ALABAMA.
_"Here we rest."_
The hoarse panting of the steam-pipes, the clangor of bells, the
splashing of the paddle-wheels, died away in the distance as I stood
upon the landing watching the receding boat steaming down the Alabama
River on its way to Mobile.
Ah, how lovely appeared the woodland scenery around me! The sombre
green of pines, and the equally dark though glossy foliage of oaks,
were beautifully enlivened by lighter greens, and by the brilliant
hues of the sassafras-tree. Here climbed in tantalizing
beauty--tempting as insidious vice, which attracts but to destroy--the
poison-oak vine. Cherokee roses starred the hedges, or, adventurously
climbing the highest trees, flung downward graceful pendants. Upon the
edge of the bank stood a lofty pine, branchless and dead, but, by the
law of compensation which nature delights to execute, clothed to the
very top with closely-clinging vines of mingled green and brightest
red.
Standing upon the bluff above the river, drinking in the beauty of the
scene, listening to the murmur of waters, the song of birds, the weird
music of the pines, I repeated to myself the sweet name _Alabama_ with
a new sense of its fitness: sweet quiet and restfulness seemed to
belong to the spot.
Surely, the noise of battle, the suffering and sorrow I had so lately
witnessed, could never invade this abode of peace. Walking towards the
house where I was to await conveyance to the plantation of my uncle, I
heard the moaning of one apparently in deep distress. At the door the
lady of the house appeared, with red eyes and a sorrowful countenance.
Said she, "Just listen at Mrs. ----. Her son went off on the boat to
join the army, and 'pears like she can't get over it. _She kept up
splendid until after he got off_." I sat listening, not daring to
intrude upon such sorrow.
Over the lovely landscape before me fell the shadow of the future, a
shadow soon to darken every fair domain, every home in all the South.
After a time the grieving mother passed out, and, entering her
carriage, was driven away to her desolate home.
Later, I, too, accomplished the last ten miles of my journey, arriving
at my destination in time for supper, and meeting with a cordial
welcome from my friends.
Let none give undue praise to the women to whom during the war
Almighty God vouchsafed the inestimable privilege of remaining near
the front, even though they may have endured untold hardship, hours of
agony while listening to the noise of battle, fully realizing the
extreme danger of beloved fathers, husbands, or sons.
Never until my visit to Alabama had I fully realized the horrors of
suspense,--the lives of utter self-abnegation heroically lived by
women in country homes all over the South during the dreary years of
the war.
Every day--every hour--was fraught with anxiety and dread. Rumor was
always busy, but they could not hear _definitely_: they could not
_know_ how their loved ones were faring.
Can imagination conceive a situation more pitiable?
Ghastly visions made night hideous. During the day, the quick
galloping of a horse, the unexpected appearance of a visitor, would
agitate a whole household, sending women in haste to some secret place
where they might pray for strength to bear patiently whatever tidings
the messenger should bring.
Self-denial in all things began from the first. Butter, eggs,
chickens, etc., were classed as luxuries, to be collected and sent by
any opportunity offering to the nearest point of shipment to hospital
or camp. Fruits were gathered and made into preserves or wine "for the
sick soldiers." Looms were set up on every plantation. The whirr of
the spinning-wheel was heard from morning until night. Dusky forms
hovered over large iron cauldrons, continually thrusting down into the
boiling dye the product of the looms, to be transformed into
Confederate gray or _butternut_ jeans.
In the wide halls within the plantation-houses stood tables piled with
newly-dyed cloth and hanks of woollen or cotton yarns. The knitting of
socks went on incessantly. Ladies walked about in performance of
household or plantation duties, sock in hand, "casting on," "heeling,"
"turning off." By the light of pine knots the elders still knitted far
into the night, while to young eyes and more supple fingers was
committed the task of finishing off comforts that had been "tacked"
during the day, or completing heavy army overcoats; and painfully
these toiled over the unaccustomed task.
When a sufficient number of these articles had been completed by the
united efforts of ladies for miles around, a meeting was held at one
of the churches, where all helped to pack boxes to be sent to "the
front." I attended one of these meetings, the memory of which is ever
fresh.
We started from the plantation in the early morning. Our way lay along
the red clay roads which in many parts of Alabama contrast so
beautifully with the variously-shaded green of the woods and the brown
carpet beneath the pines. The old negro driver, "Uncle George,"
sitting upon the box, looked solemnly out from the enormous and stiff
shirt-collar which helped to support his dignity.
I believe the old man always drove his beautiful horses under protest.
It was either too early or too late, too hot or too cold, the roads
either too muddy or too dusty.
This particular morning was so lovely that even the horses seemed to
enjoy it, and for some reason "Uncle George" was less pompous and more
gentle than usual. Perhaps the anxious faces of the ladies touched his
heart, or he may have been softened by the knowledge of the perils his
young masters were being subjected to.
As often as we passed horseman or carriage on the road a stop was
ordered, while the ladies made eager inquiries for news from Richmond.
