and slender, with shiny black skin and unusually high features for a
negro. He seemed to justify his mother's boast that she was "no
low-blooded negro, but was of a good family in Africa." And she really
had some foundation for this unusual pride among her race, for our
grandmother, who died at a great age many years ago, was fond of telling
among the incidents of her childhood, that once when a shipload of
Africans was brought to her native city for sale, her husband went to
purchase some for his plantation, and among several he brought back
"Katura," Martha's ancestress. After the usual process of shutting them
up until they could be induced to wear clothes, she, with the others,
was sent up to the plantation. When they arrived there and began to
mingle with the other negroes, one of those that had been bought some
time before, at the sight of "Katura," rushed forward and prostrated
herself at her feet with every mark of affection and respect. She could
speak English and explained to the astonished onlookers that this was a
princess in her country, who had been sold by her uncle to the
slave-traders. It seemed a barbaric romance. Katura, however, took
kindly to civilization, and soon settled herself in her new position
with no undue repining. In time she was comforted by a partner, and
brought into the world numerous progeny, who were noted for their
integrity and fidelity unto the fifth generation, which brings us to
that of Kent.
When the great war broke out, and all the men and youths were joining
the army, our hearts were heavy, and we felt full of sad forebodings at
Otranto, our country home, where parting and sorrow had never come. We
were a large band of girls, with one young brother, the idol of our
hearts, and the apple of our parents' eyes. Like everybody in those
days, we were very patriotic, but when it dawned upon us that Harry must
shoulder his rifle and go to Virginia we felt that love of country cost
us dear. Harry completed his sixteenth year the April after the
secession of South Carolina, and as there was no doubt that his college
days were over, as he would not study, we were not surprised when the
day after his birthday, he galloped up the avenue, dashed into the room
where we were sitting, upsetting a chair, and exclaimed:
"How soon can you get me ready, girls? I joined the Hampton Legion this
morning, and we are off to Virginia,--Hurrah!"
"Hush, Harry!" exclaimed our eldest sister; "pick up that chair; don't
you see mother is faint?"
"No, it is past," murmured our mother, trying to smile, as we all turned
to her. "God bless and keep you, my boy. I expected you to enlist; you
could not do otherwise, and now," stifling a sigh, "I must think of your
outfit, and you must take a servant too. I wonder which will be best."
"A private with a servant seems an anomaly," laughingly said Harry. "But
I believe several of the boys have men, and anything to ease your mind,
mother dear."
"Our minds must learn to do without ease, as well as our bodies, I fear,
in the days that lie before us," she answered, stroking his curly head
as he knelt by her chair; "but we must act, and not think now."
The days that followed were busy ones. The difficulty was not what was
needed, but what could be carried. It was an exciting novelty to pack a
knapsack, and its small capacity was a constant check to our zeal.
Harry's constant reminder, "I will have to march with that on my back,
nobody knows how far," brought a pang to our hearts. It was decided that
he should take a "body-servant"--the old-fashioned Southern rendering of
the French term "valet." After much deliberation and, I fear, heart
burning among the servants, for in this, as in other instances, the post
of danger was also that of honor, Kent was selected, much to his own and
his mother's gratification.
The day appointed for the company to which Harry belonged to join the
Legion in Virginia came all too soon. He shouldered his knapsack, and
tore himself from us, followed by his colored attendant, with whom we
all shook hands and whom we urged to "take care of Mas' Harry."
"Yes, Missus," he responded, looking preternaturally solemn.
Of course Harry left a great gap behind him, but we tried to excel each
other in efforts at cheerfulness, and bright prognostications as to his
future career as a soldier. We succeeded only tolerably in these
laudable efforts, when Martha waddled in--she was our cook, and a
decided character in her way. I believe, next to our mother, she thought
herself of first importance among the feminine part of the household.
She gave a keen glance at our mother, whom she idolized.
"Well, Missus," she said, dropping a little curtsy, "I come to see how
you gettin' on. You all looks pretty blue, but I 'clare to gracious
there's no 'casion to fret. Nuttin' gwine to hu't Mas' Harry w'en Kent
gone to tak' care ov him. Missus, you dunno how smart dat boy is; an' I
jus' tell him, 'Mas' Harry tinks he's a man and a soger, but you know he
ain't nuttin' but a baby, an' a ma-baby at dat.' An' I jus' tell him he
need not to come home if he let anyt'ing hu't Mas' Harry. So don't you
fret, Missus."
