In April my husband exultantly announced that he had "eight little
cases" on the calendar; on May 14 he wrote:—
"I am over head and ears with work, preparing Mrs. —'s case
for trial. It is infinitely troublesome; _but_ if I win, my
fee will be $2000—otherwise nothing."
He did win! In July he received his fee! Within two weeks I had wound
up all my small affairs in Petersburg, kissed "good-by" to my tearful
little band of music scholars, sent my Aunt Mary with my Gordon and
little Mary to "The Oaks" in Charlotte County to spend the rest of
the summer, persuaded my sable laundress, Hannah, that New York was
an earthly paradise, and taken passage thither with her and five of my
little brood.
A hot morning in July found us at City Point before sunrise, waiting for
the _Saratoga_, one of a bi-weekly line of two steam-boats, now coming
from Richmond on its way to New York. The _Saratoga_ and her consort,
the _Niagara_, had the right of way at that time with no competitors,
and could take their own time without let or hindrance. They travelled
the path now traversed by the many fine ships of the Old Dominion Line,
and travelled it alone except for an occasional Clyde boat or two.
As we waited, our noisy little engine puffed away impatiently. The
conductor hoped for a possible passenger for his return trip to
Petersburg, and had arrived at the terminus of his short road too soon.
City Point—lately a place of strategic importance, where the great
ships of the Federal army had anchored, where Mr. Lincoln had been
entertained by General Grant, where General Butler had long made his
headquarters—was now silent and deserted. Two years before the last
of General Butler's gunboats had steamed away. Not a shade tree, not
a "shanty," remained to mark the occupation of the Federal troops. An
unsheltered platform afforded the only place for a traveller to rest
while waiting for the boat, unless he could content himself with the
dust-covered seats in the forlorn little car and the limited view from
the narrow, dirty car window. Out on the platform, seated on his own
boxes, the traveller could see the sweep of the noble James River,
broadened here into a sea as it took into its bosom the muddy waters of
the Appomattox. Landward there was little to be seen except an unbroken
waste of dusty road and untilled field.
At a little distance a thin line of smoke indicated a small log cabin
and the presence of inhabitants. Outside the hut there was a "patch"
of corn and cabbages, and a watermelon vine sprawled about, searching
for the sweet waters wherewithal to fill the plump green melons it had
brought forth. A suspicious hen was leading her brood as far from the
engine as possible, and a pig in an odoriferous pen was leaping on the
sides of his stye and clamoring for his breakfast. Presently a languid
negro woman emerged from the cabin, and stooping over the cabbages,
selected a large leaf, which she proceeded to bind with a strip of
cloth around her forehead. She sauntered toward us and remarked that
it was "gwine to be a mighty hot day." She had risen early, she said,
to see the boat pass. Her son Jim was kitchen boy on the _Saratoga_,
and not allowed to leave the boat, but she could see him and "tell
'im howdy." She "cert'nly thought Sis Hannah lucky to git to go Nawth"
(Hannah was rather rueful and teary, having just parted from a Jim of
her own). "She would cert'nly go Nawth" herself if she wasn't "'bleeged
to stay at the Pint on account of the pig an' chickens an' things." She
was like the two old maids in Dickens's funny story, who lived in the
greatest discomfort in a crowded quarter on the Thames, but could not
even consider the possibility of moving—which they could well afford to
do—because of the trouble of moving "the library," a small collection
of books which any able-bodied market-woman could easily have carried
in her basket.
My own movables were really of less importance than those of my new
acquaintance. Hers represented the entire furnishing of a home—a home
sufficient for her needs. Mine were the melancholy wreckage of a home
which had been enriched with such treasures as are collected in a
prosperous and happy life: only what had been saved by a good neighbor
and a faithful servant from the sacking of our house at Cottage Farm—a
few damaged books, a box of sacred silver, and one trunk, which sufficed
for my own garments and for the slender wardrobes of my children. I was
on my way to keep house in New York with a service of silver and a few
rain-and-mud-stained books which had been picked up on the farm by our
good John.
