LIFE AT THE OAKS
The month of July, 1861, found me with my little boys at "The Oaks"—the
residence of Dr. Izard Bacon Rice, in Charlotte County, seventy miles
from Richmond, and miles away from the nearest railroad depot. There I
might have enjoyed a peaceful summer with my kind host—a fine type of
a Christian gentleman, sometime an Old-Line Whig and fierce Union man,
now an ardent advocate of states' rights, and a stanch supporter of the
New Confederacy. I might—as I had often done before—have revelled in the
fine trees; the broad acres of tobacco in their summer prime, when the
noble plant was proudly flinging out its banners before its fall; the
old garden with its box-edged crescents, stars, and circles,—I might
have dreamed away the summer in perfect contentment but for General
Beauregard. Distant as was his army, a message from his guns reached my
summer retreat more than a hundred miles away.
Dr. Rice lived in a large, old-fashioned house, on a plantation of two
thousand acres or more. An oak grove, alive with chattering squirrels
which had been held sacred for two generations, surrounded the house.
The squirrels held conventions in the trees, and doubtless expressed
their opinions of the family below, whom they had good reason to
consider inferior beings, inasmuch as they were slow-motioned, heavy
creatures, utterly destitute of grace and agility, and with small
appreciation of hickory-nuts.
The Doctor cultivated tobacco, and when I arrived the fields stretched
as far as the eye could reach, now a vast level sea of green, now
covering the low, gently rounded, undulating hills as they sloped down
to the Staunton River. There was never a season when these fields were
not alive with laborers of every age; for the regal plant so beloved
of men—and ranking with opium and hemp as a solace for the ills of
mankind—has enemies from the hour it peeps from the nursery of the hot
bed. It can never be forgotten a moment. Children can hunt the fly which
seeks to line the leaf with eggs, or destroy the unhatched eggs, or aid
the great army which must turn out in haste when the ravenous worm is
born. The earth must be turned frequently at the roots, the flower buds
pinched off, the shoots or "suckers" removed. The Doctor's tobacco field
was an enlivening spectacle, and very picturesque did the ebony faces
of the little workers look, among the broad leaves. No lady's garden
was ever kept so clean, so free from sticks, errant bits of paper, or
débris of any kind.
I do not claim that Dr. Rice (my uncle) was a typical planter—as far as
the government of his slaves was concerned. He had inherited liberal
ideas with these inherited slaves. His grandfather, David Rice, had
written the first published protest in this country against slavery
as "inconsistent with religion and policy." His father had ruled a
plantation where severe punishment was unknown, where the cheerful
slaves rarely needed it. The old gentleman was considered eccentric—and
eccentric it surely was for a master to punish a fault by commanding
the culprit to stand in his presence while he recited a long passage
from Homer or Virgil! The punishment was effective. For fear of it, the
fault was rarely repeated.
It was my uncle's custom to assemble every slave on his plantation on
Sunday morning, and to speak a few words to each one, commending the
women if their families appeared in clean, well-kept garments, rewarding
with a pair of shoes the urchins reported by "Uncle Moses" as having
been orderly and useful, exchanging a pleasant jest here and there.
He presented a tight, comfortable house to every newly married pair,
with timber for the bridegroom to add to it, or to enclose the piece
of land for a garden or a poultry yard which went with it. Every mother
at the birth of a child was presented with a pig. The plantation, which
was large and fruitful, and from which nothing but tobacco and wheat was
ever sold, yielded vegetables, poultry, mutton, beef, bacon in lavish
abundance, while the orchards and vines were equally productive.
Some hundreds of the negroes of the neighborhood were members of the
Presbyterian church of the whites. In the old church books may be seen
to-day records of their marriages and funerals, and how (for example)
"Lovelace Brown was brought before the session for hog-stealing and
suspended for one month." But there were better records than this.
These Presbyterian negroes were at one time led by an eminent patriarch,
Uncle Abel, who deserves more than a passing notice. He had been taught
to read and had been well drilled in the Shorter Catechism. But his
marriage ceremonies were always read from the Episcopal Prayer-book,
every word of which he held sacred, not to be changed or omitted to
suit any modern heresy. "I M, take thee N," was the formula for Jack
or Peter, Dilsey or Dicey—and "with this ring I thee wed" must be
pronounced with solemnity, ring or no ring, the latter being not at all
essential.
