Memphis—Out from the Reconstructed.
Of the trip between Jackson, Mississippi, and Grand Junction, Tennessee,
I only remember a dismal night of thumpings over broken rails, and
lurches and contortions of the cars, as if we were really trying in our
motion to imitate the course of the rails the Yankee raiders had
twisted. At one point all were waked up, hurried out into the mud of a
forlorn little village, and informed that, some way or another, they
must get over the burnt bridge to the train half a mile on the other
side. Clambering over cotton bales into the cars of the new train, we
found everybody who preceded us shivering with cold. The freight cars
attached to the train were loaded with cotton, it seemed; and orders had
been given to extinguish all fires in the passenger cars, lest the
sparks might set fire to it!
Finally, an hour or two before daybreak, the conductor discharged his
passengers in the mud at Grand Junction, much as a cartman would shoot
out his load of rubbish. In the darkness no depot was to be seen; and,
at any rate, every passenger was compelled to watch his baggage, as
there was nobody to attend to it. Fortunately some one had matches. A
fire was soon started on the ground, and the railroad company’s pile of
lumber was made to furnish fuel. Seated around that fire on their
trunks, in the cold night air, and half-blinded by the smoke, were
ladies who, before the war, had been among the wealthiest and haughtiest
in the South. Some of them were going to Texas to hide their poverty. It
was nearly three hours before the train for Memphis took us up.
* * * * *
Memphis, in June, was full of returning Rebel soldiers. Now it was full
of Rebel business men, and the city, like New Orleans, had passed
completely over to the control of the great majority of its citizens,
who throughout the war hoped and labored for the success of the
rebellion. It was rather to their credit that they made no concealment
of their sympathies. They were outspoken in denunciation of Governor
Brownlow, and the entire State Government, which Mr. Johnson himself had
set in motion. The “Radicals of the North” were as odious as in the old
days of the war; and the tone of the newspapers was as fierce as when
they were wandering from point to point in front of the steadily
advancing National armies.
Next to New Orleans, Memphis seemed to be doing the heaviest business of
any Southern city. The streets were filled with drays, and the levee was
crowded with freight.
General Frank Blair, who engaged in cotton planting on the opposite side
of the river, was in town. Many other adventurous cotton planters from
the North made Memphis their headquarters. None seemed to suffer the
slightest inconvenience from any unfriendly disposition on the part of
the people. On the contrary all Northern men, bringing capital to stock
and conduct these great plantations which had hitherto made the
prosperity of Memphis, seemed to be sure of a fervid welcome.
Between Corinth and Stevenson lies as beautiful a country as the South
can anywhere show. Huntsville, Decatur, Tuscumbia, and Florence are the
principal towns. Around them stretches a lovely valley, which
constitutes the chief charm of Northern Alabama. Far enough South for
the profitable cultivation of cotton, it is still adapted to all the
Northern grains. The people have generally more education and refinement
than in other parts of the State; their public improvements are better,
and their country is every way more attractive. It is not surprising
that lands here are commanding prices nearly as high as in Central New
York or Ohio. The people are rarely compelled to sell; and there is a
strong prejudice against either Yankees or Tories, (that is, Southerners
who went against their State.) Western men seem to be more welcome.
* * * * *
After a weary day’s riding through the wild mountainous country along
the Upper Tennessee, our train shot in beneath the great overhanging
cliff, and approached Chattanooga at nightfall. Fires had been raging
through the pine forests.
A soldier at my side pointed out the famous localities, Mission Ridge,
Lookout Mountain and the rest. He grew fervid as he told the story over
again—how the troops charged up precipitous ascents, where not even
Hooker had expected them to go; how they shouted, and cheered, and
struggled upward; how, from below, long lines of blue, faintly gleaming
as the light struck their muskets, could be traced up the mountain side;
and at last the hight was gained, and the rush was made, and the flag
was seen floating over all. As he spoke, the scene grew vividly upon
one; and, looking from the darkened window, lo! the battle-lines, all
aflame, stretched up the mountain side, and the fire fantastically
wrought out again the story.
Was it so? The battle had been fought and won—from this flame-covered
Lookout Mountain to the Gulf. Was the victory to be now thrown away,
that later times might witness the contest over again?