WOE TO THE VANQUISHED!
Immediately after General Lee's surrender, the United States Circuit
Court held a session at Norfolk, Virginia, and made haste to indict for
treason Robert E. Lee, John C. Breckenridge, Roger A. Pryor, and others.
These men thereafter were not to feel any sense of personal security.
A cloud of doubt and possible disaster still hung over them. Under this
cloud they were to commence their lives anew.
Every one who has suffered an overwhelming misfortune must be conscious
of a strange deadening of feeling—more intolerable even than pain. It
may be a merciful provision of nature. Insensibility at a crucial moment
may be nature's anæsthesia. Dr. Livingstone, the African explorer,
relates that he was conscious of this insensibility when in the paws
of a lion. He had a theory that the instinct of all animals to shake
their victim, as the cat does a mouse, may be given in mercy to the
vanquished. I was so completely stunned by the thought that all the
suffering, all the spilt blood, all the poverty, all the desolation
of the South was _for naught_; that her very fidelity, heroism, and
fortitude, qualities so noble in themselves, had wrought her undoing,
that I seemed to become dead to everything around me. My husband was
compelled to leave me, to seek employment in Richmond. My neighbors,
like myself, were stunned into silence. "Here I and sorrow sit" might
have been said truly of any one of us.
When the passing troops left us with only General Hartsuff's guard, the
small earnings of my little boys ceased. John and his fellow-servants
came into town, and reported to me.
"I can no longer maintain you or give you wages," I said to Eliza Page
and her sisters.
"We will serve you for the good you have already done us," they said,
but of course I could not allow this to any extent. Eliza returned to
her husband and their little home.
With John I had more trouble. It was hard to make him understand that
I could not afford his services on any terms.
"I will never leave you," was his reply to everything I urged.
"You _must_, John! You must go home to your father in Norfolk. He will
advise you."
"The old man is in the oyster business," said John. "What do I care
about oysters? All I care for is Marse Roger and these boys."
I knew that my poor John had an infirmity. Once when I had sent him with
Alick from Cottage Farm on an errand he had returned very late. I could
see the pair walking down the road alone, followed at some distance by
the horse and wagon. They seemed to be trying to compass both sides
of the road at once. Alick was the first to report to me, with these
words:—
"I—I-ain' drunk,—but _Jawn_! Jawn, he _ve'y_ drunk!"
This painful scene had been reënacted often enough to make me anxious.
"You really must go to your father, John," I insisted. "How much money
have you?" He had five dollars. I also had five, which I gave him.
"Now don't let me see you again," I said. "Write to me from Norfolk."
He left, protesting, but next morning he was gone. I heard from him soon
and from his father. The old gentleman expressed gratitude and also some
anxiety about John's "army habits."
And so no more of the only slave I ever owned!
Agnes wrote from Richmond early in May:—
"MY DEAREST: What could I do without you? Now don't flatter
yourself that I need now, or ever did need, those beautiful
moral reflections in well-chosen language by means of which
you have striven to educate me. But you are an unmitigated
blessing when my 'feelings are too many for me'—when, in
short, I boil over.
"Now when a kettle boils over it puts out the fire, and then
we go tea-less to bed. How nice it would be for the kettle if
some convenient utensil were at hand to receive its excited
bubbles.
"I am aggrieved and indignant at the sermons people are
preaching to us. And I have caught a young brother in a
flagrant theft. All Richmond is in a state of beautiful
admiration at a sermon it listened to last week on the uses
of our great misfortune. War was declared to be a blessing.
'The high passion of patriotism prevents the access of baser
passions. Men's hearts beat together, and woman is roused from
the frivolousness and feebleness into which her nature is apt
to sink. Death, insult, carnage, violated homes, and broken
hearts are all awful. But it is worse than a thousand deaths
when a people has adopted the creed that the wealth of nations
consists—not in generous hearts, in primitive simplicity, in
preference of duty to life; not in MEN, but in silk, cotton,
and something that they call "capital." If the price to be
paid for peace is this—that wealth accumulates and men decay,
better far that every street in every town of our once noble
country should run blood.'
"Now all this is very fine, but very one-sided. And my brother
didn't believe a word of it. He has been away in England and
has seen none of the horrors of war; but he has seen something
else—a very charming lecture printed in London some time
before the war.[25]
"Strange are the ways of Providence. Precisely that I might
convict him did this address fall into my hands in Washington.
