IF my pen alone, dear reader, could direct the scenes which must be
presented to your view in drawing near the close of my narrative, rest
assured they should be pleasant. I would tell of a grand triumphant
army, marshalled for the last time beneath the Stars and Bars to hear
the plaudits and farewell of their chieftain; of victorious legions
marching home crowned with laurels, their very footsteps softened by
the flowers fair hands are scattering before them; of every homestead,
blessed with peace and plenty, greeting its hero returned from the war.
I would tell of an Independent Republic, with Robert E. Lee at its
head, growing into power and greatness among the nations of the earth;
while, with all sectional animosity and bitterness buried beneath the
blood of their children, the United and the Confederate States join
hands in the noble alliance of progress and enterprise—exchanging
products and commodities, aiding each other onward, yet vieing
in generous rivalry. Alas! the stern reality presents a darker
picture—the picture of a people, borne down by want and woe, yielding
up at last their long and gallant struggle, and sitting down amid the
ashes of their country to mourn their children dead for nought; a
picture of two armies—small, indeed, and wasted by famine and disease,
yet still stepping proudly as they remember their long record of
victories—stacking their faithful arms and furling their shell-torn
flags with tears of helpless bitterness; a picture of Southern
roadsides filled everywhere with men in tattered gray, plodding, with
blistered feet, their weary way towards homes where gaunt starvation
hath so wasted the cheeks of loved ones that they will scarcely flush
at their coming, and where, laying down the burden of war, they must
take up the burden of fruitless labor!
Ben and I secured transportation on the cars from Durham’s to Raleigh,
and set out from there to walk home.
Ah! never to be forgotten are those days after the surrender! How the
Yankees jeered and cursed us for being rebels, as squad after squad
galloped by us, tramping along our dusty roads! And the people, God
bless them! how kind they were to us, even in their poverty! Stripped
to almost utter destitution by the enemy, they were willing, like the
widow of Sarepta, to share with us their only cake. As we passed each
gate they would come out with a pitcher of water, a tray of corn bread
and potatoes, and, if the ”bummers” had not paid their visits of mercy,
a small piece of meat. Calling us into the yard, under the trees, they
would press us to eat, and lament that they had not better to give.
And as we eagerly ate their frugal fare, which was more delicious then
than were the quails of Lucullus, and rose to thank them and pursue our
way, they would put what remained in our pockets, and, asking God’s
blessing on us, turn into the house to prepare their humble offering
for the next hungry troop.
Thus were the gloomy feelings of our homeward journey relieved by
constant kindness and attention from every house we passed, and it was
not till we neared Ben’s home, and had left the public road, that I
had time to feel the terrible suspense and anxiety about Carlotta and
mother that had been in my heart since I left them. I dared not hope
that mother was alive; yet my heart did so much shrink from knowing
she was dead, that, as I came in sight of Mr. Bemby’s, my feet almost
refused to go forward.
As we approached we saw no one but Horace, who was working in a little
garden near the house, and we motioned to him to be quiet. We opened
the door of the house softly, and heard the sound of voices out in the
little back porch, and saw the edge of some one’s dress who was sitting
near the door. Then we heard a chair put down from its tilted position,
and Ben’s wife leaned forward and looked sideways into the passage.
With a loud cry of joy she dropped a lap full of work on the floor, and
ran to meet her husband. She was followed by Carlotta and Mrs. Bemby.
Where was mother? Carlotta, as I pressed her to my bosom, interpreted
the anxiety of my look, and said:
”God has spared mother, John. She is much improved, though still
feeble. She is out in the porch. Come with me.”
I followed her out to the porch, and there, propped by pillows in a
chair, pale and thin, but still alive, was mother.
I knelt by her, and we both murmured our thanksgiving to God for his
mercy.
Then, when Mrs. Bemby had brought out chairs for us all, and Horace had
brought a bucket of fresh cool water, how bright and happy were we all
as we told of our adventures and wondered at our mutual dangers and
escapes. Verily, it was worth four years of hardship to experience the
joy of that morning out in Mr. Bemby’s porch.
”But tell me, Carlotta, what caused this blessed change in mother?” I
said, after we had finished our salutations, drawing my little boy to
me, and taking him on my knee.
”She was relieved, and commenced to grow better the very day you left.
