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Dixie After the War

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Title: Dixie After the War

Author: Myrta Lockett Avary


        
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                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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DIXIE AFTER THE WAR


[Illustration: JEFFERSON DAVIS

After his prison life

Copyright 1867, by Anderson]


DIXIE AFTER THE WAR

An Exposition of Social Conditions Existing
in the South, During the Twelve Years
Succeeding the Fall of Richmond.

by

MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY

Author of "A Virginia Girl in the Civil War"

With an Introduction by General Clement A. Evans

Illustrated from old paintings, daguerreotypes and rare photographs







New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1906

Copyright, 1906, by Doubleday, Page & Company
Published September, 1906

All rights reserved,
including that of translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian




  To

  THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER,
  PHILIP LOCKETT,

  (_First Lieutenant, Company G, 14th Virginia Infantry,
  Armistead's Brigade, Pickett's Division, C. S. A._)

  _Entering the Confederate Army, when hardly more
  than a lad, he followed General Robert E.
  Lee for four years, surrendering at Appomattox.
  He was in Pickett's immortal
  charge at Gettysburg, and with
  Armistead when Armistead
  fell on Cemetery Hill._




The faces I see before me are those of young men. Had you not been this I
would not have appeared alone as the defender of my southland, but for
love of her I break my silence and speak to you. Before you lies the
future--a future full of golden promise, full of recompense for noble
endeavor, full of national glory before which the world will stand amazed.
Let me beseech you to lay aside all rancor, and all bitter sectional
feeling, and take your place in the rank of those who will bring about a
conciliation out of which will issue a reunited country.--_From an address
by Jefferson Davis in his last years, to the young men of the South_




INTRODUCTION


This book may be called a revelation. It seems to me a body of discoveries
that should not be kept from the public--discoveries which have origin in
many sources but are here brought together in one book for the first time.

No book hitherto published portrays so fully and graphically the social
conditions existing in the South for the twelve years following the fall
of Richmond, none so vividly presents race problems. It is the kind of
history a witness gives. The author received from observers and
participants the larger part of the incidents and anecdotes which she
employs. Those who lived during reconstruction are passing away so rapidly
that data, unless gathered now, can never be had thus at first hand; every
year increases the difficulty. Mrs. Avary's experience as author, editor
and journalist, her command of shorthand and her social connections have
opened up opportunities not usually accessible to one person; added to
this is the balance of sympathy which she is able to strike as a Southern
woman who has sojourned much at the North. In these pages she renders a
public service. She aids the American to better understanding of his
country's past and clearer concept of its present.

In connection with the book's genesis, it may be said that the author grew
up after the war on a large Virginia plantation where her parents kept
open house in the true Southern fashion. Two public roads which united at
their gates, were thoroughfares linking county-towns in Virginia and North
Carolina, and were much traveled by jurists, lawyers and politicians on
their way to and from various court sittings; these gentlemen often found
it both convenient and pleasant to stop for supper and over night at
Lombardy Grove, particularly as a son of the house was of their guild.
Perhaps few of the company thus gathered realised what an earnest listener
they had in the little girl, Myrta, who sat intent at her father's or
brother's knee, drinking in eagerly the discussions and stories. To
impressions and information so acquired much was added through family
correspondence with relatives and friends in Petersburg, Richmond,
Atlanta, the Carolinas; also, in experiences related by these friends and
relatives when hospitalities were exchanged; interesting and eventful
diaries, too, were at the author's disposal. Such was her unconscious
preparation for the writing of this book. Her conscious preparation was a
tour of several Southern States recently undertaken for the purpose of
collecting fresh data and substantiating information already possessed.

While engaged, for a season, in journalism in New York, she put out her
first Southern book, "A Virginia Girl in the Civil War" (1903). This met
with such warm welcome that she was promptly called upon for a second
dealing with post-bellum life from a woman's viewpoint. The result was the
Southern journey mentioned, the accidental discovery and presentment
(1905) of the war journal of Mrs. James Chestnut ("A Diary From Dixie"),
and the writing of the present volume which, I think, exceeds her
commission, inasmuch as it is not only what is known as a "woman's book"
but is a "man's book" also, exhibiting a masculine grasp, explained by its
origin, of political situations, and an intimate personal tone in dealing
with the lighter social side of things, possible only to a woman's pen. It
is a very unusual book. All readers may not accept the author's
conclusions, but I think that all must be interested in what she says and
impressed with her spirit of fairness and her painstaking effort to
present a truthful picture of an extraordinary social and political period
in our national life. Her work stimulates interest in Southern history. A
safe prophecy is that this book will be the precursor of as many
post-bellum memoirs of feminine authorship as was "A Virginia Girl" of
memoirs of war-time.

No successor can be more comprehensive, as a glance at the table of
contents will show. The tragedy, pathos, corruption, humour, and
absurdities of the military dictatorship and of reconstruction, the
topsy-turvy conditions generally, domestic upheaval, negroes voting, Black
and Tan Conventions and Legislatures, disorder on plantations, Loyal
Leagues and Freedmen's Bureaus, Ku Klux and Red Shirts, are presented with
a vividness akin to the camera's. A wide interest is appealed to in the
earlier chapters narrating incidents connected with Mr. Lincoln's visit to
Richmond, Mr. Davis' journeyings, capture and imprisonment, the arrest of
Vice-President Stephens and the effort to capture General Toombs. Those
which deal with the Federal occupation of Columbia and Richmond at once
rivet attention. The most full and graphic description of the situation in
the latter city just after the war, that has yet been produced, is given,
and I think the interpretation of Mr. Davis' course in leaving Richmond
instead of remaining and trying to enter into peace negotiations, is a
point not hitherto so clearly taken.

As a bird's-eye view of the South after the war, the book is expositive of
its title, every salient feature of the time and territory being brought
under observation. The States upon which attention is chiefly focussed,
however, are Virginia and South Carolina, two showing reconstruction at
its best and worst. The reader does not need assurance that this volume
cost the author years of well-directed labour; hasty effort could not have
produced a work of such depth, breadth and variety. It will meet with
prompt welcome, I am sure, and its value will not diminish with years.

CLEMENT A. EVANS.

_Atlanta, Ga._




CONTENTS


                                                                      PAGE

  CHAPTER I. THE FALLING CROSS                                           3

  CHAPTER II. "WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER"                              9

  CHAPTER III. THE ARMY OF THE UNION: THE CHILDREN AND THE FLAG         15

  CHAPTER IV. THE COMING OF LINCOLN                                     29

  CHAPTER V. THE LAST CAPITAL OF THE CONFEDERACY                        47

  CHAPTER VI. THE COUNSEL OF LEE                                        67

  CHAPTER VII. "THE SADDEST GOOD FRIDAY"                                77

  CHAPTER VIII. THE WRATH OF THE NORTH                                  89

  CHAPTER IX. THE CHAINING OF JEFFERSON DAVIS                          101

  CHAPTER X. OUR FRIENDS, THE ENEMY                                    107

  CHAPTER XI. BUTTONS, LOVERS, OATHS, WAR LORDS, AND PRAYERS FOR
  PRESIDENTS                                                           123

  CHAPTER XII. CLUBBED TO HIS KNEES                                    139

  CHAPTER XIII. NEW FASHIONS: A LITTLE BONNET AND AN ALPACA SKIRT      147

  CHAPTER XIV. THE GENERAL IN THE CORNFIELD                            155

  CHAPTER XV. TOURNAMENTS AND STARVATION PARTIES                       167

  CHAPTER XVI. THE BONDAGE OF THE FREE                                 179

  CHAPTER XVII. BACK TO VOODOOISM                                      201

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE FREEDMEN'S BUREAU                                 209

