GLIMPSES OF OUR BELEAGUERED SOUTH LAND
While few, I think, perceived it clearly at that early day, yet in the
spring of ’2 the fortunes of the Confederacy were declining. Many of our
wisest men were already doubtful of the issue even where belief in the
justice of our cause never wavered. Looking back upon the prophecies of
ultimate defeat that were uttered in those days, by men accustomed to
sound the security of governments, I am thrilled at the flood of
patriotic feeling on which our men and women were borne to continue in
arms against such overwhelming forces and conditions as were brought
against them. For months before that first Congress adjourned, from
every part of our federated States, eager petitioning, complaints and
ominous news reached us. Gold, that universal talisman, was scarce, and
Confederate currency began to be looked upon with a doubtful eye. So
far-seeing a man as Judge John A. Campbell, writing to Mrs. Campbell
from New Orleans early in April, 1862, said: “In the event of the
restoration of Northern rule, Confederate money may be worthless. I
proceed on that assumption. It will certainly depreciate more and more.
Hence, your expenditures should be Confederate money, and, in any event,
the bank-notes of Georgia, Virginia and Louisiana are preferable to
Confederate bills. If the war should last another year, the
embarrassments of everyone will be increased tenfold!”
Within a few months the face of our capital had changed. McClellan’s
ever-swelling army in the peninsula became more and more menacing. The
shadow of coming battles fell over the city, and timid ones hastened
away to points that promised more security. Some went to the mountain
resorts “to escape the hot term” in Richmond, but many of the wives and
daughters of non-householders, even among those known to possess a cool
courage, moved on to the Carolinas or returned to their native States.
As the close of the Congressional session drew near, there was a
continual round of good-byes and hand-shakings, and even an attempt now
and then at a gaiety which no one actually felt.
Our markets grew suddenly poor, and following quickly upon the heels of
a seeming prosperity, a stringency in every department of life in the
city was felt. The cost of living was doubled, and if, indeed, any
epicures remained, they were glad to put aside their fastidiousness.
Within a year our vermicelli, when we had it at all, would have
warranted an anglicising of its first two syllables, and our rice,
beans, and peas, as well as our store of grains and meal, began to
discover a lively interest in their war-time surroundings. We heard
tales of a sudden demand for green persimmons, since a soldier, feeding
upon one of these, could feel his stomach draw up and at once forget
that he was “hawngry.” I remember hearing the story of a certain
superficial lady who spoke disdainfully, in the hearing of Mrs. Roger A.
Pryor, of a barrel of sorghum which some friend had sent her from a
distance. Full of contempt, she ordered the offending gift to be taken
away. “Horrid stuff!” she said.
“Horrid?” asked Mrs. Pryor, gently. “Why! in these days, with our
country in peril, I am grateful when I am able to get a pitcher of
sorghum, and I teach my children to thank God for it!”
Our mail, from many quarters, was now become a Pandora’s box, from which
escaped, as we opened it, myriad apprehensions, dissatisfactions or
distresses. “Pray,” wrote a friend from New Orleans, “when you see the
President, beg him to give some attention to the disloyal element in the
cities, and particularly in _this city_, which is filled with strangers
who appear and disappear in the most mysterious manner, go to private
boardinghouses, examine the defenses, etc., etc.”
“I am thus far on my way home,” wrote William L. Yancey, from the same
city, in a letter dated March 14, 1862, “having left Havana on the 26th
ultimo on a small schooner, and arrived at Sabine Pass on the 6th. Two
of Lincoln’s vessels had been anchored in the channel of that harbour
for a week and only left twenty-four hours before my arrival.... This
city is almost in a state of revolution,” he added. “Fifteen hundred of
its wealthiest and most respectable citizens and good Southerners have
organised an association and resolved to assume executive and judicial
functions to arrest, try, imprison, banish or hang!... There is
undoubtedly a deep-seated feeling of wrong done them and of anxiety for
the city’s safety at the bottom of all this, and this association should
not be treated as a mere lawless mob. Their success, however, would be
the knell of our cause in England, and perhaps on the Continent. I am
doing all I can to throw oil on the troubled waters, and I hope with
some effect.”
