A HOMELESS WANDERER
Having no longer a home of my own, it was decided that I should go to my
people in Charlotte County. One of my sons, Theo, and two of my little
daughters were already there, and there I expected to remain until the
end of the war.
But repeated attempts to reach my country home resulted in failure.
Marauding parties and guerillas were flying all over the country. There
had been alarm at a bridge over the Staunton near the Oaks, and the old
men and boys had driven away the enemy. I positively _could_ not venture
alone.
So it was decided that I should return to my husband's old district, to
Petersburg, and there find board in some private family.
I reached Petersburg in the autumn and wandered about for days seeking
refuge in some household. Many of my old friends had left town.
Strangers and refugees had rented the houses of some of these, while
others were filled with the homeless among their own kindred. There was
no room anywhere for me, and my small purse was growing so slender that
I became anxious. Finally my brother-in-law offered me an overseer's
house on one of his "quarters." The small dwelling he placed at my
disposal was to be considered temporary only; some one of his town
houses would soon be vacant. When I drove out to the little house, I
found it hardly better than a hovel. We entered a rude, unplastered
kitchen, the planks of the floor loose and wide apart, the earth beneath
plainly visible. There were no windows in this smoke-blackened kitchen.
A door opened into a tiny room with a fireplace, window, and out-door
of its own; and a short flight of stairs led to an unplastered attic,
so that the little apartment was entered by two doors and a staircase.
It was already cold, but we had to beat a hasty retreat and sit outside
while a colored boy made a "smudge" in the house, to dislodge the wasps
that had tenanted it for many months. My brother had lent me bedding
for the overseer's pine bedstead and the low trundle-bed underneath. The
latter, when drawn out at night, left no room for us to stand. When that
was done, we had to go to bed. For furniture we had only two or three
wooden chairs and a small table. There were no curtains, neither carpet
nor rugs, no china. There was wood at the woodpile, and a little store
of meal and rice, with a small bit of bacon in the overseer's grimy
closet. This was to be my winter home.
Petersburg was already virtually in a state of siege. Not a tithe of
the food needed for its army of refugees could be brought to the city.
Our highway, the river, was filled, except for a short distance, with
Federal gunboats. The markets had long been closed. The stores of
provisions had been exhausted, so that a grocery could offer little
except a barrel or two of molasses made from the domestic sorghum
sugar-cane—an acrid and unwholesome sweet used instead of sugar for
drink with water or milk, and for eating with bread. The little boys
at once began to keep house. They valiantly attacked the woodpile, and
found favor in the eyes of Mary and the man, whom I never knew as other
than "Mary's husband." He and Mary were left in charge of the quarter
and had a cabin near us.
I had no books, no newspapers, no means of communicating with the
outside world; but I had one neighbor, Mrs. Laighton, a daughter of
Winston Henry, granddaughter of Patrick Henry. She lived near me with
her husband—a Northern man. Both were very cultivated, very poor, very
kind. Mrs. Laighton, as Lucy Henry,—a brilliant young girl,—had been one
of the habitues of the Oaks. We had much in common, and her kind heart
went out in love and pity for me.
She taught me many expedients: that to float tea on the top of a cup
of hot water would make it "go farther" than when steeped in the usual
way; also that the herb, "life everlasting," which grew in the fields
would make excellent yeast, having somewhat the property of hops; and
that the best substitute for coffee was not the dried cubes of sweet
potato, but parched corn or parched meal, making a nourishing drink,
not unlike the "postum" of to-day. And Mrs. Laighton kept me a "living
soul" in other and higher ways. She reckoned intellectual ability the
greatest of God's gifts, raising us so far above the petty need of
material things that we could live in spite of their loss. Her talk was
a tonic to me. It stimulated me to play my part with courage, seeing
I had been deemed worthy, by the God who made me, to suffer in this
sublime struggle for liberty. She was as truly gifted as was ever her
illustrious grandfather. To hear her was to believe, so persuasive and
convincing was her eloquence.