My heart was heavier than my boxes, as I waited for the boat. All the
sad foreboding letters my general had written me rose up to fill me with
doubt and alarm. He had rented a furnished house and had paid the first
quarter of the $1800 it was to cost us. That sum seemed to me simply
enormous, but he had spent weeks in hunting throughout the length and
breadth of New York for the humble little home of his imagination. This
house was far out on an avenue in Brooklyn. I was afraid of it! I was
apprehensive that a very large hole indeed had been made in the $2000.
Moreover, my heart was sick in leaving Virginia—dear old Virginia, for
which I cherished the inordinate affection so sternly forbidden by the
Apostle. Six years of sorrow and disaster had borne fruit. "Truly," I
thought:—
"All backward as I cast my e'e
Seems dark and drear:
And forward though I canna' see
I doubt and fear."
And then I had just parted with my dear aunt and my scarcely dearer
daughters, with old friends and neighbors, with affectionate servants.
And I was _tired_—tired unto death!
But the boat, churning with its great paddle-wheels the muddy waters
of the James, was approaching, the captain and an early riser or
two leaning over the deck railing. My little boys ran gayly over
the gang-plank as soon as it was lowered. Hannah clung tearfully to
her acquaintance of an hour. The gang-plank was hauled in, the great
paddle-wheels turned, and we were off, on our way to our new home.
"Good-by, Dixie," called out my boys.
"Not yet, young gentlemen," said the captain; "we are still in Dixie
waters, and will be until we reach the sea."
As we sat on deck, steaming down the river, the passengers eagerly
scanned the shores and recounted the events of the late war. The last
time I had sailed down this river each point was interesting from
Colonial and Revolutionary associations. Now all these were forgotten in
its later history. Every spot was marked as the scene of some triumph
or occupation of the Northern army—of some disaster or humiliation of
the South.
There were few passengers—three charming young ladies with their mother,
returning home after a visit to the Cullen family of Richmond; a group
of teachers going home to New England for their vacation; a comfortable
negro mammy with her basket, very proud to repeat again and again
that she was "just from Mobile, Alabama," to whom Hannah looked up
with deference and respect; and half a dozen or more tourists from New
York returning from an inspection of the historic places in and around
Richmond. Among these last was an old acquaintance, a Southern man, who
at once sought conversation with me. He had lived in New York before
and during the war. He could not conceal his amazement at the desperate
venture my general was making. "Of all places," he said, "why, why are
you choosing a home in New York?"
"Ask the withered leaf," I answered, "why it is driven by a winter wind
to one place rather than another."
"But practically," he replied somewhat testily, "as a matter of prudence
and common sense—"
"You think, then," I interrupted, "there is small hope for my poor
general in New York."
"New York—" he said slowly and with emphasis, "New York, you will find,
has _no use for the unsuccessful man_."
This was an anxious thought for me to take to my state-room. Once there,
and my restless young ones asleep, I realized the desperate venture
we were making. Nothing had ever been as I wished. With the war, its
causes, its ends and objects, I had nothing to do. My part was solely
with the poverty, the heartbreak, the losses, the exile from home.
An unbidden vision, many a time thrust from me, now arose, insistent.
My early home—all flowers and music and beauty, my opulent life; the
devotion of honored friends—_this_ was my heritage! Of this I had been
unjustly defrauded. Ah, well! It was an old story—the story of another
paradise, another yielding to sinful ambition, another sword, another
parting with happiness and home to encounter difficulty, poverty,
danger! Then, "The world was all before them where to choose a place of
rest—and Providence their guide." Aye! _Providence their Guide!_ This,
this was the anchor of their hope, and must be mine.
We were awakened before dawn by a confusion on deck—the dragging of
heavy ropes, hurried feet, loud shouts. Throwing on my wrapper, I
ascended, to find my little boys already on deck, eager for adventure.
It appeared we had met our consort, the _Niagara_, in a crippled
condition, had thrown her a cable, and were now "put about" to lead her
into port at Norfolk. The rising sun found us slowly returning with the
_Niagara_ in tow; but a few miles from Norfolk she signified her ability
to go on without us, and we resumed our onward journey to New York.