"But how could Kent prevent Harry's being wounded or hurt, Martha?" I
asked.
"Now, Miss Sallie, don't you go for to talk nonsense," responded the old
woman. "An' your ma always says w'ere dere is a will dere is a way.
Well, dat's what I tells Kent, an' I tells Affy, de gal he's courtin',
it's no use for she to fret, fur 'less Kent brings Mas' Harry back safe,
dere won't be no weddin' fur him."
"Oh," I said, "he is courting, is he? That is why he looked so serious
when he left."
"It looks so, Missy. He tell me to look sharp at her, an' see if she
notice anybody while he is gone. An' I will--an' let her know, too, if
she do," she muttered as she left the room.
Harry saw much active service, was in many battles, and fortunately
escaped with only one wound. He told us in his letters of Kent's
faithful following, and attendance on long marches, and after a battle
he always found him looking anxiously for him, with something to eat as
nice as he could get. Indeed, he was a wonderful provider, but Harry was
by no means sure that Kent could have made good his claim to many of the
eatables he set before him, for his conscience was an elastic one as to
the rights of property in food. So long as he got what he wanted for
Harry, he stopped neither to buy, beg nor borrow, but helped himself.
His kindness of heart, ready wit, and readiness to lend a helping hand
to any one in need made him a general favorite in the company, where he
was noted for the care he took of his young master.
The years of the war sped on, and brought privations and sorrows which
each year seemed to intensify. Our home was no longer the bright place
it used to be, for we had lost many friends, and self-denial was the
order of the day. We were very busy, too, and that helped to keep us
cheerful.
There were new accomplishments to acquire. We learned, and taught our
maids, to card and spin the home-grown wool, and when that did not
suffice for the extraordinary demand we had supernumerary wool
mattresses ripped up; the ticking was considered to make handsome
frocks for the servants, and the wool when dyed and woven made excellent
homespun suits for ourselves, that were not to be despised for
durability and warmth. There was quite a rivalry as to who could make
the prettiest dyes for our dresses, but after a time black was most
worn. Then we had our old light kid gloves to ink over carefully, so
that we might not go barehanded to church. We thought those gloves a
great success when we first dyed them, but when we came to wear them,
the ink never seemed to dry, and would soak through, and dye our hands
most uncomfortably. Our greatest achievement after all, I think, was the
piles of socks we knitted by the lightwood blaze at night. Our
old-fashioned butler always placed a candle--a tallow one, or still
worse, a home-made myrtle wax one--upon the table, but we considered it
an extravagance to light it unless there was something urgent to read. I
am surprised now that we did not mind the heat of the blaze more in
summer, but I do not remember our thinking of it. There was one great
spasm of patriotism when every worsted curtain in the house was cut into
soldiers' shirts. Some of these were of brilliant colors and patterns,
and I cannot but think might have served as targets for bullets. We even
undressed the piano and converted its cover into a blanket for a
soldier. We were chagrined afterwards to hear from some of our friends
who had done the same thing, that the latest advice from the field was
that the soldiers found the garments, so improvised, very
unsatisfactory, and begged the ladies not to sacrifice their belongings
so recklessly.
There were no plum puddings or mince pies in those days, according to
the accepted recipes, but we made Confederate fruit cake with dried
peaches and apples instead of raisins and currants, with sorghum for
sugar; and potato pones and puddings were very frequent, and both dishes
had the merit of a little going a long way, especially after the supply
of ginger gave out.
We never had any use for the potato, peas, ground-nut, or any sort of
mock coffee, but we drank orange leaf, or sage tea in preference to any
other home-made beverage. We managed to keep a little store of genuine
tea for medicine, and when our mother pronounced any of us ill enough to
need a little coddling, what a treat it was! The invalid never would
consent to partake, unless it was a family tea party. What enjoyment
those occasions gave!
In the latter part of '63, we were distressed to hear from Harry that he
was ill in the hospital in Tennessee. He wrote: "I think we are falling
back. Kent is ill with pneumonia, and the worst of it is that if we fall
back I have no means of transportation for him; it will be hard to have
to leave him."
Dire was the distress that letter brought us. We waited anxiously for
further news. Harry brought it himself. He had been ill, and was sent
home on furlough. He looked worn, and very unlike the bright boy who had
left us.
