, and the Federals had entered into possession and completed the
ruin. Very likely some reminiscent darky told new-found friends, “All
de house niggers was hung on a tree last Christmas.” I have heard from
Northern lips even more astonishing stories of maltreated slaves than a
wholesale hanging.
Frequently before the holidays some of the negroes were questioned as to
what they would like to have, and the planter would make notes and have
the order filled in the city. That, I think, was the custom at Whitehall
plantation. I was visiting there on one occasion when a woman told Judge
Chinn she wanted a mourning veil. “A mourning veil!” he replied. “I
thought you were going to marry Tom this Christmas?” “I is, marster,
but you know Jim died last grinding, and I ain’t never mourned none for
Jim. I want to mourn some ’fore I marries ag’in.” I did not remain to
see, but I do not doubt she got the mourning veil and had the melancholy
satisfaction of wearing it around the quarter lot a few days before she
married Tom.
After the departure of our happy negroes, whose voices and laughter could
be heard long after the yard gate was closed and they had vanished out
of sight, we rushed around like wild to complete preparations for the
coming ball guests. They began to arrive in the afternoon from down the
coast and from the opposite side of the river. Miles and miles some of
them drove in carriages, with champagne baskets, capital forerunners
of the modern suit case, tied on behind, and, like as not, a dusky
maid perched on top of it; poor thing, the carriage being full, she
had to travel in that precarious way, holding on for dear life. Those
old-time turtle-back vehicles had outside a small single seat for the
coachman only. Parties came also in skiffs, with their champagne baskets
and maids. Long before time for the guests from town to appear mammas
and maids were busy in the bedrooms, dressing their young ladies for
the occasion. Meanwhile the plantation musicians were assembling, two
violins, a flute, a triangle, and a tambourine. A platform had been
erected at one end of the rooms, with kitchen chairs and cuspidors, for
their accommodation. Our own negroes furnished the dance music, but we
borrowed Col. Hicky’s Washington for the tambourine. He was more expert
than any “end man” you ever saw. He kicked it and butted it and struck
it with elbow and heel, and rattled it in perfect unison with the other
instruments, making more noise, and being himself a more inspiring sight,
than all the rest of the band put together. Col. Hicky always said it was
the only thing Washington was fit for, and he kept the worthless negro
simply because he was the image (in bronze) of Gen. Lafayette. Col. Hicky
was an octogenarian, and had seen Gen. Lafayette, so he could not have
been mistaken. When Washington flagged, a few drops of whisky was all he
needed to refresh his energies.
The whirl of the dance waxed as the night waned. The tired
paterfamiliases sat around the rooms, too true to their mission to retire
for a little snooze. They were restored to consciousness at intervals by
liberal cups of strong coffee. Black William, our first violin, called
out the figures, “Ladies to the right!” “Set to your partners!”—and the
young people whirled and swung around in the giddy reel as though they
would never have such another opportunity to dance—as, indeed, many of
them never did. From the porch and lawn windows black faces gazed at the
inspiring scene. They never saw the like again, either.
Laughing, wide-awake girls and tired fathers and mothers started homeward
at the first blush of dawn, when they could plainly see their way over
the roads. I started too early from a party the year before, and the
buggy I was in ran over a dust-colored cow lying asleep in the road. The
nodding maid again perilously perched on top the champagne basket, and
skiffs with similar freight plied across the broad river as soon as there
was sufficient light to enable them to dodge a passing steamboat.
The last ball was a noble success. We danced on and on, never thinking
this was to be our last dance in the big house. Clouds were hovering all
about us the following Christmas. No one had the heart to dance then.
The negroes had already become restless and discontented. After that the
Deluge! The big house long ago slid into the voracious Mississippi. The
quarters where the wedding feast was spread are fallen into ruins, the
negroes scattered or dead. The children, so happy and so busy then,
are now old people—the only ones left to look on this imperfectly drawn
picture with any personal interest. We lived, indeed, a life never to be
lived again.
XXXIII
A WEDDING IN WAR TIME
“Marse Green says cum right away; he’s gwine to marry Miss Fanny to de
Captain.”
“When?”