My uncle's old family coach, punctual to the minute, swept around
the circle on the lawn every Sunday morning, with Uncle Peter proudly
guiding the horses from his high perch. And high-swung was the coach,
to be ascended (as we ascended our four-poster beds) by three carpeted
steps,—in the case of the carriage, folding steps, which were tucked
inside after we had disposed of ourselves, with our ample hoops. There
was plenty of room inside. Pockets lined the doors, and these were
filled by my aunt with beaten biscuit and sugar-cakes "for the little
darkies on the road."
Arriving at the church, the gentlemen from the adjacent plantations,
who had been settling the affairs of the nation under the trees, came
forward to hand us from our carriage, after the manner of old-time
cavaliers and sedan-chairs; and my aunt and I would be very gracious,
devoutly hoping in our hearts that my uncle and his sons would not
forget a reciprocal courtesy when Mrs. Winston Henry, Mrs. Paul
Carrington, and Mrs. Sarah Carrington should arrive.
The women all seated themselves on the right side of the church, while
the men, during the singing of a preliminary hymn, came in like a
processional and took the left as their portion,—all of which (except
the advertisements on the church doors) was conducted precisely
according to the customs of Revolutionary times, when Patrick Henry and
John Randolph, now sleeping a few miles away, were themselves (we trust)
church-goers.
Church dinners at home were simple, but abundant,—so that if three
or four carriages should arrive from distant plantations in the
neighborhood, there could be welcome and refreshment for all, but on the
great days when my uncle and aunt received the neighborhood, when the
Carringtons and Patrick Henry's sons, John and Winston, came with their
families to spend the day, the dinner was something to be remembered.
Perhaps a description verbatim from an old family servant will be better
than anything I can furnish from memory.
"Yes, sir! We had fine dinners in them days. The butter was moulded like
a temple with pillars, and a rose stuck in the top. There was a wreath
of roses roun' all the dessert dishes. Viney biled the ham in cider.
We had roas' pig, biled turkey, chickens fried an' briled, spring lam',
ducks an' green goslin'. An' every cut-glass dish in the house was full
of preserves, an' the great bowl full of ice-cream, an' floatin' island,
an' tipsy-cake, an' cheese-cakes, an' green sweetmeats, an' citron. John
was bothered where to set all the dishes."
[Illustration: THE OAKS.]
Our guests would remain late, that they might have the cool evening
hours for their long drives. Mr. John Henry, with his family of
gifted sons and beautiful daughters, lived at Red Hill, the home of
his father, the great orator and patriot, under the trees his father
had planted and near the grave where he sleeps. Mr. Winston Henry had
also an interesting family, and lived in an old colonial house not
far away, surrounded by grounds filled in summer with pomegranates
and gardenias, and with lemon and orange trees in tubs, also great
_trees_ of heliotrope, and vines of jessamine—a paradise of beauty and
sweetness. Rosalie Henry would bring her guitar to my uncle's and sing
for us by the hour. She was so loved, so cherished by her parents,
that they gave her a bedroom over their own, to which she ascended by a
stairway from their own apartment—all that they might be near her. But
one morning early, pretty Rosalie changed gowns with her maid, put a
pail on her head, and slipped past her trusting, adoring parents to join
her lover in the jessamine bower, and in a bridal robe of linsey-woolsey
was married at the next town! Then it was that my good uncle had his
opportunity. The sublime teaching of forgiveness was respected from his
kindly lips.
In the early summer of '61 Virginia planters were not all _d'accord_
on political questions; and like Agag, it behooved us to "walk
delicately" in conversation. One thing they would not endure. Politics
were to be kept out of the pulpit. Never had the pastor such attentive
congregations; they were watching him, keenly alive to the remotest hint
or allusion to the war. His business was with the spiritual kingdom of
God. He must not interfere with Cæsar's. He found it expedient to omit
for the present the warlike aspirations of David, in which he beseeches
the Lord's attention to his enemies, and, among other things calculated
to comfort and soothe his pious feelings, prays that they may be as
"stubble before the wind," as "wood before fire," and be "rooted forever
out of the land of the living."
"Enemies" were not to be alluded to in the pulpit. Nor, indeed, not
yet in private! It was proper and in good taste to speak of them as
"Federals"; but at no very distant day these same polite gentlemen
called them "enemies" with a will; when scornfully disposed, they were
"Yankees," and when they wished to be positively insulting, "Yanks."
