SLAVERY AND THE WAR OF THE REBELLION.
* * * * *
BEGINNING OF THE WAR.
I remember well when Abraham Lincoln was elected. Boss and the madam had
been reading the papers, when he broke out with the exclamation: "The
very idea of electing an old rail splitter to the presidency of the
United States! Well he'll never take his seat." When Lincoln was
inaugurated, Boss, old Master Jack and a great company of men met at our
house to discuss the matter, and they were wild with excitement. Was not
this excitement an admission that their confidence in their ability to
whip the Yankees, five or six to one, was not so strong as they
pretended?
The war had been talked of for some time, but at last it came. When the
rebels fired upon Fort Sumter, then great excitement arose. The next day
when I drove Boss to town, he went into the store of one Williams, a
merchant, and when he came out, he stepped to the carriage, and said:
"What do you think? Old Abraham Lincoln has called for four hundred
thousand men to come to Washington immediately. Well, let them come; we
will make a breakfast of them. I can whip a half dozen Yankees with my
pocket knife." This was the chief topic everywhere. Soon after this Boss
bought himself a six shooter. I had to mould the bullets for him, and
every afternoon he would go out to practice. By his direction, I fixed a
large piece of white paper on the back fence, and in the center of it
put a large black dot. At this mark he would fire away, expecting to hit
it; but he did not succeed well. He would sometimes miss the fence
entirely, the ball going out into the woods beyond. Each time he would
shoot I would have to run down to the fence to see how near he came to
the mark. When he came very near to it--within an inch or so, he would
say laughingly: "Ah! I would have got him that time." (Meaning a Yankee
soldier.) There was something very ludicrous in this pistol practice of
a man who boasted that he could whip half a dozen Yankees with a
jackknife. Every day for a month this business, so tiresome to me, went
on. Boss was very brave until it came time for him to go to war, when
his courage oozed out, and he sent a substitute; he remaining at home as
a "home guard." One day when I came back with the papers from the city,
the house was soon ringing with cries of victory. Boss said: "Why, that
was a great battle at Bull Run. If our men had only known, at first,
what they afterwords found out, they would have wiped all the Yankees
out, and succeeded in taking Washington."
* * * * *
PETTY DISRESPECT TO THE EMBLEM OF THE UNION.
Right after the bombardment of Fort Sumter, they brought to Memphis the
Union flag that floated over the fort. There was a great jubilee in
celebration of this. Portions of the flag, no larger than a half dollar
in paper money, were given out to the wealthy-people, and these
evidences of their treason were long preserved as precious treasures.
Boss had one of these pieces which he kept a long time; but, as the
rebel cause waned these reminders of its beginning were less and less
seen, and if any of them are now in existence, it is not likely that
their possessors will take any pride in exposing them to view.
As the war continued we would, now and then, hear of some slave of our
neighborhood running away to the Yankees. It was common when the
message of a Union victory came to see the slaves whispering to each
other: "We will be free." I tried to catch everything I could about the
war, I was so eager for the success of the Union cause. These things
went on until
* * * * *
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH, APRIL 9, 1862.
Boss came hurrying in one morning, right after breakfast, calling to me:
"Lou, Lou, come; we have a great victory! I want to go up and carry the
boys something to eat. I want you and Matilda to get something ready as
quickly as you can." A barrel of flour was rolled into the kitchen, and
my wife and I "pitched in" to work. Biscuit, bread, hoe-cake, ham,
tongue--all kinds of meat and bread were rapidly cooked; and, though the
task was a heavy one for my wife and me, we worked steadily; and, about
five o'clock in the afternoon the things were ready. One of the large
baskets used to hold cotton was packed full of these provisions. Our
limbs ached from the strain of the work, for we had little help. One
reason for the anxiety of the Boss for the preparation of this provision
for the soldiers was that he knew so many in one of the companies, which
was known as the "Como Avengers," and he had a son, a nephew and a
brother of his wife connected with it; the latter a major on Gen.
Martin's staff. On the following morning I got up early, and hurried
with my work to get through, as I had to go to the postoffice. Madam
hurried me off, as she expected a letter from her husband, who had
promised to write, at the earliest moment, of their friends and
relatives. I rushed into the city, at full speed, got some letters and a
morning paper, and, returning as rapidly as possible, gave them to her.
She grasped them eagerly, and commenced reading the paper. In a short
time I heard her calling me to come to her. I went in, and she said, in
great excitement: "Louis, we want to have you drive us into town, to see
the Yankee prisoners, who are coming through, at noon, from Shiloh." I
went and told Madison to hitch up, as soon as he could. In the meantime
I got myself ready, and it was not long before we were off for the city.
The madam was accompanied by a friend of hers, a Mrs. Oliver. We were at
the station in plenty of time. About twelve o'clock the train from
Shiloh drew into the station; but the prisoners that were reported to be
on board were missing--it proved to be a false report. While they were
looking for the prisoners, Mrs. Oliver saw Jack, a servant of Edward
McGee, brother of madam. "Oh! Look," said Mrs. Oliver, "there is
Edward's Jack. Lou, run and call him." In a minute I was off the
carriage, leaving the reins in madam's hands. Jack came up to the
carriage, and the women began to question him: "Where is your Master,
Ed," asked both of them. "He is in the car, Missis--he is shot in the
ankle," said Jack. In a minute the women were crying. "I was going to
get a hack," said Jack, "to--" "No, No!" said both of them. "Go, Lou,
and help Jack to bring him to our carriage. You can drive him more
steadily than the hackman." Jack and I went to the car, and helped him
out, and after some effort, got him into our carriage. Then I went and
got a livery hack to take the women and his baggage home. When we
reached home, we found there old Mrs. Jack McGee, mother of the madam,
Mrs. Charles Dandridge, Mrs. Farrington, sisters of madam, and Fanny, a
colored woman, Edward's housekeeper and mistress--a wife in all but
name. All of these had come to hear the news of the great battle, for
all had near relatives in it. Mrs. Jack McGee and Mrs. Dr. Charles
Dandridge had each a son in the terrible conflict.
* * * * *
MOURNING IN MASTER'S FAMILY.
