to digging a canal at Dutch Gap to connect the James and Appomattox,
thereby shortening by seven miles the road to Richmond, and placing the
State traffic under a permanent obligation to his memory. To protect his
men while they worked he stationed his prisoners in the trench beside
them, in order that the Confederates might not yield to the otherwise
irresistible temptation to fire upon them.
Butler may not have been gifted with that fascinating suavity of
demeanor which renders a man an ever-sparkling ornament to society, but
from a practical business point of view he was not wholly destitute of
commendable qualities. His Dutch Gap Canal is not only a lasting
monument to his progressive spirit, but a benefit to commerce and an
interesting feature which has attracted visitors from many nations.
Out on a point of the plantation, back from the river in a clump of
trees--the beginning of the big woods--is still standing a most
interesting monument. The top of it was broken off by Butler's troops in
a search for hidden treasure. It was erected by William and Mary
Randolph in 1771. The following is a copy of the inscription on one of
its sides:
"The foundation of this pillar was laid in 1771, when all the great
rivers of this country were swept by inundations never before
experienced; which changed the face of nature and left traces of
their violence that will remain for ages."
My first visit to this monument is one of the sweetest memories of my
Turkey Island life. I had gone with my husband to hunt rabbits and
birds--a hunt more for the meat than the sport in those poverty-stricken
days when our larders were greatly dependent upon the water and the
woods.
The day was fine and the dew was yet glistening as we came suddenly and
without warning within touch of the gray broken monument shut in and
surrounded by the great forest trees. In silence and solemn awe, in the
strange light and sudden coolness beneath the shadows my hero-soldier
stacked his gun and, raising his hat, gently and silently reached for my
hand. I slipped it into his and drew close to him. Birds were singing in
the distance.
"God's choir," he said, and in his beautiful voice sang his favorite
hymn, "Guide me, oh, thou great Jehovah." Then he taught me these lines:
"The groves are God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed
The lofty vault to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication."
"Is not that monument one of the oldest in Virginia?" I asked my
Soldier.
"No," he said. "There are many older, but the oldest one in the United
States, I believe, is one erected to a poor fellow who died on what was
to be your birthday in the centuries to come. It is on the banks of
Neabsco Creek in Fairfax County. Once when I was on furlough Snelling
and I came across it and copied the epitaph. The poor fellow was a
companion of John Smith. The inscription on the monument simply said:
"'Here lies ye body of Lieut. William Herris, who died May 16,
1608, aged 65 years; by birth a Briton; a good soldier, a good
husband and neighbor.'"
These rambles over the fields and woods, through the clover and
sweetbrier, keeping step and chattering with my Soldier where he, as a
boy, had often tramped with his father, are among the blessedest of my
blessed memories. My Soldier's classic taste and perfect harmony and
simple, pure heart made him a true lover of nature and the trees and the
plants, the stones, the sod, the ground, the waters, the sky, and all
living animals were his kin.
Though my warrior was a lion in battle, he was gentle, amiable,
good-humored, affectionate and hospitable in his home. The same
exuberant and hopeful spirit which cheered and encouraged his soldiers
in the field was felt in his home life. All the world is witness to his
patriotism and unselfishness, as he offered his life for the success of
the cause in which he had faith. He was never disheartened by the most
complicated difficulties. Unspoiled by fame, just and loyal, he deserved
the love he received, for he was worshipped by his family, idolized by
his soldiers, honored by all parties and all nations--my brave warrior,
as simple as a child, as high-minded as he upon whom the word-magician
said, "Every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance
of a man."
Soon after the surrender the Khedive of Egypt offered my Soldier the
position of General in his army, which he declined. After he had refused
a second invitation the Khedive cabled to Mr. Mott asking if there was
any way of inducing General Pickett to accept the commission. My Soldier
replied:
"I fight only for my country. Nothing would induce me to enter a foreign
war."
He tried to turn his sword into a plowshare, but he was not expert with
plowshares and, worse, he constantly received applications for
employment from old comrades no more skilled than he. All were made
welcome, though they might not be able to distinguish a rake from a
rail fence or know whether potatoes grew on trees or trellised vines.
