been very unsteady as they handed their waiters. Dire was their
mistresses' mortification. Miss Martha always seemed to feel responsible
when her servants misbehaved. She would exclaim, "A single woman has
great need of strength of mind." Miss Mary's unfailing rejoinder would
be, "Thank God, you have it, sister." One evening Joe brought especial
obloquy upon himself. He must have shared Billy's molasses jug, for he
had not drawn the tea as directed.
Miss Martha, in consideration for some of "the girls" who were growing
feeble, always accompanied Joe on his rounds. As he paused before a
guest she would hold a lump suspended in the sugar tongs as she would
say, "Green tea and black; dear, which will you have?" On this occasion
Joe took advantage of her deafness to mumble, "Both made in de same
pot." The guests were quite diverted, but did not enlighten Miss Martha
as to Joe's confession, and their progress continued until they reached
Miss Mary. When she overheard Joe's assertion, she looked at him with
mild indignation, but only said, "Sister, you had better sit down. I
will explain later my asking you to do so." Miss Mary's suggestion of
any course of action to Miss Martha seemed to call for explanation.
The next morning, when she told of the duet she had interrupted, Joe was
summoned. Miss Martha told him he had brought disgrace upon them and
would further bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. He of
course expressed great penitence, and was vociferous in promises of
amendment. His mistresses tried to feel faith. Miss Mary, however, had
to take a great deal of orange-leaf tea before her nerves recovered the
shock. Kindly Miss Joanna said privately, she had known nothing of what
was occurring, but she was glad the girls had something to amuse them;
she had thought them very merry, and though Joe had failed in his
demeanor he had shown a wonderful regard for truth. Had the ladies and
many of their generation lived to see emancipation they would have
parted with many "an old man of the sea."
One April morning I set out to take a bunch of May roses over the rice
field banks to Hickory Hill. These roses were especial favorites with
the sisters, and I was pleased to have the earliest blossoms to carry.
Miss Joanna kept a rose jar. Miss Martha was famous for the rose water
she distilled. I only expected to see Miss Martha, for I knew Miss Mary
had been drooping, and Miss Joanna had taken her to visit a friend, who,
although long past her youth, had recently married a Northern gentleman,
with whom she lived on her beautiful plantation near the city.
Miss Joanna and her sister had left only the day before, so I was
surprised to see the carriage at the door and Cilia, the maid, removing
their shawls and trappings. "Why, Cilia!" I exclaimed, "are the ladies
back already?" "Yes, missy," she replied, grinning and dropping a
curtsy, "Miss Joanna an' Miss May, an' Miss Burton had a kine uv
upsettin', an' so we come home." Wondering what was amiss, I hastened
in. I paused as I entered the sitting-room, for I saw the ladies were
much perturbed (small excitements were very usual with them, but their
demeanor betokened something serious); Miss Martha sat very erect, with
her most judicial aspect, the needle with which she was sewing
suspended. "Come in, child," she said as she saw me; "if my sisters make
fools of themselves you may as well know it as the rest of the world."
Miss Mary and Miss Joanna sat with their bonnets on. Miss Mary with the
air of a culprit, Miss Joanna decidedly ruffled, and her cheeks redder
than usual. She said: "Don't jump too quickly to conclusions, sister; it
does seem queer for us to return so hastily, but when I tell you about
it quietly, you will, I am sure, see that we were not entirely to blame.
You know Caroline's husband is rather abrupt in his manner."
"He has no Southern suavity," interrupted Miss Mary.
"The evening we got there I was feeling rather dull, and he really made
me nervous by shouting in my ear several times, 'Cheer up, Miss Mary.' I
jumped every time."
"He no doubt meant it kindly," said Miss Joanna, "but I dare say it
prepared you for what followed."
"We had a pleasant evening on the whole, although I thought Mr. Burton
did express his Northern views of slavery a little more than was called
for, especially as he did not seem to object to Caroline's owning a
great many. She was in high feather and seemed delighted to see us. At
bed-time she accompanied us to our room, where there was a bright fire,
and Cilia awaiting us. After Caroline left us Cilia begged leave to go
to a dance at the negro quarter; she said it was in her honor, and she
seemed in haste to be gone. So I promised to do what Mary would need and
sent her off. After I was undressed I was standing by the fire brushing
my hair. I saw Mary fumbling about the bed and asked her if she was
ready for me to tuck her in. Instead of answering, she came, as I
thought, mysteriously up to me and whispered, 'Negro.'