  CHAPTER XIX. THE PRISONER OF FORTRESS MONROE                         219

  CHAPTER XX. RECONSTRUCTION ORATORY                                   229

  CHAPTER XXI. THE PRISONER FREE                                       237

  CHAPTER XXII. A LITTLE PLAIN HISTORY                                 247

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE BLACK AND TAN CONVENTION: THE "MIDNIGHT
  CONSTITUTION"                                                        253

  CHAPTER XXIV. SECRET SOCIETIES: LOYAL LEAGUE, WHITE CAMELIAS,
  WHITE BROTHERHOOD, PALE FACES, KU KLUX                               263

  CHAPTER XXV. THE SOUTHERN BALLOT-BOX                                 281

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE WHITE CHILD                                        297

  CHAPTER XXVII. SCHOOLMARMS AND OTHER NEWCOMERS                       311

  CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CARPET-BAGGER                                    325

  CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEVIL ON THE SANTEE (A RICE-PLANTER'S STORY)       341

  CHAPTER XXX. BATTLE FOR THE STATE-HOUSE                              353

  CHAPTER XXXI. CRIME AGAINST WOMANHOOD                                377

  CHAPTER XXXII. RACE PREJUDICE                                        391

  CHAPTER XXXIII. MEMORIAL DAY AND DECORATION DAY. CONFEDERATE
  SOCIETIES                                                            405




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  JEFFERSON DAVIS                                 _Frontispiece_

                                                     FACING PAGE

  THE RUINS OF MILLWOOD                                        6

  MRS. JEFFERSON DAVIS                                        10

  THE WHITE HOUSE                                             32

  THE GOVERNOR'S MANSION, Richmond                            36

  ST. PAUL'S CHURCH                                           48

  THE LAST CAPITOL OF THE CONFEDERACY                         52

  THE OLD BANK, Washington, Ga.                               56

  GENERAL AND MRS. JOHN H. MORGAN                             62

  THE LEE RESIDENCE, Richmond                                 68

  MRS. ROBERT E. LEE                                          72

  MRS. JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON                                     80

  LIBBY PRISON                                                92

  MRS. DAVID L. YULEE                                        110

  MISS MARY MEADE                                            120

  MRS. HENRY L. POPE                                         128

  MRS. WILLIAM HOWELL                                        134

  MRS. ANDREW GRAY                                           134

  MISS ADDIE PRESCOTT                                        168

  MRS. DAVID URQUHART                                        174

  MRS. LEONIDAS POLK                                         180

  MRS. ANDREW PICKENS CALHOUN                                196

  FORTRESS MONROE                                            222

  HISTORICAL PETIT JURY                                      238

  MRS. AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON                                  248

  MME. OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT                                248

  MRS. DAVID R. WILLIAMS                                     268

  MISS EMILY V. MASON                                        304

  MRS. WADE HAMPTON                                          346

  RADICAL MEMBERS OF THE LEGISLATURE OF SOUTH CAROLINA       354

  THE SOUTHERN CROSS                                         364

  MRS. REBECCA CALHOUN PICKENS BACON                         406

  MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR                                        412

  WINNIE DAVIS, the Daughter of the Confederacy              416




THE FALLING CROSS




CHAPTER I

THE FALLING CROSS


"The Southern Cross" and a cross that fell during the burning of Columbia
occur to my mind in unison.

With the Confederate Army gone and Richmond open to the Federal Army, her
people remembered New Orleans, Atlanta, Columbia. New Orleans, where
"Beast Butler" issued orders giving his soldiers license to treat ladies
offending them as "women of the town." Atlanta, whose citizens were
ordered to leave; General Hood had protested and Mayor Calhoun had plead
the cause of the old and feeble, of women that were with child; and of
them that turned out of their houses had nowhere to go, and without money,
food, or shelter, must perish in woods and waysides. General Sherman had
replied: "I give full credit to your statements of the distress that will
be occasioned, yet shall not revoke my orders, because they were not
designed to meet the humanities of the case. You cannot qualify war in
harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it." "The
order to depopulate Atlanta was obeyed amid agonies and sorrows
indescribable," Colonel J. H. Keatley, U. S. A., has affirmed.

There are some who hold with General Sherman that the most merciful way to
conduct war is to make it as merciless and horrible as possible, and so
end it the quicker. One objection to this is that it creates in a
subjugated people such hatred and distrust of the conquering army and
government that a generation or two must die out before this passes away;
and therefore, in a very real sense, the method does not make quick end of
conflict.

Richmond remembered how Mayor Goodwin went to meet General Sherman and
surrendered Columbia, praying for it his pity and protection. General
Sherman had said: "Go home and sleep in peace, Mr. Mayor. Your city shall
be safe." Mayor Goodwin returned, praising General Sherman. By next
morning, the City of Gardens was almost swept from the face of the earth.
The rabble ("my bummers," General Sherman laughingly called his men set
apart for such work), pouring into the town, had invaded and sacked homes,
driving inmates--among these mothers with new-born babes--into the
streets; they had demolished furniture, fired dwellings.

Houses of worship were not spared. The Methodist Church, at whose altar
the Sabbath before Rev. William Martin had administered the Sacrament to
over four hundred negroes, was burned. So was the Ursuline Convent. This
institution was a branch of the order in Ohio; it sheltered nuns and
students of both sections; Protestant and Catholic alike were there in
sanctuary. One Northern Sister had lost two brothers in the Federal Army.
Another was joyously hoping to find in Sherman's ranks one or more of her
five Yankee brothers. The shock of that night killed her. A Western girl
was "hoping yet fearing" to see her kinsmen. Guards, appointed for
protection, aided in destruction. Rooms were invaded, trunks rifled.
Drunken soldiers blew smoke in nuns' faces, saying:

"Holy! holy! O yes, we are holy as you!" And: "What do you think of God
now? Is not Sherman greater?" Because of the sacred character of the
establishment, because General Sherman was a Catholic, and because he had
sent assurances of protection to the Mother Superior, they had felt safe.
But they had to go.

"I marched in the procession through the blazing streets," wrote the
Western girl, "venerable Father O'Connell at the head holding high the
crucifix, the black-robed Mother Superior and the _religieuses_ following
with their charges, the white-faced, frightened girls and children, all in
line and in perfect order. They sought the Catholic church for safety, and
the Sisters put the little ones to sleep on the cushioned pews; then the
children, driven out by roystering soldiers, ran stumbling and
terror-stricken into the graveyard and crouched behind gravestones."

One soldier said he was sorry for the women and children of South
Carolina, but the hotbed of secession must be destroyed. "But I am not a
South Carolinian," retorted the Western girl, "I am from Ohio. Our Mother
Superior was in the same Convent in Ohio with General Sherman's sister and
daughter." "The General ought to know that," he responded quickly. "If you
are from Ohio--that's my state--I'll help you." For answer, she pointed to
the Convent; the cross above it was falling.

They recur to my mind in unison--that cross, sacred alike to North and
South, falling above a burning city, and the falling Southern Cross,
Dixie's beautiful battle-flag.

Two nuns, conferring apart if it would not be well to take the children
into the woods, heard a deep, sad voice saying: "Your position distresses
me greatly!" Startled, they turned to perceive a Federal officer beside a
tombstone just behind them. "Are you a Catholic," they asked, "that you
pity us?" "No; simply a man and a soldier." Dawn came, and with it some
Irish soldiers to early Mass. Appalled, they cried: "O, this will never
do! Send for the General! The General would never permit it!"