I had not my good Eliza Page this winter. She had fallen ill. I had
a stout little black girl, Julia, as my only servant; but Mary had a
friend, a "corn-field hand," "Anarchy," who managed to help me at odd
hours. Mrs. Laighton sent me every morning a print of butter as large
as a silver dollar, with two or three perfect biscuits, and sometimes a
bowl of persimmons or stewed dried peaches. She had a cow, and churned
every day, making her biscuits of the buttermilk, which was much too
precious to drink.
A great snow-storm overtook us a day or two before Christmas. My
little boys kindled a roaring fire in the cold, open kitchen, roasted
chestnuts, and set traps for the rabbits and "snowbirds" which never
entered them. They made no murmur at the bare Christmas; they were loyal
little fellows to their mother. My day had been spent in mending their
garments,—making them was a privilege denied me, for I had no materials.
I was not "all unhappy!" The rosy cheeks at my fireside consoled me for
my privations, and something within me proudly rebelled against weakness
or complaining.
The flakes were falling thickly at midnight, when I suddenly became very
ill. I sent out for Mary's husband and bade him gallop in to Petersburg,
three miles distant, and fetch me Dr. Withers. I was dreadfully ill
when he arrived—and as he stood at the foot of my bed I said to him: "It
doesn't matter much for me, Doctor! But my husband will be grateful if
you keep me alive."
When I awoke from a long sleep, he was still standing at the foot of
my bed where I had left him—it seemed to me ages ago! I put out my hand
and it touched a little warm bundle beside me. God had given me a dear
child!
The doctor spoke to me gravely and most kindly. "I must leave you now,"
he said, "and, alas! I cannot come again. There are so many, so many
sick. Call all your courage to your aid. Remember the pioneer women,
and all they were able to survive. This woman," indicating Anarchy,
"is a field-hand, but she is a mother, and she has agreed to help you
during the Christmas holidays—her own time. And now, God bless you, and
good-by!"
I soon slept again—and when I awoke the very Angel of Strength and Peace
had descended and abode with me. I resolved to prove to myself that if
I was called to be a great woman, I _could_ be a great woman. Looking
at me from my bedside were my two little boys. They had been taken the
night before across the snow-laden fields to my brother's house, but
had risen at daybreak and had "come home to take care" of me!
My little maid Julia left me Christmas morning. She said it was too
lonesome, and her "mistis" always let her choose her own places. I
engaged "Anarchy" at twenty-five dollars a week for all her nights.
But her hands, knotted by work in the fields, were too rough to touch
my babe. I was propped upon pillows and dressed her myself, sometimes
fainting when the exertion was over.
I was still in my bed three weeks afterward, when one of my boys ran
in, exclaiming in a frightened voice, "Oh, mamma, an old gray soldier
is coming in!"
He stood—this old gray soldier—and looked at me, leaning on his sabre.
"Is this the reward my country gives me?" he said; and not until he
spoke did I recognize my husband. Turning on his heel, he went out, and
I heard him call:—
"John! John! Take those horses into town and sell them! Do not return
until you do so—sell them for anything! Get a cart and bring butter,
eggs, and everything you can find for Mrs. Pryor's comfort."
He had been with Fitz Lee on that dreadful tramp through the snow after
Averill. He had suffered cold and hunger, had slept on the ground
without shelter, sharing his blanket with John. He had used his own
horses, and now if the government needed him the government might mount
him. He had no furlough, and soon reported for duty; but not before he
had moved us, early in January, into town—one of my brother-in-law's
houses having been vacated at the beginning of the year. John knew his
master too well to construe him literally, and had reserved the fine
gray, Jubal Early, for his use. That I might not again fall into the
sad plight in which he had found me, he purchased three hundred dollars
in gold, and instructed me to prepare a girdle to be worn all the time
around my waist, concealed by my gown. The coins were quilted in; each
had a separate section to itself, so that with scissors I might extract
one at a time without disturbing the rest.
From the beginning of the war to its last year Petersburg had remained
in a state of comparative repose, broken only by the arrival and
departure of the troops passing from the South to the Army of Northern
Virginia. These, as we have said, were always welcomed, if they passed
through by day, with gifts of flowers, fruit, and more substantial
refreshment.