Shortly after his arrival in Richmond, Mr. Yancey, whom my husband
greatly admired, spent a morning in our chamber—space was too costly at
this time to admit of our having a private parlour—in conference with
Mr. Clay, and a more hopeless and unhappy statesman I never saw. The
people in England, he declared, were for, but Parliament opposed to us,
and his mission, therefore, had been fruitless. Every action and each
word he uttered demonstrated that he knew and felt the ultimate downfall
of the Confederacy.
By a singular coincidence, almost under the same circumstances but some
months later, a similar conference took place in our rooms, but Mr.
Lamar was now the returned diplomat. But recently home from an
unfinished mission to Russia, our long-time friend talked, as had Mr.
Yancey, with a conviction that our cause was hopeless. Mr. Lamar had
proceeded only so far as London and Paris, when, observing the drift of
public feeling abroad, he took ship again, arriving, as did many of our
returned foreign emissaries, on the top of a friendly wave. The sea was
peculiarly inimical to the cause of the Confederate States, sinking many
of the merchant ships we succeeded in sending through the blockading
fleets that beset our coast, and wrecking our ambassadors wherever it
could grapple them, even on our very shores.
By the time Congress closed in the spring of ’2, the news from the
Tennessee Valley was distracting. The enemy had succeeded in reaching
our home, and Huntsville was now become the headquarters of General O.
M. Mitchell. If that gentleman had taken delight in anything besides the
vigorous exercise of an unwelcome authority, he might have found there
an ideal spot for the prosecution of his astronomical researches. The
span that rests upon the opposite apices of Monte Sano and Lookout
Mountain is one of gorgeous beauty. Upon a clear night the planets glow
benignly upon the valley, the little stars laugh and leap and go
shooting down great distances in a manner unparalleled in more northerly
latitudes. Though generally loyal to the cause of the Confederacy, the
people of Huntsville were not indisposed to look upon the author-soldier
with considerate eyes, had that General adopted a humane course toward
them. Unfortunately, his career in our valley from beginning to end was
that of a martinet bent upon the subjugation of the old and helpless and
the very young, our youths and strong men being away in the field.
The accounts that reached us by letter and by eyewitnesses of the scenes
in the Clay home were alarming. Everything belonging to the Clays, it
was rumoured, was to be confiscated. “Judge Scruggs told Stanley,” wrote
mother, “that the Clays are to be stript of all.” Father’s negroes, and
most of our own, were conducting themselves in an insolent manner,
taking to the mountains when there was work to be done, or wandering in
the train of straggling Union soldiers, but returning when hungry to
feed upon their master’s rapidly diminishing stores. In some instances,
relying upon the protection of the soldiers, the negroes of the town
would take possession of the home of an absent master, revelling in an
opportunity to sleep in his bed or to eat from the family silver and
china.
A dozen times a day, and at unreasonable hours, if the invading soldiery
saw fit, they entered the houses of the citizens in what was often
merely a pretended search for some concealed Confederate, or to demand
food or drink or horses. They were constantly on the lookout for the
possible visits, to their families, of the distinguished citizens in
temporary banishment from Huntsville. The presence of General Pope
Walker being suspected (though no longer Secretary of War, he would have
been a desirable prize to take, since he had issued orders for the
firing of the first gun at Fort Sumter), for months the home of our
friend ex-Governor Chapman, in which the family of General Walker had
taken refuge, was searched daily, the vigilants being so scrupulous in
their investigations that even the leaves of a dictionary were parted,
lest the wily late Secretary should spirit himself away between its
covers.[25]
“The enemy came demanding food or horses,” wrote mother, “taking all
they could of breadstuffs, meat stock, and all the able-bodied negroes,
whether willing or not. Our men hid, but they took the horses and mules,
and promised to return in a week and take everything!”