"What of Kent?" we asked.
"I had to leave him," he said. "I could not help it. We were falling
back rapidly. Many were left in the hospitals, and are now prisoners. It
was only through my captain being such a friend of father's, and
stirring himself to get me a place in an ambulance, that I was not left.
I dragged myself to see the good fellow, although I could scarcely walk.
He was very sick, and distressed to part with me. I told him the enemy
would be in town that night, and he would be free. He said, 'Mas' Harry,
that is nothing to me; if you don't see me home, you will know I am
dead. Tell Missus, and Ma, and Affy so.'"
Martha was given the message, but our conscientious mother added: "But,
Martha, if you do not see him you need not be sure he is not living; but
you must not count too much on seeing him, for if he gets well he will
doubtless be tempted to stay, and try a new experience."
The old woman twirled the corners of her apron, as she said sadly:
"Missus, it is five generations since my fam'ly come from Africa, and
Mausser's from France; we's been togedder since dat time, an' been
fait'ful togedder; for once w'en times was hard wid Mausser, he mout hab
sold us, but he didn't. He kep' us all togedder, an' you tink Kent such
a fool as not to know dat, an' be happy 'mong strangers? He got to work
w'erebber he is, an' nobody gwine to consider him like you all. No,
ma'am, if he alive I'm lookin' for him, w'atever it seems like to you,
ma'am." And she bobbed her curtsy and walked off, leaving her mistress
feeling quite small.
Harry remained with us for some weeks. It was pleasant to see his
enjoyment of home fare, even in its pruned condition. Everything seemed
luxurious after the camp life; but he did not linger after he was well
enough to return to the army. There still was no news of Kent. Harry
refused to take another servant in his place, although urged to do so.
"No," he said, "I could not find any one to fill Kent's place; and it is
a demoralizing life. I do not know if even he could stand the restraints
of civilization again."
Several months passed after Harry's departure, and we had given up any
idea we might have had of hearing any more of Kent. Martha mourned him
as dead, and induced her preacher to preach his funeral, she and Affy
attending as chief mourners. Affy in a black cotton dress of Martha's
which swallowed her up, and Martha with her very black face muffled in a
square of black alpaca, from which, as she peered out, her teeth and
eyeballs looked dazzlingly white.
One freezing night in December, as we were trying to summon resolution
to leave the warm chimney corner and go to bed, we were startled by a
rap at the door. Everything was startling in those days. Our father
opened it, and the light fell on a tall figure clad in a United States
uniform, surmounted by Kent's smiling countenance.
"Why, where do you come from?" we exclaimed.
"Well, I tole Mas' Harry if de Lord spare my life I'd come home, an'
here I is, sir, and Missus, an' mighty proud," he added, as my mother
extended her hand to him, and said:
"You are a faithful fellow. Your mother knew you better than I did."
We soon dismissed our returned wanderer to his rest. Martha's and Affy's
delight may be imagined, and the speed with which they doffed their
mourning was marvelous. The next morning we were anxious to have Kent's
adventures, which he was pleased to narrate. His comfortable attire
looked very spick and span beside the faded garments of those around,
and his excellent shoes were a source of undisguised envy to his
fellow-servants.
"Well, Miss Sallie," he said, when I remarked on his appearance, "I
thought I'd better get myself the best I could while I was w'ere dey was
plenty, as I could give ole Maussa one nigger less to clothe. You see,
ma'am, w'en Mas' Harry an' our people lef', I felt pretty bad. That
night, sure 'nuf, as Mas' Harry tole me, the Yankees came booming into
town, an' it wasn't long befo' all our mens, who was in the hospitable,
was took prisoners; but they seemed very kind to them. W'ile they was
sick they give them everything. It was a cur'ous t'ing, w'en General
Foster come through w'ere I was, he noticed me, and asked me w'at I was
doin' there, an' I tole him how I had been wid my young Maussa, an' w'en
I tole him w'ere I come from an' Mas' Harry's name, 'Oh,' say he, 'I
know his father well. I was stationed at Fort Moultrie befo' de war, an'
I have eaten many a good dinner at the old Colonel's.' I tole him, 'Yes,
sir, Maussa had the bes' of everything, an' my ma was a splendid cook.'
