for whenever my husband was stationed at any special hospital he would
tell the convalescent patients that if they would put up a little log
cabin he would send for me. The officers would have their tents
stationed around our little cabin and we had some pleasant times,
though many anxious ones, for we never knew when we would be obliged
to flee. Thus I experienced the pleasures and terrors of camp life.
Your great-aunt Agnes, whom you met at the South as an old lady, was
then a young lady visiting us. She was a beautiful girl with a voice
like a bird. She was a great favorite with the officers and married
Colonel Colcock, who was acting brigadier general of the coast. The
time for her wedding was appointed and invitations sent out for a
country wedding. The day came, and hour after hour we heard heavy
cannonading. We knew a battle was being fought near us, but could
learn no particulars. Evening came, and the wedding guests assembled,
but no groom arrived. There was great uneasiness among the guests, and
I persuaded Agnes to change her gown and come downstairs to see if her
presence would not cheer the party. Although filled with anxiety
herself, she followed my persuasion and behaved most admirably, but we
had the wedding feast served as soon as possible, and the guests
quickly departed. Everyone was anxious, and at two o'clock in the
morning we heard the galloping of horses beneath the windows and a
soldier called to us that he had some dispatches for us.
It proved as we thought; there had been fighting all day and Colonel
Colcock was not wounded, but would come as soon as possible. Two days
afterwards he appeared in the morning and brought a minister with him.
He and Agnes were married at once, and he took his bride away with
him; not to the camp, but to a place where she would be more
comfortable, and he could sometimes see her. Their bridal trip was
spent within fortifications along the coast.
Those were days of constant excitement and unrest, as you can well
imagine. Husbands and sons were all away, giving their lives in
defense of their "hearth fires." The trusted negroes were our only
protection and they took every care of us.
I well remember a scene that occurred about this time of the war. My
youngest brother was a prisoner near Old Point Comfort, and finally
received his liberty through the kindness of a fellow Southern
soldier. They had been in prison six months together suffering all the
hardships of prison life during war. Many times starvation stared them
in the face, and upon some of the prisoners the death penalty was
inflicted when the men playing together would accidentally slip over
the so-called "death line." My brother was only about nineteen and the
Benjamin of our family. The soldier with him had consumption and could
live only a short time. He came to my brother and said he was going
to be released because they knew he would soon die. He then offered to
change clothes with my brother and take his place and name, thus
letting my brother go free while he remained in prison.
I heard one day cries of joy and great excitement among the negroes;
hurrying to the back piazza I saw about fifty darkies, men and women
crowded together bearing my brother on their shoulders, "Massa Luther,
Massa's youngest boy, God bless him, God bless him," they shouted.
You can imagine the scene. We hastened down to join in the jubilation,
but father and mother could scarcely get near their son, as the
servants had taken complete possession of him.
When they finally made way for the master and mistress, my parents
found that my brother's condition was such that he could not come
into the house; he was covered with vermin. He was taken to an
outhouse where he bathed, and his clothing was burned. Then he told us
of his many adventures and his hard time in prison, where he would
indeed have starved had it not been for kind friends at the North, who
sent him money which enabled him to buy food, and he told us of the
great sacrifice the Southern soldier had made for him. My father
immediately forwarded a check for a thousand dollars to the poor
family whose husband and father never returned to them.
Another war incident in our family was that connected with a brother's
son. At the early age of fifteen, he ran away to go into the Southern
army. His mother could not make him return, so she called a young
colored man, who was a devoted servant of the family, to her and said
to him, "John, go with your young master, and whatever happens to him,
bring him back to me, wounded or dead, bring him back to me."
This young man's bravery made him known throughout the regiment. He
was finally wounded, and died in North Carolina in a hospital, John
never leaving him. After his death, John put him in a pine coffin
roughly knocked together and started home with him. In the month of
August the devoted servant reached his mistress, having been two weeks
on the way. He would tell his story and beg for help to take his young
master home, according to his promise to his mistress.