Alas, poor little mother! Those were but the beginning of bitterer days
and yet sterner deprivations! For months the only hope of our beleagured
neighbours in Huntsville lay in the prayed-for advance of General Bragg,
though their prayers, too, were interdicted when made in the church;
and, upon the investment of the town, our pastor, Doctor Bannister,[26]
was quickly instructed as to the limited petitions with which he might
address his God on behalf of his people.
In the meanwhile, the courage of our citizens was kept alive by General
Roddy, who lay over the crest of Monte Sano. The forays of his men were
a perpetual worry to the Federals in the valley. So audacious, indeed,
did they become that the Federal general razed the houses on “The Hill”
and threw up breastworks, behind which he built a stout fort, the better
to resist the possible attacks from the mountain side by brave General
Roddy and his merry men.
During General Mitchell’s investment of Huntsville he was accompanied by
his daughters, who, in the ransacking of our home, fell heiresses to
certain coveted and “confiscated” articles of my own, but the possession
of which could scarcely have been an unmixed pleasure. I heard of my
losses first through a letter written late in August. “Mr. Hammond,”
began the epistle, “says in Atlanta he saw a lady just from Nashville
who told him that Miss Mitchell rode out in _your green habit on your
mare_! This part of the story,” continued my witty sister, “may be true,
but there is another: that the other Miss Mitchell rode in my habit on
_my_ mare! I’m glad I had no mare, and am sorry for poor ‘Jenny Lind’!”
Months afterward I heard (and any who asks may still hear the story in
the town, for it has become one of Huntsville’s war-time annals) an
account of Miss Mitchell’s outings in my now celebrated green habit. Her
path, it seems, as she trotted my pretty mare about the streets, was not
strewn with roses; for, though absent from our beloved little city, I
was not forgotten. One day the horsewoman, passing proudly on her way,
saw, looking over the garden gate of a pretty cottage, the laughing face
of sweet Alice Spence, a right loyal admirer of my undeserving self.
Alice looked up at the passing apparition, and, full of daring, half
mischievously, half indignantly, cried out after it, “Hey! Git off
’Ginie Clay’s mare! Git—off—’Ginie Clay’s ma—are!”
At the sound of these words Miss Mitchell galloped away in great anger.
While Alice was still regaling her mother with a jubilant account of her
championship of my property, a proof reached her of General Mitchell’s
implacability. That afternoon her brother was ordered into arrest, and
for months thereafter was kept in custody as a guarantee for his
sister’s good behaviour!
When, later, Mr. Clay and I were enabled to visit Huntsville (the
Federals having been beaten back for a time), I heard of an amusing
encounter which took place at the home of the Spences between Mrs.
Spence and John A. Logan. A swarthy stripling in appearance, the young
officer stood carelessly about, whilst several soldiers of his command
were engaged in a search of the premises. As Mrs. Spence entered the
room in which the officer stood, she eyed him with genuine curiosity.
“Whose boy are you?” she asked at last. Her daughter, who was beside
her, caught her mother’s arm in alarm.
“Why, ma!” she gasped. “That’s General Logan!”
“General Logan!” repeated her mother, contemptuously. “I tell you he’s
nothing of the kind! He’s black!”
It was already early summer when we left the troubled capital, where
everyone was keyed to a high pitch of excitement by the manœuvrings of
the enemy, now so near that the reverberating sound of distant cannon
was plainly audible. Our way was southward. Though withdrawing, as I
supposed, for a change of scene during the Congressional recess only, in
reality my refugee days had now begun; for, notwithstanding I made
several later stays of varying duration at Richmond, the greater part of
the two succeeding years was spent at the homes of hospitable kin far
away from that centre of anxiety and deprivation. Upon leaving Richmond,
in May of ’2, Senator Clay and I, stopping _en route_ at the home of my
uncle, Buxton Williams, in Warrenton, North Carolina, proceeded by easy
stages to Augusta, Macon and Columbus, where many of our kinfolks and
friends resided, and to which cities I often returned, when, from time
to time, the exigencies of the war compelled my husband and me to
separate. Georgia, save when Sherman’s men marched through it, two years
later, was the safest and most affluent State in the Confederacy; but in
the summer of ’2 there were few localities which did not retain, here
and there at least, an affluent estate or two. Until almost the end of
hostilities the home of my uncle Williams in Warrenton continued to be
with us in Richmond the synonym for plenty. When I had starved in the
capital, I dropped down to “Buxton Place,” whence I was sure to return
laden with hampers of sweets and meats and bread made of the finest
“Number One” flour, which proved a fine relief to the “seconds” to which
the bread-eaters of the Confederate capital were now reduced. In the
course of a year molasses and “seconds” (brown flour with the bran still
in it) came to be regarded as luxuries by many who but a short time ago
had feasted capriciously upon the dainties of a limitless market.