To continue this greeting, Petersburg women denied themselves every
luxury. The tramp of soldiers was a familiar sound in our streets, but
no hostile footsteps had ever resounded there, no hostile gun had yet
been fired within its limits. It is true the low muttering of distant
artillery as it came up the James and the Appomattox from the field of
Big Bethel had caught the ears of the citizens, and they had listened
with heightened interest in its louder booming as it told of Seven
Pines, and the seven days' struggle around Richmond, just twenty miles
away. But when the baffled army of McClellan retired in the direction
of Washington, and General Lee moved away beyond the Potomac, the old
men, women, and children (for there were no men left capable of bearing
arms) settled down to their daily avocations—and daily prayers for the
dear boys at the front.
Families that had fled from Petersburg at the time of McClellan's
advance upon Richmond had now returned. My next-door neighbors were Mr.
Thomas Branch and the Rev. Churchill Gibson. From one of my windows I
could look into a large garden, where the workmen were busy planting
seeds and setting long rows of onions, cabbage plants, tomato plants,
and sticks for the green peas just peeping out of the brown earth.
Across the street lived the widow of the Hon. Richard Kidder Meade,
with her accomplished daughters, Mary, Marion, and Julia. These were
delightful neighbors. Lower down lived the Bollings,—parents of Tabb
Bolling, the superb, already affianced to General Rooney Lee. Then
Mr. and Mrs. William Banister, with another houseful of lovely young
women, "Mollie" and "Gussie" Banister; and their cousin, Alice Gregory,
waiting until the cruel war should be over to reward handsome Colonel
Arthur Herbert. Alice's own home was just outside our fortifications,
and was, I believe, burned when Petersburg was assaulted. Beautiful
Patty Hardee was another of these girls. Helen made the ninth of the
band of Muses. All were accomplished in music. Marion's latest fancy
was significant,—Gottschalk's "Last Hope!" Sweet Alice took our hearts
with her touching hymns, giving a new meaning to the simplest words.
Gussie Banister, the youngest of all, sang "Lorena" and "Juanita"; and
Mattie Paul, who often came over from Richmond, infused an intenser tone
of sadness with Beethoven's andantes and Chopin's "Funeral March." None
of the gayety of Richmond, of which we read in our letters, was apparent
in Petersburg. Too many of her sons had been slain or were in present
peril.
"What friends you girls are!" I said, when I met them, walking together,
like a boarding school.
"We are all going to be old maids together," said one, "and so we are
getting acquainted with each other."
"Speak for yourself, John," said Helen, who had become the fortunate
possessor of "The Courtship of Miles Standish" and was lending
"Longfellow's Last" around to the rest. "I spoke for _my_self, you
remember," she added, laughing.
"Well! it will be no disgrace to be an old maid," said another. "We can
always swear our going-to-be-husband was killed in the war." And then
a wistful look passed over the young faces as each one remembered some
absent lover.
The camp-fire of my own family brigade was now lighted in the kitchen,
where the hero, John, who had been left to take care of me, popped corn
for my little boys and held them with stories of Fitz Lee's pursuit of
Averill.
"Tell us, John," implored his audience, "tell us every bit of it. Begin
at Winchester."
"No," said John. "You'll tell your ma, and then she won't sleep a wink
to-night."
"She doesn't sleep anyway, John! When we wake up, she's always sitting
by the window, looking out at the stars."
"Co'se, if that's the case, here goes. Gen'al Lee had five thousand
troopers, an' they marched from Winchester to Salem. We hadn't a tent,
an' no rations wuth talkin' about, an' it rained an' hailed an' sleeted
most every step o' the way. Your pa never took off his boots for two
solid weeks, an' they were full of water all the time, an' the icicles
hung from his long hair. We drew up in line at the White Sulphur Springs
an' _dar'd_ Averill to fight us—but he slunk away in the night. I
cert'inly was sorry for Marse Roger at the White Sulphur. He went up
into the po'ch of one of the little cottages an' sat down thinkin' an'
thinkin'. 'Are you sick, Marse Roger?' I asked him. 'No, John,' he said,
'only a little homesick, to think of the happy times we used to spend
here—and our fathers and mothers before us!' 'But we done drive 'im
away!' I say to him, an' he got up and said, 'Do you think so, John?'
Anyway, Averill didn't git a chance to sleep in one of them cottages,
nor yet to burn it! Ther' was a hospital thar' then."