In the afternoon, when all were seated in the library reading, and I was
in the dining room, finishing up my work, I happened to look out of the
window, and saw a messenger coming up the graveled walk. I went out to
meet him. "Telegram for Mrs. McGee," he said. I took it to her; and,
reading it without a word, she passed it to the next member of the
family, and so it was passed around until all had read it except Mrs.
Dandridge. When it was handed to her, I saw, at a glance, that it
contained for her the most sorrowful tidings. As she read she became
livid, and when she had finished she covered her face with her
handkerchief, giving a great, heavy sob. By this time the whole family
was crying and screaming: "Oh! our Mack is killed." "Mars, Mack is
killed," was echoed by the servants, in tones of heart-felt sorrow, for
he was an exceptional young man. Every one loved him--both whites and
blacks. The affection of the slaves for him bordered on reverence, and
this was true not alone of his father's slaves, but of all those who
knew him. This telegram was from Boss, and announced that he would be
home the next day with the remains. Mrs. Farrington at once wrote to old
Master Jack and to Dr. Dandridge, telling them of Mack's death and to
come at once. After I mailed those letters nothing unusual happened
during the afternoon, and the house was wrapped in silence and gloom. On
the following morning I went for the mail as usual, but there was
nothing new. At noon, the remains of the much loved young man arrived at
our station, accompanied by Boss and Dr. Henry Dandridge, brother of the
father of the deceased, who was a surgeon in the rebel army. I went to
the station with another servant, to assist in bringing the body to the
house. We carried it into the back parlor, and, after all had been made
ready, we proceeded to wash and dress it. He had lain on the battlefield
two days before he was found, and his face was black as a piece of coal;
but Dr. Henry Dandridge, with his ready tact, suggested the idea of
painting it. I was there to assist in whatever way they needed me. After
the body was all dressed, and the face painted, cheeks tinted with a
rosy hue, to appear as he always did in life, the look was natural and
handsome. We were all the afternoon employed in this sad work, and it
was not until late in the evening that his father and mother came down
to view the body for the first time. I remember, as they came down the
broad stairs together, the sorrow-stricken yet calm look of those two
people. Mrs. Dandridge was very calm--her grief was too great for her to
scream as the others did when they went in. She stood and looked at her
Mack; then turning to Boss, she said: "Cousin Eddie, how brave he was!
He died for his country." Poor, sorrowing, misguided woman! It was not
for his country he died, but for the perpetuation of the cruel, the
infamous system of human slavery. All the servants were allowed to come
in and view the body. Many sad tears were shed by them. Some of the
older slaves clasped their hands, as if in mute prayer, and exclaimed,
as they passed by the coffin: "He was a lovin boy." It seems that all
his company but five or six were killed. At an early hour next morning
the funeral party started for the home in Panola, where the body of the
lamented young man, sacrificed to an unholy cause, was buried, at the
close of the same day.
Edward stayed at our house some six weeks, his ankle was so slow in
getting well. At the end of that time, he could walk with the aid of
crutches, and he took Fanny and went home.
* * * * *
ALARM OF THE MEMPHIS REBELS.
Not long after this the people were very much worked up over the
military situation. The Yankees had taken Nashville, and had begun to
bombard Fort Pillow. The officials of the Memphis and Ohio railroad
company became alarmed at the condition of things, fearing for the
safety of their stock. The officers, therefore, set about devising some
plan by which they might get the cars down on the Memphis and Jackson
road, where they imagined their property would be safe from the now
terrible Yankees. The railroad officials at once set to work to buy the
right of way through Main street, to give them the connection with the
southern road named. At first it was refused by the city authorities,
but finally the right of way was granted. When, however, the railroad
men began to lay the ties and rails, the people grew furious. Some fled
at once, for they imagined that this act of the railroad officials
indicated that the Yankees must be coming pretty near. Boss became so
excited, at this time, that he almost felt like going away too. The
family grew more and more uneasy; and it was the continual talk: "We
must get away from Memphis. The companies are already moving their
rolling stock, fearing the Yankees may come at any time and destroy
everything; we must get away," said Boss, speaking to the madam.
* * * * *
THE FAMILY FLEE FROM MEMPHIS.
Things continued in this way until about June, 1862. The Union troops
had taken Fort Pillow. We had heard the firing of cannon, and did not
know what it meant. One morning I was in the city after the mail, and I
learned that a transient boat had just come down the river, which had
lost a part of her wheelhouse. She was fired on from Fort Pillow,
sustaining this serious damage from the shot. This increased the
excitement among the people; and our folks became alarmed right away,
and commenced talking of moving and running the servants away from the
Yankees, to a place of safety. McGee was trying for some time to get
some one to take the house, that is, to live in and care for it until
after the war, while the family were gone. They never thought that
slavery would be abolished, and so hoped to come back again. After some
search, they found a widow, a Mrs. Hancock. She was to have full charge
of the house and continue keeping boarders, as she had been doing in
Memphis. The vaunted courage of this man seems to have early
disappeared, and his thought was chiefly devoted to getting his family
and his slaves into some obscure place, as far away as possible from the
Yankees, that were to be so easily whipped. We were about two weeks
getting ready to leave, stowing away some of the things they did not
want to move. The Boss and his family, my wife and I, and all the house
servants were to go to Panola, to his father's. The family went by rail,
but I had to drive through in a wagon.
* * * * *
I AM TAKEN TO BOLIVAR FARM.
Soon after the family all reached Master Jack's, Boss took me to his own
farm in Bolivar county. This separated me for a time from my wife, for
she remained with the family. I had to look after the house, at the
farm, attend the dining room, and, between meals, sew every day, making
clothes for the hands. I could run on the machine eighteen to twenty
pairs of pants a day, but two women made the button holes and did the
basting for me, getting the goods all ready for the machine.
* * * * *
CAPTURE OF A UNION TRADING BOAT.
The Yankees had made a raid through Bolivar, before I came, and the
excitement had not abated, as they were spreading themselves all through
the state. There was a Union trading boat, the Lake City, that had been
successful in exchanging her goods for cotton that came from Memphis.