My uncle Williams was an astute man, and when he was assured that war
had become a settled fact, instead of hoarding his means for the benefit
of invading soldiers, he retired to his country home, bought out the
contents of a local store, which he transferred to his own cupboards and
pantry, and made “Buxton Place” to “kith and kin” the most generous and
hospitable of asylums. It was a peaceful, happy place, set among ample
grounds, with noble trees rising about, in which birds carolled as they
coquetted among the foliage and squirrels gambolled at their will
through the long, lazy days. No chicory and sugar, adopting the _alias_
of coffee, found place on that sumptuous board in those first years, but
only the _bona fide_ stuff! We had sugar in abundance, and pyramids of
the richest butter, bowls of thick cream, and a marvellous plenitude of
incomparable “clabber.”
Once, during our wandering that autumn, we slipped over to “Millbrook,”
the home of my cousins the Hilliards, and thence to Shocco Springs, long
a famous North Carolina resort, where, to the music of a negro band, the
feet of a merry little company went flying over the polished floor as if
the world were still a happy place, despite its wars and wounds and
graves and weeping women.
Life at dear old “Millbrook,” rich with a thousand associations of my
childhood and family, still ran serenely on. The loudest sound one heard
was the hum of the bee on the wing as it rushed to riot in the amber
honey sacs of the flowers. But whether at “Millbrook” or “Buxton Place,”
whether we outwardly smiled or joined in the mirth about us, inwardly my
husband and I were tortured with fears born of an intimate knowledge of
our national situation. We watched eagerly for our despatches, and, when
they came, trembled as we opened them. Some of our communications rang
with triumph, others with an overwhelming sadness.
A thrilling letter from Richmond reached us after the terrible “Battle
of Seven Pines.” A mere mention of that deadly conflict for years was
enough to start the tears in Southern eyes, and sons and daughters, as
they grew up, were taken back to look upon the bloody field as to a
sacred mausoleum. The letter was written by Robert Brown, our erstwhile
Sir Lucius, of Mrs. Ives’s famous performance, and now serving as
aide-de-camp to General Winder.
“I have been beholding scenes of carnage,” he wrote on the 10th of June.
“On the afternoon of the 31st ult. Winder and myself rode down to the
battle-field. The reports of the cannon were distinctly heard here, and
as we approached the field, the firing became terrific! We met wounded
and dying men, borne upon litters and supported by solicitous friends.
The scene was revolting to me, but, singular to say, in a very short
time I became accustomed to this sight of horror, and the nearer we
approached the line of battle, the nearer we wished to get; but we were
quite satisfied to get so near the line (proper) as the headquarters of
General Longstreet, which was under a fine old oak tree on a slight
elevation. The General was there, sitting most complacently upon a fine
horse, surrounded by his staff, who were riding away at intervals
bearing his orders to the line and returning. We were about a quarter of
a mile from the engagement, and we could distinctly hear the shouts of
victory of our gallant troops, literally driving the enemy before them.
Entrenchment and battery after battery were wrested from the Yankees by
our splendid troops, old North Carolina leading them!