So then he say: 'If you come from them you knows your business, an' w'en
you are well, I will take you into my service. You is free now, you
know.' So they kep' me in the hospitable, an' give me nice things to
make me well, an' w'en the hospitable discharged me, de General took me
an' was rale kind. I had good greenback wages and plenty of everything,
an' not much to do, an' rale coffee, as much as I wanted, too; but
somehow I couldn't diskiver to be settled. I had been in de Soudern army
so long, w'en they talked of beatin' it, it made me oneasy, an' w'en I
studied on Mas' Harry back in de army wid nobody--for I know he wouldn't
take nobody in my place--an' wid not 'nuf of even corn bread an' bacon,
widout me to perwide," he added, with a grin, "I jest kep' studyin', but
I never said nuttin', an' every day dey tole me how lucky I was to be
free. I jes' made up my mind, an' I got the General to let me draw all
de clo's I could, an' a overcoat an' shoes an' blankets on my wages,
an' den I ask him for a month's wages in advance, an' he seem a little
surprised, but he was very kind, an' he give it to me; so w'en I got
everything I could, one night I waited on the General fust rate, w'en he
was goin' to bed, an' fixed everything very nice, an' he said I was a
rale good servant an' a treasure of a boy; but I jest took my things an'
watched my chance, an' jest slipped off in the dark, an' dodged about
until I got out of their lines an' into our'n. I had to walk a hundred
miles befo' I got to our regiment. An', Mis', they jest gave me three
cheers w'en I tole them how I come back; an' I took de liberty to bring
a bottle of whiskey, an' I treated Mas' Harry's ole mess. Dey tole me he
had jine another regiment. I had to walk a good piece more to de cyars;
but one of our officers give me a letter to the conductors on de cyars,
so I jest come through without payin' a cent. An' mighty glad I is to
git home," he added, drawing a long sigh of relief.
"But did you not feel bad at robbing the kind officer who employed you?"
I asked.
"Well, Missy," he answered, "seems like Mas' Harry has the bes' right to
me, an' he was robbin' Mas' Harry ob me." And, turning to our mother, he
said: "Please, ma'am, I would like a week at home to marry Affy, an' den
can't I find Mas' Harry?"
It is needless to add that Kent's wedding was as festive as it could be
made. It was a holiday on the plantation, and dancing was kept up to the
sound of the rhythmic stick beating, from morning until night. The
bride was proud, happy and dusky in white muslin; the groom a marvel in
his attire, and with all the airs of a traveled man.
After the surrender Kent followed his young master home, and he and Affy
settled on a pretty part of the plantation, declaring that they would
live "faithful togedder" for the remainder of their lives.
ROSE BLANKETS
In the busy rush of to-day it is sometimes a relaxation to pause for a
moment and let memory carry us back, far back, to the peaceful,
uneventful days before the Civil War. Life seemed to go slower then. We
had no cables to tell us, and often harrow us, each morning with the
events all over the world of the preceding day. And (inestimable boon)
our only ideas of war were time-mellowed Revolutionary anecdotes. There
was in these days no more beautiful place in all the luxuriant low
country contiguous to Charleston than Hickory Hill. The plantation
consisted of rice fields which bordered Goose Creek on both sides. The
massive brick dwelling, built in Colonial days by the pioneer of the
family which still dwelt there, stood beyond the rice fields in view of
the creek; venerable moss-crowned live-oaks stood sentinels around. The
approach was through an avenue of similar trees, whose branches formed a
beautiful arch over the luxuriant sward beneath. These trees were the
admiration and pride of the countryside.
Years had only added beauty to the rugged old house, for ivy and
climbing rose vines had dressed its walls and framed many of its
windows. In the springtime it was a veritable bower. At the time of
which I write it was a "maidens' bower." From my earliest recollections
three unmarried sisters, Miss Martha, Miss Joanna and Miss Mary,
composed the family. My parents lived on an adjoining plantation, and
although our dwelling houses were some distance apart, there was a short
cut along the rice field banks, and a happy child was I when any pretext
afforded an excuse for a visit to the ladies. Their individuality had a
great charm even to my childish mind. When I first remember them they
must have all been past their sixtieth birthdays, and were counted
ladies of the old school. Miss Martha was the eldest. She took life very
seriously, was very tall and thin, was the housekeeper and head, besides
being considered "the clever woman of the family." She could be very
tragic on the smallest provocation. Her drop of good Scotch blood made
her hold her head very high, and also made her a rigid Presbyterian.
