SORROW
When the spring came papa made us a little longer visit than usual. He
was not feeling well, his heart was giving him trouble. I only knew this
afterward from mamma, for papa never complained. I remember from my
early childhood looking on in wonder at the self-denial he exercised,
not once or twice, but all the time. His digestion was weak, and day
after day, when we had such delicious things, shrimp, fish, and
rice-birds, and coots, and green corn, and lima beans, I saw him dine on
a plate of milk-and-rice, or a plate of soup with all the delicious okra
and tomatoes and beans strained out. But he never talked of it, nor did
it make him cross. He was specially tender and gentle to us all this
time. One day he asked me to do something and I answered:
“Papa, I don’t know how, I can’t do it.”
And he laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “Don’t ever say that, my
daughter. God has given it to you that whenever you put your whole self
to accomplish anything you will succeed. When you fail it will be
because you have not tried hard enough. Don’t forget this; it is a great
responsibility. Never say again you cannot do a thing!” He spoke so
solemnly that I was greatly impressed; and, many times in my life when
things have risen up before me which have seemed quite beyond my
strength and capacity and endurance, I have remembered that conversation
and gone ahead, only to find that he was right.
When papa said he must go back to the plantation, mamma thought it a
great risk, as he was so far from strong. She urged him to take another
week’s rest; but he said he must go; there was to be a meeting in
Georgetown to determine something about the public schools, and he must
be there. He would take two days on the drive through the country home,
and rest two days before the meeting, for it was most important. He left
us March 18, Friday, promising to return to us the next Sunday week.
About a week after he left, early in the morning, a messenger came up on
horseback with a note from Mr. Belflowers. He thought it his duty to let
mamma know that he thought papa an ill man. He had attended a meeting in
Georgetown in very inclement weather, when he was so far from well that
he had a mattress put in the carryall, and lay on that instead of going
in the carriage. He was afraid “the governor,” as he continued to call
papa, would not like it if he knew he was writing this, but he had to do
it. Mamma ordered the carriage at once and we prepared to start on the
journey. By the mail which came in just before we started, a letter came
from papa to her, saying he had taken a bad cold and wished very much he
could come back and put himself under her care. That was so much for him
to admit that she felt she could name the letter as the cause of her
coming and not betray Mr. Belflowers. It was dreadful to have no quicker
means of going. We started at nine o’clock; that night we spent at Mrs.
Fryer’s, about half-way. The next morning we started by dawn, met a
fresh pair of horses, Mr. Belflowers sent to meet us at Union Church,
and reached Chicora about five in the afternoon.
When we got to Chicora we found papa very ill. He had pneumonia. He was
very happy to see us and did not inquire why we came. It seemed quite
natural to him that we did come. Doctor Sparkman, the same who had saved
his life at The Meadows when they were both young, was in attendance and
was perfectly devoted. Stephen was in constant attendance and very
efficient, also a very faithful man named John Locust, sent by my
cousin, William Allan Allston, over from Waccamaw. As soon as I came I
was established in the position of head nurse, for I had always had a
turn for nursing and at school had nursed all the sick girls and got the
nickname of Miss Nightingale. I was truly thankful for my experience
now, for I was able to be a comfort to papa and a help to everybody,
specially mamma, who was completely unnerved by seeing papa so
desperately ill. The doctor had told us he had little hope, but I was
full of confidence that he would get well. I was very happy to find
papa’s comfort in my nursing. I could see his eyes follow me as I moved
about the room, and one day as I brought him his cup of gruel he said,
“Daughter, that is a pretty dress; it pleases me”--and he held the fold
of the skirt in his fingers as he reluctantly swallowed the gruel which
I gave him by the teaspoonful. His breathing was so labored it was hard
for him to speak and also to swallow. No one can understand the joy his
words gave me, for I loved him so dearly and it was such a delight to
give him pleasure now. I remember the frock well. It was a greenish-gray
material, something like mohair, with dark-green conventionalized
leaves here and there over it; an old dress Della had given me when she
got new things for her trousseau. I had had it washed and made it over
myself. I kept it just to look at for years and years.
The neighbors helped. Mr. Josh La Bruce came over from Sandy Island in
his boat and sat up one night, and was a great help, he was so quiet and
so strong in lifting. Then one night Mr. Weston came and sat up and Mr.
