A CREVASSE--OCCUPATION OF BATON ROUGE--DEFENSELESS CITIZENS.
The rapidly rising river was another element of danger menacing us. It
is a fearful sight to see the relentless flood plunging by, bearing
great trees and logs of drift-wood on its muddy surface many feet
above the ground on which you stand, an embankment of earth your only
defense, and the waves of passing steamboats dashing over that frail
barrier and falling in spray at your feet. It is startling to realize
that busy craw-fish, the dread enemy of every man whose “lines are
laid” behind a Mississippi levee, are constantly boring holes through
the earthworks, and invading the ditches carefully constructed to
receive and bear away to the rear swamps and drains the seepage that
exudes all the time from the pressure on the outer side; and terrible
to know that one malicious cut of a spade would make an insidious
fissure through which those battling waters would in a few hours rush
in an overwhelming torrent, destroying property worth thousands of
dollars--a calamity greatly dreaded, and guarded against day and night
by trusty men with shovels and lanterns.
My husband, whose duty it was as levee inspector, notified our
neighbors of a dangerously “weak spot” on an adjoining plantation
front, but so fearful were all planters at that time of negro
assemblages, so apprehensive lest they communicate from plantation
to plantation, and a stray spark enkindle the fires of sedition and
rebellion, that the responses to his call were not adequate, and the
result was a _crevasse_ between Baton Rouge and Arlington, four miles
south, that cut a broad chasm directly across the road, and through
our cane-fields far back for miles to bayous and draining canals,
leaving a wide ravine with a rush of roaring water that poured millions
of gallons a minute, plowing a deep canal through roads and fields,
spreading and widening over the rear swamps in its destructive errand,
until it reached the river again in a bend twenty-five miles away.
But the terrors and subsequent losses by such a calamity were forgotten
in the greater alarm and the foreshadowing of untold disaster to the
panic-stricken planters’ wives, who were in many instances left by
their soldier husbands in charge of threatened homes. The negroes,
already seeing the dawning rays of liberty, which at that time meant
plenty to eat and nothing to do, “jist like marster,” were becoming
lazy and impudent. So the crevasse and the injury it was destined to
inflict were of small moment to us when the prospect of cultivating the
growing crop, grew beautifully less day by day.
One magnificent morning in early summer the whole river, the silence on
whose surface had remained now many weeks undisturbed, was suddenly,
as if by magic, ablaze with the grandeur of Federal gunboats and
transports with flags and bright-colored streamers flying from every
peak, their decks thronged with brilliantly uniformed officers. We
stood upon the veranda, with streaming eyes and bursting hearts, the
gay strains of “Yankee Doodle” as they floated o’er the waters filling
our souls with bitterness unspeakable, and watched the victorious
pageant, until, with a mighty sweep to avoid the boiling and surging
currents of the crevasse, it anchored amid blare of trumpet and beat
of drum beside the deserted landing of our dear little city. The
enemy was there! But there was a barrier between us that cut off all
communication by land, and, though they could forage above and back of
the town, as is the way with hungry soldiers, we had the melancholy
satisfaction of knowing that access to Arlington was not feasible.
By and by the old Mississippi began to subside; the tributary streams
had well-nigh exhausted their superfluous floods. Water began slowly
and steadily to recede from the fields; day by day we could see from
the windows and verandas new bits of green here and there; places
where bridges that spanned ditches had been swept away; and deep ridges
cut by the action of rushing torrents where were once smooth, level
fields of waving cane.
But the big gully at the mouth of the crevasse was still there,
deep, muddy, and unutterably foul with the odor of dead fish lying
stranded all about. The road was cut in two by an impassable barrier,
a fathomless mud-hole. So the crevasse was a blessing, and we were
at least thankful that, if we did not have a crop, we were safe from
unwelcome visitors.
My little baby was two weeks old, and I was reposing quietly in
bed, early one morning, when, lo and behold! not a cloud of dust,
but a splash of mud; and a company of soldiers made their unwonted
appearance on the hither side of our defenses. Before Charlotte could
run up-stairs with the spoons and forks, hastily gathered from the
breakfast-table, to hide under my pillow--for the darkies had been
carefully taught that the whole war was a thieving expedition to steal
our homes and property--before Charlotte could tell the news and tuck
the spoons away, the clatter of hoofs on the lawn and the voices of
strange men revealed the fact that the Federal soldiers were upon us!