She usually stopped at Helena, Fryer's Point and other small towns; but
on a trip at this time she came about fifty miles farther down the
river, to Carson's Landing, right at Boss' farm. She was loaded with all
kinds of merchandise--sugar, tobacco, liquor, etc. She had a crew of
about forty men, but they were not well prepared for a vigorous defense.
The rebel soldiers stationed in the vicinity saw her as she dropped her
anchor near the landing, and they determined to make an effort for her
capture. They put out pickets just above our farm, and allowed no one to
pass, or stop to communicate with the boat. Every one that sought to
pass was held prisoner, and every precaution taken to prevent those on
the boat from learning of the purposes of the rebels, knowing that the
boat would land in the morning, if not informed of the danger, and then
it was anticipated that they could easily make her a prize. There was a
small ferry boat behind the steamer, and as the latter dropped down
stream, and then steamed up to the landing, the former stood off for a
few moments. As the steamer touched shore, the rebels charged on her,
and captured her without a struggle. In the meantime the ferry boat,
seeing what had happened, sped away up stream, the soldiers firing at
her, but doing little damage, except the breaking of the glass in the
pilot house. The rebels, seeing that the ferry boat had escaped them,
turned their attention to the unloading of the steamer. They sent out
for help in this work, and the summons was answered by the neighbors far
and near. Wagons were brought, two of which were from our farm, and
loaded with goods, which were taken to Deer Creek, forty miles from
Carson Landing. What goods they found themselves unable to carry away
were packed in the warehouse. The steamer was then burned. McGee was
present, and the rebel captain gave him a written statement of the
affair to the effect that the residents were not responsible for it, and
that this should be a protection for them against the Union forces. The
officers and crew of the steamer to the number of forty were made
prisoners, and taken to Deer Creek, the rebel headquarters of that
region, and put in the jail there. The ferry boat that escaped went to
Helena, Arkansas, and carried the news of the affair to the Union forces
there.
* * * * *
BOSS TAKEN PRISONER.
I was told by Boss to take my stand on our veranda, and keep watch on
the river, and if I saw any boat coming down to let him know at once. I
kept a close watch the next morning until about eight o'clock, when I
saw a boat, but she had almost gone past our house before I discovered
her. I ran into the house and told Boss. He ordered me to get his horse
at once, which I did; and he mounted and went down to the landing as
fast as he could. Upon reaching there, he was taken prisoner by the
Union soldiers, who had just landed from the boat. All who came near
were captured. The Union soldiers went to work and transferred all the
goods which the rebels had put into the warehouse from the boat which
they had captured, then setting fire to the warehouse and the
postoffice, they pushed off yelling and shouting with glee. Among those
captured by the Union soldiers were three other rich planters besides
Boss, all of whom were taken to Helena. After they had been there about
a week, the planters offered to secure the release of the Unionists
captured on the boat which the rebels had burned at Carson Landing, and
who had been sent to the rebel jail at Deer Creek, if they were
guaranteed their own release in exchange. They offered to bear the
expense of a messenger to the rebel officer, at Deer Creek, with this
proposition. The Union officer at Helena accepted the proposition, and
the messenger was sent off. It was arranged that he should stop over at
our house, both on his way down and back. Upon his return, he stopped
over night, and the next morning proceeded on his way. When he had gone
about five miles, he saw a flat-boat at a landing, on which were people
drinking and having a merry time. He stopped, and went aboard; and, in
joining the carousal, he soon became so intoxicated that he was unable
to go on with his journey. Among those present was one Gilcrease, a
cousin of the McGees, who recognized the man as the messenger in this
important business, went to him and asked him for the letters he
carried. The fellow refusing to give them up, Gilcrease took them from
him, and at once sent to our overseer for a reliable man by whom to
forward them to the commandant at Helena. The overseer called me up
from the cabin to his room, and told me that I was to go to Helena to
carry some important papers, and to come to him for them in the morning,
and make an early start. I left him and went back to my cabin.
* * * * *
MY THIRD EFFORT FOR FREEDOM.
I made up my mind that this would be a good chance for me to run away. I
got my clothes, and put them in an old pair of saddle bags--two bags
made of leather, connected with a strip of leather, and used when
traveling horseback for the same purpose as a satchel is used in
traveling in the cars. I took these bags, carried them about a half mile
up the road, and hid them in a fence corner, where I could get them in
the morning when I had started on my trip. Fryer's Point, the place to
which I was to go, was about fifty miles from the farm. I started early
in the morning, and, after I had gone twenty-five miles, I came to the
farm of William McGee, a brother of the madam, and stopped to change
horses. I found that William McGee was going, in the morning, down to
old Master Jack's; so I took one of their horses, leaving mine to use in
its place, went right to Fryer's Point, delivered the letters to a man
there to carry to Helena, and got back to William McGee's farm that
night. I made up my mind to go with William down to Panola, where madam
was, to tell her about Boss being captured. The next morning, he
started, and Gibson, his overseer and myself accompanied him. He
questioned me about the capture of Boss, what the soldiers had done,
etc., and I told him all I knew of the matter. "Well, Lou," he said,
"why did you not bring us some whisky?" "I did bring a little with me,"
I said. He laughed, saying: "Oh, well, when we come to some clear water
we will stop and have a drink." Then I said: "Mr. Smith will look for me
to-night, but he wont see me. I am going to tell the madam that Boss is
captured." "Hey, ho!" he said, "then you are running away." I replied:
"Well I know Miss Sarah don't know Boss is in prison." We traveled on,
all three of us, stopping at intervals to be refreshed. After two days,
we arrived at Panola. Our journey was a tedious one. The streams were so
swollen in places that we could hardly pass. The Tallehatchie we had to
swim, and one of the men came near losing his horse and his life. The
horses became tangled in a prep vine, as we were nearing the shore at
which we aimed, and, the current being very swift, we were carried
below the landing place; but, finally, we got safely ashore, McGee
landing, and we following. Reaching Panola, wet and weary, I conveyed to
madam the story of her husband's capture and imprisonment, a rumor of
which had already reached her.