“Imagine the powder burnt! I tell you, the firing was awful, but
glorious! Near the headquarters of Longstreet were regiments of
splendid, eager troops drawn up in line as a reserve. Amid the heavy
firing, the glorious cheering of our troops, squad after squad of Yankee
prisoners were brought up to Longstreet under guards buoyant with
victory; and, as each reached headquarters, I tell you that the reserve
force would send up a _yell_ of delight that split the air and made old
earth tremble! One little brave band of fifty-five South Carolinians
brought in one hundred and sixty-six live Yankees and a Captain whom
_they had taken_! The excitement was intense! The firing ceased at seven
o’clock. I remained in the field until the last gun was fired. Our
troops occupied the enemy’s camp that night and all the next day; and
Monday our military talent thought it prudent and best to fall back and
give the enemy the vantage ground we had gained!
“General Johnston was wounded, but not seriously, it is said. Smith’s
horse was shot in two places, on the shoulder and just back of the
saddle; the General’s coat-tail, they say, was _seriously_ injured.
Lieutenant-Colonel Sydenham Moore was wounded; the ball struck his
watch, literally shattering it! General Pettigrew was _not_ killed, but
seriously wounded, and fell into the hands of the enemy. _They_, thank
God, lost two brigadier generals and one seriously wounded. Our total
loss, killed and wounded, was thirty-five hundred. The enemy acknowledge
eight hundred killed and four thousand wounded. It was a fearful fight!
“We have good news every day from Jackson! To-day brings us the news of
his having ‘completely routed the enemy, taking six pieces of
artillery!’ Old Stonewall is certainly the Hero of the War, and unless
our Generals Beauregard and Johnston look sharp, he will entirely take
the wind out of their sails and leave them in the _Lee_-ward!”
“The city is filled with the wounded and dead,” echoed our cousin John
Withers. “It is fortunate you are away and saved the necessity of
beholding the horrible sights which are now so common here! Great
numbers of Alabamians are killed and wounded....” And he added in a
letter, written in an interval of the awful Seven Days Battles: “For
four days I have been awaiting some decisive move on the part of our
forces, but nothing has been done yet to settle affairs. McClellan has
not been routed, but his army is, no doubt, demoralised to such an
extent as to render any other demonstration against Richmond out of the
question for many weeks.... The President has come up from the
battle-field, and I hear that a courier from the French and British
Consuls is to leave here for Washington to-night or in the morning. We
will secure between thirty and forty thousand small arms by our late
operations; many of them much injured by being bent. The enemy have a
position now which we cannot well assail successfully. They are under
their gunboats and have gotten reinforcements.... There is a report
to-night that Magruder has captured eight hundred Yankees to-day, but I
place no reliance upon any rumour until it is confirmed as truth.
General Beauregard has made a most successful retreat to Baldwin,
thirty-five miles south of Corinth, on the Mobile and Ohio Railroad. The
move was necessary, and I have no doubt will be a great blow to the
enemy. He carried all his heavy guns, tents, and so on. General Lee is
in command of the army hereabouts, and I am sure we will whip
McClellan’s army when the grand contest shall take place. The rain of
last night will forbid any movement for two or three days. When the
fight opens again, we will have thousands upon thousands of wounded
here!”
Such were the accruing records of woe and of personal and national loss
which followed Senator Clay and me throughout those autumn months of ’2.
The inroad made upon the gallant regiments of our own State were
frightful. The ranks of the splendid Fourth Alabama Regiment, picked men
of our finest blood, the flower of our hopes, as handsome a body as a
State might muster, were terribly thinned. Wherever a call came our
Alabamians were found in the front, the envy and admiration of the army,
quickening the courage and firing the imaginations of every company that
beheld them. But oh! our men had need of a mighty courage, for soon the
very seed-corn of our race became a sacrifice. The picture rises before
me of a youthful cousin[27] who fell at Malvern Hill, shot down as he
bore aloft the banner which he fondly hoped would lead to victory. His
blood-stained cap, marked by a bullet hole, was all that returned of our
fair young soldier boy. Another youth,[28] on whom the love and hope of
a dear circle was settled, fell with his heart pierced, and so swift was
the passing of his soul that he felt no pain nor sorrow. They say an
eager smile was on his face when they found him. For years his loved
ones, gazing upon it with weeping eyes, treasured the blood-stained,
bullet-torn handkerchief that had lain over the wounded heart of the
boy!