Across the river from the Oaks was "Mildendo," the home of the
Carrington family. From this home went every man capable of bearing
arms—Fontaine, the fine young surgeon so well placed in the United
States Navy, and his brother, the grave head of the house upon whom
everybody depended; and one, a cousin, leaving his bride at the altar.
Patrick Henry's grandsons all enlisted. Mr. Charles Bruce left his
baronial castle on Staunton Hill near the Oaks, equipped the "Staunton
Hill Artillery Company" at his own expense, placed himself at its head
and shared all its hardships. His brother, Mr. James Bruce, cut up his
rich carpets and curtains for the soldiers' blankets. These were but a
few of the gallant neighbors of my uncle, who exchanged homes of luxury
for the hardships of war—all of whom probably shared General Lee's keen
sorrow at the necessity forced upon Virginia to withdraw her allegiance
from the Union.
My uncle had a son already in the cavalry service—and another,
Henry, a fine young fellow of sixteen, was at Hampden-Sidney College,
Virginia. Presently a letter from the latter filled the family at the
Oaks with—yes, anxiety—but at the same time a proud sense of how old
Revolutionary "blood will tell." Henry was on the march! At the first
tocsin of war the students of Hampden-Sidney had rushed to arms—most
of them under age; and when their president, the venerated Rev. John
Atkinson, found they would go, he placed himself at their head as their
captain. Military tactics had not been included in his theological
training. So promptly had he responded to the call of his country he
had no opportunity to drill his young soldiers according to the rules of
Hardee and Jomini; but he did more for them than this. His fatherly care
and his example of courage, fortitude, and faith in the cause inspired
them to bear hardships which were severe almost beyond their powers of
endurance.
Notwithstanding the inexperience of their captain, these boys, fresh
from their college halls, were often publicly complimented as they
headed the column in the long marches over the mountains of Virginia.
When they were called to Richmond their patriotic ardor received a
shock. Governor Letcher seriously took under consideration the propriety
of sending them back to school on account of their youth. A committee
from the company waited upon him, and he was finally prevailed upon to
allow them to go to the front.
They soon learned what war was—these beardless college boys, and bore
themselves gallantly in several engagements. But their military career
was brief. McClellan flanked their position at Rich Mountain, July 12,
1861, and cut off every avenue of retreat. The whole command, after a
sharp engagement, were made prisoners of war. For the time being the
boys felt their military career to have been an inglorious failure.
While they were thus disappointed and depressed, a Federal officer,
presumably a lieutenant, visited them in the prison camp. He said he had
heard so much of the boy soldiers led by their college president that
he wished to make their acquaintance.
The boys were not by way of being over anxious to receive visits from
their victors. The officer asked, "Why in the world are you here?"
"We are here to _fight_!" said they. "What do you suppose we came for?"
"Well, boys," said the officer, pleasantly, "make yourselves easy. I'll
send you home to your mothers in a few days."
The officer was General McClellan!
The company was paroled, but was not exchanged for a year. This
prolonged parole, they always thought, was due to General McClellan's
influence in order to give them a whole year at college.
They all returned to the army after their exchange, but never as the
"Hampden-Sidney Boys." They never forgot the little interview with the
General. He won all their hearts.
Our own Hampden-Sidney boy, Henry Rice, soon afterward wrote from a
hospital in Richmond that he was ill with fever. My uncle ordered him
home, and I took the great family coach and Uncle Peter and went to
the depot, fourteen miles away, to fetch him. He looked so long, that
I doubted whether I could bestow him in the carriage; and as he was too
good a soldier for me to suggest that he be "doubled up," I entered the
carriage first, had his head and shoulders placed in my lap, then closed
the door and swung his long legs out of the window!
My uncle was a fine specimen of a Christian gentleman—always courteous,
always serene. I delighted in following him around the plantation on
horseback. When he winnowed his wheat, Uncle Moses, standing like an
emperor amid the sheaves, filled the hearts of my little boys with
ecstasy by allowing them to ride the horses that turned the great wheel.
Finally the wheat was packed in bags, and we stood on the bank of the
river to see it piled into flat-bottomed boats on the way to market.
The next morning Moses appeared at the dining room door while we were
at breakfast.