At reveille all arson, looting and violence had ceased as by magic, even
as conflagration had started as by magic in the early hours of the night
when four signal rockets went up from as many corners of the town. But the
look of the desolated city in the glare of daylight was indescribable.
Around the church were broken and empty trunks and boxes; in the entrance
stood a harp with broken strings.

General Sherman came riding by; the Mother Superior summoned him; calmly
facing the Attila of his day, she said in her clear, sweet voice:
"General, this is how you keep your promise to me, a cloistered nun, and
these my sacred charges." General Sherman answered: "Madame, it is all the
fault of your negroes, who gave my soldiers liquor to drink."

General Sherman, in official report, charged the burning of Columbia to
General Hampton, and in his "Memoirs" gives his reason: "I confess that I
did so to shake the faith of his people in him"; and asserts that his
"right wing," "having utterly ruined Columbia," passed on to Winnsboro.

Living witnesses tell how that firing was done. A party of soldiers would
enter a dwelling, search and rifle; and in departing throw wads of burning
paper into closets, corners, under beds, into cellars. Another party would
repeat the process. Family and servants would follow after, removing wads
and extinguishing flames until ready to drop. Devastation for secession,
that was what was made plain in South Carolina; if the hotbed of "heresy"
had to be destroyed for her sins, what of the Confederate Capital,
Richmond, the long-desired, the "heart of the Rebellion"?

[Illustration: THE RUINS OF MILLWOOD

Millwood was the ancestral home of General Hampton, and was burned by
Sherman's orders. The property is now owned by General Hampton's sisters.]






"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER"




CHAPTER II

"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER"


"When this cruel war is over" was the name of one of our war songs. So
many things we planned to do when the war should be over. With the fall of
the Southern Capital the war was over, though we did not know it at once.

Again and again has the story been told of Sunday, April 2, in Richmond.
The message brought into St. Paul's Church from Lee to Davis, saying
Richmond could no longer be defended; the quiet departure of the
President; the noble bearing of the beloved rector, Rev. Dr. Minnegerode;
the self-control of the troubled people remaining; the solemn Communion
Service; these are all a part now of American history of that sad time
when brother strove with brother; a time whose memories should never be
revived for the purpose of keeping rancor alive, but that should be
unfalteringly remembered, and every phase of it diligently studied, that
our common country may in no wise lose the lesson for which we of the
North and South paid so tremendous a price.

Into Dr. Hoge's church a hurried messenger came. The pastor read the note
handed up to him, bowed his head in silent prayer, and then said:
"Brethren, trying scenes are before us; General Lee has suffered reverses.
But remember that God is with us in the storm as well as in the calm. Go
quietly to your homes, and whatever may be in store for us, let us not
forget that we are Christian men and women. The blessing of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Ghost be with us all. Amen." So other pastors
commended their people.

None who lived through that Sabbath could forget it. Our Government, our
soldiers, hurrying off; women saying goodbye to husband, lover, brother,
or friend, and urging haste; everybody who could go, going, when means of
transportation were insufficient for Government uses, and "a kingdom for a
horse" could not buy one--horses brought that day $1,000 apiece in gold;
handsome houses full of beautiful furniture left open and deserted; people
of all sexes, colors and classes running hither and yon; boxes and barrels
dragged about the streets from open commissary stores; explosions as of
earthquakes; houses aflame; the sick and dying brought out; streets
running liquid fire where liquor had been emptied into gutters, that it
might not be available for invading troops; bibulous wretches in the midst
of the terror, brooding over such waste; drunken roughs and looters, white
and black, abroad; the penitentiary disgorging striped hordes; the ribald
songs, the anguish, the fears, the tumult; the noble calm of brave souls,
the patient endurance of sweet women and gentle children--these are all a
part of American history, making thereon a page blistered with tears for
some; and for others, illumined with symbols of triumph and glory.

And yet, we are of one blood, and the triumph and glory of one is the
triumph and glory of the other; the anguish and tears of one the anguish
and tears of the other; and the shame of one is the shame of both.

The fire was largely due to accident. In obedience to law, Confederate
forces, in evacuating the city, fired tobacco warehouses, ordnance and
other Government stores, gunboats in the James and bridges spanning the
river. A wind, it is said, carried sparks towards the town, igniting first
one building and then another; incendiarism lent aid that pilfering
might go on in greater security through public disorder and distress.

[Illustration: MRS. JEFFERSON DAVIS]

During the night detonations of exploding gunboats could be heard for
miles, the noise and shock and lurid lights adding to the wretchedness of
those within the city, and the anxieties of those who beheld its burnings
from afar; among these, the advancing enemy, who was not without uneasy
speculations lest he find Richmond, as Napoleon found Moscow, in ashes.
General Shepley, U. S. A., has described the scene witnessed from his
position near Petersburg, as a most beautiful and awful display of
fireworks, the heavens at three o'clock being suddenly filled with
bursting shells, red lights, Roman candles, fiery serpents, golden
fountains, falling stars.

Nearly all the young men were gone; the fire department, without a full
force of operatives, without horses, without hose, was unable to cope with
the situation. Old men, women and children, and negro servants fought the
flames as well as they could.

Friends and relatives who were living in Richmond then have told me about
their experiences until I seem to have shared them. One who appears in
these pages as Matoaca, gives me this little word-picture of the morning
after the evacuation:

"I went early to the War Department, where I had been employed, to get
letters out of my desk. The desk was open. Everything was open. Our
President, our Government, our soldiers were gone. The papers were found
and I started homeward. We saw rolls of smoke ahead, and trod carefully
the fiery streets. Suddenly my companion caught my arm, crying: 'Is not
that the sound of cavalry?' We hurried, almost running. Soon after we
entered the house, some one exclaimed:

"'God help us! The United States flag is flying over our Capitol!'

"I laid my head on Uncle Randolph's knee and shivered. He placed his hand
lightly on my head and said: 'Trust in God, my child. They can not be
cruel to us. We are defenseless.' He had fought for that flag in Mexico.
He had stood by Virginia, but he had always been a Unionist. I thought of
New Orleans, Atlanta, Columbia."

An impression obtained that to negro troops was assigned the honor of
first entering Richmond, hauling down the Southern Cross and hoisting in
its place the Stars and Stripes. "Harper's Weekly" said: "It was fitting
that the old flag should be restored by soldiers of the race to secure
whose eternal degradation that flag had been pulled down." Whether the
assignment was made or not, I am unable to say; if it was, it was not very
graceful or wise on the part of our conquerors, and had it been carried
out, would have been prophetic of what came after--the subversion.

White troops first entered Richmond, and a white man ran up the flag of
the Union over our Capitol. General Shepley says that to his aide,
Lieutenant de Peyster, he accorded the privilege as a reward for caring
for his old flag that had floated over City Hall in New Orleans. On the
other hand, it is asserted that Major Stevens performed the historic
office, running up the two small guidons of the Fourth Massachusetts
Cavalry, which were presently displaced by the large flag Lieutenant de
Peyster had been carrying in the holster at his saddle-bow for many a day,
that it might be in readiness for the use to which he now put it.




THE ARMY OF THE UNION




CHAPTER III

THE ARMY OF THE UNION: THE CHILDREN AND THE FLAG


The Army of the Union entered Richmond with almost the solemnity of a
processional entering church. It was occasion for solemn procession, that
entrance into our burning city where a stricken people, flesh of their
flesh and bone of their bone, watched in terror for their coming.