The next morning was Christmas, and a number of the family had come to
spend it together. They had heard that McGee was captured and in prison;
but, now, as I told them every feature of the affair in detail, they
grew excited and talked wildly about it. Among those who came were Dr.
Dandridge and his wife, Blanton McGee and his wife, Tim Oliver and his
wife. All these women were daughters of old Master Jack McGee, and
sisters to the madam. Mrs. Farrington and old lady McGee were already
there. These re-unions on Christmas were a long established custom with
them, but the pleasure of this one was sadly marred by the vicissitudes
and calamities of the war. A shadow hung over all the family group. They
asked me many questions about Boss, and, of course, I related all I
knew.
After I had been there three days, they started me back with letters for
Boss. When I left it was near night, and I was to stop over at Master
Jack's farm fifteen miles away. It was expected that I would reach
Fryer's Point on the third morning, thus allowing me three days to go
sixty miles; but I could not make much headway, as the roads were so
heavy. The understanding was that I was to deliver the letters to the
same gentleman, at Fryer's, to whom I delivered the others, for
forwarding to Boss at Helena. I was then to go straight to the farm at
Boliver, and report to Smith, the overseer. But after I had got about
four miles away, I concluded that I would not go back to the farm, but
try to get to the Yankees. I knew I had disobeyed Smith by going down to
the madam's to tell her about Boss, because he told me not to go when I
spoke to him about it. And now if I went back I feared he would kill me;
for I knew there would be no escape for me from being run into the bull
ring, and that torture I could not think of enduring. I, therefore,
stopped, and, taking the bridle and saddle from the horse, hid them in
the corner of a fence in a cornfield. Then I went into the woods. The
papers which I had were in the saddlebag safe. The place where I stayed
in the daytime was in a large shuck-pen--a pen built in the field to
feed stock from, in the winter time. This pen was on Dr. Dandridge's
farm; and the second night I worked my way up near the house. Knowing
all the servants, I was watching a chance to send word to the coachman,
Alfred Dandridge, that I wanted him to tell my wife that I was not gone.
I went down to his cabin, in the quarters; and, after a short time he
came. I was badly scared, and my heart was heavy and sore; but he spoke
comfortingly to me, and I was cheered, somewhat, especially when he
promised to see Matilda, and tell her of my whereabouts. He gave me some
food, and hid me away for the night in his house. I kept close all the
next day; and, at night, when all was still, Alfred and I crept out, and
went to old Master Jack's. The distance was not great, and we soon
covered it. Alfred went in and told my wife that I was outside and
wanted to see her. She came out, and was so frightened and nervous that
she commenced sobbing and crying, and almost fainted when I told her, in
low tones, that I was going to try to get to Memphis, and that Alfred
was helping to plan a way to this end. The rebels occupied both roads
leading to Memphis, and I was puzzled to know how to reach the city
without coming in contact with them. Two days after I had talked with
my wife, the rebel troops who were camped on the Holly Springs road left
for some other point. My friend Alfred found this out, and came and told
me the encouraging news. The following night I went to old Master Jack's
and told my wife that the way now seemed clear, and that I was going at
once. I was bent on freedom, and would try for it again. I urged my wife
not to grieve, and endeavored to encourage her by saying that I would
return for her, as soon as possible, should I succeed in getting to a
land of freedom. After many tears and blessings, we parted, and I left,
Uncle Alfred going with me some three miles, as I was not acquainted
with the road. When he left me I went on alone with gloomy forebodings,
but resolved to do my best in this hazardous undertaking, whatever might
happen. The road passed over hills and through swamps, and I found the
traveling very wearisome. I had traveled some hours, and thought I was
doing well; when, about one o'clock in the night, I came up out of a
long swamp, and, reaching the top of a hill, I stopped for a moment's
rest, raising myself to an erect position from that of walking, inclined
by reason of weariness and the weight of the saddle-bags thrown across
my shoulders. The weather was bad, a heavy mist had come up, and was so
dark that I could hardly see my way. As I started on, a soldier yelled
at me from the mist: "Halt! advance and give the countersign." I stopped
immediately, almost scared out of my wits. "Come right up here," said
the soldier, "or I'll blow you into eternity." I saw at once he was a
rebel soldier. I knew not what to do. This place where I was halted was
Nelson's farm, and the house was held as headquarters for a company of
rebel soldiers, known as bushwhackers. While they belonged to the rebel
army, they were, in a measure, independent of its regulations and
discipline, kept back in the woods, ready for any depredation upon the
property of unionists--any outrage upon their persons. The soldier who
had halted me took me up to the house, and all began to question me. I
told them that I had been sent on an errand, and that I had lost my way.
The next morning I was taken about a mile away down in the swamp, over
hills and through winding paths, till at last we came to the regular
rebel camp. I was in great fear and thought my end had come. Here they
began to question me again--the captain taking the lead; but I still
stuck to my story that I had been sent on an errand, and had lost my
way. I knew that this was my only chance. They tried to make me say that
I had come from the Yankees, as they were in camp near Holly Springs.
They thought the Yankees had sent me out as a spy; but I said the same
as at first--that I had lost my way. A soldier standing by said: "Oh! we
will make you talk better than that;" and stepping back to his horse, he
took a sea-grass halter, and said: "I'll hang you." There was a law or
regulation of the rebel government directing or authorizing the hanging
of any slave caught running away; and this fellow was going to carry it
out to the letter. I talked and pleaded for my life. My feelings were
indescribable. God only knows what they were. Dr. Carter, one of the
soldiers, who knew me and the entire McGee family, spoke up and said:
"You had better let me go and tell Mr. Jack McGee about him." The
captain agreed to this, and the doctor went. The following day, Old Jack
came, and steadily refused to consent to my being hung. He said: "I know
Edmund would not have him hung-ung. He is too valuable-aluable. No, no!
we will put him in jail and feed him on bread and water--too valuable a
nigger to be hung-ung."