It struck me forcibly at the time. Little did I think I should
hear it in Richmond after a terrible civil war of our own.
"I feel impatient at this attempt to extort good for ourselves
out of the overwhelming disaster which brought such ruin
to others; to congratulate ourselves for what is purchased
with their blood. Surely, if for no other reason, for the
sake of the blood that has been spilt, we should not hasten
to acquiesce in the present state of things. If I catch my
Colonel piously affirming too much resignation, too prompt
a forgetfulness of the past, I'll—well, he knows what I am
capable of saying!
"But, now that I have safely boiled over, I will tell you my
news. We cannot remain here. We are literally stripped to the
'primitive' state my reverend brother thinks so good for us.
We are wofully in need of 'silk, cotton, and something they
call capital,' and we'll never get it here. And so my Colonel
and I are going to New York. He has secured a place in some
publishing house or other. I only wish it were a dry-goods
store!
"Of course our social life is all over. I have taken my
resolution. There are fine ladies in New York whom I used to
entertain in Washington. Just so far as they approach me, will
I approach them! A card for a card, a visit for a visit. But I
imagine I shall not be recognized. I am content. There will be
plenty to read in that publishing house. I shall not repine.
All the setting, the _entourage_, of a lady is taken from me,
but the lady herself has herself pretty well in hand, and is
quite content if she may always be
"Your devoted
"AGNES."
The time now came when I must draw rations for my family. I could not
do this by proxy. I was required to present my request in person.
As I walked through the streets in early morning, I thought I had never
known a lovelier day. How could Nature spread her canopy of blossoming
magnolia and locust as if nothing had happened? How could the vine over
the doorway of my old home load itself with snowy roses, how could the
birds sing, how could the sun shine as if such things as these could
ever again gladden our broken hearts?
My dear little sons understood they were to escort me everywhere, so we
presented ourselves together at the desk of the government official and
announced our errand.
"Have you taken the oath of allegiance, Madam?" inquired that gentleman.
"No, Sir." I was quite prepared to take the oath.
The young officer looked at me seriously for a moment, and said, as he
wrote out the order:—
"Neither will I require it of you, Madam!"
I was in better spirits after this pleasant incident, and, calling to
Alick, I bade him arm himself with the largest basket he could find and
take my order to the commissary.
"We are going to have all sorts of good things," I told him, "fresh
meat, fruit, vegetables, and everything."
When the boy returned he presented a drooping figure and a woebegone
face. My first unworthy suspicion suggested his possible confiscation
of my stores for drink, but he soon explained.
"I buried that ole stinkin' fish! I wouldn't bring it in your presence.
An' here's the meal they give me."
Hairy caterpillars were jumping through the meal! I turned to my table
and wrote:—
"Is the commanding general aware of the nature of the ration
issued this day to the destitute women of Petersburg?"
(signing myself)
"MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR."
This I gave to Alick, with instructions to present it, with the meal,
to General Hartsuff.
Alick returned with no answer; but in a few minutes a tall orderly stood
before me, touched his cap, and handed me a note.
"Major-General Hartsuff is sorry he cannot make _right_ all
that seems so wrong. He sends the enclosed. Some day General
Pryor will repay
"GEORGE L. HARTSUFF,
"_Major-General Commanding_."
The note contained an official slip of paper:—
"The Quartermaster and Commissary of the Army of the Potomac
are hereby ordered to furnish Mrs. Roger A. Pryor with all
she may demand or require, charging the same to the private
account of
"GEORGE L. HARTSUFF,
"_Major-General Commanding_."
Without the briefest deliberation I wrote and returned the following
reply:—
"Mrs. Roger A. Pryor is not insensible to the generous offer
of Major-General Hartsuff, but _he ought to have known_ that
the ration allowed the destitute women of Petersburg must be
enough for
"MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR."
As I sat alone, revolving various schemes for our sustenance,—the
selling of the precious testimonial service (given by the Democracy of
Virginia after my husband's noble fight against "Know-nothingism"),
the possibility of finding occupation for myself,—the jingling of
chain harness at the door arrested my attention. There stood a handsome
equipage, from which a very fine lady indeed was alighting. She bustled
in with her lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes, and announced herself
as Mrs. Hartsuff. She was superbly gowned in violet silk and lace, with
a tiny _fanchon_ bonnet tied beneath an enormous cushion of hair behind,
the first of the fashionable _chignons_ I had seen—an arrangement called
a "waterfall," an exaggeration of the plethoric, distended "bun" of the
Englishwoman of a few years ago.