A short time after you and Mr. Ben were gone a company of Federal
soldiers came up to the house, bearing with them a dead man and two
wounded ones. Mrs. Bemby and I went out to them and found, I shudder to
tell it, that the dead man was Frank Paning. They wanted some spades
to bury him with, and some cloths to bind up the wounds of the others.
They said that two spies, one of them disguised as an old woman, had
killed Paning, and, meeting these, had fired on them. We knew it must
have been you two. Oh, John! did you forget your promise to mother?”
I said nothing, for I did not wish to involve Ben, but he spoke up
directly:
”No, Mrs. Smith, John didn’t kill him; I done it myself. We found him a
rakin’ over the ashes he’d helped to make, and when he saw his friends
a comin’ he tried to make us surrender, and I let him have a ball in
his forred. ‘Taint worth while to be mealy-mouthed about it.”
”Well,” continued Carlotta, with a shudder at Ben’s words, ”Horace got
the spades for them, and Mrs. Bemby told them to bring the men into the
house, for they were both suffering very much. We did what we could to
alleviate their sufferings, and when the surgeon who was with them had
bandaged up their wounds, and sent them off to camp, he asked if he
could reward us in any way for our kindness. I thought of mother; and
though my pride revolted at the idea of asking a favor of an enemy, I
begged that he would see her and give her some relief, if possible. He
went in and examined her head, and saying that it was an easy matter,
took out some instruments and went to work. He raised up the fractured
skull, and, as mother expressed it, lifted a great weight from her
brain; then mixing some medicine for her, and telling me how to bathe
her head, took his leave.”
”Did you not offer to remunerate him in some way?” I asked.
”Yes, I offered him my watch, as we had no money, but he refused it
with polished courtesy, and said he would only take a kiss from my
little boy, as there was something about his eyes, as well as mine,
that reminded him of a lady he had loved years ago.”
”Did you not learn his name?”
”Oh yes! He gave me his card, and I think I put it in this basket;” and
she commenced to search in her work busily. ”Ah! here it is!” and she
gave me the card:
”C. B. SEDLEY, M. D., NEW YORK!”
”Why, Carlotta,” I said, ”did not a young man of that name pay his
addresses to you at Saratoga?”
”Oh! certainly; I remember him. How stupid of me to forget. Poor
Charley! I do not blame him for not recognising the lady of satin in
this old homespun.”
”I must go to Goldsboro’ to-morrow,” I said, thinking gratefully of
his kindness, ”and if he is still there offer some testimonial of our
gratitude.”
”It’s useless,” said Carlotta, ”he has gone on to Raleigh with the
army, and I cannot let you leave me so soon.”
Mr. Bemby now came in from the field, and greeted us warmly in his
uncouth way, while Mrs. B. excused herself to see about dinner. It was
a plain meal, of one course, but Delmonico has never served one that
was more enjoyed, or surrounded by happier hearts.
The next day I went over to Goldsboro’, and, obtaining a hundred
dollars, in ”greenbacks,” the first I had ever handled, prepared to
start with our little family for Wilmington the following morning, for
I could not consent to impose longer on the good nature of the Bembys,
and crowd them out of comfort in their little house.
The next morning, having bade them an affectionate and grateful
farewell, we lifted mother carefully into the vehicle I had hired to
take us to town, and were soon in the cars, mother, Carlotta, Johnnie
and I, rattling down to Wilmington. We found that Miss Wiggs had been
unmolested in her possession of our house, and that it was therefore
ready for our reception.
Many of our former slaves now applied for positions in our household,
but, as they had deserted us when most needed, I refused every one, and
engaged an entire new set. About this time, also, I received a balance
sheet from father’s bankers in New York, showing a large accumulated
balance in our favor, and, drawing on this, we began to surround
ourselves with ante-bellum comforts, and to make home feel like home.
Soon after we had gotten somewhat settled I began to make inquiries
about Lulie, for I felt the deepest interest in her welfare, and had
ever thought of her downfall with deepest sorrow. As I could hear
nothing definite in regard to her, though it was generally believed
she had gone off with a Federal officer of high rank, I determined to
call on her old maiden aunt, with whom she had lived since her father’s
death, which occurred early in the winter. To my surprise the old lady
would neither see me nor answer any of my inquiries, but called out to
me, in a shrill cracked voice, as I stood at her door, her long bony
feet just visible in heelless slippers and blue stockings, at the top
of her stairway:
”You needn’t come here asking me about the little silly fool, for I
wouldn’t tell you anything if I knew, which I don’t. She’s gone from
my sight and hearing, and I hope to the Lord you nor any one else will
ever hear of her again.”