In spite of many misrepresentations by those who can never comprehend
the tender attachment existing in those days between master and slave,
I want you to have a clear idea of it, and I want you to know that
the Southerner understood, and understands to this day, the negro's
character better than the Northerner, and is in the main kinder to,
and more forbearing with him. There were countless incidents during
the war of love and loyalty shown by the negroes to their former
owners, which you will read of in the many stories written now by
those who know the truth.
The year 1864, in the month of December, found me still in the old
homestead.
Sherman had passed on the Georgia side of the river, to Savannah,
which was taken. We wondered what would be his next move, but never
for an instant thought he would retrace his steps, and go through
South Carolina.
The Southern troops which had guarded Savannah retreated to our
neighborhood, and we cared for them for several weeks. There were at
least five thousand troops on our plantation of nine thousand acres.
Barbecues of whole beeves, hogs, and sheep were ordered for them. The
officers were fed in the house, there being sometimes two hundred a
day. The soldiers had their meals in camp.
All planters in South Carolina were restricted by law in planting
cotton. Only three acres were allowed to the negro worker, thus
causing a large amount of corn and other such grain to be raised,
because the Confederate Government wanted this to provide for the
Southern army.
Thousands of bushels of corn could not be housed, but were harvested
and left in pens in the fields. Father had ten thousand bushels of
corn on our plantation.
We did not sell cotton during the war. For money we had no use, as
everything was grown or manufactured on the plantation. We had a steam
mill for sawing lumber, and mills for grinding corn and wheat. Sugar
was made in quantities for negroes, but there was no way of refining
it.
Everything was bountiful and we lacked nothing, but coffee and tea.
Every known and unknown substitute was used for these drinks, but none
were satisfactory; otherwise we never lived with greater abundance.
Our swamps yielded us all game bountifully, venison, wild turkeys,
partridges, and reed birds. It was a rich country and could feed an
army.
I met and conversed with many of the chief officers, and consulted
them about the advisability of sending my father, who was then seventy
years of age, away from his home. The officers urged us to do so, as
they feared the Northern army would invade our State and township. So
very reluctantly father and mother left their loved home, which they
were destined never to see again. They went to live with a married
daughter, who had a home in an adjoining county. Some of their negroes
pleaded to go with them, and about fifty followed with wagons filled
with their effects.
It was a wise provision that father was spared the sight of the
destruction of his house and property, and possibly personal violence
from the hands of the Northern soldiers, for during the raid, my
uncle, an old man who was reputed to be wealthy was asked by the
soldiers where he had buried his gold; and twice was he hung by them
and cut down when unconscious, because he would not confess its hiding
place. My child, he had no gold, his wealth lay in his land and
negroes.
Shortly after father and mother's departure, one morning, early, the
remaining negroes came running to the house in a state of wild
excitement, and said that Sherman's army was crossing the Savannah
River at the next landing below my father's. I was picking oranges
when the news came. Green oranges, blossoms, and ripe fruit all hung
together on the tree. It was a favorite tree grown to an unusual size
by the care given it, as it was always protected in winter. I have
only to close my eyes at any time and see plainly the beautiful tree
in all its glory of fruit and flower. We had picked from it that day a
thousand oranges, the most luscious fruit, but they were left for
Sherman's army to devour, for we were thrown into a panic by the news
the negroes brought us, and hastily got into our carriages and fled.
The negroes followed us in wagons, and we left our lovely home as if
we had gone for a drive.
Our flight has always reminded me of Jacob's going down into Egypt, a
caravan of people, for as we fled we first took with us our dear
father and mother, then as the panic spread, one married daughter with
all her children joined us, and then another, until we finally
numbered about forty persons journeying northward. In order that you
may understand how our numbers increased so rapidly, I must tell you
that father gave each of his children at marriage a plantation with
negroes and a house. These homes were in an adjoining county, that of
Barnwell, and as we passed through this county different members of
the family would join us.