They would get up when they felt like it, linger over breakfast, go out
to the fields, and if the sun was too hot or the wind too cold they
would come back to sit on the veranda or around the fire till dinner was
ready. Then they would linger at table telling war stories until it was
unanimously decided to be too late for any more work that day. There
were Generals, Colonels, Majors, Captains, Lieutenants, privates, all of
one rank now, and he who desired a graphic history of the four years'
war needed only to listen to the conversation of the agricultural army
at Turkey Island. The inevitable soon came. Resources were exhausted and
proprietor and guests were forced to seek other fields.
One of our friends was a veteran who had lost an eye in the Mexican war
and had served in the Confederate Army. All that was left of his
magnificence was his pride, which had grown strong and rugged on
misfortune. It was difficult to do anything for him. He would never
admit his needs and any reference thereto was likely to give offense. He
had visited us for a time and when urged to stay had resolutely
declined. My Soldier was very anxious to help him, but fearful of
wounding him. Walking down with him to take the steamer to Richmond my
Soldier, unobserved, took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and
dropped it in the road, hoping that the old Major would find it. But the
veteran walked by without seeing it. So his friend was compelled to find
it himself. Three times the ruse was played and at last the Major saw
the coin and, picking it up, offered it to his companion. "No, it
belongs to you," said the General. "You must have dropped it," urged the
Major. "I?" was the query. "How could I have a gold piece? The Yankees
are about the only people who have been down in this country with gold,
and now that you have found it, it belongs to you." After a long
discussion the Major was induced to accept the law that "finders is
owners," and he put the gold in his pocket.
When a number of his Virginians wished to make my Soldier Governor he
said that he never again would hold any office, but he would be glad to
have the valor of his soldiers at Gettysburg recognized and he and the
men would like to see his old Brigadier, Kemper, elected Governor.
General Kemper was the only one of Pickett's Brigadiers who came out of
the battle of Gettysburg, and he was maimed for life. He was elected
Governor, and, as he was a bachelor, my Soldier and I often assisted at
his receptions.
At a dinner given by the Governor to George Augustus Sala, the English
correspondent, Mr. Sala asked:
"General Pickett, whom do you regard as the hero of the battle of
Gettysburg, on the northern side?"
"Mr. Sala," was the reply, "the hero of Gettysburg on both the northern
and southern side was the private soldier."
I had often heard him say that not the Generals but the men in the ranks
fought the battles.
This reminded me of a story, which I told them:
"At a dinner in Canada, given to General Magruder's niece, who had
married an English officer, the conversation turned upon the battle of
Gettysburg and my Soldier was asked by the Governor-General and General
Magruder if he would tell them, now that the war was over, whom he
considered responsible for the loss of the battle; who was to blame.
With a twinkle in his eye he replied:
"'Well, Governor-General and General Magruder, I think the Yankees had a
little something to do with it.'"
Among the visitors at our home at Turkey Island was Mr. R. M. T. Hunter.
I well remember his grave but genial face, beardless, marked with deep
lines wrought by years of study and care. Those who do not recall him
may look at the pictured face of former Senator John W. Daniel, of
Virginia, and gain an idea of his appearance. His long hair, almost
touching his shoulders, gave him an air that would seem quaint to one
accustomed to the closely cropped heads of the present day. His
extensive acquaintance with public life, formed in the Congress of the
United States and that of the Confederacy, had secured for him an
inexhaustible fund of anecdote which his ready wit displayed to good
effect, and his vein of humor made him always a welcome companion. His
ability to deal with weighty subjects is indicated by the remark of
Senator Wigfall, "I don't know what we Southern men would do without
Hunter; he is the only one among us who knows anything about finance."
As a child his gravity and fondness for books led his old mammy to say,
"Li'l Marse Robert gwine ter be a gre't man; he's so lonesome in his
ways."