Of course I could do nothing but give up the search, though I ceased
not to hope she might yet be found and saved.
And now, as the summer wore away, came to me the question of life; not
_how_ we were to live, for our income largely exceeded our expenditure,
but _why_. The boyish dreams I had so long cherished, of distinction
in the political arena, were now vanished forever; and the practice
of law, for which I had studied, under the Provisional Government was
little better than a system of pettifogging, that was as undignified as
it was profitless.
There was absolutely nothing to do, and the very _ennui_ of existence
seemed a terrible evil. So, when Carlotta proposed that we break up
here and go to her home in Cuba, I acceded to the proposal with great
delight, and, mother consenting to go with us, I began immediately
preparations for our departure in the Fall. I could not help feeling
some touches of shame and regret in leaving our dear old State in this
her darkest hour, and had it not been for the beautiful Cuban home that
was awaiting us, I could not have gotten the consent of my mind to go.
But I felt, as a private individual, of little benefit to the State at
large, and that my first duty was to render those dearest to me happy,
and this I thought would be accomplished by the change.
As executor of father’s will, I found very little trouble in settling
the estate, there being no debts to pay and few to collect. The real
estate in New York I determined to leave in the hands of our agent,
in whom we had the utmost confidence, and who had doubly endeared
himself to us by his kindness to father while he was in prison. I sold
our residence and grounds in Wilmington to a blockade runner who had
amassed a large fortune during the war, and was anxious to invest in
town property. Early in the fall I went up to the plantation to see
Mr. Bemby, and make arrangements for its disposal. Taking the surveyor
over from Goldsboro’ I had four hundred acres cut off for Ben, and two
hundred for Horace, making them a fee simple title to it; the remaining
three thousand acres I turned over to Mr. Bemby, to use the balance of
his lifetime without rent. These kind people were profuse and sincere
in their regrets at our leaving, and Mr. Bemby protested that he and
Ben could make enough on the farm for us all to live in the house and
never go out doors where we could see a Yankee. They all followed me up
to the road, and I felt, as I shook hands and drove off, that, go where
I would, I could never find more faithful hearts than beat beneath
their homespun clothes. Ben rode over to Goldsboro’ with me, and when
we had gone some distance from the house he drew from his pocket a
twenty dollar gold piece and handed it to me, saying:
”I want you to give that to the one it belongs to, if you ever see her.”
”Whose is it?” I asked in some surprise.
”Miss Luler Maylin’s,” he said, putting the coin in my hand.
”Lulie Mayland!” I exclaimed. ”Where is she; where have you seen her; I
have been trying to find her ever since I came home.”
”I saw her week b’fore last, right on this road, jus’ above our house.”
”How came she there? Tell me about it for Heaven’s sake, Ben.”
”Well, you know Frank Paning is buried up there in the woods by the
road, and last Wednesday was a week I thought I’d go up and sorter put
a pen like ’round his grave, to keep the hogs from rootin’ ‘bout on
it, ‘cause I tell you the truth, John, I ain’t never felt right ‘bout
killin’ him yit. I shot a sight of Yankees during the war, but I done
it on account of the Confeder’cy, and I didn’t feel like it was charged
‘ginst me in the big book up yonder; but I put that bullet in Frank
Paning on my own hook, because I was mad with him, and it’s looked
mighty close kin to murder ever since.”
”By no means, Ben,” I interrupted; ”he had ordered you to surrender,
and his friends were close at hand.”
”Well, any how,” he continued, ”I was piling up the rails ’round the
grave, and kinder askin’ its pardon to myself, when I heard a carriage
‘comin’ ‘long the road. I got up and stepped back a little for ’em to
pass, for I was sorter ashamed of what I was doin’. But the carriage
stopped right at the grave, and a Yankee officer got out, and then
handed down a lady dressed finer ‘n the top spot in a peacock’s tail.
The minnit I see her face I knowed ‘twas the same young lady that come
up here wonst with Mrs. Smith and you all. ‘Soon as she got on the
ground she run to the grave, and fell down on her knees, and put her
head on the edge of the rail pen, and cried a long time. When she got
up the man fetched some white flowers outer the carriage and she put’em
on the grave; then turned to the man and said:
”’Do you think you can find the place, Curnel?’