They tried again to make me say that I was with the Yankees. They
whipped me a while, then questioned me again. The dog-wood switches that
they used stung me terribly. They were commonly used in Mississippi for
flogging slaves--one of the refinements of the cruelty of the
institution of slavery. I refused to say anything different from what I
had said; but when they had finished whipping me I was so sore I could
hardly move. They made up their minds to put me in jail at Panola,
twenty-two miles away, to be fed on bread and water. The next day was
Sunday, and all arrangements having been made for taking me to the place
appointed for those whose crime was a too great love for personal
freedom, they started with me, passing on the way Old Master Jack's,
where they halted to let him know that his advice respecting me was to
be carried out. The old man called to my wife: "Come out and see Louis."
Some one had told her that they were going to hang me; and I shall never
forget her looks as she came out in the road to bid me good-by. One of
the soldiers was softened by her agony, and whispered to her: "Don't
cry, aunty, we are not going to hang him--we will only put him in jail."
I saw this changed my wife's looks in a minute. I said a few words to
her, and, with a prayer for God's blessing on us both, we parted, and
they moved on. After we had gone about seven miles, we met two soldiers,
who belonged to the regiment at Nelson. They said: "Hello! where you
going with that nigger?" The two men in charge of me replied: "We are
going to take him to Panola jail." "Why," said one of the soldiers,
"there is no jail there; the Yanks passed through and pulled down the
doors and windows of the jail, and let all the prisoners out." This
caused a stop; and a council of war was held in the fence corner, the
result of which was a decision to take me back to old Jack McGee's.
After we had gotten back there, they took me and gave me another
flogging to satisfy the madam. I was never so lacerated before. I could
hardly walk, so sore and weak was I. The law was given me that if ever I
was caught out in the public road again, by any soldier, I was to be
shot. Monday morning I was sent to the field to plow; and, though I was
very stiff and my flesh seemed sore to the bone, my skin drawn and
shriveled as if dead, I had, at least, to make the attempt to work. To
have said: "Master, I am too sore to work," would only have gotten me
another whipping. So I obeyed without a word.
* * * * *
REBELS BURN THEIR COTTON.
The capture of Memphis by the Union troops closed the principal cotton
market of the country, and there was, as a consequence, an immense
accumulation of the product in the hands of the farmers of that region.
They were, therefore, compelled to resort to temporary expedients for
its protection from the elements. Old Master Jack had his piled up in a
long rick, and shelters built over it. Other farmers did the same. As
cotton was almost the only source of revenue for the farmers, and as
there was now no opportunity of getting it to market, there was such a
dearth of money as had seldom, if ever, been known, and a corresponding
dearth of those necessaries of life which money was the only means of
procuring. The accumulations of our family in this product were very
great. While the rebel farmers were waiting for a time when they could
turn their stores of this valuable article into money, a proclamation
was issued by the rebel government that all the owners of cotton that
had it stored on their farms must prepare to have it burned. Hundreds of
rebel soldiers marched to every section of Mississippi that they could
reach, and applied the torch to these cotton ricks. The destruction was
enormous. This was to prevent the cotton from falling into the hands of
the Unionists. Jeff Davis said to his deluded followers that it was
better for them to destroy this property than to risk its coming into
the possession of their enemies, since that would equally impoverish
themselves, while it might result to the pecuniary advantage of those
with whom they were at war. I know that it was a terrible sight when our
cotton was burned. Hundreds of bales were consumed, and it seemed like a
wholly unnecessary destruction of property, and, therefore, unwise as a
war measure. Many were sorry that they had acquiesced in the policy, as
it cost them thousands of dollars, and made many poor. They thought that
possibly their farms might have escaped the visits of the Union
soldiers, and the property, so much needed, been saved in whole or in
part. They reasoned, and reasoned correctly, that their condition would
in no sense have been worse if their cotton had not been burned by their
own soldiers, but might have been much better in many cases, without any
real detriment to the rebel cause. The sacrifice of the property of
their own people, by the rebel authorities, was evidence of the
desperation of the condition of the rebellion, and was so regarded by
not a few at that time. Those were terrible days. One could see anxiety
written on every face among the whites. The slaves even looked worried
at times, though the war meant so much to them, as they were always
looking forward to freedom, at its close, if the Union troops were
successful.
* * * * *
MY FOURTH RUNAWAY TRIP.
After I had been working on the farm about two months, and had
thoroughly talked the matter over with Alfred Dandridge, we planned to
make a careful and persistent effort to escape from the land of bondage.
We thought that as others, here and there, all through the neighborhood,
were going, we would make trial of it. My wife and I were at old Master
Jacks; and, after we had consulted with Alfred and Lydia, his wife, we
all concluded to go at once. Alfred had been a teamster for Dandridge
for many years, and was familiar with the road, as he had hauled cotton
into Memphis for his master for so long a time he could hardly tell when
he began. Matt Dandridge was a fellow servant, belonging to the same
man, and both had, as was not unusual, taken their master's name, or,
rather, were known by it. Matt had learned of our purpose to run away,
and concluded to join our party. So one night, when all was still, we
started. Uncle Alfred, as I always called him, was to be our leader. He
was older than any of the rest of us, and had had a good deal of
experience; we, therefore, all looked to him--in fact, we relied
entirely upon him. After we had traveled about twelve miles, we came to
a swamp, called Hicke-Halley. Here we stopped, as day was dawning, and
settled down for the day, as we could travel only in the night, lest we
should be seen and caught. We were wet--our clothes soaked through from
the heavy dew. We had to travel through corn fields, cotton patches, oat
fields and underbrush, not daring to take the main road. This is why we
were so wet. Uncle Alfred traveled wholly by the stars--they were his
guide. He knew by looking at them the four cardinal points of the
compass. Many old slaves were guided in this way when traveling in the
night, and some could tell the time of night by the position of the
stars. We stayed in Hicke-Halley all day, and in the evening, when it
was dark enough, we started on again, Uncle Alfred offering up a prayer
to God to guide us safely through. Cold Water was our next stopping
place, and here a difficulty rose before us that made us fearful. We had
nothing to wear but what we had on, and not much of that, so had small
space for carrying anything, and, therefore, had brought with us only a
little bite to eat. As we had lived on this small provision for a day,
there was now but little left for our increasing wants; and the
difficulty of securing anything from the houses without danger of
detection was almost insurmountable. But we felt encouraged as we
thought of what we were striving for, and sped on our way. But the way
was hard, for sometimes we got completely stuck in brier patches, and
had to turn and go back, in order to find a way out. Old logs and
driftwood, that had been piled up year after year, were other obstacles
in our way; and one can imagine how hard it was to make our way through
such a mass of brush and forest by the dim light of the stars as they
struggled through the dense branches of the trees. We stumbled on,
however, as best we could, each fearful, yet silently praying for
guidance and help. When within four or five miles of Cold Water, Uncle
Alfred stopped, and cautioned us not to speak above a whisper, as the
rebel troops were camped on both sides of us. We were in a swamp between
the two roads, gradually working our way through to the river, as we
could not go on either of the roads for fear of detection. At the
bridges, where these roads crossed the river, there were rebel camps,
and it was useless for us to think of crossing either. We, therefore,
worked our way carefully through the thicket that we were in until we
came within sight of the river. Then Uncle Alfred went ahead, creeping a
few steps, then stopping to see if the river was clear of soldiers. From
this point it was some two and a half miles to the bridges, each way;
and it was our idea that if we could cross here without being seen by
the soldiers, we would be all right. Uncle Alfred came back to us and
told us that he thought the way was clear. "I can not hear a sound,"
said he, "so let us go on." We followed the river down until we came to
a place where we could cross. Here we found some drift-wood--an old tree
had been blown down, nearly across the river, leaving a space of about
twenty feet. Over this natural bridge we crept to the open space which
we waded, the water being up to our knees; but we did not mind this.