Our broken-hearted people closed their windows and doors and shut out as
far as they could all sights and sounds. Yet through closed lattice there
came that night to those living near Military Headquarters echoes of
rejoicings.

Early that fateful morning, Mayor Mayo, Judge Meredith and Judge Lyons
went out to meet the incoming foe and deliver up the keys of the city.
Their coach of state was a dilapidated equipage, the horses being but
raw-boned shadows of better days when there were corn and oats in the
land. They carried a piece of wallpaper, on the unflowered side of which
articles of surrender were inscribed in dignified terms setting forth that
"it is proper to formally surrender the City of Richmond, hitherto Capital
of the Confederate States of America." Had the words been engraved on
satin in letters of gold, Judge Lyons (who had once represented the United
States at the Court of St. James) could not have performed the honours of
introduction between the municipal party and the Federal officers with
statelier grace, nor could the latter have received the instrument of
submission with profounder courtesy. "We went out not knowing what we
would encounter," Mayor Mayo reported, "and we met a group of
Chesterfields." Major Atherton H. Stevens, of General Weitzel's staff, was
the immediate recipient of the wallpaper document.

General Weitzel and his associates were merciful to the stricken city;
they aided her people in extinguishing the flames; restored order and gave
protection. Guards were posted wherever needed, with instructions to
repress lawlessness, and they did it. To this day, Richmond people rise up
in the gates and praise that Army of the Occupation as Columbia's people
can never praise General Sherman's. Good effect on popular sentiment was
immediate.

Among many similar incidents of the times is this, as related by a
prominent physician:

"When I returned from my rounds at Chimborazo I found a Yankee soldier
sitting on my stoop with my little boy, Walter, playing with the tassels
and buttons on his uniform. He arose and saluted courteously, and told me
he was there to guard my property. 'I am under orders,' he said, 'to
comply with any wish you may express.'"

Dr. Gildersleeve, in an address (June, 1904) before the Association of
Medical Officers of the Army and Navy, C. S. A., referred to Chimborazo
Hospital as "the most noted and largest military hospital in the annals of
history, ancient or modern." With its many white buildings and tents on
Chimborazo Hill, it looked like a town and a military post, which latter
it was, with Dr. James B. McCaw for Commandant. General Weitzel and his
staff visited the hospital promptly. Dr. McCaw and his corps in full
uniform received them. Dr. Mott, General Weitzel's Chief Medical
Director, exclaimed: "Ain't that old Jim McCaw?" "Yes," said "Jim McCaw,"
"and don't you want a drink?" "Invite the General, too," answered Dr.
Mott. General Weitzel issued passes to Dr. McCaw and his corps, and gave
verbal orders that Chimborazo Confederates should be taken care of under
all circumstances. He proposed to take Dr. McCaw and his corps into the
Federal service, thus arming him with power to make requisition for
supplies, medicines, etc., which offer the doctor, as a loyal Confederate,
was unable to accept.

Others of our physicians and surgeons found friends in Federal ranks. To
how many poor Boys in Blue, longing for home and kindred, had not they and
our women ministered! The orders of the Confederate Government were that
the sick and wounded of both armies should be treated alike. True, nobody
had the best of fare, for we had it not to give. We were without
medicines; it was almost impossible to get morphia, quinine, and other
remedies. Quinine was $400 an ounce, when it could be bought at all, even
in the earlier years of the war. Our women became experts in manufacturing
substitutes out of native herbs and roots. We ran wofully short of
dressings and bandages, and bundles of old rags became treasures
priceless. But the most cruel shortage was in food. Bitter words in
Northern papers and by Northern speakers--after our defeat intensified,
multiplied, and illustrated--about our treatment of prisoners exasperated
us. "Will they never learn," we asked, "that on such rations as we gave
our prisoners, our men were fighting in the field? We had not food for
ourselves; the North blockaded us so we could not bring food from outside,
and refused to exchange prisoners with us. What could we do?"

I wonder how many men now living remember certain loaves of wheaten bread
which the women of Richmond collected with difficulty in the last days of
the war and sent to Miss Emily V. Mason, our "Florence Nightingale," for
our own boys. "Boys," Miss Emily announced--sick soldiers, if graybeards,
were "boys" to "Cap'n," as they all called Miss Emily--"I have some
flour-bread which the ladies of Richmond have sent you." Cheers, and other
expressions of thankfulness. "The poor, sick Yankees," Miss Emily went on
falteringly--uneasy countenances in the ward--"_can't_ eat corn-bread--"
"Give the flour-bread to the poor, sick Yankees, Cap'n!" came in cheerful,
if quavering chorus from the cots. "_We_ can eat corn-bread. Gruel is good
for us. We _like_ mush. Oughtn't to have flour-bread nohow." "Poor
fellows!" "Cap'n" said proudly of their self-denial, "they were tired to
death of corn-bread in all forms, and it was not good for them, for nearly
all had intestinal disorders."

Along with this corn-bread story, I recall how Dr. Minnegerode,
Protestant, and Bishop Magill, Catholic, used to meet each other on the
street, and the one would say: "Doctor, lend me a dollar for a sick
Yankee." And the other: "Bishop, I was about to ask _you_ for a dollar for
a sick Yankee." And how Annie E. Johns, of North Carolina, said she had
seen Confederate soldiers take provisions from their own haversacks and
give them to Federal prisoners _en route_ to Salisbury. As matron, she
served in hospitals for the sick and wounded of both armies. She said:
"When I was in a hospital for Federals, I felt as if these men would
defend me as promptly as our own."

In spite of the pillage, vandalism and violence they suffered, Southern
women were not so biassed as to think that the gentle and brave could be
found only among the wearers of the gray. Even in Sherman's Army were the
gentle and brave upon whom fell obloquy due the "bummers" only. I have
heard many stories like that of the boyish guard who, tramping on his beat
around a house he was detailed to protect, asked of a young mother: "Why
does your baby cry so?" She lifted her pale face, saying: "My baby is
hungry. I have had no food--and so--I have no nourishment for him." Tears
sprang into his eyes, and he said: "I will be relieved soon; I will draw
my rations and bring them to you." He brought her his hands full of all
good things he could find--sugar, tea, and coffee. And like that of two
young Philadelphians who left grateful hearts behind them along the line
of Sherman's march because they made a business of seeing how many women
and children they could relieve and protect. In Columbia, during the
burning, men in blue sought to stay ravages wrought by other men in blue.
I hate to say hard things of men in blue, and I must say all the good
things I can; because many were unworthy to wear the blue, many who were
worthy have carried reproach.

On that morning of the occupation, our women sat behind closed windows,
unable to consider the new path stretching before them. The way seemed to
end at a wall. Could they have looked over and seen what lay ahead, they
would have lost what little heart of hope they had; could vision have
extended far enough, they might have won it back; they would have beheld
some things unbelievable. For instance, they would have seen the little
boy who played with the buttons and tassels, grown to manhood and wearing
the uniform of an officer of the United States; they would have seen
Southern men walking the streets of Richmond and other Southern cities
with "U. S. A." on their haversacks; and Southern men and Northern men
fighting side by side in Cuba and the Philippines, and answering alike to
the name, "Yankees."

