WHAT HAPPENED TO ME
BY
LASALLE CORBELL PICKETT
(MRS. GEN. GEORGE E. PICKETT)
AUTHOR OF
PICKETT AND HIS MEN; LITERARY HEARTHSTONES OF DIXIE; BUGLES OF
GETTYSBURG; HEART OF A SOLDIER; ACROSS MY PATH; "IN DE MIZ" SERIES;
FOLK LORE STORIES, ETC.
[Illustration: Decoration]
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BRENTANO'S
[Illustration: Faithfully Yours,
La Salle Corbell Pickett.
Jan 17 1917]
DEDICATED TO SELMA LEWISOHN
In my garden a lily grew, blossoming in snowy purity, fragrant sweetness
and stately grace. It held the summer in its golden heart and the love
of the angels crowned its radiant petals. It bade me "good-morning" and
the dawn was bright with promise. It waved a caress to me in the soft
winds of the Junetide noon and the day was filled with light and love.
It shone in mystic silver through the moonlight and my night was aglow
with dreams.
Thus a Lily-Soul blooms in the garden of my life to make it glad with
the glory and fragrance of her blossoming. Many hearts are happy because
of the flowers of Love and Hope and Faith which she has planted. Many a
life which in its early dawn held little promise of good has grown into
usefulness and beauty in the brightness that the Lily-Soul has given of
her own loveliness to light the dim pathway.
In cloudy days the whiteness of the Lily-Soul has shone like a star
through my darkness and the sunlight in her golden heart has illumined
the black veil of sorrow.
LA SALLE CORBELL PICKETT.
October 1, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "OUT OF THE EVERYWHERE" 1
II. THE FIRST PRAYER 12
III. CHURCH VISITORS 19
IV. MY SOLDIER 30
V. A KEEPSAKE FOR THE ANGELS 42
VI. AFRICAN ROYALTY 48
VII. OUR FIRST CURRENCY 57
VIII. YULETIDE 64
IX. GREENBRIER WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS 79
X. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM 87
XI. THE "VIRGINIA" 93
XII. RICHMOND AFTER SEVEN PINES 103
XIII. MY WOUNDED SOLDIER 109
XIV. THE RED FOX 117
XV. THE SMUGGLED BRIDE 124
XVI. BOTTLER, BOTTLER UP 133
XVII. ON THE LINES 141
XVIII. THE AMENITIES 149
XIX. THE CLOSING DAYS 157
XX. SUSPENSE 175
XXI. "WHOA, LUCY" 184
XXII. GEORGE JUNIOR'S FIRST GREENBACK 191
XXIII. "SKOOKUM TUM-TUM" 200
XXIV. CARPET-BAG, BASKET AND BABY 207
XXV. EDWARDS IS BETTER 221
XXVI. ONE WOMAN REDEEMED THEM ALL 227
XXVII. A FAMILIAR FACE 237
XXVIII. VISITORS, SHILLING A DOZEN--OUR LEFT-HANDERS 248
XXIX. BORN WITH EMERALDS--NEMO NOCETUR 261
XXX. TURKEY ISLAND 273
XXXI. AT THE WHITE HOUSE 288
XXXII. UNCLE TOM 305
XXXIII. "GOD'S 'TISEMENT" 314
XXXIV. CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN 327
XXXV. EASTER FLOWERS 339
XXXVI. HIS LAST BATTLE 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Portrait of Author _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Abraham Lincoln 168
Ulysses S. Grant 288
"I know dear Father was a great man and knew
most everything, but I didn't know he had
God's eyes and could see everything" 330
"Little Brother, be gentle with the flowers;
they die so soon" 348
"All Quiet Along the Potomac" 355
The Angel of Peace 363
I
"OUT OF THE EVERYWHERE"
There are some events with which we have become so familiar by report
that we can scarcely believe they did not happen within our own
recollection. Thus it is with my advent into earthly existence.
Not long before the time at which I was expected to arrive in this vale
of thorns and flowers my father's only brother was seriously ill. It
became necessary for my father to accompany him to Philadelphia to
consult an eminent surgeon.
For months it had been definitely settled that I was to be a boy, for
all was grist that came to my father's mill. No shadow of a doubt of my
manhood clouded the family mind. My health had been drunk at the clubs
and in the homes, and especially at the neighborhood functions, the fox
hunts, and the name of Thomas La Salle had already been given me.
"_L'homme propose et Dieu surprend_," and so did I, for, most
unexpectedly, I made my arrival in the middle of the night, the middle
of the week, the middle of the month, almost the middle of the year,
near the middle of the century, and in the middle of a hail-storm.
Confident that I was a boy, the family had all hoped that I would be
considerate enough to postpone my coming at least until my father's
return, but with perverse discourtesy and want of filial regard, I would
not wait. Of course, there was no one ready to receive me.
I have borne the blame for this untimely début, but it was really the
fault of the barn which, in the early part of the evening, had caught
fire and been burned to the ground. The excitement had passed and the
sleep of exhaustion that follows disrupting events had settled over all
when again there was confusion; this time owing to my inconsiderate
haste to present myself. The keys to the stable door could not be found.
There was no time to hunt for them, so the hinges were pried off and
Fannie Kemble, the fleetest and safest horse in the stable, was
hurriedly called from her dreams. My young uncle, afterwards a gallant
Confederate officer, Colonel J. J. Phillips, was routed out and,
barefoot and mounted upon the horse without saddle or bridle, rode post
haste for our family physician, treasuring the grievance to reproach me
with in after years when I would give evidence of a too impetuous
disposition. In my eagerness to fly to the ills I knew not of, I would
not await the arrival of the medical man and, spurning his assistance,
defying them all, made my "ingress into life, naked and bare."