“Soon’s I kin git de preacher. I can’t wait for you; I ain’t got no
preacher yit.”
That was a summons I had one hot day in early summer, in war times.
Yankees in New Orleans; gunboats almost hourly reported “jist ’round de
p’int”; and we people distractedly hanging on the ragged edge of alarm
and anxiety, did not pause to think how impossible it was for us to know
what was happening “jist ’round de p’int,” for all information about
things beyond our physical eyesight was questionable. In the rush of
uncertain and unlooked-for events, we could not plan any future, even
one day ahead, so overwhelmed were we in mind and estate (not to mention
body) with the strenuousness of the pitiful present.
I hastily changed my dress and was ready when my carriage was brought to
the door. “Marse Green” (I will not give the full name; everybody in
his old district knows who I mean), was a lawyer, a politician, a man of
family, while not a family man, and his little cottage home in town was
presided over, the best they knew how, by his three daughters, the eldest
of whom was scarcely out of her teens. The disturbed state of the country
had compelled me to stay quietly as I could at my plantation home, and
in the absorbing and frequent rumor of Yankees coming, no real town news
and gossip sifted in. Thus I had not heard that Miss Fanny’s fiancé, a
wounded soldier, was at Marse Green’s.
I was driven at a rapid pace up the road and through the restless,
crowded street throngs to the home of these motherless girls, whose New
England governess had returned North. I had long been their mother’s
dearest friend, and a refuge for her daughters in all their troubles and
perplexities. We were completely cut off from any reliable information of
the doings of the world, almost at our doors. Everybody knew New Orleans
had fallen and Butler was treading the prostrate people with hoofs of
iron, and also it was only a matter of time when his rule would reach our
town only 130 miles off. As a matter of course, under such circumstances,
we were alive to any startling rumor.
Marse Green, who did things by fits and starts, and did them very
thoroughly, too, when he started, had announced to his daughters on
the morning of my visit that they must be ready by early dawn the
following day to move themselves and everything else they might need
to his plantation on the Amite. Then the man of family shook the dust
of further assistance from his feet and proceeded to his office for
the day’s enlightenments. Of course, all business of a legal nature
was suspended. The few able-bodied men lingering outside the rank of
fighters, who were facetiously called “Druthers,” because they’d druther
not fight, or in other words, would druther stay at home, had dropped in
Marse Green’s office to while pleasantly away their idle time. The old
gentleman hobbled on his crutches to his favorite chair and was telling
his lounging visitors that gunboats being “jist ’round de p’int,” he was
sending his family out of harm’s way, when some one casually remarked,
“What you going to do with the Captain? He can’t stay here, a paroled
soldier, and he can’t go with those young girls that way.” “By gracious!”
Marse Green had not thought of that. The Captain must marry Fanny right
away, or run the risk of being captured, for he had no place to go. In
pursuance of that sudden plan, an emissary was dispatched to summon me,
and to get the Methodist preacher. Messengers were also sent with flying
feet among the few near neighbors, asking their presence that afternoon,
while Marse Green himself rushed back home to announce the decision to
his family.
I arrived in a scene of confusion beyond words to express. Already some
kindly neighbors were there helping the distracted girls to pack. Trunks,
boxes, bags, barrels, baskets, were in every room with piles and piles
of household and personal articles to be stowed. Everybody was busy and
everybody stumbling and tearing about in every other body’s way. Marse
Green had already descended upon them with his ultimatum, and worse
became the confusion with this new and unexpected element injected into
it. Dear Fanny must be married in white, so every one declared. Then
ensued a ransacking of trunks and drawers for a pretty white lawn she
had—somewhere! At length it was brought to light in a very crumpled
condition, not having been worn since the winter (the last Buchanan
winter) Fanny spent in Washington with her father. There was no time or
opportunity or place, apparently, to press the wrinkles out and make the
really handsome gown presentable. Then there arose a clamor and frantic
search for white stockings. Nobody had the temerity to mention white
kid gloves. They were of the past, as completely as a thousand other
necessities we had learned to do without. The black dress was laid aside.
Fanny looked very lovely in her white gown, the most calm and composed of
any of us.
