“Thunder—alone—is harmless. I take no stock in gasconade that is only
thunder. And if trouble is coming, it is clear that our place is not
here.”
The letter-writing went on not uncheerfully. Far down in my soul was
the belief that a peaceful issue must be in store for the land beloved
of the Lord. Were we not brethren? When brought, face to face, with the
fact that brothers’ hands must be dipped in brothers’ blood, reaction
was inevitable.
So foolish was I, and ignorant of the excesses to which sectional fury
can carry individuals and nations.
I was in my room, getting ready for our last walk among scenes endeared
to us by thousands of associations, my husband standing by, hat in
hand, when a terrific report split the brooding air and rent the very
heavens. Another and another followed. We stood transfixed, without
motion or speech, until we counted, silently, seven.
It was the number of the seceding States! As if pandemonium had waited
for the seventh boom to die sullenly away among the hills, the pause
succeeding the echo was ended by an outburst of yells, cheers, and
screams that beggars description. The streets in our quiet quarter were
alive with men, women, and children. Fire-crackers, pistols, and guns
were discharged into the throbbing air.
“The fort has fallen!” broke in one breath from our lips. And
simultaneously: “The Lord have mercy upon the country!”
We ran down-stairs and into the street.
My sister “Mea” was upon the front porch, and the steps were thronged
by children and servants, wild with curiosity.
I have not mentioned that my sister had married, two years before, Mr.
John Miller, a Scotchman by birth. He was much liked and respected by
us all, and it spoke volumes for his breeding and the genuine good
feeling prevailing among us, that although he was the only “original
secessionist” in our household band, our cordial relations remained
unbroken in spite of the many political arguments we had had with him.
His wife was holding aloft her baby boy, a pretty year-old, in her
arms. A Secession cockade was pinned upon his breast; in his chubby
hand he flourished a rebel flag, and he laughed down into her radiant
face.
We feigned not to see them as we hurried past. But a gulf seemed to
open at my feet. As in a baleful dream, I comprehended, in the sick
whirl of conflicting sensations, what Rebellion, active and in arms,
would mean in hundreds of homes on both sides of the border.
“Is the world going mad?” muttered my husband, between his teeth, and I
knew that the same horror was present with him.
Secession flags blossomed in windows and from roofs; were waved from
doors and porches by girls and women; were shaken in mad exultation
by boys on the sidewalks; hung upon lamp-posts, and were stretched
from side to side of the street. It was like the magical upspringing
of baneful fungi. Where had they all come from? And at what infernal
behest had they leaped into being?
The living stream poured toward the Capitol Square, and it swept us
with it. The grounds were filled with a tumultuous crowd. Upon the
southern terrace was the park of artillery that had fired the salute
of seven guns. As we entered the upper gate a long procession of men
issued from the western door of the Capitol, and descended the steps.
“The convention has adjourned for the day,” remarked Mr. Terhune. We
were at the base of the Washington monument, and he drew me up on the
lower step of the base to avoid the press.
The delegates streamed by us in groups; some striding in excited
haste; talking gleefully, and gesticulating wildly. Others were grave
and slow, silent, or deep in low-toned conversation; others yet—and
these were marked men already—walked with bent heads, and faces set in
wordless sadness. One of these, recognizing Mr. Terhune, approached us,
and with a brief apology to me, drew him a few paces apart.
Three years before, I had seen the ceremonies by which this
monument—Crawford’s finest work in marble—was uncovered and dedicated.
On the next day, Mr. Everett had repeated his oration on Washington in
the Richmond theatre. The silver-tongued orator had joined hands, then
and there, with Tyler, Wise, and Yancey, in proclaiming the unity of
the nation. General Scott had sat in the centre of the stage, like a
hoary keystone in the semi-circle of honorable men and counsellors.
Was it all a farce, even then, this talk of brotherhood and patriotism?
And of what avail were wisdom and diplomacy and the multitude of
counsels, if this were to be the end?
I was saying it to myself in disgustful bewilderment, when the crowd
cheered itself mad over a fresh demonstration of popular passion. The
rebel flag had been run up from the peak of the Capitol roof!