On the day of the occupation, Miss Mason and Mrs. Rhett went out to meet
General Weitzel and stated that Mrs. Lee was an invalid, unable to walk,
and that her house, like that of General Chilton and others, was in danger
of fire. "What!" he exclaimed, "Mrs. Lee in danger? General Fitz Lee's
mother, who nursed me so tenderly when I was sick at West Point! What can
I do for her? Command me!" "We mean Mrs. Robert E. Lee," they said. "We
want ambulances to move Mrs. Lee and other invalids and children to places
of safety." Using his knee as a writing-table, he wrote an order for five
ambulances; and the ladies rode off. Miss Emily's driver became suddenly
and mysteriously tipsy and she had to put an arm around him and back up
the vehicle herself to General Chilton's door, where his children, her
nieces, were waiting, their dollies close clasped.

"Come along, Virginia aristocracy!" hiccoughed the befuddled Jehu. "I
won't bite you! Come along, Virginia aristocracy!"

A passing officer came to the rescue, and the party were soon safely
housed in the beautiful Rutherford home.

The Federals filled Libby Prison with Confederates, many of whom were
paroled prisoners found in the city. Distressed women surrounded the
prison, begging to know if loved ones were there; others plead to take
food inside. Some called, while watching windows: "Let down your tin cup
and I will put something in it." Others cried: "Is my husband in there? O,
William, answer me if you are!" "Is my son, Johnny, here?" "O, please
somebody tell me if my boy is in the prison!" Miss Emily passed quietly
through the crowd, her hospital reputation securing admission to the
prison; she was able to render much relief to those within, and to subdue
the anxiety of those without.

"Heigho, Johnny Reb! in there now where we used to be!" yelled one Yankee
complacently. "Been in there myself. D----d sorry for you, Johnnies!" called
up another.

A serio-comic incident of the grim period reveals the small boy in an
attitude different from that of him who was dandled on the Federal knee.
Some tiny lads mounted guard on the steps of a house opposite Military
Headquarters, and, being intensely "rebel" and having no other means of
expressing defiance to invaders, made faces at the distinguished occupants
of the establishment across the way. General Patrick, Provost-Marshal
General, sent a courteously worded note to their father, calling his
attention to these juvenile demonstrations. He explained that while he was
not personally disturbed by the exhibition, members of his staff were, and
that the children might get into trouble. The proper guardians of the wee
insurgents, acting upon this information, their first of the battery
unlimbered on their door-step, saw that the artillery was retired in good
order, and peace and normal countenances reigned over the scene of the
late engagements.

I open a desultory diary Matoaca kept, and read:

"If the United States flag were my flag--if I loved it--I would not try to
make people pass under it who do not want to. I would not let them. It is
natural that we should go out of our way to avoid walking under it, a
banner that has brought us so much pain and woe and want--that has
desolated our whole land.

"Some Yankees stretched a flag on a cord from tree to tree across the way
our children had to come into Richmond. The children saw it and cried
out; and the driver was instructed to go another way. A Federal soldier
standing near--a guard, sentinel or picket--ordered the driver to turn
back and drive under that flag. He obeyed, and the children were weeping
and wailing as the carriage rolled under it."

In Raymond, Mississippi, negro troops strung a flag across the street and
drove the white children under it. In Atlanta, two society belles were
arrested because they made a detour rather than walk under the flag. Such
desecration of the symbol of liberty and union was committed in many
places by those in power.

The Union flag is my flag and I love it, and, therefore, I trust that no
one may ever again pass under it weeping. Those little children were not
traitors. They were simply human. If in the sixties situations had been
reversed, and the people of New York, Boston and Chicago had seen the
Union flag flying over guns that shelled these cities, their children
would have passed under it weeping and wailing. Perhaps, too, some would
have sat on doorsteps and "unbeknownst" to their elders have made faces at
commanding generals across the way; while others climbing upon the enemy's
knees would have played with gold tassels and brass buttons.

Our newspapers, with the exception of the "Whig" and the "Sentinel,"
shared in the general wreckage. A Northern gentleman brought out a tiny
edition of the former in which appeared two military orders promulgating
the policy General Weitzel intended to pursue. One paragraph read: "The
people of Richmond are assured that we come to restore to them the
blessings of peace and prosperity under the flag of the Union."

General Shepley, Military Governor by Weitzel's appointment, repeated this
in substance, adding: "The soldiers of the command will abstain from any
offensive or insulting words or gestures towards the citizens." With less
tact and generosity, he proceeded: "The Armies of the Rebellion having
abandoned their efforts to enslave the people of Virginia, have
endeavoured to destroy by fire their Capital.... The first duty of the
Army of the Union will be to save the city doomed to destruction by the
Armies of the Rebellion." That fling at our devoted army would have served
as a clarion call to us--had any been needed--to remember the absent.

"It will be a blunder in us not to overlook that blunder of General
Shepley's," urged Uncle Randolph.[1] "The important point is that the
policy of conciliation is to be pursued." With the "Whig" in his hand,
Uncle Randolph told Matoaca that the Thursday before Virginia seceded a
procession of prominent Virginians marched up Franklin Street, carrying
the flag of the Union and singing "Columbia," and that he was with them.

The family questioned if his mind were wandering, when he went on: "The
breach can be healed--in spite of the bloodshed--if only the Government
will pursue the right course now. Both sides are tired of hating and being
hated, killing and being killed--this war between brothers--if Weitzel's
orders reflect the mind of Lincoln and Grant--and they must--all may be
well--before so very long."

These were the men of the Union Army who saved Richmond: The First
Brigade, Third Division (Deven's Division), Twenty-fourth Army Corps, Army
of the James, Brevet-Brigadier-General Edward H. Ripley commanding. This
brigade was composed of the Eleventh Connecticut, Thirteenth New
Hampshire, Nineteenth Wisconsin, Eighty-first New York, Ninety-eighth New
York, One Hundredth and Thirty-ninth New York, Convalescent detachment
from the second and third divisions of Sheridan's reinforcements.

"This Brigade led the column in the formal entry, and at the City Hall
halted while I reported to Major-General Weitzel," says General Ripley.
"General Weitzel had taken up his position on the platform of the high
steps at the east front of the Confederate Capitol, and there, looking
down into a gigantic crater of fire, suffocated and blinded with the vast
volumes of smoke and cinders which rolled up over and enveloped us, he
assigned me and my brigade to the apparently hopeless task of stopping the
conflagration, and suppressing the mob of stragglers, released criminals,
and negroes, who had far advanced in pillaging the city. He had no
suggestions to make, no orders to give, except to strain every nerve to
save the city, crowded as it was with women and children, and the sick and
wounded of the Army of Northern Virginia.

"After requesting Major-General Weitzel to have all the other troops
marched out of the city, I took the Hon. Joseph Mayo, then Mayor of
Richmond, with me to the City Hall, where I established my headquarters.
With the help of the city officials, I distributed my regiment quickly in
different sections. The danger to the troops engaged in this terrific
fire-fighting was infinitely enhanced by the vast quantities of powder and
shells stored in the section burning. Into this sea of fire, with no less
courage and self-devotion than as though fighting for their own firesides
and families, stripped and plunged the brave men of the First Brigade.

"Meanwhile, detachments scoured the city, warning every one from the
streets to their houses.... Every one carrying plunder was arrested....
The ladies of Richmond thronged my headquarters, imploring protection.
They were sent to their homes under the escort of guards, who were
afterwards posted in the center house of each block, and made responsible
for the safety of the neighborhood.... Many painful cases of destitution
were brought to light by the presence of these safeguards in private
houses, and the soldiers divided rations with their temporary wards, in
many cases, until a general system of relief was organised."[2]




THE COMING OF LINCOLN




CHAPTER IV

THE COMING OF LINCOLN


The South did not know that she had a friend in Abraham Lincoln, and the
announcement of his presence in Richmond was not calculated to give
comfort or assurance.