The dazed, bewildered and half-sick Captain meandered around in his dingy
Confederate gray, the only suit he had. His skull had been fractured in
battle (I think at Shiloh), the hair had been shaved off one side of his
head and a silver plate covered and protected the wound. Time was passing
swifter than the motions of the little party, fast as they were. All the
packing and loading of wagons had to be completed for the early morning
start. The rest of us could stay in our homes and run our chances—which
we did, woe is me!—but Marse Green’s girls must be off, in accordance
with his dictum, and, of course, a Confederate officer had to get out of
the enemy’s reach.
Meanwhile the other invited neighbors were arriving, and also an
Episcopal minister. Mr. Crenshaw, the Methodist preacher, could not
be found. He had spent hours haranguing the few peace-loving Jews,
superannuated cripples and handful of “Druthers” remaining in town,
telling those incapables or insufficients they were not patriotic
to stand aside and let the enemy’s gunboats land at our wharf, but
it appears when the latter really were “just behind de p’int,” the
voluble gentleman’s discretion got the better of his valor, and he had
ingloriously fled.
One kindly neighbor, a late arrival, whispered to another, who had been
there all day helping, “Any refreshments?” Not a soul had thought of
refreshments; we isolated housekeepers had not even heard the name for
so long that it had not occurred to us to talk of furnishing what we
could not procure. The late comer rushed home and quickly returned with
the half of a cornmeal pound-cake and a pitcher of brown sugar lemonade.
Then the minister required some one to give the bride away. That was not
in Marse Green’s Methodist service, and besides Marse Green was getting
mortally tired and fractious, so, without my knowing it, Mr. McHatton
volunteered to perform that function. We guests who had been behind
the scenes, and were getting to be mortally tired and fractious, too,
assembled in the hastily-cleared parlor to witness the ceremony.
I was struck with amazement to see my husband, who had been the busiest
man there all day, march into the room with dear, pretty Fanny on his
arm! I never did know where the necessary ring came from, but somebody
produced a plain gold ring, which, no doubt, was afterwards returned
with appropriate thanks. The Captain was a strikingly handsome man, even
with a bandaged head and those ill-fitting clothes, not even store-made,
and we all agreed Fanny looked very placid and happy. Their healths were
drunk in tepid lemonade (did you ever drink brown sugar lemonade? If
your grandmother is a Southern woman I’ll be bound she has). There was
a hurried “God bless you!” and a kiss, and I had to rush home to two
wounded brothers needing my care.
Some near neighbors stayed to assist in the further preparations for an
early flight. I afterwards heard the entire family, groom and all, were
at work all night, and at early dawn Marse Green was able to start the
loaded wagons to the piny, sandy country. The bride and groom and two
young sisters piled into the ramshackle old family carriage, and were
driven off, a ten hours’ trip to Amite. I trust they made it before
night, but it was many years thereafter before I knew anything further of
them.
I asked my husband, afterwards, when we talked the wedding over, who
paid the minister? We had not seen yet a Confederate soldier with as
much money as a wedding fee in his pocket. “I don’t think the Captain
had a dollar,” he replied, “so I whispered him to be easy; we would
attend to the minister.” No hat was passed around, but someone produced a
fifty-dollar Confederate bill—unless it was parted with very promptly it
was not worth fifty cents to the preacher.
The gunboats the frantic negroes had so long heralded, got “round de
p’int” at last, and a battle ensued in the very streets of our town.
Marse Green’s house happened to be in the thick of it, and consequently
was so riddled that it was put permanently out of commission. The family
never returned to it, even to view the ruins.
At the time of the exposition I accidentally met the Captain and his wife
on a street car in New Orleans. At Napoleon avenue the car stopped and
the passengers were leaving. I asked in a general way, knowing no one,
“Do we change cars here?” A voice, whose owner was out of sight, promptly
replied, “Yes, madam, you wait for me.” I was thus the last passenger to
descend, and to my unspeakable amazement I was received by the Captain
and Fanny! She said, though she did not see me, she had recognized my
voice, and she reminded me that it was almost twenty-one years since
we parted. It was sweet to know that the marriage in haste had not the
proverbial sequel of repentance at leisure. They were a happy couple.