The tears start afresh when, looking into my memory, there passes before
me that army of the dead and gone. Oh! the sorrow that overcame all who
knew him (and the circle was wide as half the South itself) when the
news came of the death of Colonel Sydenham Moore, who fell at Seven
Pines; and even the enemy spoke solemnly at the passing of our beloved
General Tracy, who died so courageously fighting in the battle of Port
Gibson, within three-quarters of a year! “I have little active service
at this post,” he complained from Vicksburg, in March of ’3, “and the
very fact incapacitates me for the discharge of duties of other kinds.
In fact, I am _ennuied_ past description!” So, chafing impatiently to
write his name in brave deeds across some page of the Confederate
States’ history, he sprang to meet the call when it came, and fell,
crowned with immortal glory in the hearts of a loving people.
General Tracy’s young wife was awaiting him, an infant at her bosom,
when we returned late in November of ’2 for a brief stay at Huntsville,
from which, for a time, the Union soldiers had been beaten back. By this
time our valley seemed so safe that families from other threatened
districts came to take refuge in it. Colonel Basil Duke, among others,
brought his wife to Huntsville. Numerous absentee householders came
back; and interest in local enterprises was resumed. When, in December,
my husband returned to his duties in the Senate, there was small reason
to apprehend an early reappearance, in Huntsville, of the Federals.
“North Alabama,” General Bragg assured my husband, “is as secure now as
it was when I held Murfreesboro!” And on this assurance our spirits rose
and we departed again, promising ourselves and our parents we would
return within a few months at most.
Mr. Clay proceeded at once to Richmond, beset now with deadly enemies
within as well as without. Smallpox and scarlet fever raged there, as in
many of our larger cities, and I pleaded in vain to be allowed to
accompany him. I turned my way, therefore, in company with others of our
kin, toward Macon, where was sojourning our sweet sister, Mrs. Hugh
Lawson Clay, at the home of Major Anderson Comer, her father. Thence it
was proposed I should proceed with her later to Richmond under the
escort of Colonel Clay.
That winter the weather was peculiarly cold, so much so that on the
plantations where wheat had been sown, a fear was general lest the grain
be killed in the ground. The journey to Macon, therefore, was anything
but comfortable, but it had its amusing sides nevertheless. We were a
party of women.
“We arrived safely (self, Kate, Alice and servants),” I wrote in a
kaleidoscopic account which I gave my husband of the indications of the
times as seen _en route_. “We rode from Stevenson to Chattanooga on the
freight train, the baggage-cars on the passenger-train being unable to
receive a single trunk. Arriving at Chattanooga, we would have been
forced to go to the small-pox hotel or remain in the streets but for the
gallantry of an acquaintance of ours, an army officer of Washington
memory, who gave up his room to us, and furnished some wagons to have
our baggage hauled to the depot. At Atlanta there was a scatteration of
our forces.... When night came” (being fearful of robbery, for hotels
were unsafe) “I stuffed in one stocking all my money, and in the other,
mine and Alice’s watches, chains, pins, and charms. I felt not unlike
Miss Kilmansegg, of the precious Leg. We fumigated the room, had a bed
brought in for Emily, and retired. At breakfast Colonel Garner told me
that Uncle Jones [Withers] was in the house, and in a few minutes he
presented himself. He got in at three that morning, _en route_ for
Mobile with thirty days’ leave; looked worn, and was sad, I thought.
Colonel George Johnson, of Marion, also called, and we had them all and
Dr. W., of Macon, to accompany us to the cars. The guard at the gate
said ‘Passport, Madam,’ but I replied, ‘Look at my squad; General
Withers, Colonel Garner of Bragg’s staff, and a Colonel and Lieutenant
in the Confederate service. I think I’ll _pass_!’” And I passed!