THE NEW FLAG--CAMPAIGN SEWING SOCIETY--CAPTURE OF NEW ORLEANS.
Basking in the sunshine of prosperity during the stirring events that
crowded one after another through the winter of 1860-’61, buoyed up by
the hope and belief that a peaceful solution of national complications
would be attained, we were blind to the ominous clouds that were
gathering around us. Prophets arose in our midst, with vigorous tongue
and powerful eloquence lifting the veil and giving us glimpses of the
fiery sword suspended over our heads; but the pictures revealed were
like pages in history, in which we had no part nor lot, so hard it was
for people who had for generations walked the flowery paths of peace,
to realize war and all that that terrible word imports.
It was during the temporary absence of my husband, and Arlington full
of gay young guests, when our city paper described the device for
“_the_ flag,” as decided upon at Montgomery, the cradle of the new-born
Confederacy. Up to and even far beyond that period we did not, in fact
could not, realize the mightiness of the impending future. Full of
wild enthusiasm, the family at Arlington voted at once that the banner
should unfold its brave States-rights constellation from a staff on
our river-front. This emblem of nationality (which, on account of
its confusing resemblance to the brilliant “Stars and Stripes,” was
subsequently discarded) consisted of a red field with a horizontal
bar of white across its center; in one corner was a square of blue
with white stars. There were red flannel and white cotton cloth in
the house, but nothing blue could we find; so a messenger was hastily
dispatched to town with orders for goods of that color, no matter what
the quality or shade.
On a square of blue denim the white stars were grouped, one to
represent each seceded State. We toiled all that Saturday, and had no
little difficulty in getting our work to lie smooth and straight, as
the red flannel was pieced, the cotton flimsy, and the denim stiff.
From the negroes who had been spending their half-holiday catching
drift-wood, which in the early spring floats from every tributary down
on the rapidly swelling bosom of the broad Mississippi, we procured a
long, straight, slender pole, to which the flag was secured by cords,
nails, and other devices. When the staff was firmly planted into the
ground, on the most prominent point on the river-front, and its gay
banner loosened to the breeze, the enthusiastic little party danced
round and round, singing and shouting in exuberance of spirit. At that
critical moment a small stern-wheel Pittsburg boat came puffing up the
stream; its shrill whistle and bell joined in the celebration, while
passengers and crew cheered and hallooed, waving newspapers, hats, and
handkerchiefs, until the little Yankee craft wheezed out of sight in a
bend of the river. Of all the joyous party that danced and sung round
that first Confederate flag raised on Louisiana soil, I am, with the
exception of my son, then a very small boy, the only one living to-day.
It made such a brave show, and we were so exhilarated, that we passed
all that bright Sunday in early spring under its waving folds, or on
the piazza in full view of it.
When my husband, after a two weeks’ absence, boarded the steamer
Quitman to return home, the first news that greeted him was,
“There is a Confederate flag floating over your levee!” He was
thunder-struck! That far-seeing, cautious man was by no means an
“original secessionist,” and did not, in his discretion, and the
hope that lingered long in his breast of an amicable adjustment of
the difficulties, countenance the zealous ardor of his hasty and
impetuous household. Our flag was already beginning to look frayed
and ragged-edged. We had no means of lowering it, and its folds had
flapped through fog and sunshine until the sleazy cotton split and the
stars shriveled on the stiff blue ground. The coming of the “general
commanding,” as we now playfully called him, signalized the removal
of our tattered banner; but we had the satisfaction of knowing that
advantage of his absence had been taken to float it a whole week, and
that it was no hostile hand that furled it at the last.
The wild alarms of war roused us at last from this Arcadian life of
ease and luxury. The rumbling thunder of battle was making itself heard
from Sumter on the one side and Manassas on the other. “Dixie” and “The
Bonnie Blue Flag” were replacing the soul-stirring battle-songs of our
fathers.
Men who had never saddled their mettled steeds, nor harnessed their
own teams for pleasure-excursions, now eagerly bestrode any nag they
could command, or drove lumbering mule-teams, or, worse still, plodded
on foot with a military company on its march to the front; while the
daintily nurtured women, who, in the abundance of service that slavery
afforded, had scarce put on their own shoes, assembled and toiled
day after day in the preparation of clothing for the soldiers, which
quickly became their all-absorbing occupation.
In the neighboring city of Baton Rouge we organised the “Campaign
Sewing Society.” Its very title shows how transient we regarded the
emergency; how little we deemed the _campaign_ would develop into a
four years’ war! There many of us received our first lessons in the
intricacies of coats and pantaloons. I so well remember when, in the
glory of my new acquirements, I proudly made a pair of cottonade
trousers for a brother we were fitting out in surpassing style for
“service,” my embarrassment and consternation when I overheard him
slyly remark to my husband that he had to stand on his head to button
them--they lapped the wrong way! Stockings had also to be provided, and
expert knitters found constant work. By wearing a knitting-bag at my
side, and utilizing every moment, I was by no means the only one able
to turn off a coarse cotton stocking, with a rather short leg, every
day.