"Why didn't you wait for me, you impertinent little rascal?" inquired
the Doctor. "What's your hurry? You are too enterprising for so young a
lad."
"Lordy, Lordy, Marse Doctor," interposed my mammy tragically, "he ain't
no boy-chile. It's a po' li'l gal-chile."
"A girl? Why! Damn him!" exclaimed the Doctor in astonishment and
dismay. Thus my first greeting upon arriving on the earth was one of
profanely expressed disapproval.
A wail of woe indescribable went up from all around. My poor,
disappointed, heart-broken mother turned her face to the wall.
"Come 'long to yo' mammy, honey. She ain't gwine to 'sert you ef you is
a gal-chile, po' l'il lamb! You can't he'p yo' calamity no mo' dan
we-all kin. Mammy knows hit's terrible. En yo' pa, he gwine cuss eb'y
last nigger on de plantation 'bout hit. I wonder what dey gwine name
you, for Tommy ain't no gal's name. Dey can't call you atter none er yo'
gran'pas now, nuther. I suttinly is sorry, but dar ain't nuttin' so bad
dat hit couldn't be wusser, en you mouter been twins--gal twins! Po'
li'l thing! Den I know you'd hyer ole Bringer bark." (Ole Bringer was
the "ha'nt dog.") "Lordy! Lordy! I wonder who gwine tell yo' pa. I
reckon de Doctor better bre'k hit to him, kase de preacher is gone souf
to cure his th'oat. Dar, dar, honey, mammy's most th'oo. She gwine drap
some warm catnip tea down yo' th'oat now. Dar, dar, go sleepityby!"
Thus early in my career my mammy comforted me, as the old mammies always
comforted us "white chilluns."
Several days later my father returned and hurried to my mother. After
blessing and kissing her he said proudly:
"Now, little mother, papa wants to see his little man. Where is he?"
In those days the nearest telegraph station was a long distance from our
plantation home and there had been no opportunity of informing my father
of the misfortune that had befallen the family.
A burst of tears answered him.
"My God! My wife! My boy is not--not dead!"
"Oh, my darling, it's worse than that!"
"Worse! He is not deformed!"
"I can't tell you! I--I couldn't help it."
"_Where_ is he?"
"In there," pointing to the room that had been arranged for a nursery.
Mammy Charity, who had been eaves-dropping, was almost knocked over as
my father suddenly opened the door upon her and excitedly cried:
"Let me see my boy, mammy!"
"Marse Dae, please, suh, fergib us all, but--de boy is a gal."
I opened my eyes which, alas! were crossed, to give and receive a
blessing.
"A cross-eyed girl!" he exclaimed. "How did it happen?"
"I dunno, Marse Dae, how de po' boy happened to be a gal. I 'clare it
wuz none of we-all's doin's, but I reckon de reason she's cross-eyed is
her bein' born lak she was in de middle of de week a lookin' bofe ways
for Sunday."
Thus was I blessed by physician, mother and father. In a few weeks the
eyes uncrossed of themselves, but they are still looking both ways for
Sunday--which never comes.
Three weeks later, when my grandmother made her second visit to me, her
first grandchild, finding that I had developed into a very colic-y, and
consequently, fretful child, a disturber of sleep and peace, she offered
to take me back home with her, a proposition which was eagerly
accepted. The "settin'-aig-basket" was sent for and I was comfortably
and cosily placed in it and put into the foot of her rockaway. Pery, the
driver, was cautioned to be "keerful of de ruts en de jolts; not to go
to sleep nor to step 'pon dat chile, en don't you drap her out; ef you
do she'll ha'nt you as long as you lib."
It was a beautiful day in June. The air was laden with perfume and song.
Not that I knew it at the time--cuddled up in my
"settin'-aig-basket"--but I have credible information on the subject,
furnished later, with all the rest of the details of that most
important, though unconscious, period of my earthly career. Every little
while my grandmother would peep into the basket to see that all was
well. Everybody we met stopped to ask after the "new-born baby" and,
being informed of its presence in the "settin'-aig-basket," requested to
make its acquaintance _sans ceremonie_, Pery taking advantage of the
introduction to hop out of the rockaway and gather great green
honeysuckles and honeysuckle blossoms, which he put into the basket
until it looked as if filled with honeysuckles and their blooms, that
being the best tribute he could offer to the little new "missis."
At Sandy Bottom, the dismal grave of many a trusting heart, where the
frog croaks his never-ceasing croon, Uncle Frenigike came out from
"Free-nigger-town" to borrow "a chew of terbacker" and beg a "ninepence
to buy de ole man a plug." Recognizing the "settin'-aig-basket" he said:
"Lordy, Mistis, can't you give de ole man a settin' of dem aigs.
We-all's ole domernicker is jest gwine to settin'."
Being informed of the contents of the basket, he asked to be allowed to
see "de li'l gal baby."
"Lord, Lord! Jes' look at dem li'l fis'es," he exclaimed. "Dey's bofe
shet up jest as tight ez wax. Dat chile sho' gwine to be one stingy
white woman when she grows up ef you-all don't scrouge dem dar li'l
fis'es open en put sumpn 'twixt 'em."
Suiting the action to the word, he worked his own black forefinger
within my little soft baby clasp, then suddenly but gently withdrawing
it asked:
"Ain't she got nare rabbit foot, Mistis? She ain't! De-Lord-sakes-alive!