My husband came back to me instantly. He was pale, and the lines of his
mouth were tense.
“Let us get out of this!” he said. “I cannot breathe!”
On the way to Gamble’s Hill—a long-loved walk with us—I heard how
Sumter had fallen. We were not hopeless, yet, as to the final outcome
of the tragical complication that had turned the heads of the populace.
The outrage offered the Flag of our common country must open the eyes
of true men, and all who had one spark of patriotism left in their
souls. We could have no longer any doubt as to the real animus of
the Rebellion. One thing was certain: To-day’s work would decide the
question for Virginia. She could not hang back now.
Thus reasoning, we took our last look of the lovely panorama of river,
islets, and hills; of the city of the dead—beautiful in wooded heights
and streams and peaceful valleys, on our right—while on the left was
the city of the living, noble and fair, and, in the distance, now as
silent as Hollywood.
My companion lifted his arm abruptly and pointed northward.
A long, low line of cloud hung on the horizon—dun, with brassy
edges—sullen and dense, save where a rainbow, vivid with emerald,
rose-color, and gold, spanned the murky vapor.
“Fair weather cometh out of the North,” uttered the resolute optimist.
“With the Lord is terrible majesty. After all, He is omnipotent. We
will hope on!”
We were measurably cheered on our way back to the heart of the city by
the sight of the Flag of Virginia flying serenely from the staff where
had flaunted the Stars and Bars, an hour ago. At supper, my father
related with gusto how a deputation of Secessionists had waited on
the Governor to offer congratulations upon the Confederate victory.
How he had received them but sourly, being, as the deputation should
have known, an “inveterate Unionist.” When felicitated upon the result
of the siege, he returned that he “did not consider it a matter for
any compliments.” At that instant he caught sight of the flag hoisted
to the roof of the Capitol, demanded by whose order it was done, and
straightway commanded it to be hauled down and the State flag, usually
sported when the Legislature was in session, to be run up in its stead.
“Governor Letcher has a rough tongue when he chooses to use it,”
commented my father. “He is honest, through and through.”
The talk of the evening could run in but one channel. Our nerves were
keyed up to the highest tension, and the day’s events had gone deep
into mind and heart. Two or three visitors dropped in, and both sides
of the Great Controversy were brought forward, temperately, but with
force born of conviction. If I go somewhat into the details of the
conversation, it is because I would make clear the truth that each
party in the struggle we feared might be imminent, believed honestly
that justice and right were at the foundation of his faith. I wrote
down the substance of the memorable discussion, as I recorded and
published other incidents of the ever-to-be-remembered era, while the
history of it was still in the making. I am, then, sure that I give the
story correctly.
John Miller opened the ball by “hoping that the North was now convinced
that the South was in earnest in maintaining her rights.”
I liked my Scotch brother-in-law, and we bandied jests safely and
often. But it irked me that we should have a Secessionist in a loyal
family, and I retorted flippantly, lest I should betray the underlying
feeling:
“There has been no madness equal to Secession since the swine ran
violently down a steep place into the sea. The choking in the waves
will come later.”
“Let wise men stand from under!” he retorted, smiling good-humoredly.
“As to the choking, that may not be such an easy job as you think.”
A visitor took up the word, and seriously:
“The dissatisfaction of the South is no new thing. It is as old as the
Constitution itself. John Randolph said of it: ‘I saw what Washington
did not see. Two other men in Virginia saw it—the _poison under its
wings_.’ Grayson, another far-sighted statesman, prophesied just what
has come to pass. He said of the consolidation policy taught in the
Constitution: ‘It will, in operation, be found unequal, grievous,
and oppressive.’ He foresaw that the manufacturer of the North would
dominate the agriculturist of the South; that there would be burdensome
taxation without adequate representation; in short, that there would
be numberless encroachments of the North upon the prerogatives of the
Southern slaveholder.”
“He said nothing of the manifest injustice in a republic, of the
election of a candidate by the votes of a petty faction, dominant for
the time, because the other party split and ran several men?”