"Abraham Lincoln came unheralded. No bells rang, no guns boomed in salute.
He held no levee. There was no formal jubilee. He must have been heartless
as Nero to have chosen that moment for a festival of triumph. He was not
heartless." So a citizen of Richmond, who was a boy at the time, and out
doors and everywhere, seeing everything, remembers the coming of Lincoln.

One of the women who sat behind closed windows says: "If there was any
kind of rejoicing, it must have been of a very somber kind; the sounds of
it did not reach me." Another who looked through her shutters, said: "I
saw him in a carriage, the horses galloping through the streets at a
break-neck speed, his escort clearing the way. The negroes had to be
cleared out of the way, they impeded his progress so." He was in Richmond
April 4 and 5, and visited the Davis Mansion, the Capitol, Libby Prison,
Castle Thunder and other places.

His coming was as simple, business-like, and unpretentious as the man
himself. Anybody who happened to be in the neighbourhood on the afternoon
of April 4, might have seen a boat manned by ten or twelve sailors pull
ashore at a landing above Rockett's, and a tall, lank man step forth,
"leading a little boy." By resemblance to pictures that had been scattered
broadcast, this man could have been easily recognized as Abraham Lincoln.
The little boy was Tad, his son. Major Penrose, who commanded the escort,
says Tad was not with the President; Admiral Porter, General Shepley and
others say he was.

Accompanied by Admiral Porter and several other officers and escorted by
ten sailors, President Lincoln, "holding Tad's hand," walked through the
city, which was in part a waste of ashes, and the smoke of whose burning
buildings was still ascending. From remains of smouldering bridges, from
wreckage of gunboats, from Manchester on the other side of the James, and
from the city's streets smoke rose as from a sacrifice to greet the
President.

A Northern newspaper man (who related this story of himself) recognizing
that it was his business to make news as well as dispense it, saw some
negroes at work near the landing where an officer was having débris
removed, and other negroes idling. He said to this one and to that: "Do
you know that man?" pointing to the tall, lank man who had just stepped
ashore.

"Who _is_ dat man, marster?"

"Call no man marster. That man set you free. That is Abraham Lincoln. Now
is your time to shout. Can't you sing, 'God bless you, Father Abraham!'"

That started the ball rolling. The news spread like wild-fire. Mercurial
blacks, already excited to fever-heat, collected about Mr. Lincoln,
impeding his progress, kneeling to him, hailing him as "Saviour!" and "My
Jesus!" They sang, shouted, danced. One woman jumped up and down,
shrieking: "I'm free! I'm free! I'm free till I'm fool!" Some went into
the regular Voodoo ecstasy, leaping, whirling, stamping, until their
clothes were half torn off. Mr. Lincoln made a speech, in which he said:

"My poor friends, you are free--free as air. But you must try to deserve
this priceless boon. Let the world see that you merit it by your good
works. Don't let your joy carry you into excesses. Obey God's commandments
and thank Him for giving you liberty, for to Him you owe all things.
There, now, let me pass on. I have little time here and much to do. I want
to go to the Capitol. Let me pass on."

Henry J. Raymond speaks of the President as taking his hat off and bowing
to an old negro man who knelt and kissed his hand, and adds: "That bow
upset the forms, laws and customs of centuries; it was a death-shock to
chivalry, a mortal wound to caste. Recognize a nigger? Faugh!" Which
proves that Mr. Raymond did not know or wilfully misrepresented a people
who could not make reply. Northern visitors to the South may yet see
refutation in old sections where new ways have not corrupted ancient
courtesy, and where whites and blacks interchange cordial and respectful
salutations, though they may be perfect strangers to each other, when
passing on the road. If they are not strangers, greeting is usually more
than respectful and cordial; it is full of neighbourly and affectionate
interest in each other and each other's folks.

The memories of the living, even of Federal officers near President
Lincoln, bear varied versions of his visit. General Shepley relates that
he was greatly surprised when he saw the crowd in the middle of the
street, President Lincoln and little Tad leading, and that Mr. Lincoln
called out:

"Hullo, General! Is that you? I'm walking around looking for Military
Headquarters."

General Shepley conducted him to our White House, where President Lincoln
wearily sank into a chair, which happened to be that President Davis was
wont to occupy while writing his letters, a task suffering frequent
interruption from some one or other of his children, who had a way of
stealing in upon him at any and all times to claim a caress.

Upon Mr. Lincoln's arrival, or possibly in advance, when it was understood
that he would come up from City Point, there was discussion among our
citizens as to how he should be received--that is, so far as our attitude
toward him was concerned. There were several ways of looking at the
problem. Our armies were still in the field, and all sorts of rumors were
afloat, some accrediting them with victories.

A called meeting was held under the leadership of Judge Campbell and Judge
Thomas, who, later, with General Joseph Anderson and others, waited on Mr.
Lincoln, to whom they made peace propositions involving disbandment of our
armies; withdrawal of our soldiers from the field, and reëstablishment of
state governments under the Union, Virginia inaugurating this course by
example and influence.

Mr. Lincoln had said in proclamation, the Southern States "can have peace
any time by simply laying down their arms and submitting to the authority
of the Union." It was inconceivable to many how we could ever want to be
in the Union again. But wise ones said: "Our position is to be that of
conquered provinces voiceless in the administration of our own affairs, or
of States with some power, at least, of self-government." Then, there was
the dread spectre of confiscation, proscription, the scaffold.

Judge Campbell and Judge Thomas reported: "The movement for the
restoration of the Union is highly gratifying to Mr. Lincoln; he will
give it full sympathy and coöperation."

[Illustration: THE WHITE HOUSE OF THE CONFEDERACY, RICHMOND, VA.

Presented to Mr. Davis, who refused it as a gift, but occupied it as the
Executive residence. Now known as the Confederate Museum.]

"You people will all come back now," Mr. Lincoln had said to Judge Thomas,
"and we shall have old Virginia home again."

Many had small faith in these professions of amity, and said so. "Lincoln
is the man who called out the troops and precipitated war," was bitterly
objected, "and we do not forget Hampton Roads."

A few built hopes on belief that Mr. Lincoln had long been eager to
harmonize the sections. Leader of these was Judge John A. Campbell,
ex-Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, and
ex-Assistant Secretary of War of the expiring Confederacy. He had served
with Mr. Hunter and Mr. Stephens on the Hampton Roads Peace Commission,
knew Mr. Lincoln well, had high regard for him and faith in his earnest
desire for genuine reconciliation between North and South. When the
Confederate Government left the city, he remained, meaning to try to make
peace, Mr. Davis, it is said, knowing his purpose and consenting, but
having no hope of its success.

Only the Christmas before, when peace sentiments that led to the Hampton
Roads Conference were in the air, striking illustrations in Northern
journals reflected Northern sentiment. One big cartoon of a Christmas
dinner in the Capitol at Washington, revealed Mr. Lincoln holding wide the
doors, and the seceded States returning to the family love feast. Olive
branches, the "Prodigal's Return," and nice little mottoes like "Come
Home, Our Erring Sisters, Come!" were neatly displayed around the margin.
Fatted calves were not to be despised by a starving people; but the less
said about the pious influences of the "Prodigal's Return" the better.
That Hampton Roads Conference (February, 1865) has always been a sore
spot. In spite of the commissioners' statements that Mr. Lincoln's only
terms were "unconditional surrender," many people blamed Mr. Davis for the
failure of the peace movement; others said he was pusillanimous and a
traitor for sanctioning overtures that had to be made, by Lincoln's
requirements, "informally," and, as it were, by stealth.