There was no talking above a whisper, for fear of being heard by the
soldiers. Daylight had begun to dawn, and we felt good that we had
succeeded thus far. We went on quietly until we got entirely out of the
swamp and reached some hills. The woods were on each side of us and
still thick; so we stopped here, on the side of a hill, where the sun
shone brightly on us, expecting to rest for the day. Our clothes had
already become quite dry from the sunshine; and, so far, we felt all
right. Alfred and I had made a turn around the place, listening to see
if we could hear any noise, or see any trace of soldiers; but we
discovered no trace of them, and went back to our stopping place. I had
been asleep and some of the others were still asleep, when suddenly I
heard the yelp of blood hounds in the distance. It seemed quite far away
at first, but the sound came nearer and nearer, and then we heard men
yelling. We knew now that they were on our trail, and became so
frightened that we all leaped to our feet, and were about to run, when
Uncle Alfred said: "Stop children, let me oil you feet." He had with him
a bottle of ointment made of turpentine and onions, a preparation used
to throw hounds off a trail. All stopped; and the women, having their
feet anointed first, started off, Uncle Alfred telling them to run in
different directions. He and I were the last to start. Alfred said:
"Don't let the bushes touch you;" at the same time he ran through the
bushes with such a rattling noise one could have heard him a great
distance. He wore one of those old fashioned oil cloth coats made in
Virginia; and, as he ran, the bushes, striking against the coat, made a
noise like the beating of a tin board with sticks. The funny part of it
was that, having cautioned us to be careful about noise, he made more
than all of us. By this time the woods were resounding with the yelping
of the hounds and the cries of their masters. The hounds numbered some
fourteen. The men howled and cheered in concert with the brutes, for
they knew that they were on the right trail, and it would be but a short
time before they caught us all. I had gotten further away than any of
them. Having run about a mile, I came to a farm, and started across an
open field, hoping to reach a wood beyond, where I might conceal myself.
Before I was half way across the field, on looking back, I saw the dogs
coming over the fence, and knowing there was no chance of my getting to
the woods, I turned around, and ran back to a persimmon tree, and just
had time to run up one of the branches when the dogs came upon the
ground. I looked and saw the men, Williams the nigger-catcher, and Dr.
Henry and Charles Dandridge. As soon as Williams rode up, he told me to
come down, but I was so frightened I began to cry, yet came down
trembling. The dogs laid hold of me at once, tearing my clothes and
biting my flesh. Dr. Dandridge was just riding up, and seeing what was
happening, yelled out to Williams: "I thought your dogs didn't bite."
"Oh! well," said Williams, "he aint hurt--we've got to let 'em bite a
little."
They took us all back to the fence where I crossed over, all the others
having been caught. Our hearts were filled with dismay. All looked as if
they were condemned to be hung. We knew not what was to be done with us.
The women were pitiful to see, crying and moaning--all courage utterly
gone. They started back with us to Old Master Jack's, at Panola, and we
stopped for the night at a small farm house. The old woman who kept it
said, tauntingly: "You niggers going to the Yankees? You all ought to be
killed." We started on the following morning, and got back home at one
o'clock in the afternoon. All of us were whipped. All the members of the
family were very angry. Old Lady Jack McGee was so enraged that she said
to my wife: "I thought you were a Christian. You'll never see your God."
She seemed to think that because Matilda had sought freedom she had
committed a great sin.
* * * * *
INCIDENTS.
Ever since the beginning of the war, and the slaves had heard that
possibly they might some time be free, they seemed unspeakably happy.
They were afraid to let the masters know that they ever thought of such
a thing, and they never dreamed of speaking about it except among
themselves. They were a happy race, poor souls! notwithstanding their
down-trodden condition. They would laugh and chat about freedom in their
cabins; and many a little rhyme about it originated among them, and was
softly sung over their work. I remember a song that Aunt Kitty, the cook
at Master Jack's, used to sing. It ran something like this:
There'll be no more talk about Monday, by and by,
But every day will be Sunday, by and by.
The old woman was singing, or rather humming, it one day, and old lady
McGee heard her. She was busy getting her dinner, and I suppose never
realized she was singing such an incendiary piece, when old Mrs. McGee
broke in upon her: "Don't think you are going to be free; you darkies
were made by God and ordained to wait upon us." Those passages of
Scripture which refer to master and servants were always cited to us
when we heard the Word preached; and they were interpreted as meaning
that the relation of master and slave was right and proper--that they
were rightly the masters and we the slaves.