Mr. Hunter knew men, and was the first to discover the genius of
Stonewall Jackson. In a letter written to my Soldier near the beginning
of the war he congratulated the South on the possession of so great a
military man as General Jackson. He was one of those whom Mr. Lincoln
wished to see in Richmond after the surrender, expressing confidence in
his honesty and his influence with the Southern people, a meeting which
was prevented by the absence of Mr. Hunter from Richmond at the time,
and for which there was no later opportunity because of the tragic end
of the President's great life.
Some of the Northern officers who had seen little, if any, of Southern
plantation life, visited us and were deeply interested in the
characteristic features of our domestic circle. They found much
amusement in the original repartee of the negroes, liking to ask them
questions and discuss with them subjects of everyday life. General
Ingalls saw an old negro coming in with a large number of terrapin.
"What a lot of terrapin and what immense ones, Uncle Tom! How much do
you get for them, and where do you sell them?"
"Yas, suh; dey is 'mense 'case dey's fresh water tarepin; salt water
ones is littler. I gits ober en above a couple er ninepences apiece fer
'em, en I sells 'em up in Richmon' ter Mr. Montero, de gambler gemman.
You mus' 'scuse me, Marsa, fer answerin' you in retail."
"Why, Uncle Tom, you could get over a dollar apiece for these terrapin
in New York," General Ingalls replied.
Uncle Tom pointed to a bucket of water and looking at the General said:
"Yas, suh, Marsa; I spec' dat's so. En, suh, ef I had dat pail er water
in hell I could git a million er dollars fer it."
The visitors were also amused by the division of the plantation
property, as explained by the servants.
"Whose horse is that?" asked General Tom Pitcher of one of the boys
"mindin' de cows."
"Dat hawss? W'y, Marsa, hawsses allers b'longs ter de men-folks, so
cou'se dat hawss b'longs ter Marse George."
"And whose cows are those?"
"De woman-folks allers owns de cows, so cou'se dey's Miss Sally's cows."
"Whose chickens are those in the yard?"
"Dey's woman's t'ings, too, en cou'se dey's Miss Sally's."
"To whom do those mules belong?"
"Dey's jest only mules en dey don' hab no owners. Dey don' b'long ter
nobody 'specially, en don' nobody want 'em 'specially cep'n fer ter
wu'k. Dey's dif'unt fum udder prop'ty; dey ain' one t'ing ner de udder."
Looking up General Pitcher saw a flock of wild ducks flying across the
river in delightful irresponsibility.
"Whose ducks are those?" he asked.
The boy looked up and turned toward the General with an expression of
scorn.
"Dey's dey own ducks," he asserted emphatically. "Lawd, Marsa, whar you
been all yo' life not ter know dat wile ducks is dey own ducks?"
Going down the river one day with my Soldier, his brother Charlie, and
their sister, in a boat rowed by the overseer, I had what I thought an
interesting illustration of the tenacity of childish habits of thought.
Mr. Sims had been overseer on the Pickett plantation in the childhood of
the two sons of the family, who used to follow him around and absorb
knowledge from what they looked upon as fathomless depths of intellect
and experience. They were catching terrapin and my Soldier looked at the
catch in the bottom of the boat.
"Mr. Sims, why is it that these terrapin are of such different
markings?" he asked with a recurrence of the old-time attitude of mental
dependence. "They come from the same water, are grown in the same
conditions, and seem in every way alike except that the color markings
are different. There is a reason; what is it?"
"Yas, George," said the old man, "of course there is a reason for it,
it's jest this way with them tarepins; I've allers noticed they are
different. I've been catchin' tarepins off an' on all my life an' I've
allers seen 'em that way. Some's streaked an' some's criss-crossed an'
some's plain an' some has diamon's on 'em an' that's jest the reason.
They's jest made that way."
"I see now," said my Soldier in all seriousness and good faith. "I
suppose that is the reason. I have often wondered about it and this is
the first time I ever understood it."
After all the years and the wars and the foreign travel and the changes
he had unconsciously gone back to the blind confidence of childhood.