Po' li'l misfortunate thing--agwine on fo' weeks ole en ain't never had
a rabbit's foot! Well, she shan't be widout one no longer. No, dat she
shan't. She shall have a rabbit's foot dis ve'y minute. Yas'm, I got a
fresh one in my snake-skin bag I kilt wid my two-time (double-barrel)
gun last Chuesday jest 'fo' sundown en jest ez hit wuz gwine
lipperty-clip, lipperty-clip, 'cross de briahs over Liza-Malindy's
grave. Liza-Malindy, you know, was my fifth wife. I wish hit had been
runnin' 'cross one er de men-folkses' graves en dat I had kilt hit of a
Friday night 'stead of a Chuesday. Den co'se, dar'd a been a heap mo'
luck in hit. But hit's de best I kin do now for de po' li'l thing en
hit's a heap better dan havin' no rabbit's foots at all."
Running his hand down into his breeches pocket he pulled out his
rattlesnake-skin bag, filled with charms against "hoodoos en cunjers,"
and selected from the gruesomeness a blood-stained rabbit's foot and,
lifting my little clenched fingers one by one, he closed them around it.
Thus, perhaps, he saved me from that most loathsome fault, "stinginess,"
and insured for me, even though the talisman was of a "Chuesday's"
killing, sprinting over a woman's instead of a man's briar-grown home,
at least a minimum amount of good luck.
But for the superstitious and fascinating tales, silken-woven by the
tongue of fancy, and the awesome shadows cast by authenticated
tragedies, Sandy Bottom, where I met my sable godfather, Frenigike, and
received my first security against ill luck, would have been nothing but
an insignificant little valley in the wildwood, crossed by a quiet
looking stream. In its dread death-bed, by the side of priests and
Indians, fair-haired maidens and dark-eyed savages, sleep the wife and
children and servants of an English nobleman. The infant child, because
of its appealing helplessness, alone was saved, while the great strong
horses and the coach with its freight of human lives, gold and silver
and jewels, were swallowed by the treacherous quicksand.
This tragedy occurred in the year 1799, when Sir Henry Clinton formed
the plan of humbling the pride and destroying the resources of Virginia.
He sent a powerful fleet to Hampton Roads and landed a force under
General Mathews to advance and perfect this project. General Mathews
took possession of Norfolk and Portsmouth and the surrounding country,
burning Suffolk and committing depredations everywhere. The family of an
English nobleman, frightened by the devastation, fled for safety to a
point on the Nansemond where a part of the English fleet was lying in
waiting. Passing Sandy Bottom the driver stopped to water his horses. He
was urging them farther up stream where the water was deeper and
clearer, when a runaway negro named Isaac sprang from the bank,
shrieking out a warning of the terrible quicksand. His warning being
disregarded, he snatched the sleeping baby from the nurse's arms,
saying:
"Dis po' li'l chile can't he'p itse'f en I gwine to sabe it anyhow fum
bein' gulched down dat quicksandy debil's th'oat, ef de yuthers won't be
sabed."
Before the last echo had followed the negro's words--before the
frightened child could catch breath for another shriek--carriage,
horses, driver, footmen, maids, children and mistress were all sucked in
by the dark water. A few bubbles here and there were the only sign of
its treachery. The horrified riders had followed so close that the dash
of their horses' feet splashed the water simultaneously on the screaming
child and over the swirling waves which marked the fatal spot of its
mother's doom.
As a reward for his warning and for saving the life of the child, Isaac,
the negro, was given his liberty and a home--the first of his race ever
_set free_ in Virginia--and was thereafter impressively distinguished by
the (to those of his own color) opprobrious epithet of
"Free-Negro-Isaac." This name was soon jargoned into Frenigike, and
afterward, through culture and prosperity, into Freeling, the present
family name of the descendants of Frenigike. The old place near Sandy
Bottom is still called Free-Nigger-Town.
Past this spot of gruesome history I was borne in the unconsciousness
of infancy through the little village of Chuckatuck and beyond until the
carriage drew up at my grandmother's door and Uncle Charles, her
foreman, came out with the little negroes running after him to welcome
us.
II
THE FIRST PRAYER
Still cuddled among the honeysuckles in the basket I was carefully
lifted from the carriage.
"Please, Marm, Mistis, lemme carry de settin'-aig-basket in to Mammy
Dilsey," pleaded Pery, the driver, who had taken great pride in giving
me my first ride and covering me over with his cherished honeysuckle
blossoms.
"Mammy's gwine to be so s'prised she'll want to knock me down. En I's
gwine to look solemn en mousterious en hand her de basket en say,
''Tain't no use er yo' settin' dese yer aigs, Mammy Dilsey, for dey's
already done en hatched out!' I know now jes' what she's gwine answer
back. She gwine say, 'Don't you come hyer wid none o' yo' projickin',
you pizen-fryin'-size-limb-er-Satan, you. Ef you does I'll smack you
slab-sided into de middle of next winter!' Den I gwine say, 'Well, look
for yo'se'f, Mammy Dilsey.'"
My grandmother, who not only liked to humor her servants but enjoyed
the anticipated surprise he was going to give Mammy Dilsey, granted
Pery's request and I was carried in and put upon Mammy's bed and the
rehearsed conversation followed. Mammy Dilsey would have been more
vigorous in her denunciation of that "fryin'-size" with his "lyin' en
projickin'" if her eyes had not at that moment rested on my grandmother,
to whom she appealed to "help her to save dat lyin'-limb-of-a-nigger fum
perditionment."