From the factory in our little city--the only one, by the way, of any
size or importance in the State--we procured the cloth required for
suits, but in the lapse of time the supply of buttons, thread, needles,
and tape, in fact, of all the little accessories of the sewing-room,
was exhausted, and to replenish the stock our thoughts and conversation
were necessarily turned into financial channels. I cordially recommend
to societies and impecunious institutions the scheme in all its
entirety that we adopted as vastly superior to the ordinary and
much-maligned fair; the plan was the offspring of necessity; the
demand was so instant and urgent that we could undertake no fair or
entertainment that involved time, work, or expense.
A “Tombola,” where every article is donated and every ticket draws a
prize, was the happy result of numerous conferences. The scheme was
discussed with husbands and brothers; each suggested an advancement
or improvement on the other, until the project expanded so greatly,
including all classes and conditions of donors, that it was quickly
found that not only a large hall but a stable and a warehouse also
would be required to hold the contributions, which embraced every
imaginable article from a tooth-pick to a cow! The hall was soon
overflowing with minor articles from houses and shops. Nothing was
either too costly or too insignificant to be refused. A glass show-case
glittered with jewelry of all styles and patterns, and bits of rare
old silver. Pictures and engravings, old and faded, new and valuable,
hung side by side on the walls. Odd pieces of furniture, work-boxes,
lamps and candelabra, were arranged here and there, to stand out in
bold relief amid an immense array of pencils, tweezers, scissors,
penknives, tooth-picks, darning-needles, and such trifles. The stalls
of the stable were tenanted by mules, cows, hogs, with whole litters
of pigs, and varieties of poultry. The warehouse groaned under the
weight of barrels of sugar, molasses, and rice, and bushels of meal,
potatoes, turnips, and corn. Tickets for a chance at this miscellaneous
collection sold for one dollar each. As is ever the case, the blind
goddess was capricious: with the exception of an old negro woman, who
won a set of pearls, I can not remember any one who secured a prize
worth the price of the ticket. I invested in twenty tickets, for which
I received nineteen lead-pencils and a frolicsome old goat, with beard
hanging to his knees, and horns like those which brought down the walls
of Jericho. Need I add that the “general commanding” refused to receive
that formidable animal at Arlington?
The “Tombola” was a grand, an overwhelming success; without one dollar
of outlay--the buildings and necessary printing having been donated--we
made six thousand dollars. Before this sum could be sent to New Orleans
for investment, that city was in the hands of its captors.
Thus cut off from the means of securing necessary supplies, and at
the same time from facilities for communication with those whom we
sought to aid, the “Campaign Sewing Society” sadly disbanded. The busy
workers retired to their own houses, the treasurer fled with the funds
for safe-keeping, and, when she emerged from her retreat, six thousand
dollars in Confederate paper was not worth six cents!
The Federals captured New Orleans in April, and there was intense
excitement all up and down the river. We boasted and bragged of what
we could do and what we were going to do, like children whistling in
the dark to keep their courage up. We had never seen soldiers “on deeds
of daring full intent.” We had never seen any drilling and manœuvring
of companies and battalions, except our own ardent and inexperienced
young men, full of enthusiasm that was kindled and encouraged and in
many cases bolstered up by the women, who, like most non-combatants,
were very valiant, and like all whose hearthstones are threatened very
desperate. So the landing of the enemy in our chief city, and the
capitulation of our defenses, roused every drop of blood in our hearts.
Nothing but “war to the knife” was spoken of. While we openly declared
that New Orleans should have been fired, like Moscow, rather than
surrendered, men went about destroying cotton wherever it was stored,
and fierce and loud were the denunciations against any man who even by
gentle remonstrance made the slightest objection to having his property
touched by the torch of his neighbor, to prevent the possibility of its
capture by the “hordes of hirelings” as we called the Northern soldiers
and their naturalized comrades.
All the blankets and bedding that could reasonably be spared had been
gathered during the winter, by teams driven from house to house, making
one grand collection for our suffering troops.
Now, thoroughly alarmed at the possibility of being cut off from all
communication with our soldiers in the field, and prevented from
contributing to their comfort, carpets were ripped from the floors
of many houses, cut into suitable blanket-size, and sent _via_ “Camp
Moore”--now our only outlet--to the army in the mountains of Virginia
and on the borders of Tennessee. There was no combined or concerted
plan; each acted his individual part, and made personal sacrifices
to help the cause. Plantations were adjoining, but the residences too
remote to meet and discuss matters when time was so precious. Black
William and I drew the tacks from every carpet at Arlington; brussels,
tapestry, and ingrain, old and new, all were made into blankets and
promptly sent to the front. One half the house was closed, and a deal
of management was required to keep the other half comfortable without a
carpet or rug to lay over the bare floor. So it happened that when the
Federals, after an exciting siege, captured New Orleans, very little
was left in the houses on the river that could be made available for
the use of the army.