The whole wedding affair was a painful and pitiful episode, and for
years I had thought of it with a tinge of sadness; but a few years ago,
on a later visit to New Orleans, I had the happiness to meet a dear old
friend who was one of the busiest helpers on the occasion, and we merrily
laughed over the recalled incidents that at the time were so pathetic.
The handsome Captain may be living; I have since lost track of him, but
every other soul that was at that wedding has gone where there’s no
marrying or giving in marriage—I, only, am left to chronicle this wedding
in war-time.
XXXIV
SUBSTITUTES
Mrs. Walker sent me a pan of flour! It was the first time in months and
almost the last time in years that I saw flour. These, you must know,
were war times, and flour was not the only necessary we lacked. Dear Dr.
Stone had a bluff, hearty way of arriving at things. When the Federals
were in New Orleans he was often called for a surgical consultation, or
to administer to an officer, with headache or backache, for they were
mortally afraid of yellow fever, and it was just the season for it; and
their regimental surgeons were not familiar with the scourge. Dr. Stone
frequently “made a bargain” before he would act, and so I do not doubt
in that way he obtained permission to ship a barrel of flour—for which
all of us were famishing—to Mrs. Stone’s sister on the coast. Mrs. Walker
most generously shared it with her neighbors.
Indians had lived on cornmeal and prospered therewith. Negroes had
lived on cornmeal and prospered also. We were living on cornmeal and
not prospering, for we had been brought up on (metaphorically speaking)
nectar and ambrosia. Our cakes even, everybody had to have cakes! were
made of cornmeal and molasses.... But I want to tell more about our Dr.
Stone. When one Northern officer sent for him to consult about amputating
a leg the doctor told him, in his blunt, positive way, he would not even
examine the wounded member until he had in his pocket a permit for Mrs.
Stone and the ladies associated with her to visit the Parish Prison and
minister to the Confederates confined there. It was the only time any of
us ever heard of a body asking the privilege of entering that dirty old
calaboose down by Congo Square.
Many such stories were wafted to us about Dr. Stone. Some may not have
been authentic, but we loved to hear and to repeat them. However, after
the war, I did hear him tell of a Union officer offering him the present
of a fine horse in recognition of some professional obligation. “I needed
that horse,” he said, “for I had none, and so I was going my rounds
a-foot, but it was branded U. S. and I returned it.” Years after I met
that Federal officer in St. Paul, and, speaking of the doctor, whom he
admired greatly, he told of the horse he had tendered him, which was
promptly returned, accompanied with a most amusing note, ending with “So
US don’t want that horse.”
Every blessed one of us was a coffee drinker, and even before the
secession of Louisiana we were weighing and measuring what coffee we had
on hand, not knowing where we could replenish our diminishing stock. Gov.
Manning, of South Carolina, and his wife were our guests at this crisis,
and Mrs. Manning showed me how to prepare a substitute for coffee.
Gracious me! that was the first, but we had substitutes for almost every
article, both to eat and to wear, before we were whipped like naughty
children and dragged back into the Union, and made to take our nauseous
medicine, labeled “Reconstruction.” And now we are all cured! and will
never be naughty again.
That first substitute, which was followed by a score of others, was sweet
potatoes, cut, dried, toasted, ground and boiled. The concoction did not
taste so very bad, but it had no aroma, and, of course, no exhilarating
quality; it was simply a sweety, hot drink. We had lots of Confederate
money, but it quickly lost any purchasing power it ever had. There was
nothing for sale, and we could not have bought anything even if shops
had been stocked with goods and supplies. A pin! Why to this day I
always stoop to pick up a pin, I learned so to value that insignificant
necessary in the days we could not buy a pin. A hairpin! Many women
in country towns used thorns to secure their “waterfalls.” We wore
waterfalls; chignons they were called later. I saw many of them made of
silk strings, plaited or twisted. Women had to be in the fashion, as Dr.
Talmage once said, “though the heavens fell.” If we had had anything to
sew we would have missed the usual needle supply.
I was visiting one day when one large and one small needle were all there
were in the house; if they had been made entirely of gold, instead of
“gold-eyed” only, they could not have been more cherished. I can hear the
wailing voice now, inquiring, “Where is the needle?”