Dungeness, and the “Greatest of the Lees”—Cultivation of the
Olive—Criminations of the Officers.
When Nathaniel Greene, one of the best and most trusted of Washington’s
Generals, retired to civil life, it was with an estate seriously
embarrassed by his patriotic sacrifices. During his brilliant campaign
in the Southern Department, the battles of the Cowpens, Guilford
Court-House and Eutaw Springs, destroyed the British power in Georgia
and the Carolinas. At its close there was only left to Washington the
easier task of concentrating all his forces upon Cornwallis in Virginia,
and so ending the war. But in carrying on this campaign, General Greene
had been compelled to exhaust his private means in his efforts to clothe
and feed his army. Congress voted him thanks and medals; North and South
Carolina and Georgia voted him waste lands. He died in Georgia.
Congress, enlarging its bounty, then voted him a monument. The grateful
people whom he saved, had actually forgotten where they buried him; the
monument was never built; and to this day “no man knoweth the place of
his burial.”
His wife removed to one of the Georgia land grants, a little island on
the extreme Southern border of the State, but a few miles from
Fernandina. Here she married again, builded, planted olive trees and
died; and when they came to put a head-stone to her grave, they
inscribed it to the memory of “Catharine Miller,” widow of the late
Major-General Nathaniel Greene. Poor Miller was never mentioned, and
General Greene, whose grave was not worth a head-stone, had a name good
enough to lend special honor to the monument of his re-married and then
wealthy wife.
* * * * *
Our last trip along the upper coast of Florida was to steam over to this
little island, given by Georgia to Greene, and passed subsequently into
the hands of Rebels, who have now deserted it to the negroes.
Landing at a tumble-down dock, and climbing the bluff, we came to a
corn-field, cleanly cultivated by the negroes, skirted a little wood,
giving wide berth to a black-snake in the path, and then, through some
tangled shrubbery, suddenly came out in front of what had been intended
for a fine mansion. It was built of shell concrete, and but partly
finished, when the family deserted it at the approach of the national
forces. Since then the negroes have been too busy supporting themselves
to give much thought to house building, and now the mansion of their
“masters” is likely to remain unbuilt forever.
But no neglect could destroy the magnificent shrubbery. Beneath the few
spreading live-oaks, were superb oleanders, as large as Northern
apple-trees, and in full bloom. Great bayonet plants reminded us that we
were still in the spiteful land of the Palmetto. Cactus reached above
our heads, cloth of gold roses, mimosa and a score of Southern flowering
shrubs, to which our Northern amateur florists could give no names, made
up a tangled mass of luxuriant loveliness all about the house. Beyond
these stretched the rows of olive trees. “Here you can make _beaucoup de
l’argent_,” exclaims our enthusiastic little French Mayor of Fernandina;
and straightway whips you out a bottle of oil from his vest pocket to
prove it. The happy dreamer imagines olive oil the Philosopher’s stone,
and is sure that now, with these olive trees of Dungeness, and the young
ones he is planting at Fernandina, the future of Florida is secure. And,
indeed, so far as being able to grow olives and make oil is concerned,
it is. The orchard here has received no attention since the flight of
the Rebel owners, but the olive crop this year, in spite of the neglect,
will be good, and the trees look vigorous and hardy.
* * * * *
Through a wilderness of forest trees and dense undergrowth, a blind path
led to a little cleared eminence, shut in by a wall of the same shell
concrete—the family grave-yard. Conspicuous among the dozen moss-covered
monuments is that of Mrs. General Greene, already referred to. Near it
is another, inscribed to the foremost of Greene’s Generals, beside whose
grave, we may well stop thoughtfully and long:
“Sacred to the memory of
GENERAL HENRY LEE,
of Virginia,
Obilt 25 Mar.
1818,
Ætat 63.”
It is the grave of Henry Lee—“Light-Horse Harry,” of the
Revolution—greatest of the partisan leaders of those days, Governor of
Virginia, inmate of Spottsylvania jail, and noblest of the “Virginia
Lees.” Four years after the wife of his old commander had died here, he
returned from the West Indies, poverty stricken, neglected and dying,
sought this island, the former home of his chief, and was buried in the
burying ground of the Greenes. One gratefully remembers that the
injuries of which he is believed to have finally died, were received in
a gallant defense of the freedom of the press, against the assault of a
Baltimore mob upon a Liberal newspaper office.
Long, coarse grass grows rank over these historic graves; lizards play
about the chinks of the dilapidated tombs; the outer wall is partly
broken down; but the peaceful solitude of the graves is not disturbed,
and the spot is controlled, if by an alien, at least by a loyal people.