"Oh, my dear lady," she began, "we are in such distress at headquarters!
George is in despair! You won't let him help you! Whatever is he to do?"
"I really am grateful to the General," I assured her; "but you see there
is no reason he should do more for me than for others."
"Oh, but there _is_ reason. You have suffered more than the rest. You
have been driven from your home! Your house has been sacked. George
knows all about you. I have brought a basket for you—tea, coffee, sugar,
crackers."
"I cannot accept it, I am so sorry."
"But what are you going to do? Are you going to starve?"
"Very likely," I said, "but somehow I shall not very much mind!"
"Oh, this is too utterly, utterly dreadful!" said the lady as she left
the room.
The next day the ration was changed. Fresh beef, canned vegetables,
bread, and coffee were issued to all the women of Petersburg. Mrs.
Hartsuff came daily to see me. "Not that George has gotten over it!"
she declared. "His feelings are constantly hurt here. And as to myself,
that old black Irene I found in the kitchen at Centre Hill just walks
over me!"
"Why don't you dismiss her?"
"_Dismiss Irene?_ I should like to see anybody dismiss Irene! Besides,
she cooks divinely. But I can't enter her kitchen! 'Dear me,' I said one
day, '_what_ a dirty kitchen!' 'Ladies don't nuvver come in kitchens,'
she told me. Evidently I am not a lady! And I once asked her please to
be careful of the gold studs the General was apt to leave in his cuffs
'Gold studs!' she repeated with a sniff, 'my master wore diamond studs,
an' I never see cuffs loose from shirts before in all my born days.
'Cose the wind'll blow 'em away! I can't be 'sponsible for no shirt
that's in three or four pieces.'"
All the good citizens of Petersburg who had been driven away by the
shelling now began to return, and among them came the owners of the
house I was occupying. I was told that I could, on no account, be safe
at Cottage Farm without a guard. For this, too, I must make personal
request. So my little body-guard and I wended our way to interview
General Hartsuff.
We found him in the noble mansion of the Bollings. At the entrance two
fine greyhounds in marble had for many years guarded the incoming and
outgoing of the Bolling family. In the rear there was a long veranda
with lofty pillars, and beyond, extensive grounds set with well-grown
evergreens, and with that princely tree, the _magnolia grandiflora_, now
in bloom. White marble statues and marble seats were scattered through
the grounds. A rustic staircase led down to a conservatory, built low
for the better care of the plants. The mansion stood on an eminence
sloping sharply in front, and a legend-haunted subterranean passage led
from the dwelling to the street, the entrance to which was covered by
shrubs and vines.
As I stood in the veranda waiting for audience, a young officer called
my attention to the beauty of the grounds and the magnificence of the
flowering plants in tubs on the veranda. "I should like," he said, "to
fight it out on this line all summer."
I thought of the family driven from their own, and was wicked enough to
tell him:—
"That would be most unfortunate for you. This place is very sickly in
summer—deadly, in fact. Typhoid fever is fatal in this section."
But I was summoned to the presence of the great man. As I entered, he
continued writing at a table, without greeting me or looking up from
his paper.
"General," I commenced, "I have come to ask if I may have a guard. I am
about to return to my home—Cottage Farm."
No answer, except the rapid scratching of his pen as it travelled over
his sheet.
"General Hartsuff, are you still angry with me because I did not feel
I could accept your kind offer? I couldn't take it! I couldn't trust
myself with it! I should have given a ball and ruined you."
He laughed outright at this and threw down his pen.
"It is impossible for you to go to Cottage Farm," he said; "there are
fifty or more negroes on the place. You cannot live there."
"I must! it is my only shelter."
"Well, then, I'll allow you a guard, and Mrs. Hartsuff had better take
you out herself, that is, if you can condescend to accept as much."
I was not aware that Mrs. Hartsuff had entered and stood behind me.
"And I think, George," she said, "you ought to give Mrs. Pryor a horse
and cart in place of her own that were stolen."