On the second day of our journey your mother was taken with a sore
throat and high fever, and as we had no bed to lay her on we took
turns in holding her in our arms. Thus we traveled to the upper part
of the State fleeing from the army of invaders at whose hands we
expected no mercy of any kind.
An old school friend of mine, Georgiana Dargan, daughter of the
Chancellor of South Carolina, had written me repeatedly during the war
to come to her. She had never married and lived in a large Southern
colonial mansion situated on a beautiful estate. We, in our need,
thought of her and pushed on, hoping she could receive us all. We were
not disappointed, the house was thrown open to us and we received a
warm welcome.
It was a strange fate that Sherman followed us in our flight passing
through Columbia and within ten miles of us. His scouts came in and
stole all our horses, except a few which we had time to hide in the
swamps. The soldiers ordered many of the negroes, choosing the best
young men, to mount the horses and go with them. All of them returned
to us that night; they had broken away from camp, but were on foot.
But let me tell you here, Sherman's army burned Columbia. He denied
it, but we know he did it for my husband's sister, Mrs. Thomas
Clarkson, who lived there, was ill, and the soldiers lifted her out of
bed and laid her in the street while the torch was put to her home.
Then, too, only three years ago, the burning of Columbia was admitted
to me by a Northern general, General Howard. These were his words:
"Sherman did not burn Columbia, but I am sorry to say his troops did."
They got hold of liquor and so became mercilessly destructive.
Sherman may not have given the order, but he was undoubtedly
responsible for the plunder and destruction engaged in by those under
his command. The people of Columbia were left without shelter or food,
"Only women and children to wage war against," as a venerable judge,
Judge William De Saussure, an uncle of Dr. De Saussure, told Sherman
in pleading for clemency.
We were about fifty miles above Columbia, and as the army passed us
they went on to Cheraw, a town lying on the northern border of South
Carolina, forty miles above us.
There your great-grandfather De Saussure, who was an old man, had fled
from his home in Charleston with his five daughters. In a few days
news was brought us that Cheraw had been burned, and everybody was
starving.
I was naturally eager to go to the assistance of my husband's people,
and I went to one of my sisters-in-law asking her if she would be
willing to accompany me to Cheraw, a drive of forty miles. She said
she would go with me. Joe, my butler, to whom I was very much
attached, agreed to drive us. We borrowed a pair of mules and started
in the early morning with corn meal and bacon and flour for my
husband's people. We had driven only a few miles when we came to the
road passed over by Sherman only four days before. Such sights as we
beheld along that road; dead horses, disemboweled cattle, dead dogs,
and as it was in spring they were all decomposed because of our hot
climate. At every turn of the road we expected to meet outriders from
the Northern army. It was a day of great fatigue and fear. Our mules
were lazy and would not move out of a walk. Joe mounted one of them,
and strove in vain to urge them on faster.
The day seemed endless to us, but the hours wore on, and the sun was
just setting as we crawled up a final hill, when we were startled by
seeing a number of men on horseback approaching, who we were sure were
soldiers. My heart sank, for I expected our carriage would be
confiscated as well as the mules, and we left to spend the night
unprotected in the woods.
As the horsemen drew nearer, I saw to my joy that there was a mixture
of blue and gray uniforms. The men were evidently of our army, for
Southerners often wore at this stage of the war any kind of clothing
they could get hold of to cover them. One of the officers rode up to
us, and to my great surprise and delight, I found he was Major
Colcock, whom I well knew, as he was a brother of Colonel Colcock,
sister Agnes's husband.
Our surprise was mutual. He exclaimed, "Why Mrs. De Saussure, what are
you doing here?" I replied, "Trying to reach Cheraw to take provisions
in to the aid of my husband's father and sisters."
"To Cheraw," he exclaimed, "a most difficult journey, madam; the roads
are in a dreadful condition and the little flat boat that crosses the
river is in such demand I doubt if you can get it."
"I will not turn back, Major Colcock," I replied. "I must go on." So
we parted, he going his way and I mine.