When she was not hemming a pocket handkerchief she usually had one of
Scott's novels in her hands. Miss Joanna, the second sister, who was as
genial as her sister was severe, used to say she "did not know what
Martha would have done if Scott had never written; he had really
diversified her life by his novels."
Miss Joanna had the cheeriest old face imaginable, bright blue eyes,
rosy cheeks, with high cheek bones, her gray hair waved becomingly, and
she always wore a lavender ribbon in her cap. She was the social one of
the sisters; that is, she performed the social duties. Miss Mary, the
youngest, was at sixty the spoiled darling, having been considered the
best looking, and delicate in her youth. All the airs of a beauty, and
the privileges of an invalid still clung to her. Indeed, her very white
skin and black eyes were very impressive. Her sisters always gave her
the tenderest consideration and never failed to be affected by her
gentle melancholy and pathetic sighs. They were all much given to
charity, but Miss Mary was more lavish than wise. Whole families of
beggars, not only preyed upon her, but tyrannized. There was a tradition
that Miss Mary had been rescued in her youth from a runaway carriage by
a lover who was anxious to marry her; she had inclined to him, but had
been deterred by the fear of parting from Miss Joanna, who usually
directed her affairs, and sometimes made up her mind for her.
The sisters were accounted quite wealthy. They owned a handsome
residence in the neighboring city of Charleston, where they betook
themselves when fear of country fever drove them from their beloved
country home. The yearly exodus was a great trial to Miss Martha, who
was supposed to manage the plantation. The neighbors said the negro
foreman, Boston, managed the place and the ladies also. They would
never employ a white overseer, as they said "a hireling could not make
allowance for the negroes as they did." Indeed, their negroes were a
terrible care to them; they had large retinues of house servants, both
in the city and country, both having a sinecure during their absence.
Miss Martha frequently complained that she was "hard worked in finding
something for the servants to do." The young ones grew up so rapidly,
and to put certain families to field work was not to be contemplated.
That the ladies did not suffer more from their reckless management was
providential. They had the affection of all their servants, but the
women were lazy and the men great inebriates. Their idol, and coachman,
Billy, was a terrible case. Their lives were often in peril when he was
on the box. After some hair-breadth escape Billy would be summoned
before the trio and Miss Martha would say tragically, "Billy, you will
be the death of us." "Fore de Laud, Missis, I wouldn't hurt a hair of
yore heads," would be his rejoinder. That he did not was not his fault,
but his good fortune, for on one occasion, having been sent to meet Miss
Martha and Miss Mary at one of the wharves, he was so far gone that he
drove carriage and pair over them, knocking them down as they approached
to get into the carriage. Miraculously they escaped with only bruises.
Their black silk dresses were kept as curiosities, as the iron shod
hoofs of the horses had left their impress in several places. On another
occasion, having met them at the theater with the carriage, he drove
them several miles up the road toward their country home at 11 o'clock
at night before they could induce him to turn. These episodes, combined
with the very apparent fact that their friends had ceased to borrow
their carriage, which they enjoyed lending as much as using, sealed
Billy's fate. To soften his downfall, they told him he could give
Cuffie, his successor on the box, some "hints on driving," and they
would be glad to fill his molasses jug when it was empty, and if he must
drink, to take molasses and water. He could employ himself by sweeping
the yard. Billy never said what he drank, but died shortly after of
delirium tremens.
Joe and Romeo, the butler and his assistant, were quite as harassing.
Romeo's besetting sin was indolence. He had been known to shed tears at
the prospect of one of the little tea parties in which the old ladies
delighted. On these occasions their guests were their contemporaries,
"the girls," of whom there were a great many in maiden state in the
quiet old city. The handsome rooms were always lit by candles in tall
silver candlesticks. Miss Martha would never consent to the introduction
of gas, which the more progressive Miss Joanna advocated.
"No," decided Miss Martha, "candles are much more lady-like." What would
she have thought of electric lights?
On these occasions Joe handed a waiter with tea, Romeo followed with
delicate cakes, and then bread and butter, while a boy followed in the
rear with a tray "to catch the cups" as they were emptied. Ice cream
followed at "last bell ring," ten in summer and nine in winter, when the
party broke up. Any more substantial refreshment would have been deemed
"very unrefined" by the whole assembly.