"All right, all right," he said hastily. "Madam, you will find the
guard at your door when you arrive. You go this evening? All right—good
morning."
Mrs. Hartsuff duly appeared in the late afternoon with an ambulance
and four horses, and we departed in fine style. She was very cheery and
agreeable, and made me promise to let her come often to see me. As we
were galloping along in state, we passed a line of weary-looking, dusty
Confederate soldiers, limping along, on their way to their homes. They
stood aside to let us pass. I was cut to the heart at the spectacle.
Here was I, accepting the handsome equipage of the invading commander—I,
who had done nothing, going on to my comfortable home; while they,
poor fellows, who had borne long years of battle and starvation, were
mournfully returning on foot, to find, perhaps, no home to shelter them.
"Never again," I said to myself, "shall this happen! If I cannot help,
I can at least suffer with them."
But when I reached Cottage Farm I found a home that no soldier, however
forlorn, could have envied me. A scene of desolation met my eyes. The
earth was ploughed and trampled, the grass and flowers were gone, the
carcasses of six dead cows lay in the yard, and filth unspeakable had
gathered in the corners of the house. The evening air was heavy with the
sickening odor of decaying flesh. As the front door opened, millions of
flies swarmed forth.
"If this were I," said Mrs. Hartsuff, as she gathered her skirts as
closely around her as her hoops would permit, "I should fall across this
threshold and die."
"I shall not fall," I said proudly; "I shall stand in my lot."
Within was dirt and desolation. Pieces of fat pork lay on the floors,
molasses trickled from the library shelves, where bottles lay uncorked.
Filthy, malodorous tin cans were scattered on the floors. Nothing,
not even a tin dipper to drink out of the well, was left in the house,
except one chair out of which the bottom had been cut, and one bedstead
fastened together with bayonets. Picture frames were piled against the
wall. I eagerly examined them. Every one was empty. One family portrait
of an old lady was hanging on the wall with a sabre-cut across her face.
"Now, what in the world are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Hartsuff.
"The best I can," I said.
But old Aunt Jinny had espied me, and, with a courtesy to Mrs. Hartsuff,
had seized my little girl.
"This is a hard home-coming for you, my po' lamb! But never mind! Jinny
has got plenty of clean bedclothes and things. Yes, marm" (to Mrs.
Hartsuff), "I can take care of 'em! The colored people? Oh, the colored
people will give no trouble. They are very peaceable."
She gathered us into her kitchen while she swept a room for us and
spread quilts upon the floor. Later in the evening an ambulance from
Mrs. Hartsuff drove up. She had sent me a tin box of bread-and-butter
sandwiches, some tea, an army cot, and army bedding.
The guard, a great, tall fellow, came to me for orders. I felt nervous
at his presence and wished I had not brought him. I directed him to
watch all night at the road side of the house, while I would sit up and
keep watch in the opposite direction. The children soon slept upon the
floor.
As the night wore on, I grew extremely anxious about the strange
negroes. Aunt Jinny thought there were not more than fifty. They had
filled every outhouse except the kitchen. Suppose they should overpower
the guard and murder us all.
Everything was quiet. I had not the least disposition to sleep—thinking,
thinking, of all the old woman had told me of the sacking of the house,
of the digging of the cellar in search of treasure, of the torch that
had twice been applied to the house, and twice withdrawn because some
officer wanted the shaded dwelling for a temporary lodging. Presently I
was startled by a shrill scream from the kitchen, a door opened suddenly
and shut, and a voice cried, "Thank Gawd! Thank Gawd A'mighty." Then
all was still.
Was this a signal? I held my breath and listened, then softly rose,
closed the shutters and fastened them, crept to the door, and bolted it
inside. I might defend my children till the guard could come.
Evidently he had not heard! He was probably sleeping the sleep of
an untroubled conscience on the bench in the front porch. And with
untroubled consciences my children were sleeping. It was so dark in
the room I could not see their faces, but I could touch them, and push
the wet locks from their brows, as they lay in the close and heated
atmosphere.
I resumed my watch at the window, pressing my face close to the slats of
the shutters. A pale half-moon hung low in the sky, turning its averted
face from a suffering world. At a little distance I could see the
freshly made soldier's grave which Alick had discovered and reported.