After two hours of weary travel, we reached the river and were
fortunate in finding the boat could carry us over the river. We
crossed and reached the town of Cheraw at ten o'clock at night. A
scene of desolation greeted my eyes the next morning; all the public
buildings had been burned, houses alone were standing amid desolate
surroundings. The De Saussure family and others had been living on
scorched rice and corn, scraped from the ashes. Officers as well as
soldiers had gone into houses and taken all food that could be found
and burned it in the yards of the various houses; leaving the women
and children to starve. My beautiful harp, which after cutting the
strings, I had sent to Cheraw for safety in care of Mr. De Saussure,
had narrowly escaped being taken by some officers. They asked to have
the box opened for them, but Mr. De Saussure told them the harp was
out of order, so they passed it by. My harp was safe, but your
great-aunt Agnes was not so fortunate with her piano. It was a gift
from her father when she left school, and a beautiful Steinway. When
she married Colonel Colcock, he said to her: "Ship your piano to
Charleston; it will be safer there than in the country." Colonel
Colcock was from Charleston and had relatives to whom he wrote asking
them to care for the piano, when it arrived. It reached Charleston
just about the time the city fell into the hands of the enemy. Colonel
Colcock's uncle went down to the station to get it, when he learned
that an officer had taken it and shipped it off to the North.
Twenty years after the war, this notice published in the _News and
Courier_ of Charleston was sent me from different parts of the South:
NOTICE
A RELIC OF THE WAR
Miss Nannie Bostick's Music Book in the
Hands of a Federal Soldier.
To the editor of the _News and Courier_: Will you insert the following
in your paper, as it will be of benefit to one of South Carolina's
ladies:
If Miss Nannie Bostick will communicate with Captain James B. Rife,
Middletown, Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, she will learn something to
her advantage.
I have in my possession a music book which was captured or stolen by
some one during the war, and I would like to return it to her if she
still lives. By so doing you will greatly oblige,
Yours very truly, JAS. B. RIFE,
Late Capt. U. S. A.
MIDDLETOWN, DAUPHIN COUNTY, PA.,
January 26, 1889.
The Miss Nannie Bostick above referred to afterwards married Dr. Henry
De Saussure, of this city. After his death she was for a long time
employed as an instructor at Vassar College, N. Y., and is now a
resident of Brooklyn. The home of Colonel Bostick, the father of Mrs.
De Saussure, on Black Swamp, in Beaufort (now Hampton) County, was
burned by General Sherman's army in the grand "march to the sea."
On reading it I was of course, much excited and wrote immediately to
the gentleman in Meadsville, telling him I was the person he was
looking for. I waited three weeks most anxiously, and then received a
letter from his sister saying that for years her brother had been
trying to find me, and that he had something to tell me which was
communicated to him by a dying soldier. The sister further wrote that
her brother had advertised in New York and Southern papers before,
and the cause of his doing so again was that a young niece visiting
them, in looking over some old books had come across a music book with
my name on it. She went with it into his room, and said, "Uncle, who
is Miss Nannie W. Bostick?"
He sprang from his chair exclaiming, "What do you know about her?"
When he learned that she knew nothing and had merely seen my name on
the old music book, he said, "I will try once more to find her," and
sent off the notice to the _News and Courier_ of Charleston.
As fate would have it the next day, on his way to Harrisburg to make
arrangements for a Cleveland procession, his horse took fright from a
trolley car, and in the accident he was instantly killed.
The music book was returned to me by his sister, but whatever the
secret was that he had carried so many years, it died with him, for no
one else knew it.
After his death his sister asked me to visit her. She said my name was
so often on her brother's lips, and she only knew he wanted to
communicate something of importance, but what it was he had never told
her. He was a prominent man in the army. She sent me his photograph
and the notice of his death.
You can imagine this incident brought back many memories. What could
have been the dying soldier's communication that Captain Rife wished
so much to tell me, and which he never intrusted to any other member
of his family? And where had this very heavy, old music book, in his
possession, been found? My sisters, when I met them, talked the matter
over with me, and Agnes said: "I remember putting a lot of books,
among them some of yours, with my piano to pack it tightly." When it
was shipped North the book was found with the piano, as I have since
ascertained.