"Where did _you_ sleep?" the boys asked.
"Who, me? I slep' every night o' my life under the same blanket with
your pa, I did. I don' care how tired he was, he never slep' so sound
he couldn't hear the snorin'. 'Git up, John,' he would say, 'tell that
man snorin' that he's burnin'.'" John laughed at the reminiscence. "I've
scared many a good soldier that way, an' made him turn over—when the
fightin' an' shootin' couldn't move him."
"But you _did_ retreat after all, didn't you, John?"
"Retreat! Retreat nothin'! Gen'al Lee got so he didn' care to ketch that
scalawag Yankee. He warn' wuth ketchin'. We got pris'ners enough now an'
to spar. Gen'al Lee come home cos he didn' have no use for Averill. He
drove him away, though. He sholy did!"
John was installed as cook and commissary-general. He had no material
except flour, rice, peas, and dried apples, such grease or "shortening"
as he could extract from bones he purchased of the quartermaster, and
sorghum molasses. He made yeast of "life everlasting" I brought from the
country,—and he gave us waffles and pancakes. John's pancakes, compared
with the ordinary article, were as the fleecy cloud to the dull, heavy
clod beneath. Butter could be had at eight dollars a pound; meat was
four and five dollars a pound—prices we learned very soon afterward
to regard as extremely cheap; bargains, indeed, of the first water.
From Agnes's letters I have reason to suppose that Petersburg suffered
more from scarcity than did Richmond. There, dinners were given by the
members of the Cabinet, and wine was served as of old. In Petersburg we
had already entered upon our long season of want. The town was drained
by its generous gifts to the army; regiments were constantly passing,
and none ever departed without the offer of refreshment.
We heard no complaints from our soldier boys, still in their winter
quarters. But a letter to the army from General Lee filled our hearts
with anxiety.
"HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA,
"January 22, 1864.
"GENERAL ORDERS NO. 7.—The commanding general considers it due
to the army to state that the temporary reduction of rations
has been caused by circumstances beyond the control of those
charged with its support. Its welfare and comfort are the
objects of his constant and earnest solicitude and no effort
has been spared to provide for its wants. It is hoped that
the exertions now being made will render the necessity but of
short duration, but the history of the army has shown that the
country can require no sacrifice too great for its patriotic
devotion.
"Soldiers! you tread, with no unequal steps, the road by which
your fathers marched through suffering, privation, and blood
to independence.
"Continue to emulate in the future, as you have in the past,
their valor in arms, their patient endurance of hardships,
their high resolve to be free, which no trial could shake, no
bribe seduce, no danger appall; and be assured that the just
God who crowned their efforts with success will, in His own
good time, send down His blessings upon yours.
"[Signed] R. E. LEE, _General_."
Calm, strong, fatherly words! They deserve to be printed in letters
of gold. They still have power to thrill the souls of the children
of the fathers who marched through suffering, privation, and blood to
independence,—children who wait, still wait, for the fulfilment of his
promise that God will in His own good time send down His blessing upon
them.
On January the 30th Agnes wrote from Richmond:—
"How can you be even dreaming of new cups and saucers? Mend
your old ones, my dear, with white lead. That is what we
are doing here; and when the cup is very much broken, the
triangular, rectangular, and other 'angular' lines of white
give it quite a Japanesque effect. There is not a bit of china
for sale in the capital of the Confederacy. A forlorn little
chipped set—twelve odd pieces—sold last week at auction for
$200—and as to hats and bonnets! We are washing the old ones
and plaiting straw for the new. I'll send you a package of
straw I gleaned and dyed for you last summer. Did I tell you
about that straw? I asked my host at the farmhouse to give me
a few sheaves, but he shook his head and opined it would be
'sinful in these hard times to take good vittles and convert
it into hats.' I could not see clearly that straw came under
the generic term 'vittles'—unless indeed the straw fed the
animal that fed the soldier. However, I meekly borrowed a
sunbonnet and gleaned my straw. Half of it I popped into
the kettle of boiling black dye behind the kitchen,—when the
lady of the manor was looking another way,—and we will mix
the black and white for the boys' hats. But mark the quick
and sure grinding of the mills of the gods. After the wheat
was all stacked there came a mighty rain with fog and warm
mist. One day my host brought in what seemed to be a feathery
bouquet of delicate green. It was a bunch of wheat, every
grain of which had sprouted. He had lost his crop!