A heavy rain had fallen in the first hours of the night, and a stiff
arm and hand now protruded from the shallow grave. To-morrow I would
reverently cover the appealing arm, be it clad in blue or in gray, and
would mark the spot. Now, as I sat with my fascinated gaze upon it,
I thought of the tens of thousands, of the hundreds of thousands, of
upturned faces beneath the green sod of old Virginia. Strong in early
manhood, brave, high-spirited men of genius, men whom their country had
educated for her own defence in time of peril,—they had died because
that country could devise in her wisdom no better means of settling a
family quarrel than the wholesale slaughter of her sons by the sword.
And now? "Not till the heavens be no more shall they awake nor be raised
out of their sleep."
And then, as I sorrowed for their early death in loneliness and anguish,
I remembered the white-robed souls beneath the altar of God,—the souls
that had "come out of great tribulation,"—and _because_ they had thus
suffered "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; ... and
God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."
And then, as the pale, distressful moon sank behind the trees, and the
red dawn streamed up from the east, the angel of Hope, who had "spread
her white wings and sped her away" for a little season, returned. And
Hope held by the hand an angel stronger than she, who bore to me a
message: "In the world ye have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have
overcome the world."
The sun was rising when I saw my good old friend emerge from her
kitchen, and I opened the shutters to greet her. She had brought me
a cup of delicious coffee, and was much distressed because I had not
slept. Had I heard anything?
"Course I know you was bleeged to hear," said Aunt Jinny, as she bustled
over the children. "That was Sis' Winny! She got happy in the middle
of the night, an' Gawd knows what she would have done, if Frank hadn't
ketched hold of her and pulled her back in the kitchen! Frank an' me is
pretty nigh outdone an' discouraged 'bout Sis' Winny. She prays constant
all day; but Gawd A'mighty don't count on bein' bothered all night. Ain'
He 'ranged for us all to sleep, an' let Him have a little peace? Sis'
Winny must keep her happiness to herself, when folks is trying to git
some res'."
The guard now came to my window to say he "guessed" he'd "have to put
on some more harness. Them blamed niggers refused to leave. They might
change their minds when they saw the pistols."
"Oh, you wouldn't shoot, would you?" I said, in great distress. "Call
them all to the back door and let me speak with them." I found myself
in the presence of some seventy-five negroes, men, women, and children,
all with upturned faces, keenly interested in what I should say to them.
I talked to them kindly, and told them I was sorry to see so many of
them without homes. One of them, an intelligent-looking man, interrupted
me.
"We are not without homes," he said. "I planted and worked on this place
for years before the war. It is right I should have some choice in the
land the government promises us, and I have come here because I shall
ask for the land I have worked."
"You are mistaken, I am sure," I said. "This farm belongs to my brother,
not to me. I am here through his kindness, and I am perfectly willing
you should remain through mine until you find other shelter, provided
you consider my husband master here, give no trouble, and help me clean
up this place. All who are not willing to do this must leave. You must
distinctly understand this is private property which will be protected
by the government."
"That's so!" said the guard, emphatically. Thereupon an old, gray-haired
man stepped forth and said:—
"My name's Abram! I'se toted Marse Roger on my back to school many a
time. Me an' my family will stay an' clean up, an' thank you, Mistis!
Come now! You all hear what the Yankee gentleman say! Git to work now
on them dead cows—hurry up!"
I sent Abram to the quartermaster, and borrowed a team to haul away the
filth and the dead animals. My faithful old friend in the kitchen lent
me chairs and a table, and before night we were comparatively clean,
having had a score or more scrubbers, and as many out-of-door laborers
at work. My husband returned to us, and we commenced our new life of
hopeless destitution. Not before October could I get my consent to eat
a morsel in the house. I took my meals under the trees, unless driven
by the rains to the shelter of the porch. The old woman who had been so
unreasonably happy—"Sis' Winny"—proved to be a mere atom of a creature,
withered, and bent almost double with age and infirmities, whom Aunt
Jinny had taken in out of sheer compassion. If she could find something
for which to thank God, surely none need despair.
To my great joy, my dear General had not remained in Richmond. There
was no hope there for immediate occupation. His profession of law, for
which he had been educated, promised nothing, for the very good reason
that he had forgotten all he ever knew in his later profession of editor
and politician. The latter field was closed to him forever. There was
nothing for a rebel to earn in editing a newspaper.