"Of course I thought there was a man under the bed. I remembered our
watches, Mary's diamond pin, and how far we were from Caroline and Mr.
Burton; for we were in the company wing. I screamed for help as loud as
I could; the more noise I made the more distressed Mary seemed. Caroline
and Mr. Burton came running, in most indescribable costumes," the old
lady continued, with a look of amused retrospection. "There stood Mary
in her bed-gown and curl-papers; I in my wrapper, and Mary staring at me
as if she thought me crazy.
"'What is the matter?' they both exclaimed.
"'Oh,' I said, 'Mary says there is a negro under the bed.'
"We'll soon have the rascal out," said Mr. Burton, poking under the bed
with a big stick.
"'Oh,' said Mary, 'I never said anything of the kind, Joanna. I meant,'
she said, turning as red as a beet, 'that there were not rose blankets
on the bed, but blankets without the rose embroidered on them, and I
call those negro blankets. Joanna made such a noise I could not explain
what I meant,' and she burst into tears. Mr. Burton bounced out of the
room, muttering something. Caroline was very angry. She said that if she
had had any idea that we girls could behave in such a way she would
never have invited us to visit her. She had wished to give her husband
an agreeable impression of Southern ladies, but she did not like to
think what his impression must be; and as to rose blankets, we never
could understand when things were out of date. Those were beautiful new
blankets, bought in New York when refurnishing their guest-room. And in
fact she was so angry," concluded Miss Joanna, "that I do not like to
remember all she said."
"But I must tell you, sister," put in Miss Mary, "she said she knew I
was always a fool, but she had thought Joanna had a little sense, and I
agree with her, Joanna, that you ought not to have made such a noise. I
never felt worse in my life than when you began to scream. And I never
slept a wink all night, as you know. Now, Sister Martha, which do you
think the most to blame?"
"I cannot say," said Miss Martha, "but I know I will never go to visit
any friend with either of you. I don't wonder Caroline was angry, and
what an impression you have made on her husband."
"Oh," said Miss Joanna, "we know he was furious. We had a most
unpleasant time at breakfast the next morning. I tried to make a joke of
the whole episode, but failed. They were too angry; so as Mary was
feeling so shaken, and had taken all her orange-leaf water with no
benefit to her nerves, I thought we had better come home; and I am
delighted to be here; and too thankful neither of you are married," she
continued, with a return of her genial smile. "For I nearly exhausted
myself trying to mollify Mr. Burton."
"Yes," said Miss Mary, "with no success. I do not envy Caroline her new
acquisition, and I am sure rose blankets are the best."
Such were the agitations and events of these tranquil lives. Their days
glided by in peace and kindly ministrations. They were fortunate in
following each other in quick succession to the old Scotch churchyard
where their fathers slept in the "City by the Sea."
SOME LETTERS WRITTEN DURING THE LAST MONTHS OF THE WAR
OTRANTO, November 20, 1864.
I have not written to you for some time, as we have been moving about a
good deal, and have had some interesting and funny experiences. Last
summer we were tired of refugeeing, and decided to go back to
Charleston, and lived in a house on Mary street, as we thought well out
of shell range; our own residence on South Bay being in the grass, and
glass-strewed district. Our family consists only of my mother, sister
and myself, our mankind being in service, as you know, except father,
who is in the home guard. My mother spent most of her time visiting the
hospitals and devising comforts for the soldiers; my sister and I knit
socks, and rejoiced when some of our soldier relatives could snatch a
breathing-space from arduous duties at Sumter or on the islands to visit
us and partake of the best we could bestow on them.
The sound of the shells with their sharp, rasping, hissing sound before
they exploded was familiar, the interest being to venture into range
sometimes and discover the last place hit. There was a method in
Gilmore's management of his "Swamp Angel." We always noticed the shells
came quicker at church time on Sunday, and at ten to eleven at night. To
add to our troubles, yellow fever broke out this year, the only time
during the war. It was not a violent epidemic, but there were some
deaths. We thought we were immune, but in September my sister took it.