"We must forget dead issues," our pacificators urged. "We have to face the
present. The stand Mr. Lincoln has taken all along, that the Union is
indissoluble and that a State can not get out of it however much she
tries, is as fortunate for us now as it was unlucky once."

"In or out, what matters it if Yankees rule over us!" others declared.

"Mr. Lincoln is not in favor of outsiders holding official reins in the
South," comforters responded. "He has committed himself on that point to
Governor Hahn in Louisiana. When Judge Thomas suggested that he establish
Governor Pierpont here, Mr. Lincoln asked straightway, 'Where is Extra
Billy?' He struck the table with his fist, exclaiming, 'By Jove! I want
that old game-cock back here!'"

When in 1862-3 West Virginia seceded from Virginia and was received into
the bosom of the Union, a few "loyal" counties which did not go with her,
elected Francis H. Pierpont Governor of the old State. At the head of
sixteen legislators, he posed at Alexandria as Virginia's Executive, Mr.
Lincoln and the Federal Congress recognizing him. Our real governor was
the doughty warrior, William Smith, nick-named "Extra Billy" before the
war, when he was always asking Congress for extra appropriations for an
ever-lengthening stage-coach and mail-route line, which was a great
Government enterprise under his fostering hand.

Governor Smith had left with the Confederate Government, going towards
Lynchburg. He had been greatly concerned for his family, but his wife had
said: "I may feel as a woman, but I can act like a man. Attend to your
public affairs and I will arrange our family matters." The Mansion had
barely escaped destruction by fire. The Smith family had vacated it to the
Federals, had been invited to return and then ordered to vacate again for
Federal occupation.

Mr. Lincoln said that the legislature that took Virginia out of the Union
and Governor Letcher, who had been in office then, with Governor Smith,
his successor, and Governor Smith's legislature, must be convened. "The
Government that took Virginia out of the Union is the Government to bring
her back. No other can effect it. They must come to the Capitol yonder
where they voted her out and vote her back."

Uncle Randolph was one of those who had formally called upon Mr. Lincoln
at the Davis Mansion. Feeble as he was, he was so eager to do some good
that he had gone out in spite of his niece to talk about the "policy" he
thought would be best. "I did not say much," he reported wistfully. "There
were a great many people waiting on him. Things look strange at the
Capitol. Federal soldiers all about, and campfires on the Square. Judge
Campbell introduced me. President Lincoln turned from him to me, and said:
'You fought for the Union in Mexico.' I said, 'Mr. Lincoln, if the Union
will be fair to Virginia, I will fight for the Union again.' I forgot, you
see, that I am too old and feeble to fight. Then I said quickly, 'Younger
men than I, Mr. President, will give you that pledge.' What did he say? He
looked at me hard--and shook my hand--and there wasn't any need for him to
say anything."

Mr. Lincoln's attitude towards Judge Campbell was one of confidence and
cordiality. He knew the Judge's purity and singleness of purpose in
seeking leniency for the conquered South, and genuine reunion between the
sections. The Federal commanders understood his devotion and integrity.
The newspaper men, in their reports, paid respect to his venerable,
dignified figure, stamped with feebleness, poverty, and a noble sorrow,
waiting patiently in one of the rooms at the Davis Mansion for audience
with Mr. Lincoln.

None who saw Mr. Lincoln during that visit to Richmond observed in him any
trace of exultation. Walking the streets with the negroes crowding about
him, in the Davis Mansion with the Federal officers paying him court and
our citizens calling on him, in the carriage with General Weitzel or
General Shepley, a motley horde following--he was the same, only, as those
who watched him declared, paler and wearier-looking each time they saw
him. Uncle Randolph reported:

"There was something like misgiving in his eyes as he sat in the carriage
with Shepley, gazing upon smoking ruins on all sides, and a rabble of
crazy negroes hailing him as 'Saviour!' Truly, I never saw a sadder or
wearier face in all my life than Lincoln's!"

He had terrible problems ahead, and he knew it. His emancipation
proclamation in 1863 was a war measure. His letter to Greeley in 1862,
said: "If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at
the same time save slavery, I do not agree with them. If I could preserve
the Union without freeing any slaves, I would do it; if I could preserve
the Union by freeing all the slaves, I would do it.... What I do about the
coloured race, I do because I think it helps to save the Union."

[Illustration: GOVERNOR'S MANSION, RICHMOND, VA.

Erected 1811-13, to succeed a plain wooden structure called the
"Governor's Palace."]

To a committee of negroes waiting on him in the White House, August 14,
1862, Mr. Lincoln named colonisation as the one remedy for the race
trouble, proposing Government aid out of an appropriation which Congress
had voted him. He said: "White men in this country are cutting each
other's throats about you. But for your race among us, there would be no
war, although many men on either side do not care for you one way or the
other.... Your race suffers from living among us, ours from your
presence." He applied $25,000 to the venture, but it failed; New Grenada
objected to negro colonisation.

Two months before his visit to Richmond, some official (Colonel Kaye, as I
remember) was describing to him the extravagancies of South Carolina
negroes when Sherman's army announced freedom to them, and Mr. Lincoln
walked his floor, pale and distressed, saying: "It is a momentous
thing--this liberation of the negro race."

He left a paper in his own handwriting with Judge Campbell, setting forth
the terms upon which any seceded State could be restored to the Union;
these were, unqualified submission, withdrawal of soldiers from the field,
and acceptance of his position on the slavery question, as defined in his
proclamations. The movement gained ground. A committee in Petersburg,
headed by Anthony Keiley, asked permits to come to Richmond that they
might coöperate with the committee there.

"Unconditional surrender," some commented. "Mr. Lincoln is not disposed to
humiliate us unnecessarily," was the reassurance. "He promised Judge
Campbell that irritating exactions and oaths against their consciences are
not to be imposed upon our people; they are to be encouraged, not coerced,
into taking vows of allegiance to the United States Government; Lincoln's
idea is to make allegiance a coveted privilege; there are to be no
confiscations; amnesty to include our officers, civil and military, is to
be granted--that is, the power of pardon resting with the President, he
pledges himself to liberal use of it. Lincoln is long-headed and
kind-hearted. He knows the best thing all around is a real peace. He
wishes to restore confidence in and affection for the Union. That is
plain. He said: 'I would gladly pardon Jeff Davis himself if he would ask
it.'"

I have heard one very pretty story about Mr. Lincoln's visit to Richmond.
General Pickett, of the famous charge at Gettysburg, had been well known
in early life to Mr. Lincoln when Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Johnson, General
Pickett's uncle, were law partners in Illinois. Mr. Lincoln had taken warm
interest in young George Pickett as a cadet at West Point, and had written
him kindly, jovial letters of advice. During that hurried sojourn in
Richmond, Abraham Lincoln took time for looking up Mr. Johnson. His
carriage and armed retinue drew up in front of the old Pickett mansion.
The General's beautiful young wife, trembling with alarm, heard a strange
voice asking first for Mr. Johnson and then about General Pickett, and
finally: "Is General Pickett's wife here?" She came forward, her baby in
her arms. "I am General Pickett's wife." "Madam, I am George's old friend,
Abraham Lincoln." "The President of the United States!" "No," with a
kindly, half-quizzical smile, "only Abraham Lincoln, George's old friend.
And this is George's baby?" Abraham Lincoln bent his kindly, half-sad,
half-smiling glance upon the child. Baby George stretched out his hands;
Lincoln took him, and the little one, in the pretty fashion babies have,
opened his mouth and kissed the President.