"Look for yourself, Mammy Dilsey, before condemning Pery to perdition,"
suggested my grandmother.
Mammy looked and seeing only my leafy and blossoming cover, ejaculated
scornfully:
"Aigs? Dey's honeysuckles en flowers. Dat nigga's tryin' to fool me!"
In lifting my honeysuckle blanket she pulled out my sugar rag. This loss
combined with the cessation of the soothing motion of the rockaway
caused me to make my presence and my grievances known by wail after
wail, verifying Pery's truthfulness as to something having hatched out.
"Land sakes!" cried Mammy Dilsey. "Fo' God!--Fo' God! Well, you-all sho'
ought to be ridic'lous at yo'se'fs--a humblementin' a po' li'l he'pless
baby en insecatin' her lak dis! Did you-all have no pillows nor no laps
to fotch de po' li'l lamb home 'pon widout puttin' her in a
settin'-aig-basket? How you-all know dat some misforchunement ain't
gwine to come 'count er projickin' wid her lak dat? De chile mout crow,
or she mout cackle, or she mout take her arms for wings en flop 'em, or
she mout peck, or eat wu'ms, or walk wid her toes stuck in'ards. She
eben mout have fedders. De Lord's ways is mousterious. He don't do
nuttin' out of de reg'lar Hisse'f, en you-all is done sumpn not only out
of de reg'lar but onnatural, a puttin' a baby in a settin'-aig-basket.
De po' li'l thing cries, too, lak 'twas starved to deaf. I s'pose Miss
Lizzie didn't have no milk en maybe dat was de reason you fotch it long
back wid you so dat Sis Sereny could nuss her; her twinzes bein' most de
same age."
At this moment the door opened and Aunt Serena, who had already been
notified of her coming duties, appeared, carrying on each arm a baby as
black as the ace of spades. Without a word she laid both the babies down
on Mammy Dilsey's bed and, taking me in her loving, motherly arms, set
my table, and I, half starved, ravenously showed my appreciation and
enjoyed my first meal at the expense of my little foster sisters, who
had just been awakened by my screams.
The news of my strange arrival had spread and the whole plantation
assembled to see their "young missis," crowding around in reverential
admiration, while I went off into a peaceful sleep, smiling anon in that
sleep, as the warm-hearted loyal negroes, from the oldest to the
youngest, leaned over to look at and bless me, "old missus'es" first
grandchild.
"Lord! Lord! Is dat we-alls li'l missis?" asked Uncle Charles, taking
off his hat, pulling his forelock and scraping his foot as reverentially
to me as if I had been a little princess. "Is dat Miss Lizzie's chile?
Niggers, you-all hyer dat? Take off your hats en bow en cutchy, ebby
last one er you, for dis is yo' Miss Lizzie's chile en mistisses'
gran'chile, de young missis dat de Lord is done en sont down to earth
for us to take a intrus' in, to work for, en to teach manners to, en to
send to school. Come along now, let us all kneel down en 'semble
ourse'fs in praher en concentrate our li'l missis to de bressed Lord;
all 'cept'n' Sis Sereny; she's holdin' de li'l missis, so she kin set.
"Oh, Lord, de Father of de fatherless, dat letteth not a sparrow fall to
de groun' widout Dy knowledge en counts de very hairs upon dar heads;
disremember dis Dy he'pless chile, who has been fotch to us dis day
th'oo trials en triberlations in a settin'-aig-basket. I beseech De, oh
Lord, to watch over her, clothe her in raiment en vestures en feed her
on manna en lead her li'l foots into de straight en narrer paths to de
glory of Dy righteousness. Harken up her voice to sing Dy praises en
lift up her han's to do Dy wu'k en keep her in Dy holy keepin'. Oh,
Lord, bress dis our li'l baby for de sake of Dy own en Miss Mary's li'l
baby, li'l Marse Jesus, amen."
"Git up fum off yo' knees now, niggers, en go 'long en tend to yo'
business. You-all got dem dar cows to git up en milk, en de hogs is to
be fed, en de hawsses to be curried, en you, Sis Sereny, you better wrop
de baby up now en carry her along to de Gre't House, en Sis Dilsey, you
better look after things. Ole-Granny-Aggie, you better git to bed."
The cradle was brought down from the garret and emptied of its loyal
little toys. It had belonged to the twin-brother of the uncle who took
the midnight ride to help me across the dark waters. While it was being
arranged for my occupancy a cry of dismay went up from Ole-Granny-Aggie,
who had disobeyed Uncle Charles and followed me in.
"Don't put dat chile in dat cradle! What you thinkin' 'bout? Marse
Jasper's twin done en die in dat cradle, en all de rabbits' foots in de
worl' ain't gwine charm away de ha'nts en keep off de ebil eye ef you
puts her in dat cradle to sleep. Put dem dar li'l toys all back ag'in en
tek de cradle back to de garret en pull outn de trunnel bed. De cat's
been a tryin' to steal hit for hern, en cats does p'int de way. You sho'
is tryin' to see how much triberlation en bad luck you kin fotch down
'pon dis chile's haid, fotchin' her home of a Friday in de small of de
moon in a settin'-aig-basket, mekin' her drink her first drink fum a
stranger's cup in a stranger's house wid undrinkin' strangers a lookin'
on while she unbeknown to it all is a drinkin'. I's glad I flung de
dish-water on de dog--a howlin' jest as Uncle Charles was a prayin', en
you-all know what a howlin' dog means."