"Good morning, Moses," said my uncle. "I thought you were going with
the wheat."
"Dar ain't no wheat," said the old man. "Hit's all at de bottom of the
river."
"How did that happen?"
"We jest natchelly run agin a snag; when de boat turn over, hit pulled
all de others down. 'Cose you know, Marster, dey was tied together, an'
boat ain' got no eyes to see snags."
"Well—get out your chains and grappling hooks, Moses, and save all you
can. It will do to feed the chickens."
"Why, Uncle!" I exclaimed, "how calmly you take it."
"Certainly," said he; "because I've lost my crop is that any reason I
should lose my temper? Here, Pizarro, have our horses saddled. We'll
go down to the river and encourage Moses to resurrect his wheat."
(Pizarro was John's son. John had studied with the boys of the family,
and knew some history and Latin. One of the women bore the classic name
of "Lethe"; others were "Chloe" and "Daphne"; another name, frequently
repeated, was "Dicey"—a survival, according to Mr. Andrew Lang, of the
myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, which was found among the Indians and the
Virginia negroes of colonial times. Orpheus seems to have perished from
their traditions, but Dicey is still a favorite name. The descendants
of Lethe and Pizarro still live at the Oaks. A late achievement shows
their progress under new conditions, the baptismal records having been
enriched with "Hazel-Kirke-Florida-Bell-Armazinda-Hodge," more imposing
if less suggestive than the "Homicide" and "Neuralgia" of a neighboring
county.)
This precise type of a Virginia plantation will never appear again,
I imagine. I wish I could describe a plantation wedding as I saw it
that summer. But a funeral of one of the old servants was peculiarly
interesting to me. "Aunt Matilda" had been much loved, and when she
found herself dying, she had requested that the mistress and little
children should attend her funeral. "I ain' been much to church,"
she urged, "I couldn't leave my babies. I ain' had dat shoutin' an'
hollerin' religion, but I gwine to heaven jes' de same"—a fact of which
nobody who knew Aunt Matilda could have the smallest doubt.
We had a long, warm walk behind hundreds of negroes, following the rude
coffin in slow procession through the woods, singing antiphonally as
they went one of those strange, weird hymns not to be caught by any
Anglo-Saxon voice.
It was a beautiful and touching scene, and at the grave I longed for
an artist (we had no kodaks then) to perpetuate the picture. The level
rays of the sun were filtered through the green leaves of the forest,
and fell gently on the dusky, pathetic faces, and on the simple coffin
surrounded by orphan children and relatives, very dignified and quiet
in their grief.
The spiritual patriarch of the plantation presided. Old Uncle Abel
said:—
"I ain' gwine keep you all long. 'Tain' no use. We can't do nothin' for
Sis' Tildy. All is done fer her, an' she done preach her own fune'al
sermon. Her name was on dis church book here, but dat warn' nothin',
'dout 'twas on de Lamb book too!
"Now whiles dey fillin' up her grave I'd like you all to sing a hymn
Sis' Tildy uster love, but you all know I bline in one eye, an' de sweat
done got in de other; so's I can't see to line it out, an' I dunno as
any o' you all ken do it"—and the first thing I knew, the old man had
passed his well-worn book to me, and there I stood, at the foot of the
grave, "lining out":—
"Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep
From which none ever wakes to weep,"—
words of immortal comfort to the great throng of negro mourners who
caught it up, line after line, on an air of their own, full of tears
and tenderness,—a strange, weird tune no white person's voice could ever
follow.
Among such scenes I passed the month of June and the early part of July,
and then General Beauregard reminded us that we were at war, and had no
right to make ourselves comfortable.
Dr. Rice, on the afternoon of the 21st, had betaken himself to his
accustomed place under the trees, to escape the flies,—the pest of
Southern households in summer,—and had lain down on the grass for his
afternoon nap. He suddenly called out excitedly: "There's a battle
going on—a fierce battle—I can hear the cannonading distinctly. Here—lie
down—you can hear it!" "Oh, no, no, I can't!" I gasped. "It may be at
Norfolk."
Like Jessie, who had heard the pibroch at the siege of Lucknow, he had
heard, with his ear to the ground, the firing at Manassas. The battle
of Bull Run was at its height. We found it difficult to understand that
he _could_ have heard cannonading one hundred and fifty miles away. We
had not then spoken across the ocean and been answered.