I remember, not long after Jeff Davis had been elected president of the
Confederacy, that I happened to hear old Master Jack talking to some of
the members of the family about the war, etc. All at once the old man
broke out: "And what do you think! that rascal, Abraham Lincoln, has
called for 300,000 more men. What is Jeff Davis doin'-doin'?" He talked
on, and seemed so angry that he gave no one a chance to answer: "Jeff
Davis is a grand rascal-rascal," said he, "he ought to go into the field
himself." At first all the Southerners were jubilant over Davis; but as
they were losing so, and the Unionists gaining, they grew angry and
denounced him oftentimes in unsparing terms.
* * * * *
UNION RAID AT MASTER'S FARM.
During the time the Union headquarters were at Helena, a Union gun-boat
came down the river as far as Boliva, and stopped at Miles McGee's. The
soldiers made a raid through the farm, taking chickens, turkeys, meat
and everything that they could lay hands on. During this raid Miles
McGee came out of the house with a gun, and shot the commanding officer
of the party. He became alarmed over what he had done, and hid in the
cabin of one of the servants. He never came near the house. The Union
soldiers came three different times to catch him, but never succeeded.
The last time they came, he made for the canebrake, and hid himself
there until they were gone. But though he had escaped their righteous
vengeance, he became so nervous that he left his hiding place in the
canebraker, and went to Atlanta, Ga., and staid there among friends
until things became more quiet. At last wearying of this, he determined
to return to old Master Jack's, but not to his own home. Word had been
received of his coming, and great preparations were made for his
reception. After he had started on his return, he was taken ill on the
train, and was left at a small town called Jackson, where he soon died.
I drove the family to the depot upon the day of his expected arrival,
and as the train came in, the women waved their handkerchiefs; and, when
the conductor stepped off, they asked him if Mr. McGee was aboard. He
said no--"I have his remains." The scene that followed, I can not
describe--such wailing and screaming! I could not but feel sad, even
though they had treated me so meanly, causing the death of my children,
and separating me from my wife. Their grief was indeed great. The sad
news was conveyed to his mother, old Mrs. Jack McGee, at the house by an
advance messenger, and we soon followed with the body. He was the
favorite son of his mother, and her grief was very great. But for his
wanton shooting of the Union officer, he would probably not have met his
death as he did.
* * * * *
UNION SOLDIERS PASS THE PANOLA HOME.
One winter night, while I was at old Master Jack's, I was awakened by a
rumbling noise like that of heavy wagons, which continued steadily and
so long a time that I finally concluded it must be an army passing, and
such I found to be the case, upon getting up and venturing out, the
rumbling which had awakened me being caused by the passing artillery. I
was afraid to go out straight to the soldiers, but would take a few
steps at a time, then stop and listen behind a tree or the shrubbery.
All seemed quiet--there was no talking. I had listened about twenty
minutes when there seemed to be a halt at the creek, some distance from
the house. Soon afterwords I heard the command given: "Forward!" I at
once made up my mind that they were Yankee soldiers. I got on my knees
and crawled to the fence, not daring to go openly, fearing that they
might hear or see me and shoot, supposing me to be a spy. I went back
into the house and told my wife that they were Yankees who had just
passed. "Uncle George," said I, "this would be a good time for us to
go." "Oh, no," said he, "we are not quite ready." Uncle George's cabin
was where my wife and I stayed while at old Master Jack's. In the
morning I was to carry a parcel to Como, a place not far from home, to
Mr. James McGee, who was in the rebel army. It was not quite daylight
when I made ready to go on my trip, for I was anxious to find out more
about the soldiers. Going to the stable and saddling my horse, I mounted
and rode out to the big gate leading to the main road, just as day was
dawning. As I dismounted to open the gate, some soldiers were passing
and an officer sung out to me, "Hello! which way are you going." I said
"to Como, to carry this parcel of clothing to my young master in the
war." "You have a fine horse," said the officer, "I guess I will
exchange horses with you." He took my package of clothing and some
letters which I had to mail and my horse, leaving me his, which was a
very poor animal. I was badly scared at this performance, fearing that I
would be severely whipped for the loss of the horse and package. Yet how
could I help it? We knew nothing but to serve a white man, no matter
what he asked or commanded. As a matter of course, I did not go to Como,
as I had nothing to take--the officer had everything, but went back to
the cabin. I supposed that the soldiers had all passed; but in about
half an hour Aunt Kitty, on looking out of her cabin window, exclaimed:
"My God! just look at the soldiers!" The yard was covered with the blue
coats. Another venerable slave said: "My Lord! de year of jubilee am
come." During the excitement I ran to the big house, and told the madam
that the Yankees were there, and had taken my horse and every thing I
had. Old Master Jack had heard the news, but was not able to come out.
He had arisen, but, when he knew of the presence of the Yankees, he went
back to bed, calling for Kitty to get him a mush poultice. "Tell
Kitty-ity-ity to get me a mush poultice-oltice." It was customary, after
the beginning of the war, for him to take sick, and call for a poultice
to be put upon his stomach whenever he heard of the Yankees being near.
He and many like him were especially valorous only when the blue coats
were far away. The soldiers went into the dairy and drank all the milk,
helped themselves to butter, cheese, meat, bread and everything in sight
which they wanted. Nothing was said to them by the white folks, but the
slaves were glad, and whispered to each other: "Ah! we's goin' to be
free." Old Master Jack, lying on his couch would ask every little while:
"Where are they? Are they gone?" After they had all left the premises,
he said; "My God! I can't stand it. Them devils-evils are just goin'
through the country destroyin' everything." I was sent down to get Uncle
Peter for old master, and when Peter came up the old man asked: "Well,
did any of the servants go away? And, sir, them devils took Louis' horse
and the clothes he had for his young master."
* * * * *
HIDING VALUABLES FROM THE YANKEES.
Right after this the McGees commenced planning to put away their
valuables, to keep them from the Union soldiers. All the servants had to
fill up their bed-ticks with fine gin cotton--the lint part--for safe
keeping. Great boxes and barrels were packed full of their best things,
and put into the cellar, under the house. It was not exactly a cellar,
but a large shallow excavation, which held a great deal. We put all the
solid silver ware, such as cake baskets, trays, spoons, forks, dishes,
etc., in boxes, and buried them under the hen house. Great packages of
the finest clothing I had to make up, and these were given in charge of
certain servants whose duty it was to run into the big house and get
them, whenever they heard that the Yankees were coming, and take them to
their cabins. This was a shrewd arrangement, for the soldiers never went
into the cabins to get anything. When the soldiers had passed, these
packages were taken back to the house. It speaks well for the honesty
and faithfulness of the slaves that such trusts could be devolved upon
them, notwithstanding all the cruelties inflicted upon them by their
masters.