The superstitions were heeded, the little toys were all lovingly
replaced in the cradle and returned to the garret and I was put to sleep
in the little trundle bed where my grandfather and great-grandfather and
mother and uncles and aunts had slept when the cradle and crib had grown
too small and they were not yet old enough for a tester-bed.
Aunt Serena was moved from the "quarters" and ensconced in one of the
garret rooms of the "Gre't House." She was provided with a supply of
new clothing, which delighted her, and was placed upon a special diet,
which she resented, preferring her bacon and greens, "pot-liquor" and
"corn-meal-dumplin's" to the daintier food prescribed.
Her little twins, my foster sisters, Mary-Frances and Arabella, were
placed in the care of the "orphan tenders," Mammy Dilsey and
Ole-Granny-Aggie, the latter claiming to be more than a hundred years
old. A cow was set aside for the especial use of the twins, who soon
learned that the tinkle of the cow-bells meant for them a banquet of
rich warm milk.
For awhile they were brought up twice a day to the "Gre't House" to see
"dar Mammy" and sometimes were permitted to partake of the crumbs that
fell from the "rich baby's table," which crumbs they soon disdainfully
refused, showing their preference for the libations of "Spotty Sookey,"
that being the name of their barnyard cow.
III
CHURCH VISITORS
My grandmother's old colonial home, Holiday's Point, so-called because
of the many holidays that my grandfather had been accustomed to give his
servants, was on the Nansemond River, in Nansemond County.
The county came into existence in 1639, being first called Upper
Norfolk. Its name was soon changed to Nansemum, spelled by Captain John
Smith "Nansemond." The Dismal Swamp extends along its edge. Its
county-seat is Suffolk, the burning of which I, as a child, have often
heard described by Ole-Granny-Aggie, an eye-witness, while we would
listen with bated breath, hair on end and nerves aquiver.
"No, chillun," she would say, "jedgment day ain't agwine to be no mo'
tur'ble to 'sperience dan de burnin' of we-all's county-town by dem
furrin Britishers was, en de niggers en de white folks ain't agwine to
be no skeerder den, needer."
Then she would describe in her picturesque lingo the firing of the
barrels of tar, pitch and turpentine which had been brought from the
Dismal Swamp and placed upon the wharf awaiting shipping. The flames
carried by a strong wind caught the grass of the dry marshes and spread
to the town and the surrounding country and, as Granny-Aggie said, "de
ma'shes en de river for miles looked and soun' lak one gre't
blazin'-kindle-lighted sheet er steadified thunder and lightnin'--de
magazines a 'splodin'--de timbers a cracklin'--de barrels of tar, pitch
en turkentine a bustin' en splungin' out dar fire--de sparks a flyin' en
a lippin' lak de whole fundament had busted wide open en all de stars in
de Heabens was a drappin' out, en ev'ybody runnin' lipperty-clip lak dey
thunk de Debil was a movin' de Bad Place down to Nansemon'."
Thus my infancy was surrounded by historic tales and the more ancient
traditions that had descended from father to son through generations of
dusky retainers.
I was the idol of my dear grandmother and her household and many
friends. My playmates were the children of the surrounding
plantations--the old homes inherited from colonial days. I had never
known any other way of living and experienced a shock of surprise on
learning that a little new acquaintance did not reside in the home of
her ancestors. I asked my grandmother if that little girl was
respectable.
"Of course," she replied. "She is a very nice little girl. What makes
you ask?"
"Because her pa and ma rent their home. She told me so herself. She
can't be respectable."
My grandmother explained to me that though it was pleasant and desirable
to live in the house of our fathers, the absence of that comfort did not
necessarily place a person "beyond the pale." But I felt at that time
that it was grandmother's charity that caused her to set forth that
view, for I thought that people who did not live in their own houses
could not be respectable.
Two members of my grandmother's household were "nominated" as "church
visitors," Mrs. Mary Hutchins, who was deaf, and whose husband, a sea
captain, had been lost in a wreck, and Miss Sophia Wilson who, through a
vicious parrot, had lost her sight on the eve of her marriage and had,
in consequence, been deserted by her fiancé.
There were poorhouses in those days but no homes for aged women and the
members of the church took care of their homeless co-workers. As Mrs.
Hutchins and Miss Sophia belonged to the old Glebe Church, they were
invited as honored guests by fellow-members. Some years earlier the
Episcopal Church had become almost extinct in Virginia and the
membership was still very small, so that the visits were correspondingly
extended. As my grandmother's home was especially pleasant the guests
prolonged their stay indefinitely, suddenly falling too ill to be moved
if there was any suggestion of their going elsewhere.
Mrs. Hutchins, or "Miss Mary," as we called her, could not hear, but she
read the movements of the lips, a circumstance of which Miss Sophia
would perversely take advantage by turning away as she spoke, whereupon
her friend would thus reproach her:
"Turn your head this way, Sophia Wilson! You don't want me to hear what
you are talking about. Begrudging me a little news and I interested in
everything, and the Lord knows I haven't a bit of curiosity."
"How do you know what the Lord knows, Mary Hutchins? If you knew half
what He knows you wouldn't make so many mistakes. No curiosity, indeed!
You're chock full of it. You'd bore a gimlet hole through the earth to
see what was on the other side."
"You wouldn't know what was on the other side if there was a tunnel
through and somebody shouting it with a fog-horn, and you're so stingy
you wouldn't tell me if you did know. Not that it makes any difference;
you're not likely to known anything on any side of the earth."
"Humph," was the indignant retort, "if I don't know things why should
you be so anxious to see me talk so you could find them out."
"Miss Mary" was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the timely
arrival of my grandmother, who could always apply oil to the waters when
they were especially troubled.