One evening early in September my sister was better and a friend of mine
(whose house we faced in their rear) begged me to come to tea. I went
over at dusk, and with her and another guest were enjoying a cup of real
tea and a bit of toast--quite a feast, when there was a tremendous
explosion apparently just at hand. We all sat quiet, tea cups in hand.
The negro boy rushed in, rolling his eyes, with the announcement that
the opposite house in Aiken's row was struck, and they were moving out.
The lady and her daughter were both ill with fever, and both died
shortly in consequence of the fright and removal.
In quick succession several houses in Aiken's row were struck. As I look
back now it seems strange to me that we all sat quietly in the
drawing-room waiting our turn to be hit. The man servant returning at
intervals to report that another of the houses was hit. I welcomed my
father, when at nine, he came for me. Nothing ever overcame his sense
of humor. He brought a large cotton umbrella, which, he said, he had
brought to please my mother, as a shell might spare its hideousness.
When I got home I found my mother and sister anxiously awaiting me. I
had a little cot in a corner of my sister's room, and my mother, being
anxious, lay on the bed by her. I went to bed and was soon asleep, the
shelling apparently having ceased, but they had only paused to try a new
gun. The first shells always going farthest, I was awakened by the
horrible familiar hiss and plaster and glass falling over me. The shell
cut the corner of the house and passed so near me that the glasses of
the window near by my bed were broken, and the plastering above fell on
me. The monster buried itself in our yard, making a horrible deep pit,
but not exploding. A few more inches and I would have been buried with
it. It shows how accustomed we were to shocks that I do not remember
feeling any terror, but remarked quietly in the dark to my mother, "I
think we are hit." To my astonishment she broke forth in ejaculations of
thanksgiving. The noise and crash had been so great she thought the side
of the room with me in it had been taken away. That was the longest
range shell that fell in Charleston. In a few days we went to the
up-country to be with friends, and then last week came down to Otranto,
where we are now.
* * * * *
OTRANTO, January 15, 1865.
I have not written for some time, but we all are really so troubled and
depressed that, as mother says, we have to be physically active to keep
from thinking, so little writing have I done this winter. I suppose you
know father has gone with his company of reserves to Summerville. They
are all men of over sixty, but we hear that Summerville is pleased to
have them. Aunts Anna and May became so tired of refugee life in Camden
that they decided to join mother, Annie, and me on the plantation. With
father and our brother away we are very lonely, but Aunt Anna's eighty
odd years make us anxious to make her comfortable. She is better off
with us, for the terrible scarcity of provisions has not touched us
here. We have enough of home provisions, but mother gives every morsel
she can spare to the hospitals and soldiers' wayside homes in
Charleston. The aunts say that despite the enormous board they had to
pay in Camden they had only fresh pork and biscuits, not even milk, as
so many of the cattle have been impressed for the army.
Christmas was certainly a very gloomy day. The news that Sherman was in
Savannah struck us cold. Our three cousins got leave of absence and came
up for a few hours. Mother had a turkey and we did our best, but I think
they feel very grave over the state of things. We are in terror lest
Charleston will have to be abandoned. Hal begged mother to return to the
up-country, but she says she went away three times and will not leave
again. She manages the plantation, you know. The negroes are very good,
but there is a spirit of restlessness perceptible. Hal was shocked when
he heard that we never locked up the house at night.
All the white men are in the army and some women are nervous, but we do
not feel so. This intensely cold winter makes us wretched about our poor
bare-footed soldiers. Mother can knit a pair of socks a day. Maum Martha
spins the wool. I can do only one sock a day. We are fortunate to have
so much lightwood. It is the only source of light we have, but we can
manage our knitting and Annie even reads sometimes, but the paper is so
bad that it is hard to read the printing on it.
* * * * *
OTRANTO, February 1, 1865.
I fear you are really having a dreadful time. The high price of
provisions is certainly dreadful on people with fixed incomes.
We had quite an adventure last Wednesday. Father luckily came over from
Summerville to dinner. It was a bitterly cold day. We were just sitting
down to the luxury of calf's head soup, for father wished some veal to
carry back to camp, when Quash came in with a rattled and rather
bothered air, and said there was a Yankee soldier outside who wanted to
give himself up. We all were thunderstruck, and followed father, who
gave vent to great displeasure.