Belflowers sat up one night. Then Mr. La Bruce came again. Papa suffered
terribly from the difficulty of breathing and the want of sleep was
dreadful. He could not sleep. He would repeat in a low voice, “He giveth
his beloved sleep”; then, “I am not beloved!” I would sing a hymn in a
low voice sometimes, which seemed to soothe him and made him doze a
little.
One day he called for Mr. Belflowers, saying he wanted to see him alone,
and every one went out, and it must have been nearly an hour before Mr.
Belflowers came out. Papa asked me to read to him from the Bible, and
that always seemed a comfort to him. The 14th chapter of St. John was
what he asked for most often: “Let not your heart be troubled.” One day
I was reading it to him when his niece, Mrs. Weston, came in, and I
asked her to read it, and she took the Bible from me and read so
beautifully. I saw at once how it comforted him, so slowly, so quietly,
so distinctly, so impersonally. It might have been the blessed Saviour
himself uttering those great words of comfort and promise to his
disciples. The mind of a suffering, dying person acts slowly. If you
hurry the words they cannot follow them without painful effort. When
Cousin Lizzie got to the end of the chapter papa gasped out, “Go on,
Elizabeth,” and she went slowly on a long time.
The breathing became more and more terrible every hour, such a struggle
that I could not endure to see it and be helpless to aid in any way. I
would kneel beside the bed and take his hand and he would press mine in
a grip which showed his pain, and at last as I knelt there I gave him up
and prayed God to relieve him from his agony. Poor mamma could scarcely
stay in the room, it was such an agony to her. She came in and knelt
beside him and held his hand, and then she had to go out. But at last we
all felt the end was at hand, and knelt beside the bed, praying for him
with all our being, when he lifted his right hand with a powerful sweep
and said in a strong voice: “Lord, let me pass!” And it was all over in
a few seconds, with no struggle or distress. It was peace after the
awful storm, and we felt he was safely in the haven.
I had not slept for days and nights and went into the next room and fell
into a deep sleep for an hour. When I woke I went into papa’s room. The
big bed had been moved out, and there he lay on the little single
mahogany bed,[4] looking oh so peaceful and so beautiful; all the lines
of care and anxiety gone and a look of youth and calm strength in his
face. Oh, the comfort of that look. Mamma was sitting there, quite
self-controlled and calm. I called her outside, for we had to make all
the arrangements and give all the directions.
In the country there are no officials trained to take charge of things,
and I suggested that we have Mr. Belflowers come and give him necessary
directions. He was waiting down-stairs, and came up at once. Mamma began
to tell him what she thought he had better do, but faltered and said: “I
really don’t know what directions to give!”
He said: “There is no need for you to give any or to think about it,
Mrs. Allston. The governor called me in three days ago and gave me every
direction. He had it all in his mind, but his speech was so cut short by
his breath that it took a good while for him to tell me. He told me what
carpenters must make the coffin, where the specially selected and
seasoned wood was; what negro was to drive the wagon which carried him
and which horses; what horses to go in your carriage, with Aleck
driving; who was to carry the invitation to the funeral, and with what
horses on this side of the river, and to Georgetown, and what man was to
take the boat and take it to Waccamaw. He said he wanted to be laid in
the graveyard of Prince Frederick’s church, as it was so near, and it
would give too much trouble to be taken to Georgetown, and that after
the war was over he could be moved to the family enclosure in
Georgetown. And, ma’am, I have already given all the orders, just as he
told me.”
It is impossible to give any idea of the immense relief this was to
mamma and to me. It just seemed a horror to see after all the sordid,
terrible details. Papa had told John Locust and Stephen just how to
arrange and dress and lay him out, so John had asked mamma to leave the
room when the spirit had fled, and called her back when it was all done.
The day before the end mamma had wanted to ask him some questions as to
what she should do, etc. She broke down and said: “What can I ever do
without you? Tell me what to do!” He pressed her hand and said: “The
Lord will provide; have no fear.” He could not direct her as to anything
ahead in those troublous, changing times, but he could see that she was
spared all trouble at the last, and we both felt it was the most
touching and wonderful proof of his devotion even in the agony of death.