The battle of Shiloh, and afterwards that of Seven Pines, had
desolated many homes in the vicinity. The fate of some was yet
uncertain. Strong fellow-feeling knit all hearts. _Any_ passer-by,
even if a stranger, asked or answered questions.
A drive of eight miles brought us to the church, a simple, lowly
building, the "Grove Church" I believe it was called. Here beneath the
shade were drawn several carriages, and at the door a few
plantation-wagons waited, some laden with straw, others with articles
to be sent off. In the vestibule, boxes were being rapidly filled. It
was a busy scene, but by no means a gay one. A few unconscious
children "played at party" in the pews, setting out on leaves or bits
of bark their luncheon, broken into fragments, and serving in acorn
cups cold water for tea. Unmolested and unreproved, they ran up and
down the steps of the high, old-fashioned pulpit, half-fearfully
sitting down upon the minister's chair, or standing on tip-toe to peep
over the sacred desk at the busy group below. Young girls moved
silently about "helping." Over their pale lips not a ripple of
laughter broke. The fire of youth seemed to have died out of their sad
eyes, quenched for a time by floods of bitter tears.
To kindly question one of these replied, "Mamma is well, but of course
utterly prostrated, and does not leave her room. Papa is still in
Virginia nursing Buddie Eddie. We have no tidings of brother yet; he
is reported 'missing,' but we hope he may have been taken prisoner."
Some familiar faces were absent. And of these it was told that one had
lost a husband, another a son, and so the sadness deepened. Presently
the trot of a horse was heard. In another moment the good minister
stood among his people. Alas! he could only confirm the fearful tales
of battle and carnage. But from the storehouse of mind and heart he
brought forth precious balm, won direct from heaven by earnest prayer
and simple faith. With this he strove to soothe the unhappy, anxious
ones who looked to him for comfort. His heart yearned over his little
flock, wandering in a pathway beset with sharpest thorns. But upon his
troubled face was plainly written, "Of myself I can do nothing." A few
faltering words he essayed, but, as if conscious of the utter
uselessness of any language save that of prayer, he raised imploring
hands to heaven, saying, simply, "Let us pray."
Calmer, if not comforted, all arose from their knees, and, having
finished their labor of love, separated, to return to the homes which
had known beloved forms and faces, but would know them no more for
years, perhaps forever.
Upon reaching once more our own home, we crept, one by one, to a
darkened chamber, where lay a martyred mother whose son had been slain
at the battle of Seven Pines. Pale as death she lay, her Bible clasped
to her breast, the sad eyes closed, the white lips murmuring always
words of prayer for patient submission to God's will, the nerveless
hands never losing their grasp upon the "rod and staff" which
comforted her.
Of this family, every man, and every boy old enough to handle a gun,
had long ago joined the Confederate army. The dear boy whom our hearts
now mourned had just graduated with the highest honors when the war
broke out. Never a blind enthusiast, but an intelligent patriot, he
had been among the first to lay ambitious hopes and literary
aspirations upon the altar of his country. His brothers were cadets at
the Virginia Military Institute, and afterwards did good service under
Stonewall Jackson. Our slain hero joined the Third Alabama Regiment,
and, notwithstanding his tender age and delicate health, had already
made his mark as a soldier, brave as the bravest, never succumbing for
a moment to unaccustomed hardship. His record as a son was all that a
mother's heart could desire. He had been seen by a comrade during the
terrible battle, sitting up against a tree, shot through the breast
and mortally wounded. The enemy swept over the ground and he was seen
no more. Not even the poor comfort of knowing that his last hours were
rendered comfortable or where his grave was made, was vouchsafed to
this distracted mother. Two more brave boys of the household were
still unheard from, but believed to be unhurt, as they were not
reported "dead," "wounded," or "missing." And yet the noble women of
this as well as of numberless families so situated in every State of
the new Confederacy never intermitted, even for a day, their work for
"the soldiers,"--left no domestic duty unattended to,--in many
instances taking the place and doing the work of the men whom
patriotism had called to the field.
Much as I admired and revered this "noble army of martyrs," I lacked
moral courage to emulate their example. Such a life of anxiety and
suspense would have driven me mad. The pitiful faces of the sick and
wounded haunted me every hour. I yearned to be with them. I felt sure
that I was called to this work. My health being restored, I could no
longer remain idle. But where to go, how to begin, I knew not.
One day there appeared in the Selma paper a letter from Surgeon W.T.
McAllister, Army of Tennessee, describing the dreadful condition of
hundreds of sick and wounded men, who, after the terrible battle of
Shiloh and the subsequent evacuation of Corinth, had been huddled into
hospital-quarters at Gainesville, Alabama, and inquiring for a "lady"
to assist him in organizing, and in caring for the sick. Here was a
chance for me. I applied for the position, and, receiving a favorable
answer, proceeded without delay to Gainesville, leaving my little boy
at the plantation in charge of his father's relations.