A part of my youthful education consisted of the thrilling stories
related to me by the captain's faithful relict, whose memory cherished
the tales of "moving 'scapes by land and sea" told her in early days by
the sailor. Thus I met the man-eaters of the South Seas, shuddered at
the gruesome trophies that adorned the persons and huts of the
head-hunters of Borneo, beheld the sea-serpent in the rippling waves of
the river that flowed below the edge of my grandmother's lawn, and heard
many a story of storm and wreck in which the departed sea-captain had
performed wonders of skill and bravery.
"Well, Mary Hutchins!" exclaimed Miss Sophia in stern disapproval when I
would be lost in rapt attention to these thrilling tales. "What do you
mean by putting such notions into that innocent child's head? What do
you suppose she will come to when she grows up? A lunatic asylum? Come
out of one yourself most likely or you wouldn't get such crazy ideas.
Just fancy people wearing other people's heads and hanging them on the
wall when they can pick up beautiful shell necklaces right off their own
beach and can get wax flowers to put around their houses that look
natural and won't ever fade! And as for sea-serpents, you know there
never were any."
"Now, Sophia Wilson," Mrs. Hutchins would answer, "the Bible tells us
that there are more things in heaven and earth than philosophy ever
dreamt of, and we know it's true, and if philosophy can't even dream of
the things in heaven and earth, how in the name of common sense are you
going to know what's in the waters under the earth? And doesn't it stand
to reason that those who go down into the great deep know more about
what's in the sea-waves than you do who would be afraid of the wave of a
clothes-line on a wash-day?"
In romantic moments Mrs. Hutchins would tell me of the green-haired,
flame-eyed, melodious-voiced mermaids that lie in wait to lure unwary
seamen to destruction on the rocks, from which danger her sailor had
been delivered by the memory of her. Unfortunately, Miss Sophia chanced
to be present at one of these sentimental reminiscences.
"You never did have green hair, Mary Hutchins, not even at your
prettiest, and that wouldn't be much, and as for flaming eyes, you
couldn't scorch a potato, not if your dinner depended on it, and if you
ever did sing it must have been worse than a flock of jaybirds. Talk
about that old Greek who moved trees when he played! I should think your
singing would be enough to make all the woodpiles in Virginia run away.
The more you educate that child, Mary Hutchins, the less she knows. The
Lord gave her more learning to begin with than she'll ever get from you,
and if you go on telling her such trash she'll forget all she ever did
know. I heard you yesterday telling her about the ghosts of the children
of Israel that keep on crossing the Red Sea. Now I want you to know,
Mary Hutchins, that when those Jews crossed the Red Sea once they were
on the other side for good and they don't go on walking through that
water as if the Lord had nothing to do but take care of them every time
they chose to go wading. There is such a thing as trusting the Lord once
too often, and the folks that know Him as well as the children of Israel
did aren't going to take risks like that on Him. First thing you know
you'll have that child seeing ghosts, and you know well enough that
people who see ghosts aren't ever likely to see anything that's worth
looking at."
I was often troubled in my mind between a confidence in "Miss Mary,"
which I wished to preserve unshaken, and the force of Miss Sophia's
arguments.
The germ of pathos latent in my undeveloped mind was fostered by the
story of Miss Sophia's lost vision, which ran thus:
She was visiting at the home of a friend who owned a parrot of unusual
brightness of mind and independence of character. Its mistress had a
little wooden whistle like those you may recall having seen rural
schoolboys whittle out and use for the production of music somewhat
shrill in tone but well adapted to please the taste of the juvenile
artist. The lady would whistle to the bird, which would answer her in
tones that obviously fell short of its ambition. The mistress had a
whistle like her own made for the parrot who, marvelous to relate,
acquired a high degree of skill in its use and was proud of the
achievement.
Once when Miss Sophia's fiancé called she wished to entertain him with a
display of the bird's accomplishments. Putting her friend's whistle to
her lips she approached the cage. The parrot, apparently angry with the
usurper for daring to assume the character of its mistress, darted its
beak through the wires and plucked out one of the interloper's eyes.
From overwork or sympathy the other eye lost its sight. The lover's
affection failed before the test of a blind sweetheart and he found a
more fortunate lady.
This story was told me as a lesson in refraining from meddling with the
possessions of other people. In combination with "Meddlesome Matty" in
my school reader it led me to extreme care in avoiding too great
familiarity with things that did not belong to me.
I was fascinated not only by the tragic story but by the click-clack of
Miss Sophia's teeth falling out of place as she told it to me. She had
purchased them by the sacrifice of her collection of gold dollars, the
gifts of friends through many years. The extravagance and vanity of this
purchase furnished another subject of dispute with "Miss Mary," who was
a thrifty soul and pious as well.
"Sophia Wilson," she said, "if the Lord had intended you to have teeth
all your life wouldn't He have given you a set that would have lasted to
your dying day?"
Miss Sophia retorted with spirit:
"If He wanted me to go without teeth because the ones He made turned out
badly, why do you suppose He put people into the world that were smart
enough to make new ones? Just answer me that!"
The question being wholly unanswerable, the conversation lapsed.
I found relief from the depression produced by the tragic reminiscences
confided to me by going out into the sunlight on the grass-carpeted lawn
and walking under the pink and white canopy of the blossoming althea
bushes, or Rose of Sharon, as the flowering plant was sometimes called.