At the door stood a miserable looking creature, shivering in a tattered
blue uniform. He was tall, thin, and white as a ghost, and his feet
looked particularly white. I never saw a more abject object. Father
tried to be very severe, but you know how kind-hearted he is, and while
he was scolding the man I overheard Quash say aside to him, "Nebber min'
what he say, Maussa doan' mean it. He is one ob de kindest mens in de
wurl."
It seems that the man was a prisoner who had escaped from the cars on
his way to prison some three months ago and was trying to make his way
to the coast, hoping to get through our lines. He had been living among
the negroes, sleeping in their houses by day and traveling by night; but
the wretched existence had worn him out and he came to give himself up.
He was an Englishman who was impressed on his arrival in New York and he
begged father to ask the authorities to let him take the oath of
allegiance and fight for us; but father said there had been enough of
that and such galvanized Yankees had done more harm than good.
This poor wretch is the first enemy we have seen, and we could not help
feeling sorry for him, although, as father says, no doubt he has been
demoralizing the negroes. He gave him a good dinner and turned him over
to Daddy Paul to take care of until the next day, when father took him
to Charleston and delivered him to the authorities. Mother found him an
old jacket and pair of shoes and socks, which she gave him. Surely she
had never expected to give a pair of her socks to one of the enemy.
Maum Martha thinks our kindness misplaced and told us he talked very
different to them from the way he talked to us, but she told us this
only after he had left, although it would have made no difference. We
may have "heaped coals of fire," etc.
* * * * *
OTRANTO, February 15, 1865.
I have not heard from you for some time, but I know in these dark days
you think of us. There is no doubt we live in dreadful times. We may
soon be in the enemy's country, or rather our troops may have to retire
from the coast.
Yesterday Annie and I determined to drive over to Summerville and dine
with aunt, as she and Cousin Sue have begged us to do so. Mother did not
want us to go. She feels the perilous times and all the sorrows she has
had make her very anxious. But at last she consented to our going, much
to Aunt May's disappointment, who thinks we should sit down and say,
"Good Lord, deliver us," all the time.
We had a pleasant drive over, as you know it is only nine miles. Daddy
Moses drove us and mother insisted that Cully should go as an outrider.
He rode Lamb, and went ahead. It showed that mother was nervous, but
Annie and I were amused, as we did not know what he was expected to do.
We found aunt and Cousin Sue delighted to see us and we enjoyed our
day. We left at 5 o'clock, as we could not get off earlier. Father dined
with us and tried to start us earlier. Aunt is delighted to have him in
Summerville as she says she "never felt so safe, because she knows he
will fight."
Our drive home was gloomy and we did not reach there until 7 o'clock. As
we drew near we met several of the negroes on farm horses looking for
us, and at the avenue gate our maid Fanny peering for us in the dark.
Mother and the aunts were wretched about us, particularly as Uncle Pete
had come up from the city full of bad news. Charleston is to be
evacuated, as Sherman's movements have made that necessary. He was
horrified when he heard that we had taken so long a drive, as he says
the woods are full of stragglers and escaped galvanized Yankees. I do
not know what is before us, or when you will hear from us again.
* * * * *
OTRANTO, February 20, 1865.
Charleston is being evacuated and our army is passing all the time, and
we reconcile ourselves to being left in the enemy's lines by the hope
that our army, strengthened by the coast troops, may defeat Sherman.
This letter will go by the last of our troops. The army has been passing
for five days and many of the men come up to the house, where we give
them everything we can for them to eat. They are full of courage and
their appearance gives us renewed hope. They hate to leave us behind.
Henry spent last night here. He got leave of absence with difficulty,
but will rejoin his regiment at Strawberry Ferry. He begged mother to
retire into the interior; but we mean to stay. He left us this morning.
The captain in command of the rear-guard at Goose Creek Bridge has just
come to bid us good-by, and he took two letters, which he promised to
carry into our lines--one to papa and the other to aunt, which we knew
would be the last tidings they would get from us.