”’Without doubt, madam,’ he said.
”’I want the granite base very broad and strong, as the column will be
very heavy,’ I heard her say.
”’It shall be as you desire, madam,’ he replied.
”They was about to git back in the carriage when she saw me, and come
towards me with both hands stretched out.
”’O, sir!’ she said to me, with her cheeks all wet, ‘did you think
enough of his grave to take keer of it; let me reward you.’ And b’fore
I could speak she put that money in my hand. I run up to the carriage
as she got in, and tole her I did not want her money, but they drove
off without saying any more.”
”Do you know where they went to, and did she call the officer’s name?”
I asked, intensely interested in what he had related.
”No; but I went to town next day, and saw ’em going off on the train,
and the man had a han’ trunk marked New York.”
”Poor Lulie!” I murmured; ”would to Heaven I could find her.”
The train was standing at the depot as we drove up, and I had to hurry
to get on. Ben followed me into the car, and, taking my hand, said:
”Good bye, John, for I can’t call you Mr. Smith, like I orter. Remember
one thing, no matter where you go or who you see you’ll never find
anybody to think any more of you than Ben. I didn’t have much religion
to start with, and the war spilled what I did have out; but if I ever
do get to the good place I’d like to see you there, for it won’t seem
natchurel without you.”
The train moved off and he was gone—a true, tried old heart.
There was one more duty, a sacred one, for me to perform before our
departure. I must bring my father’s remains from the enemy’s land, and
let them rest in the soil he had died for. I found no difficulty in
identifying his grave at Elmira, owing to the clear and distinct manner
in which it had been marked by Mr. P., the agent referred to; and
taking up the rude prison coffin, I had it enclosed as it was, without
being opened, in a large metallic case, and thus brought it home.
Mother had given up her desire to have him buried under the old cedar,
as she knew his grave would be neglected when we had passed away, and
the property had fallen into strangers’ hands, as it inevitably must
some time in the future. So we carried his remains to the cemetery,
and in the hazy autumn evening, while the sinking sun was mellowed by
the purple mists, we laid him beneath the still green turf, where the
yellow leaves were falling, in ”whispers to the living,” one by one
upon his grave.
And now, with that solemn certainty that alone belongs to Time and
Death, the day appointed for departure approached. On the evening
before we were to leave, feeling that I ought to pay a farewell visit
to Ned’s grave, I went down to the livery stables—our stalls were
empty now—and hired a horse and buggy, and drove, with Carlotta, down
to Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The old gentleman came out to meet us with his
wonted cordiality, and was as cheerful as of old, but Mrs. Cheyleigh
had never gotten over Ned’s death, and I could read in her wan, sad
face, the tale of incurable sorrow. We talked all the while of Ned
and his death; and as I told her how the men all loved him for his
goodness, and the officers honored him for his bravery, I could see
that, like a Spartan mother, even in her tears, she was proud of her
gallant boy.
At length I arose and went out alone to his grave. It was in a grove of
pines near the house, and the brown pine straw hushed my footfalls as I
approached, and the wind was sighing through the boughs. The grave was
enclosed by an iron railing, and over it rested a plain marble slab, on
which were an inscription and some lines in gilded letters. Opening the
wire-work gate, with uncovered head and softened step I went up to the
slab, and, bending over it, read:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
EDWARD CHEYLEIGH,
Born April 8th, 1840,
_Killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 2d, 1863._
”Tell them to bury me under the pines at home.”
I would not rest in the mouldering tomb
Of the grim churchyard, where the ivy twines,
But make my grave in the forest’s gloom,
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,
Each dark green bough of the dear old pines,
Where the lights and shadows softly merge,
And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;
Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge
For the dead beneath the sighing pines.
When the winter’s icy fingers sow
The mound with jewels till it shines,
And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,
Like white-veiled Sisters bending low,
Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.
While others fought for cities proud,
For fertile plains and wealth of mines,
I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud,
I bared my breast, and took my shroud
For the land where wave the grand old pines.
Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep
For the form shot down in the battle lines,
In my grave of blood I gladly sleep,
If the life I gave will help to keep
The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.
* * * * *
The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod,
His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines;
And, bowing ‘neath the chastening rod,
We lift our hearts and hands to God,
And cry: ”Oh! save our Land of Pines!”