Adjoining Turkey Island was the plantation of Colonel William Allen
(Buck Allen), Curl's Neck. General Schofield and some other officers of
the United States Army, among them Colonel Day, drove down from
Richmond, visiting old battlefields and shooting ducks and partridges,
and were guests at Curl's Neck. At the invitation of my Soldier they
came to our home. Colonel Day had never before seen my Soldier and he
afterward thus expressed his feeling upon first meeting the warrior whom
he had hitherto known only by reputation:
"Imagine my surprise when, instead of the dashing, rollicking fire-eater
whom I expected to see in the hero of the greatest charge in modern
history, I touched glasses of apple-toddy with the gentle George
Pickett. I was impressed above all with his quiet demeanor, his
warm-hearted hospitality and gentleness. I stood in speechless wonder,
trying to reconcile the man before me with my preconceived idea of the
great warrior. It might all be summed up in the explanation that 'the
bravest are the tenderest.'"
XXXI
AT THE WHITE HOUSE
Not long after General Grant became President he sent an order to my
Soldier and Mrs. Grant extended an invitation to me and our little ones
to visit them at the White House. The Southern train, usually late, was
on time for once, and we came out of the station just as the President's
carriage appeared.
"Hello, Pickett!" he called out. "Up to your old war tricks, coming in
ahead of the train!"
The President referred to an incident of the war; my Soldier, wishing to
go from Hanover Junction to Richmond, applied to General Lee for a pass.
At that time the cars were so crowded that travel by rail was not
permitted except on official business or by special permission. General
Lee, just boarding the train from Richmond on military duty, referred
him to the Adjutant-General. As there was not time to visit the Adjutant
and be in Richmond at the desired hour, my Soldier mounted his horse,
Lucy, and rode into the city, waiting at the station to salute General
Lee as he stepped from the train.
[Illustration: ULYSSES S. GRANT]
My first view of Washington was from the President's carriage, though it
could scarcely be called a view of the city, as the carriage contained
all my world and my attention was more particularly centered therein.
We were received with warm hospitality by Mrs. Grant, who proved to be a
charming hostess, and all went well until night came, when I was so
afraid my baby would cry that I could hardly sleep. The next day when my
Soldier spoke of my uneasiness the President, putting his hat on the
boy's head and his stick between his legs, said:
"There, ride your horse and tell them you'll cry as much as you please;
that you own this house."
One evening when we were reminiscing I told Mrs. Grant of the first time
I had seen her, and my Soldier, who loved to tease me, repeated, much to
my dismay, my belligerent remarks on that occasion and the argument he
had used to curb my hostile demonstrations.
"And do you know, Pickett," the President replied, relieving my
embarrassment, "that once we were foolish enough to think seriously of
having an operation performed on her dear eyes? We had consulted the
best surgeons and had been assured that it was a very simple thing and
not at all dangerous, so we decided to have it done. As the time grew
near I got to worrying over it, and the more I thought of it the more I
did not want my wife's eyes changed even the least little bit from what
they had always been. Arrangements had been made; the hour for the
operation was almost at hand. We were alone. I stood watching her
collecting the last little odds and ends and stealing my pictures and
the children's and putting them into her handbag under her shawl.
Everything was ready and we started from the room. My hand was on the
knob of the door, when I stopped and said:
"'My dear, I am very selfish and ought not to say this; but I don't want
your eyes changed. They look just as they did the first time I ever saw
them--the same eyes I looked into when I fell in love with you--the same
that looked up into mine and told me that my love was returned. I have
seen that expression in them through all the years and I don't want it
to be lost. You might look better to other people, but to me you are
prettier as you are. So, if you don't mind, please let's keep your dear
eyes just as they always have been.'
"She looked up in joyful surprise and replied:
"'Why, it was only for your sake that I was even thinking of having
anything done, and if you feel in that way about it I--I----'
"Well, Pickett, I was glad and she was glad. I untied the
bonnet-strings, threw the bonnet onto the floor, I think, and took her
by the hand and we turned and walked back into the room as light-hearted
as a pair of children on their first picnic."
"Untied the bonnet-strings!" exclaimed Mrs. Grant. "You just pulled them
into a hard knot, then broke them and threw the bonnet onto the floor."