My husband, whose disability, from the loss of an eye, relieved him
from active service, was equal to the occasion, and met the party at
the door; explained the invalid condition of his wife till one might
have thought that nothing less than a miracle could save her delicate
life; requested the officers not to permit their men to dismount,
offered them milk, the only refreshment we had that they would accept,
and it was handed around by William, in a pail; after every man was
refreshed, they quietly and decorously rode away. I was up and peeped
through a hole in the curtain at the only company of Federal soldiers I
saw during the war.
Their gentlemanly deportment quite disarmed Charlotte of her fears for
the safety of the silver; as she took it from under my pillow, she
said, “I don’t believe them men would ’onderscend to steal _spoons_.”
They went on, though, those very men, to a plantation five miles
beyond. The poor, old gentleman had all his sons in the Confederate
service; he kept a horse tied at his back gate, day and night: it seems
he did not share our confidence in the protection of the muddy gully,
so he was always in retreating order. When the soldiers rode into his
front yard, the tip of his horse’s tail could be seen vanishing in the
distance; in Southern parlance he “took to the woods.” Finding no one
to represent the host but a very young and bashful daughter-in-law,
they soon disposed of her in a safe place--a bedroom with locked
doors--and for twenty-four hours remained on the premises, engaged in
collecting all they could find for food and forage. Cattle, corn,
molasses, and hay were shipped to town by the ferry-boat sent to their
assistance. In due course of time, finding the coast was clear and the
whole place “cleaned out,” the old gentleman ambled home. The bashful
lady of the castle had been released from her confinement, and order
somewhat restored, so there was little left to do but estimate the
damage.
Charlotte told me the story as she had it from the sable “cloud of
witnesses” that pervaded every Southern household, ending the recital
with the wise remark, “We didn’t hide them spoons none too soon.”
“Bombs bursting in air” every few days gave assurance that the
“guerrillas,” as a hastily organized band of rowdies and bullies,
that hovered on the outskirts of the town, chose to style themselves,
had “run in and fired off and run out again,” making just enough
demonstration to call a return fire from the gunboats and scare
everybody in town. These occurrences became so frequent that scarce
a day passed that we did not hear, either of an intended raid by the
“guerillas,” or the hissing and explosion of bombs, with shudders of
unutterable agony for the safety of aged and defenseless friends.
The towns-people actually made excavations in their yards and covered
them with planks for refuge in a bombardment. Some of the plank
coverings were struck and shattered by fiery missiles, so the wretched
inhabitants had to dig tunnels by which they could obtain shelter
beyond the covered entrance. Plans and diagrams for these were passed
around, and neighbor helped neighbor in the life-saving work. It was a
terrible state of things, no military organization at hand to control
the rowdy element on the Confederate side, and the Federals claiming to
have no other way of putting a stop to these senseless raids except by
firing from their gunboats.
In the midst of these occurrences, which we viewed from a safe
distance, I was startled one day by seeing a man dressed in the striped
and numbered garb of a convict enter the gates. He hurriedly explained
to my husband that the doors of the penitentiary at Baton Rouge had
been thrown open by military order, and the convicts freed, with
injunctions to report at headquarters and enlist.
I do not know how many inmates there were, but the people of the
town were terrified to find the whole criminal gang of the State
turned loose upon their streets. The man who sought to escape the
Federal service as well as the jurisdiction of the prison was a South
Carolinian, who in a sudden burst of passion had made himself amenable
to the law. He begged to be supplied with citizen’s clothing and
transportation beyond the limits of the State, so that he could reach
his home. We opened trunk after trunk that had been left at Arlington
for safe-keeping, by men long gone to the front, to find a suit that
would fit the slender, under-sized man. At last we succeeded, and gave
him my little boy’s only hat, as the one that best fitted, and with its
broad brim somewhat concealed his face, bleached from long confinement
in the cotton-factory. A slight change of clothing was also provided in
an improvised traveling-bag. My husband advanced him the needful funds,
loaned him a pony, and gave minute directions as to the safest road to
Camp Moore, where he could leave the animal and board the train that
would quickly carry him toward his old home. When warned to be very
cautious lest he be apprehended on the road, and not to carry anything
on his person that could betray him, with moistened eyes and quivering
lip he drew from his pocket and handed me a package of photographs of
his little children and a bundle of letters the only things he turned
back for when the portals of the prison were opened. “I can not tell
you what a gift you are sending to my wife when you put me on the road
to home; read these, they will tell you.” We stood on the back piazza
at early dawn and watched the retreating form of that happy man until
it disappeared from sight--then burned the unread letters and the
thumbed and worn photographs.
Twenty years after, we heard from him as quietly and peacefully living
in Carolina, surrounded by his family.