While a few of us lingered beside the slab, above the remains of “Legion
Harry,” the rest of the party had completed their explorations of the
lonely little island; and the boat was whistling loudly for our return.
The “last of the Lees” had done nothing to honor the neglected grave of
the greatest of them; but Yankee hands still delayed the steamer to
arrange lovingly a chaplet of flowers on the rude tombstone.
* * * * *
At Fernandina there was talk among the traders of a large quantity of
resin, eighteen hundred barrels, some of them said, which had been
bought by a well-known _attaché_ of the State Department, and out of
which, if their stories were true, he was likely to make a fortune. He
had paid 42 cents a barrel for it, they said, and could sell it in New
York for twenty-five dollars. I fancy this must be grossly exaggerated,
although a Government official was my informant; but these irregular
bargains, made by persons having special facilities, with the distressed
holders of produce in the interior, have often disclosed marvelous
profits, and the most unscrupulous use, by the buyers, of the advantages
of their positions. To drive as hard bargains as the Yankees, is likely
to be thought henceforth, in these regions, something more than a good
figure of speech.
On the other hand, there are constant dissentions here, and charges
against each other of improper practices among the Government officers
themselves. The military men abuse the Treasury agents roundly, accuse
them of enormous speculations on their own account, and the most
unwarranted system of spying into the operations of others.[24]
[24]The tax Commissioners, and other civil functionaries, fare little
better; while the military men, according to the stories of the
civilians, believe the modern substitute for glory to be—“loot.”
All accounts, both here, at Jacksonville and at St. Augustine, agree
that the country contains little more than is needed for the sustenance
of the inhabitants. Trade may come by and by, when Florida begins to be
used again as a grand national sanatarium; but for a year or two, the
openings for business with the Floridians are likely to require very
little of the capital now looking for Southern investments.
There was a parting tune from the band as we left General Gillmore’s
boat, kindly good-byes with General and staff officers. Altogether the
pleasantest party met, thus far, on the trip. The “Wayanda” fired a gun
as she began hoisting her anchor, and we were off for a sail of five
hundred miles, along what used to be considered the most dangerous coast
of the United States.
-----
Footnote 24:
An account in the Port Royal _New South_ of an April-fool performance
at Fernandina (said to be a literal record of an actual occurrence),
is greatly gloated over by the military authorities, as a specimen of
what they call the meanness and imbecility of the civil officials. It
illustrates, at least, the state of feeling between the services. The
account sets forth that a Mr. Goodrich had brought into Fernandina,
from Nassau, a small schooner, in ballast. The Collector had
suspicions of intended contraband trade. He was stimulated by
pretended disclosures, to the point of bringing Mr. Goodrich before
the Provost Marshal for an examination. The _New South_ proceeds:
“Mr. Wells testified that Mr. Goodrich had, in a season of friendly
confidence, exhibited to him, at his house, a pipe of whisky, which he
admitted having brought on shore from his schooner, after dark, and
without the knowledge of the Collector of the Customs, the said pipe
of whisky being ignored in the vessel’s manifest; and that Goodrich
further disclosed that he had two more pipes in the house, that would
be brought into requisition when this was exhausted.
“Mr. Goodrich admitted that he had no witnesses to examine, and very
little to say in his defense, but he would like to interrogate the
witnesses who had testified against him. Permission being granted, the
following conversation ensued:
“_Mr. Goodrich_—Do you swear positively, Mr. Wells, that you saw the
pipe of whisky?
“_Mr. Wells_—I do, solemnly.
“_Collector_—That’s conclusive—I don’t think it worth while to waste
time; I’ve decided to seize the vessel.
“_Mr. Goodrich_—I insist on my right. Were you permitted to satisfy
yourselves that the pipe contained whisky?
“_Witnesses_—We were.
“_Collector_—I think, Mr. Provost Marshal, this case is a clear one.
“_Mr. Goodrich_—I’ll make it clearer, sir. Gentlemen, would you
recognize that pipe of whisky if you saw it again, so as to be able to
swear to it?
“_Witnesses_—We should.
“_Mr. Goodrich_—(taking an old Briar Wood from his pocket). Was that
the pipe?
“_Witnesses_—(emphatically)—That’s the identical pipe.
“_Collector_—(with very long face and very large eyes)—What do you
say?
“_Witnesses_—That’s the pipe that Mr. Goodrich had whisky in.
“_Collector_—(rushing out of the office)—Go to ——. The rest of the
sentence was lost in the distance.”