"President and Mrs. Davis gave a large reception last week,
and all the ladies looked positively gorgeous. Mrs. Davis is
in mourning for her father. We should not expect suppers in
these times, but we do have them! Champagne is $350 a dozen,
but we sometimes have champagne! The confectioners charge
$15 for a cake, but we have cake. My flounced gray silk is
behaving admirably, but I am afraid my Washington friends
remember it as an old acquaintance. I never go out without
meeting them. I have seen Dr. Garnett and Judge Scarborough
and Mr. Dimitri on the street, and often meet Mr. Hunter,
running about, in his enthusiasm, like a boy. But what do
you think? I never could bear that Lord Lyons, with his red
face and small eyes like ferrets'; and now we have reason
to suppose that England would have recognized us but for his
animosity against us. He says 'the Confederacy is on its last
legs.' We have heard from dear old Dudley Mann; but of course
_he_ can do nothing for us in England, and he had as well come
home and go with me to receptions. Mrs. Davis receives every
Tuesday, and Mr. Mann is a better squire of dames than he is
a diplomat."
My Petersburg beauties were all wearing hats of their own manufacture,
the favorite style being the Alpine with a pointed crown. For trimming,
very soft and lovely flowers were made of feathers, the delicate white
feather with a tuft of fleecy marabout at its stem. The marabout tuft
would be carefully drawn off, to be made into swan's-down trimming. A
wire was prepared and covered with green paper for a stem, a little ball
of wax fastened on the end, and covered with a tiny tuft of the down for
a centre, and around this the feathers were stuck—with incurving petals
for apple blossoms and half-open roses,—and reversed for camellias.
Neatly trimmed and suitably tinted, these flowers were handsome enough
for anybody, and were in great demand. Cocks' plumes were also used
on hats, iridescent, and needing no coloring. With the downy breast
of a goose which came into my possession I essayed the making of a
powder-puff for my baby, but alas! the oil in the cuticle proved a
perennial spring which could not be dried up by soda or sunning, and
finally I saw my powder-puff disappearing in a hole, drawn downward by
a vigorous and hungry rat.
The young girls who visited me never complained of their privations in
the matter of food, but they sorely grieved over their shabby wardrobes.
"I really think," said one, "if we can only get along until we can wear
white waists, we shall do very well. Every time a white waist is washed
it's made new—but these old flannel sacks—ugh!"
One day Mary Meade made me a visit. Always beautiful, her face wore on
this afternoon a seraphic, beatific expression.
"Tell me, dear," I said, "all about it." I supposed she had heard her
lover had been promoted or was coming home on a furlough.
She held up her two hands. "_It's just these gloves!_" said Mary. "I
can't help it. They make me perfectly happy! They have just come through
the blockade."
The butcher shops were closed, and many of the dry-goods stores; but
somebody had ordered a large quantity of narrow crimson woollen braid,
and had failed to accept it. We seized upon it. Every one of us had
garments embroidered with it—in scrolls, Maltese crosses, undulating
lines, leaves; all of which goes to prove that the desire for ornament
is an instinct of our nature, outliving the grosser affections for the
good things of the table. The consciousness of being well dressed, we
have been told, will afford a peace of mind far exceeding anything to
be derived from the comforts of religion.
It had not been many years since every Virginia farm owned a house for
a great cumbrous loom, with beams supported against the ceiling. The
door of the loom-house was again opened, and the weaver installed upon
her high bench. Cotton cloth was woven and dyed yellow with butternut,
black with walnut-bark, gray with willow. A mordant to "set the dye" was
unattainable—but at last rusty iron, nails, old horseshoes, old clamps
and hinges, were found to be effective. Every atom of black silk was a
treasure. It was shredded to mix with the cotton before carding. Even
now the cells of my brain waken at the sight of a bundle of old black
silk, and my fingers would fain respond.
Pins became scarce. People walked about with downcast eyes; they were
looking for pins! Thorns were gathered and dried to use as pins.