He reached over and patted her hand, and the President of the United
States gazed upon the same eyes that had looked their love into those of
the young captain in the years agone and had become more precious to him
with the passing of time.
Mrs. Grant's morning receptions in the blue room, in which she was
assisted by the President, were very popular, chiefly because of her
unfailing good nature, which had the effect of putting others in a good
humor with themselves and the world. It may be that you have met people
whose apparently permanent condition of mind led you to think that they
were averse to being put into a good humor and would prefer to avoid
the society of those who could effect such a revolution. That is a
delusion. There is no one who does not like to be in a good temper or
fails to experience a pleasant glow in the society of those who can
produce that novel condition.
The weakness of Mrs. Grant's eyes compelled her to carry on her
correspondence with the aid of a secretary, one of the soldiers usually
being sent to her aid when she desired clerical assistance. It was
before the day of the White House "social secretary," writing to the
first Lady of the Land not being at that time so popular a diversion as
it has since become.
The charities and generous deeds of Mrs. Grant were so quietly effected
that the world never knew of the good she accomplished. A friend who was
very close to her said that her work ought to be made known to the
public after she was gone, that it might live in memory without wounding
her modesty.
A home-like atmosphere pervaded the White House, due to the President's
habit of keeping his official existence and his home life separate and
to the determination of Mrs. Grant to provide him with a place where
official duties might fall from his brain and pleasure and content fill
his heart. Here he was "Ulys" to "Mrs. G.," as he called his
heart-companion of many years. Here he listened to the confidences of
his children, happy that they brought to him even their inmost thoughts.
At that time Fred was a cadet at West Point and the younger children
were attending Washington schools.
Colonel Dent did his part toward keeping the White House cheerful with
the original of that smile which has since been utilized for commercial
purposes. General Babcock could more easily have passed for a politician
than a soldier. General Porter's funereal face covered a fountain of wit
that was constantly bubbling up, to the surprise and delight of those
who had been deceived by the preternatural gravity of his expression.
The President was criticized by his opponents for keeping officers about
the White House, but when their martial phase was so slightly in
evidence I could not see why anyone should object.
Though General Grant was the soul of geniality with his intimate
friends, to the public generally his reticence had made him known as
"The Sphynx," or "the Great Unspeakable." If one chanced to appeal to
"the Sphynx" on a subject in which he was interested he became as fluent
as the most loquacious of men. When he was Commander of the United
States Army a gentleman who called upon him with a letter of
introduction from a friend of both, tried him upon two apparently
interesting subjects without leading anywhere. As the visitor was about
to retire in despair it occurred to him to mention a fine horse owned by
their friend. The "Great Unspeakable" immediately became a fountain of
eloquence and an animated conversation followed, to the delight equally
of the General and his caller.
The President told me in a gleeful way the story of his first purchase
of a horse. Speaking of his early dislike of military life and his
horror of war:
"I did not want to be a soldier. When my father came home from town one
day and surprised me with the information that I had received an
appointment to West Point I said, 'I am not going.' He looked at me and
replied, 'I think you are.' Then I thought so, too. I don't know what
else I could have been. I should probably not have succeeded in trade.
My first purchase was made when I was seven. A neighbor had a horse
which he was willing to sell for twenty-five dollars. My longing for
that horse was so great that my father, though knowing the price was too
high, told me that I might offer twenty dollars for it, and if the
neighbor would not take that I could offer twenty-two and if that did
not suffice I might pay the twenty-five. So I went to the man and told
him what my father had said. It would not be difficult to solve the
problem of the cost of that horse. The boys got wind of the story and
you can imagine that for awhile life was not worth much to me.
"It may be that I lost money on that horse, but the first dollar I ever
earned was on a mule; a circus mule. The ringmaster offered a dollar to
anyone who should succeed in riding the mule once around the ring. My
mind was made up to win that dollar. I promptly mounted the animal and
was as promptly deposited upon the sawdust. Asking if I might have
another trial I was told that I might have as many as I wanted. This
time I mounted with my face toward the mule's tail, which so
disconcerted him that he ambled peacefully around the ring and I got the
dollar."