This was said by a young man who had not spoken until then.
My father replied: “Suppose Breckenridge had been elected? Would that
have been the triumph of a faction?”
“Circumstances alter cases,” said my brother Horace, dryly.
Everybody laughed, except the man who had quoted Grayson and Randolph.
“It is not easy for the Mother of Presidents to submit to the rule
of those whom, as Job says, they would have scorned to put with their
cattle,” he said, with temper.
I saw the blue fire in my husband’s eyes before he spoke; but his voice
was even and full; every sentence was studiedly calm.
“For more than seventy years, the South has prospered under the
Constitution, which, according to the renowned authorities cited just
now, had poison under its wings. Hers have been the chief places in
our national councils, and the most lucrative offices in the gift of
the government. It is her boast, if we are to believe what this one
of your leading papers says”—unfolding and reading from the editorial
page—“that ‘since the organization of the Union, she has held the
balance of power—_as it is her right to do_—her citizens being
socially, morally, and intellectually, superior to those of the North.’”
My father filliped his cigar ash into the fire.
“Now you are improvising?”
“Not a word! Our editor goes on to say further: ‘Our whilom servants
have lately strangely forgotten their places. They now aspire to an
equal share in the administration of the government. They have presumed
to elect from their own ranks an illiterate, base-born, sectional
tool, whom they rely upon to do their foul work of subverting our
sovereignty. It is high time the real masters awoke from their fatal
lethargy, and forced their insubordinate hinds to stand once more, cap
in hand, at their behest.’”
The stump of my father’s cigar followed the ash.
“Come, come, my dear boy! it isn’t fair to take the ravings of one fool
as the sentiment of the section in which that stuff is printed. I could
quote talk, as intemperate and incendiary, from your Northern papers.
You wouldn’t have us suppose that you and other sane voters indorse
them?”
“I grant what you say, sir. And, as I long ago affirmed, the shortest
and best way to put out the fire that threatens the integrity of the
government, would be to muzzle every political ranter in the country,
and suppress every newspaper for six months. The conflagration would
die for want of fuel.”
My mother interposed here:
“Good people, don’t you think there is ‘somewhat too much of this’? I,
for one, refuse to believe that anything but smoke will come of the
alarm that is frightening weak brothers out of their wits. The good
Ship of State will ‘sail on, strong and great,’ when our children’s
children are in their graves.”
She changed the current of talk, but not of thought. After the rest
had gone, there lingered a young fellow whose case was so striking an
example of a host of others, who were forced into the forefront of the
battle, that I take leave to relate it.
He still lives, an honored citizen of the State he loved as a son
loves the mother who bore and nursed him. Therefore I shall not use
his real name. Eric S., as I shall call him, was an intimate friend of
my brother Herbert, and as much at home in our house as if he were,
in very deed, one of the blood and name. He had visited us in Newark,
and made warm friends there, during the past year. Mr. Terhune had had
long and serious consultations with him since we came to Virginia,
and, within a few days, as the war-cloud took form, had urged him to
accompany us to New Jersey, or, at least, to promise to come to us
should hostilities actually begin between the two sections. The lad
(scarcely twenty-one) was an ardent Unionist, and, although a member
of a crack volunteer company in Richmond, had declared to us that
nothing would ever induce him to bear arms under the Rebel government.
Mea and her spouse went up-stairs early, and the rest of us were in
hearty sympathy with our guest. He had not taken an active share in
the discussion, and his distrait manner and sober face prepared us, in
part, for the disclosure that followed the departure of the others.
He had been credibly and confidentially informed that a mighty pressure
would be brought to bear upon the convention, at their next sitting, to
force the Ordinance of Secession. If it were carried, by fair means or
foul, every man who could bear arms would be called into the field.
While he talked, the boy stood against the mantel—erect, lithe, and
handsome—the typical mother’s and sister’s darling, yet manly in every
look and lineament. The thought tore through my imagination while I
looked at him:
“And it is material like _this_ that will go to feed the maw of
War!—such flesh and blood as his that will be mangled by bullet and
shell!”