The negroes had named the althea the "toothbrush tree" because they
broke twigs from it and chewed the ends of the tough fiber into brushes
softer than the finest hair brush and used them for cleaning their
teeth. "Miss Rose Sharon she first started it," they said. "She was a
fairy and lived in the tree and the pink and white blossoms are the
smile of her pretty face." I thought the fairy magic in the "tooth-brush
tree" was what kept the teeth of the negroes so dazzlingly white, and we
children always made our toothbrushes of the same material, hoping to
achieve a like result.
On the plantation were some "Story Trees," or "Ghost Trees," as the
negroes called them. On their trunks were patches of white and gray
moss, like fragments of thin veils. Each of the splotches bore a warning
or a legend brought by the spirits and written there. The trees were
centuries old and held the ancient Bible stories recorded before the
alphabet was invented, when the art of reading was among the
undiscovered things, and not even the earliest picture-writing had been
evolved. It was only the most important messages that the Lord would
permit to be confided to the old trees. Some of the spirit records had
broken lines and the servants said that the angel's wing was broken as
he brought the message down. There was a deep and fearsome scar on one
of the "ghost trees" which indicated a tragedy, past or to come, and I
used to gaze upon it with awesome wonder, trying to read its dread
meaning.
A few years later a great tragedy came and the blackness of it shrouded
our whole nation, but whether that was what the old tree prophecy meant
I know not.
IV
MY SOLDIER
Everyone has a point of beginning--a period back of which life, to
present consciousness, was not. For me this point stands out vividly in
memory.
I was staying with my grandmother, for since she took me home in the
"settin'-aig-basket," she had lovingly asserted her claim. My time was
divided between the two homes, hers and my father's. My tall handsome
father and my beautiful little mother sat on the front veranda, my
brother Thomas playing near them on the grass. It was in cherry time and
I saw "Uncle Charles" coming up the slope carrying a forked stick on
which hung a great cluster of black-heart cherries edged with bright red
ones that he had gathered for them to take home.
Suddenly my attention was diverted from the cherries to a horse pounding
down the lane and stopping at the gate, where a barefoot boy tumbled
off. He had ridden bareback, with plow-hames for a bridle, as if the
horse had been hastily taken from the field.
"Come quick as you can, please, ma'am!" cried the boy. "Mrs. Pitt is
dying!"
The rockaway was drawn to the door by old Starlight, my grandmother took
her seat within, and I watched Pery driving off, following them with my
eyes to the end of the lane, where they were lost to view in the
highway.
Poor Mrs. Pitt left four children to be apportioned among the members of
her church, little Sara falling to my grandmother's care. The next
morning my old mammy broke this news to me, ending with:
"Well, I sposin' it's all right, but de li'l gal don't b'long to de
quality, en how de Pitts come to membership in de silk-stockin' Chu'ch
is beyonst me."
My mammy's idea of the Episcopal Church dated from the days when its
members were noted for ornamentation in dress, and to her it was always
"de silk-stockin' Chu'ch." The lack of silken qualifications did not
lessen her determination to do her duty by the little girl who, in her
opinion, was so frail that she was doomed to an early death. In her
desire to fulfill her obligations mammy exhorted me to "ack lak a
sister-in-law to her, as you can't ack lak a sho' 'nough bloodified
sister." She expressed her opinion that it was not for nothing that she
had been dreaming about snakes and about wasps building their nests in
the beehives and made gloomy predictions of "haunts" and spirits that
would prowl around and creep through the keyholes because of this
unfortunate child. Warned by my wondering eyes that she was trespassing
on forbidden ground, she stopped short, saying:
"G'long, honey, and play wid yo' new French chany set. I done talk to
myself 'twel I got a mis'ry in my haid."
The privilege of playing with my dear little set of imported china was
granted only when I had been particularly good or some one else
particularly indiscreet.
That evening little "Sary Lizbef" came. She was a shy, frail, bow-legged
child, with sandy hair, pale blue eyes, and warts on her fingers. I took
possession of her, wanting to give her everything I had, happy in my
self-abnegation, having a tender feeling for her because of her lack of
the vigor possessed by the other children I knew and because there
gloomed over me mammy's assertion, "She's 'bleeged to die, anyhow."
One morning Aunt Serena came in to make known to my grandmother her
suspicions that the little girl had whooping cough, adding the warning:
"So you hyer me, ole Missus, you better stop she and li'l Missus
mingulatin' wid one anudder." The diagnosis proving correct, my
grandmother stopped our "mingulatin'" by taking me to Old Point Comfort
to visit her friend, Mrs. Boykin, a sister of Mr. John Y. Mason. At
first I was troubled about my only girl playmate; white girl, I mean,
for Mary Frances and Arabella, my little colored foster sisters, had
been my maids and playmates all my life and I was strongly attached to
them, like a princess dispensing laws and giving them their parts to
play in the drama of child-life. Only a Southern child can understand
these relations and the sentiments born of them.
The charms of Old Point soon dispelled my grief and I was happy, being a
favorite not only with the children but with the older guests, who found
me useful in amusing the little ones, to whom I taught the fancy steps I
had learned from my dancing-master and the original songs and dances of
the negroes on the plantation. Alas! in due course of time I developed
whooping cough and was thrust into the gulf of social ostracism. Instead
of the accustomed hearty welcome, I was greeted with, "Run away, little
girl, my little children cannot play with you now." I was a sensitive
child, and this sudden change was like a January freeze in midsummer,
but I soon discovered that my mammy's advice, "Ef you kyan't be happy
den be happy as you kin be," strictly followed, insured contentment in
the long run. She pointed out the advantage of being sociable with
myself, in that I should have no interference from others, but warned me
to be careful not to play too long at one game or I would surely have
"one of dem tur'ble low-sperited spells yo' gramma calls 'on yo' ear,'"
the latter phrase being mammy's version of "ennui."