Late in the evening all eyes were turned toward land—and presently
the sky-line of New York emerged from the mists. Very different was
it from the sky-line of to-day. Then we saw only the uneven line of
moderate dwellings of unequal height, broken here and there by the
upward-pointing fingers of the churches. There was no "Brooklyn Bridge"
spanning the East River, no Babel-like towers of the modern sky-scraper,
no great statue—like a bronze figure on a newel-post—of Liberty with her
torch and coronal of stars. (I never did admire Miss Liberty. I always
sympathized with the afflicted sculptor who exclaimed, as his vision
was smitten by the giantess, "If this be Liberty, give me Death.")
We were, after much delay, "warped" into our own berth, and the
"dear old muggy atmosphere" of New York stormed my unwilling senses:
atmosphere thickened and flavored, after a sweltering summer day,
with coal smoke, street-filth, and refuse of decaying fruit and many
cabbages.
But all things were forgotten when we descried the slight figure of my
general on the pier! Very thin and wan did he look, sadly in need of us.
He took us, a party of eight, to a neighboring restaurant for dinner;
and then we crossed the ferry and in the horse-cars, through miles and
miles of lighted streets, we reached our little home, far away on the
outer edge of Brooklyn.
The morning after our arrival we rose early to look about us. We were
in an unsubstantial new house, narrow as a ladder and filled with
unattractive furniture. Hannah agreed to take care of the children, and
I set forth to find a market. After walking several blocks in different
directions I concluded there was no market within reach, and I began to
doubt my ability to provide a dinner. A fat, stolid-looking policeman
strolled near me as I ventured:—
"Can you tell me, Mr. Officer, where I can find an honest butcher?"
"I'll be hanged if I know one," he replied.
I considered. We had brought biscuit and crackers. I must find some milk.
"Can you tell me, then, where I can get pure milk?"
My policeman whistled! I don't know what there was in my appearance that
tempted him to "guy" me, but with a droll twinkle in his eye he said:—
"Now look 'ere, lady! If you was to go on a little further, you'd get
to Flatbush; and then you'd see the mizzable critters standing up to
their knees in stagnant water, with their hoofs rotting off. Sure and
you wouldn't want any of their milk!"
The neighborhood was sparsely settled; a number of vacant lots
surrounded our house, which was one of a row all alike. I reflected
that the people living in those houses must occasionally eat! And so
I walked on and on until I reached a cross street on which cars were
running. There I found a stand of cakes and apples, before which a woman
sat knitting. "My good woman," I said amiably, "are your cakes _plain?_"
She dropped her work and glared at me. "_Clane_, is it! You think I
put dirt in 'em?" Her manner was so threatening that I turned and fled.
Her voice pursued me—"An' the blarney of her;" (mimicking), "'Me good
ooman'! 'Me good ooman,' indade!—the loikes of her!"
What my mistake had been I could not then imagine. I now know that I
had, unconsciously, a manner unwarranted by my appearance. Turning up
a new thoroughfare, I encountered a grocery store, with vegetables and
fruit at the door. There I learned with terror the cost of provisions in
this part of the world. At home I could buy a chicken for 25 cents—here
I must give 30 cents for a pound of him! Whortleberries (the grocer
called them "blueberries") could be bought at home for a few pennies
a quart. Here 20 cents was demanded for a shallow box of withered
specimens. Fifty cents in Petersburg would buy a large beefsteak. I
purchased an infant steak for $1.50, and with this I turned my steps
homeward.
A small shanty, a squatter's hut, was in the corner of the vacant lot
behind our house. Two or three children were playing in the dirt at the
door, and a goat eating paper beside them. Ah! there was a cow tethered
to a tree not far away!
A kindly-faced Irish woman answered my knock. I frankly told her my
dilemma and she sympathized at once. Her name was Mrs. Foley, and she
would milk her cow in my sight morning and evening, just behind my
house, so I could be sure of the purity of the milk. "An' sure in a wake
ye'll see the darlint fatten," she assured me. And a great comfort was
old Mrs. Foley all the time I lived near her.