He was laid to rest in the churchyard of Prince Frederick’s, just a mile
away, where the beautiful half-finished brick church in whose building
he had been so much interested, stood, a monument to war. All the
trimmings and furnishings had been ordered in England, and, in running
the blockade, they had been sunk. The architect, whose name was Gunn,
had died, and was buried near the church, and the roofless but beautiful
building stood there forlorn. There we laid him, with all the beauty of
the wild spring flowers and growth he so loved around him, nearly under
a big dogwood-tree in all its white glory. Crying and lamentation of
the negroes who flocked along the road behind the wagon which carried
papa, and filled the large graveyard, standing at a little distance
behind the family, according to their rank and station on the
plantation. Those who dug the grave had been specially named by papa,
and it was considered a great honor. My dear father, if love could
avail, when he reached those gates of pearl, they would fly open at his
approach, for he carried the love and devotion of many people of all
colors and classes.
As soon as possible my uncle, Chancellor Lesesne, arrived and opened and
read the will. Mamma was named executrix and Chancellor Henry D. Lesesne
executor. The house in Charleston and all the furniture were left to
mamma, with all the house-servants and their families, and what
carriages and horses she wanted, and a sum of money. To each of us five
children a plantation and negroes, one hundred each. They were all named
for each one. Charley was to have Chicora Wood, where we had always
lived, and all the negroes who lived there. Brother Guendalos, the
plantation adjoining on the south; Jane, Ditchfield, the plantation
adjoining Chicora on the north; and to me was left Exchange, the
plantation just north of that. To my sister Adèle, Waterford, a
plantation on the Waccamaw, very valuable, and which would sell well;
and Nightingale Hall, which was considered the place which would sell
best, as it was at the pitch of tide most considered, being subject
neither to freshet from above nor salt from the ocean below, was to be
sold for the benefit of the heirs.
Then came an immense deal of writing and work for me. My brothers not
being available nor any clerical outside help, I did all the writing and
copying of the will to be sent round to the different heirs, and the
lists of negroes, cattle, farm implements, and personal property, and
helped Uncle Henry in every way. I have by me now the list of 600
negroes.
It was a great relief to have the work to do, for more and more as the
days went on and the sense of thankfulness for his relief from suffering
grew fainter, the sense of terrible desolation and sorrow possessed me.
Papa was the only person in the world in whom I had absolute faith and
confidence. I had never seen him show a trace of weakness or indecision.
I had never seen him unjust or hasty in his judgment of a person. I had
watched him closely and yet I had never seen him give way to temper or
irritation, though I had seen him greatly tried. Never a sign of
self-indulgence, or indolence, or selfishness. It was my misfortune to
see people’s weaknesses with uncanny clearness, and my mother often
rebuked me for being censorious and severe in my judgments of all around
me; but never had I seen a thing in my father which I would criticise or
wish to change. Only, I often wished he would talk more; but when I once
said that very shyly to him, he laughed and said: “Child, when I have
something to say I say it, and it seems to me that is a good plan.”
We returned to Society Hill in May, mamma and I driving up in the
carriage as we had gone down; but oh, how different the whole world was
to us! The beauty of nature on the way, the woods in all the glory of
their fresh leafage, the wild flowers, the birds, the gorgeous
sunshine--all, all seemed a mockery. Our life was to be a gray, dull
drab always. We stopped a night on the way up with kind, devoted
friends, General Harllee and his charming wife, in their beautiful home,
with a wonderful flower-garden. There was no power left in me to admire
even, much less to enjoy. I had always been the most enthusiastic person
in the world, too much so for polite standards. Now it was all gone. I
was just a very thin, under-sized, plain, commonplace young person,
ready to do anything I was told, but without one spark of initiative.
Mamma was crushed not only by her grief but by the feeling that she was
utterly inadequate to the task before her, that of looking after and
providing for over 600 negroes in this time of war and stress, of seeing
that the proper supplies of food were at the different points where they
were needed.
Mamma had never had the least planning about supplies, beyond buying her
own groceries. The supplies of rice, grist, potatoes, everything, had
been brought to her storeroom door regularly once a week, calling for no
thought on her part. Now suddenly she had to plan and arrange for the
100 people on the farms in North Carolina, as well as for the 500 down
on the plantations. It was perfectly wonderful to see how she rose to
the requirements of the moment, and how strong and level her mind was.
In a little while she had grasped the full extent of the situation, and
was perfectly equal to her new position.