Before I had reached this danger-point fate brought me a companion who
more than filled the vacancy left by the defection of my former
playmates. I had seen a solitary officer on the sands, reading, or
looking at the ships as they came and went, or watching the waves as
they dashed to sudden death against the shore. He figured in my
imagination as the "Good Prince" in the fairy stories my grandmother
told me.
He did not look as tall as the men of my family, but he carried himself
so erectly and walked with such soldierly dignity that I was sure that
any "Good Prince" might have envied him his stately appearance. I noted
that his hair, which hung in shining waves almost to his shoulders, was
the same color as my own and I pulled one of my curls around to look at
it and make sure of the accuracy of the comparison. Even at that early
age I had a liking for dainty hands and feet and I noticed his small
feet as he paced the sands and the delicate hand that was raised to his
cap in salute to an officer who passed. The grace of his hands was well
set off by the cambric ruffles that edged his sleeves. My childish eyes
took in the neatness and perfect fit of his attire which set off his
distinguished form. I thought him quite the handsomest soldier I had
ever seen, and was surprised one day to hear somebody say that he had
fought in the Mexican war. It seemed impossible to me. How could anyone
so immaculate and so beautiful to look upon have really fought and
killed people? I had never been near enough to see his eyes, but
imagined that they must be brilliant stars like those to which I said
good-night just before I cuddled down to invite sweet dreams.
My attention would probably not have been drawn so particularly to my
soldier, for I had already begun to call him _my_ soldier, had he been
surrounded by dancing, chattering companions and formed a part of the
gay life of Old Point Comfort. I should have observed him only as a
brilliant feature of the cruel world that had chosen to condemn me to
exile. But in his solitude I felt that we were comrades in sad
experience. I knew of only one calamity that could so set apart a human
being from his fellow creatures as to bar him from association with his
kind. The symptoms were unmistakable and I at once recognized the
melancholy officer as a co-victim of whooping cough and gave him the
tender pity of one who knew all about his misfortune.
One morning I was skipping along, chattering as usual, inquiring about
the little girl whose spiteful tongue had been pulled out by a
springbok, asking if the bluejay _really_ did carry tales to the devil,
and other queries pertinent to my stage of development, when my
grandmother stopped to speak to a friend. I rambled on until I came to a
spreading umbrella under which my soldier lay on the sands reading. He
was so absorbed in his book that he did not see me till I crawled under
the umbrella and looked into his face with, I suppose, all the sympathy
that I felt and asked him anxiously if he had the whooping cough,
telling him of my mammy's infallible remedy for that malady and assuring
him of her willingness to apply it to his case. Then he looked at me,
courteously raising his cap and smiling, and I saw that his eyes were
gray, shot with changeful lights, twinkling blue with mirthfulness as he
gave me a polite good morning. This recalled me to a realization of the
demands of good society and I got up and curtsied, wishing _him_ "Good
morning" and inquiring concerning his health. He arose and with knightly
grace returned my greeting, pointing to a seat for me on the sand, and
resumed his own place. Returning to the query with which I had opened
the interview he asked why I had taken him for a victim of so juvenile
an ailment. I feelingly related my own experience and dwelt upon the
oppressive isolation of one so afflicted and said that as he did not
associate with other officers nor dance with young ladies and had to
swim and read all by himself, as I did, I thought it must be because he
was suffering from the same misfortune as that which had deprived me of
social pleasures.
He looked at me with a shade of sadness in his face and then I saw that
his eyes could be very dark, like the sky sometimes at night when the
moon had gone to bed and the stars were only little shimmery specks of
light in the darkness piled velvety soft. He told me that he did not
have the whooping cough but he had something worse, a broken heart, and
he did not like to make others sad with his sorrow.
I had never seen a broken heart, but had some acquaintance with articles
that had come to grief in the kitchen and had been restored to pristine
wholeness by clever manipulation. I comforted him with the assurance
that broken hearts did not signify anything of importance; my mammy
could mend them with glue and boil them in milk so you couldn't even see
the cracks in them, as she had done with my grandmother's sugar bowl.
"How did you break your heart?" I inquired sympathetically. He replied
that God broke it when He took from him his loved ones and left him so
lonely. In return for his confidence I promised to comfort him for his
losses and to be his little girl now and his wife just as soon as I was
grown up to be a lady.
He took a ring from his guard-chain and put it on my finger and gave me
a tiny gold heart inscribed with "Sally," which had been the name of one
of his loved ones, and I crept out from under the umbrella pledged to
Lieutenant George E. Pickett of the United States Army. Then and to the
end he was my soldier, and always when we were alone I called him
"Soldier." I still have the ring and heart, and am indebted for this
reminiscence to the little red memorandum book which he gave me years
after, when he was General George E. Pickett, of the Confederate Army.
"Come again, little fairy," he said as I was leaving him to the
uninterrupted perusal of his book. Just then my grandmother came up,
with apologies for my intrusion upon a stranger, and the explanation
that my nurse had been sent to the Fort with a note for Lieutenant
Pickett, the son of one of her old friends, asking the pleasure of his
company to dinner. My new-found friend introduced himself as the officer
in question, expressing his pleasure in the meeting and assuring her
that my visit had been a charming episode in a monotonous waste of
loneliness. I explained:
"I am his little girl now already and am going to be his wife as soon as
I am grown up to be a lady."
"Yes, it has all been arranged," he laughed.