We wondered that the music book had ever come back to me, its rightful
owner, but since I have lived at the North, even family Bibles, which
were taken from the old homes, have been returned to me. Looting was
the order of the day during the Civil War, and wanton destruction
followed.
I once went South with old Captain Berry, who for twenty years had
charge of a steamer plying between Charleston and New York. Your mamma
and myself were the only ladies on board, as the time was in July when
the tide of travel was northward. The officers of the steamer were
exceedingly kind to us, and told us many interesting stories of their
seafaring lives.
Captain Berry told me of a trip he made from New Orleans to New York,
when General Ben Butler was there in command. A division of the army
was being transferred and Captain Berry said that besides soldiers the
vessel was laden with all kinds of handsome furniture, with pictures,
pianos, and trunks filled with women's clothing, from a lady's bonnet
to slippers. That division of the army which Captain Berry was
bringing North belonged to one of the generals under Butler's command.
The vessel was laden, the last soldier had stepped aboard, when just
before the gangplank was lowered, a jet-black pony was hurried aboard,
a perfect beauty. Then a lady was seen rapidly riding along the wharf;
she quickly jumped from her horse, and went on board inquiring for
the general; when he was pointed out to her she stepped up to him and
said: "General ----, you have taken my husband's last gift to his
little boy, the pony; I have come to ask you to return him to me." The
general turned a deaf ear to her request, and as he did so, she drew
her whip across his face with a stinging lash. Had he lifted his
finger to her in return, Captain Berry said, the soldiers would have
shot him dead.
During that trip North in the silence of the night, the soldiers went
down into the hold of the vessel, opened every box, cut strings on
pianos, ruined pictures and other things with ashes and water, then
nailed up every box carefully and put it in place again. This was done
by the Northern soldiers on board who knew of and resented the wrong
done to the people of New Orleans. The poor little pony never reached
his destination, for he was found dead the next morning; a mysterious
death, but the soldiers knew, and had had a hand in his taking off.
Thus they avenged the lady to whom their sympathy had gone out.
Captain Berry was a Northern man, but his frequent visits to
Charleston had thrown him into intimate relations with the Southern
people and he admired them greatly.
We spent six months, from December, 1864, until June, 1865, at
Darlington, our place of retreat. It was a hard winter; food was
scarce, and little but the coarsest kind could be bought.
By spring we had grown hopeless, and well I remember that while
walking in the garden some one called out to me, "The war is over, Lee
has surrendered." My feelings were tumultuous; joy and sorrow strove
with each other. Joy in the hope of having my husband and the
brothers and friends who were left, return to me, but oh, such sorrow
over our defeat!
In the course of time, the men of our family returned with the
exception of your great-uncle Edward, my brother, who had gone through
the war, but was finally killed in the last two weeks of fighting
around Petersburg, Va.
As one after another of the family came back to us, worn out and
dispirited, our thoughts turned to the dear old home on the Savannah
River, and we longed to go back. Before yielding to our desires, it
was considered wise for the men of the family to go first and
investigate. They found only ashes and ruin everywhere in our
neighborhood, and father's place, except a few negro cabins, was
burned to the ground. There were thirty buildings destroyed.
The steam mill, blacksmith's shop, carpenter's shop, barns, and
house--nothing was left standing except chimney and brick walls to
mark the place of our once prosperous, happy home. There was but one
fence paling to indicate the site of our little village. The church,
too, was burned, and now negro cabins are standing where it once
graced the landscape. Our beautiful lawns were plowed up and planted
in potatoes and corn by the negroes, who were told we would never
return.
Sherman left a track of fire for three hundred miles through the
State. When you hear the war song "Marching through Georgia," which
stirs the hearts of the Northerner, think of the scenes of desolation
and heartbreak the song recalls to the Southerner.