* * * * *
DEATH TO RUNAWAY SLAVES.
It was about this time, that the law or regulation of the rebel
government was promulgated, authorizing or directing the shooting or
hanging of any slave caught trying to get away to the Union army. This
barbarous law was carried out in many cases, for every little while we
would hear of some slave who was caught running away, and hung or shot.
A slave belonging to Boss, ran away, and got safely within the Union
lines; but he returned to get his sister. They both got away from the
house, but had gone only a few miles, when William McGee overtook them,
and shot the man dead. William boasted of this, but told Uncle Peter,
the foreman, that he never wanted it mentioned.
* * * * *
SLAVES HUNG AND LEFT TO ROT AS A WARNING.
Two slaves belonging to one Wallace, one of our nearest neighbors, had
tried to escape to the Union soldiers, but were caught, brought back and
hung. All of our servants were called up, told every detail of the
runaway and capture of the poor creatures and their shocking murder, and
then compelled to go and see them where they hung. I never shall forget
the horror of the scene--it was sickening. The bodies hung at the
roadside, where the execution took place, until the blue flies literally
swarmed around them, and the stench was fearful. This barbarous
spectacle was for the purpose of showing the passing slaves what would
be the fate of those caught in the attempt to escape, and to secure the
circulation of the details of the awful affair among them, throughout
all the neighborhood. It is difficult at this day for those not familiar
with the atrocities of the institution of slavery to believe that such
scenes could ever have been witnessed in this or any other civilized
land, as a result simply of a human being's effort to reach a portion of
the country, where the freedom of which it was said to be the home,
could be enjoyed without molestation. Yet such was the horrible truth in
not one case alone, but in many, as I know only too well.
* * * * *
RUNAWAY SLAVE CAUGHT AND WHIPPED.
One day while I was waiting at dinner, some of the children from the
slave quarters came running into the house, and said to old Master Jack:
"Uncle John is going away--he is down to the creek." He had been put in
the carpenter shop, fastened in the stocks, but by some means he had
gotten the stocks off his feet, and got loose. All in the house
immediately got up and ran out. Old master told me to run and catch the
runaway. I did not like to do it, but had to obey. Old master and I ran
in pursuit, and soon overtook him. He could not run, as the stocks were
still on his arms and neck. We brought him back, and he was "staked
out"--that is, four stakes were driven into the ground, the arms tied to
two and the legs to the other two. He was then paddled with the whipping
paddle upon the bottom of his feet, by old Master Jack, until blood
blisters arose, when he took his knife and opened them. I was then sent
for salt and water, and the bruises of the suffering chattel were washed
as usual in the stinging brine.
* * * * *
A HOME GUARD ACCIDENTALLY SHOOTS HIMSELF.
After the capture of Memphis by the Union forces, the soldiers were in
the habit of making raids into the surrounding country. These were a
source of alarm and anxiety among the people, and they were constantly
on the watch to defend their property and themselves, as best they
could. One day Dr. Charles Dandridge went over to one of our neighbors,
Mr. Bobor's, to practice shooting, and to see if he had heard anything
new about the war. It was the custom of the home-guards to meet weekly,
and practice with their fire-arms, in order to be the better prepared,
as they pretended, for any sudden incursion of the now dreaded Yankee.
Mr. Bobor had gotten a Yankee pistol from some friend, who was in the
army, and Dr. Charles wanted to see and try it. It was shown him, and
its workings explained. He took it and began shooting, and in showing
the other men how quickly he could shoot a Yankee, and mount his horse,
he accidentally shot himself under the short rib near his heart, and
fell to the ground. All the men came running to him, picked him up and
carried him into the house, immediately sending word to Mrs. Dandridge
and Master Jack McGee, his father-in-law. The boys came hurrying in, and
told us what had happened. I hitched up and drove Boss over to Mr.
Bobor's. We found the wounded man rapidly sinking; and when, a little
later, his wife came, he could not speak--only clasped her hand. He died
that night, and we carried his body to the home, which so short a time
before, he had left in health and high spirits. No casket was to be
had--everything of that kind had been consumed or shut out by the war.
Accordingly two slaves were ordered to make a coffin, which they did,
using plain boards. It was then covered with black alpaca from a dress
of the madam, and lined with the cloth from Mrs. Dandridge's opera
cloak. The regular material used for these purposes was not to be had.
By the time the coffin was ready, the body was so bloated, that it could
not be got into it. Resort was then had to a plain box, and in this the
body of another of the stricken family group was laid away. At the
suggestion of old Master Jack, the coffin, was put up in the carriage
house, for safe keeping, he saying it would do for him to be buried in.
Sorrow had come to this family with such crushing force, that their
former pride and boastful spirit had given place to utter dejection.
* * * * *
SUBSTITUTES FOR COFFEE.
During the war everything was scarce and dear, and substitutes were
devised for many of those things which had formerly been regarded as the
necessaries of life. Sweet potatoes were peeled, then cut in small
pieces and put out in the sun to dry. They were then used as a
substitute for coffee, when that article became so scarce, toward the
close of the war. Great quantities of this preparation were used. Okra
was another substitute for coffee. It was dried in the pod, then the
seeds shelled out, and these were dried again and prepared something as
the coffee is. This made a delicious drink when served with cream, being
very rich and pleasant to the taste. Quinine was a medicine that had
been of almost universal use in the south; yet it became so scarce that
it was sold at seven dollars a bottle, and could not often be had at
that price. Lemon leaves were used as a substitute in cases of chills
and fever. The leaves were made into a tea, and given to the patient
hot, to produce perspiration. During an attack of chills, I was treated
in this manner to some advantage. At any rate I got well, which can not
always be said of all methods of treatment.