This may, or may not reach you, but it is a comfort to write. The worst
has come, or I hope it has. After my last letter we awaited the approach
of the enemy with indescribable feelings. We tried not to think, and I
must say I was afraid of being frightened out of my wits and was too
thankful when the Yankees came. I was too angry to be scared. We tried
to keep up each other's spirits and were very busy hiding things. We
took only Paul, Jack and Martha into our confidence and they helped us
faithfully.
Tuesday passed in quiet. Mother, Annie and I took our usual walk in the
afternoon and met one of the negroes, who told us that our men had not
burned the bridge, and we determined that if this was the fact, we would
do it ourselves; but as we approached we were glad to see it blazing in
the distance. We felt then that we were really cut off from our own
people, but at the same time had satisfaction in knowing that if our
army was pursued the enemy would here meet an obstacle.
At 5 o'clock Wednesday afternoon as we were again getting ready for a
walk, a man was seen riding rapidly up the avenue. I called out, "The
Yankees are here. I know them by their blue legs!" and you may be sure
the family assembled quickly. In the mean while the man dashed past the
house and rode quickly around it, evidently expecting some one to run
out; finding no one, he returned to the front of the house, where we
five ladies stood together on the piazza. By this time we saw many
others coming up the avenue.
"Where is the man of the house?" demanded the man in an insolent tone.
Mamma replied, "He is not at home," and Aunt May added, "He is a
gray-haired man."
He gave a leer and said, "But not too old to be in the Rebel army." This
could not be denied, so we were silent. Then, with an expression of
triumph he said, "You have never seen black troops, but you will soon
have that pleasure; they are advancing now."
Mamma said, "I suppose they are not different from other negroes; we are
accustomed to them and never have feared them."
This calm reply was evidently a disappointment, as he had hoped we would
have been overcome with fear.
He turned off and said, "I must get some poultry for the General's
supper," and went to the fowl-house, where about a dozen of his men
joined him. In a few moments the cart, which just at the moment was
coming up with a load of wood, was seized and filled with our fowls,
turkeys, geese, etc., and driven off.
I happened to turn my eyes toward the western entrance from the main
road and saw the negro soldiers rushing in.
To my latest day I will not forget their brutal appearance. They came up
brandishing their guns with an air of wildness hard to describe, and in
a short time were scattered over the plantation, committing every
conceivable havoc. Their commander, Lieutenant J----, of New York, rode
up to the house, accompanied by several white officers, and while we
stood still and calmly upon the piazza he called out, "Where is the man
of the house?"
Mother replied as before, when he said, "He is a Rebel," and turning to
her said, "I am come to liberate your people," to which she quietly
replied, "I hope you will be as kind to them as we have been." This
visibly angered him and he exclaimed, "That is a strange reply to make
to a Northern man, and an officer of a colored regiment." To which she
replied, "We will not discuss the question."
He turned and said something to Quash, our waiting-man, and in a short
time we heard him and the other officers upstairs in our bed-rooms.
Mamma and Aunt Anna followed quietly and found that he had summoned our
two maids, Rachel and Fanny, and was exhorting them to disclose where
everything of value was concealed, saying, "Don't lie; that woman
(meaning mother) is very bad," and a great deal more in the same strain,
trying to incite them against us. They spoke to these servants as
"Madam," and of mother as "that woman."
The two girls were very frightened, but behaved remarkably well and
assured them that no valuables were hidden, and only the ladies' clothes
were in the rooms. However, they ransacked our wardrobes and bureau
drawers, throwing our things out all over the floor, and when they came
downstairs took all the cold meats out of the larder.
While mother and Aunt Anna were upstairs helplessly following Lieutenant
J---- around and witnessing his shameless conduct in our bed-rooms, Aunt
May, Annie and I remained downstairs. A quiet-looking officer was
standing in the piazza.
Aunt May, who never can control her curiosity, said to him, "We heard
some heavy firing in Charleston this morning. Has anything occurred
there?" "Good Heavens, Madam," he replied, "have you been so long out of
the Union that you have forgotten Washington's birthday?"
At this moment about twenty rough-looking men came charging up to the
house, evidently intending to enter. I confess that, for the first time
I was alarmed, and calling to the officer said, "For Heaven's sake,
protect us; don't let those men enter." He said, "I will do what I can,"
and placed himself in the doorway.