I had never had the ghastly reality brought so near to me until that
moment.
“Oh-h!” I shuddered. “You won’t stay to be shot at like a mad dog!”
The first bright smile that had lighted his face was on it. “It isn’t
being shot at that I am thinking of.” The gleam faded suddenly. “I
don’t think I am a coward. It doesn’t run in the blood. But”—flinging
out his arm with a passionate gesture that said more than his words—“I
think _that_ would be paralyzed if I were to lift it against the dear
old flag!”
Before he left it was agreed privately, between him and my husband,
that he would try his fortune on the other side of Mason and Dixon’s
line, should the axe fall that would sever Virginia from the Union her
sons had been mainly instrumental in creating.
Sunday came and went. Such a strange, sad Sunday as it was! with the
marked omission, in every pulpit, of the prayer for the President of
the United States and others in authority; with scanty congregations
in the churches, and growing throngs of excited talkers at the street
corners, and knots of dark-browed men in hotel lobbies, and the porches
of private houses.
In the length and breadth of the town but one Union flag was visible.
Nicholas Mills, a wealthy citizen of high character and fearless
temper, defied public opinion and risked popular wrath, by keeping a
superb flag flying at the head of a tall staff in his garden on Leigh
Street. We went out of our way, in returning from afternoon service, to
refresh eyes and spirits with the sight.
On Monday, the mutterings of rebellion waxed into a roar of angry
revolt over the published proclamation of the President, calling for an
army of seventy-five thousand men to quell the insurrection. The quota
from Virginia was, I think, five thousand.
“A fatal blunder!” said my father, in stern disapproval.
My husband’s answer was prompt:
“To omit her name from the roll would be an accusation of disloyalty.”
The senior shook his head.
“It may have been a choice of evils. I hope he has chosen the less! But
I doubt it! I doubt it!”
So might Eli have looked and spoken when his heart trembled for the ark
of the Lord.
That afternoon, the flagstaff in the Mills garden was empty. The Stars
and Stripes were banned as an unholy ensign.
Eric S. paid us a flying visit that evening. His parents urged his
going. The father was especially anxious that he should not risk
the probability of impressment, and, should he refuse to serve,
of imprisonment. Already Union men were regarded with suspicion.
The exodus of the disaffected could not be long delayed. He had
influential family connections at the North who would see to it that
he found occupation. When we parted that night, it was with a definite
understanding that he would be our travelling companion.
Tuesday noon, he appeared, haggard and well-nigh desperate. Going, like
the honorable gentleman he was, to the Colonel of his regiment early
in the day, to tender his resignation and declare his intentions, he
was stricken by the news that the State had seceded in secret session
Monday night.
Whereupon the Colonel had offered the services of his regiment to the
authorities of the Confederate States. They were accepted.
“You are now in the Confederate army,” added the superior officer,
“and, from present indications, we will not be idle long.”
“But,” stammered the stunned subaltern, “I am going North this very
afternoon with friends, and I shall not consent to serve.”
“If you attempt to leave, you will be reckoned as a deserter from the
regular army, and dealt with accordingly.”
I do not attempt to estimate what proportion of men, who would have
remained loyal to flag and government if they could, were coerced, or
cajoled, into bearing arms under a government they abhorred. I tell the
plain facts in the instance before me.
Eric S. fought in fifteen general engagements, and came out with his
life when the cruel war was over. He told with deep satisfaction, in
after-years, that he had never worn the Confederate uniform, but always
that of his own regiment.
It is easy for us to prate, at this distance from those times of trial
to brave men’s souls, of the high and sacred duty of living and, if
need be, of dying for the right. From our standpoint, it is as clear
as the noonday sun, that allegiance to the general government should
outrank allegiance to the State in which one has chanced to be born and
to live. We have had an awful object-lesson in the study of that creed
since the day when the Virginian, who saw his native State invaded,
believed that he had no alternative but to “strike for his altars and
his fires.”
Upon the gallant fellows who, seeing this, and no further, risked their
lives unto the death, fell the penalty of the demagogues’ sin.
_We_ may surely lay the blame where it belongs.