Dentists' gold soon disappeared. The generation succeeding the war
period had not good teeth. Anæsthetics—morphine, chloroform, opium—were
contraband of war. This was our great grief. Our soldier boys, who had
done nothing to bring the war upon the country, must suffer every pang
that followed the disasters of battle. The United States gave artificial
limbs to its maimed soldiers. Ours had only their crutches, and these of
rude home manufacture. The blockade-running, for which our women were so
much blamed, was often undertaken to bring morphine and medicine to our
hospitals. The fashions of the day included a small round cushion worn
at the back of a lady's belt, to lift the heavy hoop and many petticoats
then in vogue. It was called "a bishop," and was made of silk. These
were brought home from "a visit to friends at the North" filled with
quinine and morphine. They were examined at the frontier by a long pin
stuck through them. If the pin met no resistance, they were allowed to
pass.
The famine moved on apace, but its twin sister, fever, never visited us.
Never had Petersburg been so healthy. No garbage was decaying in the
streets. Every particle of animal or vegetable food was consumed, and
the streets were clean. Flocks of pigeons would follow the children who
were eating bread or crackers. Finally the pigeons vanished having been
themselves eaten. Rats and mice disappeared. The poor cats staggered
about the streets, and began to die of hunger. At times meal was the
only article attainable except by the rich. An ounce of meat daily was
considered an abundant ration for each member of the family. To keep
food of any kind was impossible—cows, pigs, bacon, flour, everything,
was stolen, and even sitting hens were taken from the nest.
In the presence of such facts as these General Lee was able to report
that nearly every regiment in his army had reënlisted—and for the war!
And very soon he also reported that the army was out of meat and had
but one day's rations of bread. One of our papers copied the following
from the _Mobile Advertiser_:—
"In General Lee's tent meat is eaten but twice a week,
the General not allowing it oftener, because he believes
indulgence in meat to be criminal in the present straitened
condition of the country. His ordinary dinner consists
of a head of cabbage boiled in salt water, and a pone of
corn bread. Having invited a number of gentlemen to dine
with him, General Lee, in a fit of extravagance, ordered a
sumptuous repast of bacon and cabbage. The dinner was served,
and behold, a great pile of cabbage and a bit of bacon, or
'middling,' about four inches long and two inches across. The
guests, with commendable politeness, unanimously declined
the bacon, and it remained in the dish untouched. Next day
General Lee, remembering the delicate titbit which had been
so providentially preserved, ordered his servant to bring that
'middling.' The man hesitated, scratched his head, and finally
owned up:—
"'Marse Robert—de fac' is—dat ar middlin' was borrowed
middlin'. We-all didn' have no middlin'. I done paid it back
to de place whar I got it fum.'
"General Lee heaved a sigh of deepest disappointment, and
pitched into the cabbage."
No man had ever lived in more comfort, nor was more surrounded by the
accessories and appointments of luxury and refinement. His aide, Colonel
Walter Taylor, has written me:—
"During the time that General Lee was in service he manifested
that complete self-abnegation and dislike of parade and
ceremony which became characteristic of him. Accompanied
originally by a staff of but two persons, and, after the
death of Colonel Washington, with but one aide-de-camp,
with no escort or body-guard, no couriers or guides, he
made the campaign under altogether unostentatious and really
uncomfortable circumstances. One solitary tent constituted his
headquarters camp; this served for the General and his aide;
and when visitors were entertained, as actually occurred,
the General shared his blanket with his aide, turning over
those of the latter to his guest. His dinner service was of
tin,—tin plates, tin cups, tin bowls, everything of tin,—and
consequently indestructible; and to the annoyance and disgust
of the subordinates who sighed for porcelain could not
or would not be lost; indeed, with the help of occasional
additions, this tin furniture continued to do service for
several campaigns; and it was only in the last year of the
war, while the army was around Petersburg, that a set of
china was surreptitiously introduced into the baggage of the
headquarters of the army. This displaced for a time the chaste
and elaborate _plate_; but on resuming 'light marching order'
at the time of the evacuation of Richmond and Petersburg, the
china, which had been borrowed by the staff, was returned;
the tins were again produced, and did good service until the
surrender of the army, when they passed into the hands of
individuals who now preserve them as mementos of the greatest
commander in the great war."