I must confess the days passed wearily enough through July and into
August. The heat was extreme and of a depressing quality. We were so
far away from my general's office that his long journey morning and
evening, accompanied by Theo, was exhausting to both of them. I taught
Mary and Roger, but the children were very listless and unhappy. They
found no pleasure in walking up and down the uninteresting sidewalk of
a hot, dreary street. Loneliness, enhanced by the far-off hum of the
city, the mournful fog-horns and whistles on the river, and the not less
depressing sounds from the incessant pianos around us, oppressed us all.
We seemed to find nothing to take hold of, nothing to live for.
I one day found Hannah raining tears into her tubs as she washed our
linen, and having no mind to have my handkerchiefs anointed with other
tears than my own, I essayed to comfort her. Finally she confessed she
had never seen New York. She didn't know if it was "_thar_"—for she'd
"never seen sight of it." Moreover, Jim was writing to ask her what she
thought of Central Park and she "cert'nly was 'shamed to tell Jim she
had heerd tell of it but never set foot in it."
I had an inspiration. "Hannah," I said, "we have a steak for dinner.
You can broil a steak and boil some potatoes and rice in a few minutes.
Come, leave the tubs, run up and dress, and help me with the children.
We will all go to Central Park, spend a pleasant afternoon, and get back
in time for dinner."
We were a large party, and could not get off, having taken a hasty
luncheon, until nearly two o'clock. But the summer afternoons were long
and we had no misgivings. I had no idea of the distance, nor did I know
of any route to the Park, save the horse-car and ferry on our side, a
walk up Wall Street to Broadway, and the lumbering Broadway omnibus with
two horses for the rest of the way. At four o'clock we arrived in sight
of Central Park! A black thunder-cloud came up, and we alighted from
our stage in a drenching rain. Of course we must return without seeing
the Park, but to our joy we found a line of horse-cars waiting at the
gate for return passengers, and dripping wet, we took shelter in one of
these and were soon on our way homeward. At the end of our journey there
was Theo, with umbrellas—now useless, for more thoroughly drenched we
could not well have been,—and his father!—Well, his father was almost in
a state of nervous prostration! Hannah's spirits thereafter were worse
than ever. She lost all interest in work, and spent much of her time
leaning over her area gate and gazing into the street. Once I asked her
what she was looking at.
"Dat po-white-folks creeter hollerin' 'soap fat,'" she answered. "Lawd!
I wonder if dat ole creeter got wife!"
We were both mystified by the street cries. One man we found was _not_
crying: "Frank Potter," "Frank Potter," but "rags, bottles." But another
cry, "Pi-_ap_,—Pi-_ap_," much perplexed us. Finally Hannah brought
in a very hard, knotty, green apple, the "pi-ap" man had given her
as a sample of his wares. "Dar is his 'pi-aps,'" she explained. Light
broke upon my benighted intelligence. "Why, Hannah," I said, "he means
pie-apples!" "Good Gawd A'mighty!" she exclaimed. "Is _dat_ de bes' dey
can do!"
In August she entreated to be sent home. In vain I too entreated. I felt
that this was the last straw! What could I do in this strange city with
no faithful person to leave occasionally with the children? I offered
anything—everything—larger liberty, more wages.
Hannah said solemnly, "You knows I likes you and de chillern—but I can't
stay. I'se _feared_ to stay! I can't live in no place where folks plays
de piano all day Sunday. I'se boun' to git out. Somp'n gwine to happen
in dis Gawd-forsaken place." Then after a thoughtful pause she added
pensively: "_De watermillions is ripe at home!_ I done wrote to Jim to
git me one—a big one—and put it in a tub o' cole water erginst I come."
With Hannah I lost the last link that bound me to the old Virginia of
my childhood, my last acquaintance with the kindly old-time negro and
the dialect so expressive, so characteristic.
I filled her place with an Irish woman who served me faithfully for many
years, and was wont to commiserate me for all I had suffered "with that
nayger in the house." Her scorn of the negro knew no bounds. She never
knew how deeply I mourned my loss.
The pain of parting from friends, the doubt of the future, the dreams of
my early home, filled my heart with anguish; but I had but one consuming
desire—to sustain and strengthen the dear one who had fought so many
battles, and was now confronted with the stern struggle for existence.
To be cheerful for his sake, to press strong hands over my own breaking
heart—this was the task I set for myself.