"Tell your father," said Lincoln, "that I will grant him a special
amnesty--if he wants it--for the sake of your mother's bright eyes and
your good manners." A short while after that--when Lincoln was dead--that
mother was flying, terror-stricken, with her baby to Canada, where General
Pickett, in fear of his life, had taken refuge.

Mr. Lincoln left instructions for General Weitzel to issue passes to the
legislators and State officials who were to come to Richmond for the
purpose of restoring Virginia to the Union. The "Whig" had sympathetic
articles on "Reconstruction," and announced in due order the meeting of
citizens called "to consider President Lincoln's proposition for
reassembling the Legislature to take Virginia back into the Union." It
printed the formal call for reassembling, signed by the committee and many
citizens, and countersigned by General Weitzel; handbills so signed were
printed for distribution.

General Shepley, whose cordial acquiescence in the conciliation plan had
been pronounced, said in after years that he suffered serious misgivings.
When General Weitzel directed him to issue the passes for the returning
legislators, he inquired: "Have you the President's written order for
this?" "No. Why?" "For your own security you should have it, General. When
the President reaches Washington and the Cabinet are informed of what has
been done and what is contemplated, this order will be rescinded, and the
Cabinet will deny that it has ever been issued."

"I have the President's commands. I am a soldier and obey orders."

"Right, General. Command me and I obey."

Mr. Lincoln's written order reiterating oral instructions came, however.

Admiral Porter, according to his own account, took President Lincoln to
task for his concessions, and told him in so many words that he was acting
outside of his rights; Richmond, being under military rule, was subject to
General Grant's jurisdiction. The Admiral has claimed the distinction of
working a change in the President's mind and of recovering immediately the
obnoxious order from Weitzel, killing, or trying to kill, a horse or so in
the undertaking. He characterised the efforts of Judges Campbell and
Thomas to serve their country and avert more bloodshed as "a clever dodge
to soothe the wounded feelings of the people of the South." The Admiral
adds: "But what a howl it would have raised in the North!"

Admiral Porter says the lectured President exclaimed: "Well, I came near
knocking all the fat in the fire, didn't I? Let us go. I seem to be
putting my foot into it here all the time. Bless my soul! how Seward would
have preached if he had heard me give Campbell permission to call the
Legislature! Seward is an encyclopedia of international law, and laughs at
my horse sense on which I pride myself. Admiral, if I were you, I would
not repeat that joke yet awhile. People might laugh at you for knowing so
much more than the President."

He was acting, he said, in conjunction with military authorities. General
Weitzel was acting under General Grant's instructions. The conciliatory
plan was being followed in Petersburg, where General Grant himself had led
the formal entry.

"General Weitzel warmly approves the plan."

"He and Campbell are personal friends," the Admiral remarked
significantly.

Whatever became of those horses driven out by Admiral Porter's
instructions to be killed, if need be, in the effort to recover that
order, is a conundrum. According to Admiral Porter the order had been
written and given to General Weitzel while Mr. Lincoln was in the city.
According to Judge Campbell and General Shepley, and the original now on
file in Washington, it was written from City Point.

Dated, "Headquarters Department of Virginia, Richmond, April 13, 1865,"
this appeared in the "Whig" on the last afternoon of Mr. Lincoln's life:

"Permission for the reassembling of the gentlemen recently acting as the
Legislature is rescinded. Should any of the gentlemen come to the city
under the notice of reassembling already published, they will be furnished
passports to return to their homes. Any of the persons named in the call
signed by J. A. Campbell and others, who are found in the city twelve
hours after the publication of this notice will be subject to arrest,
unless they are residents. (Signed) E. O. C. Ord, General Commanding the
Department."

General Weitzel was removed. Upon him was thrown the blame of the
President's "blunder." He was charged with the crime of pity and sympathy
for "rebels" and "traitors." When Lincoln was dead, a high official in
Washington said: "No man more than Mr. Lincoln condemned the course
General Weitzel and his officers pursued in Richmond."

In more ways than one General Weitzel had done that which was not pleasing
in the sight of Mr. Stanton. Assistant Secretary of War Dana had let
Stanton know post-haste that General Weitzel was distributing "victuals"
to "rebels." Stanton wired to know of General Weitzel if he was "acting
under authority in giving food supplies to the people of Richmond, and if
so, whose?" General Weitzel answered, "Major-General Ord's orders approved
by General Grant."

Mr. Dana wrote Mr. Stanton, "Weitzel is to pay for rations by selling
captured property." General Weitzel apologised for magnanimity by
explaining that the instructions of General Ord, his superior, were "to
sell all the tobacco I find here and feed those in distress. A great many
persons, black and white, are on the point of starvation, and I have
relieved the most pressing wants by the issue of a few abandoned rebel
stores and some damaged stores of my own." "All receivers of rations must
take the oath," Mr. Stanton wrote back.

In Northern magazines left by Federal soldiers visiting negroes in
Matoaca's yard, black Cato saw caricatures of Southern ladies mixing in
with negroes and white roughs and toughs, begging food at Yankee bureaus.
"Miss Mato'ca," he plead earnestly, "don' go whar dem folks is no mo'. It
will disgrace de fam'ly." She had put pride and conscience in her pocket,
drawn rations and brought home her pork and codfish.

Revocation of permission for the reassembling of the Virginia Legislature
was one of Mr. Lincoln's last, if not his last, act in the War Department.
Stanton gave him no peace till it was written; he handed the paper to Mr.
Stanton, saying: "There! I think that will suit you!" "No," said the Iron
Chancellor of the Union. "It is not strong enough. It merely revokes your
permission for the assembling of the rebel legislators. Some of these men
will come to Richmond--are doubtless there now--in response to the call.
You should prohibit the meeting." Which was done. Hence, the prohibitory
order in the "Whig."

Mr. Lincoln wrote, April 14, to General Van Alen, of New York: "Thank you
for the assurance you give me that I shall be supported by conservative
men like yourself in the efforts I may use to restore the Union, so as to
make it, to use your own language, a Union of hearts as well as of hands."
General Van Alen had warned him against exposing himself in the South as
he had done by visiting Richmond; and for this Mr. Lincoln thanked him
briefly without admitting that there had been any peril. Laconically, he
had thanked Stanton for concern expressed in a dispatch warning him to be
careful about visiting Petersburg, adding, "I have already been there."

When serenaded the Tuesday before his death, he said, in speaking of the
bringing of the Southern States into practical relations with the Union:
"I believe it is not only possible, but easier to do this, without
deciding, or even considering, whether these States have ever been out of
the Union. Finding themselves safely at home, it would be utterly
immaterial whether they had ever been abroad."

His last joke--the story-tellers say it was his last--was about "Dixie."
General Lee's surrender had been announced; Washington was ablaze with
excitement. Delirious multitudes surged to the White House, calling the
President out for a speech. It was a moment for easy betrayal into words
that might widen the breach between sections. He said in his quaint way
that he had no speech ready, and concluded humorously: "I have always
thought 'Dixie' one of the best tunes I ever heard. I insisted yesterday
that we had fairly captured it. I presented the question to the
Attorney-General and he gave his opinion that it is our lawful prize. I
ask the band to give us a good turn upon it." In that little speech, he
claimed of the South by right of conquest a song--and nothing more.




THE LAST CAPITAL




CHAPTER V

THE LAST CAPITAL OF THE CONFEDERACY


From Richmond, Mr. Davis went to Danville. Major Sutherlin, the
Commandant, met him at the station and carried him and members of his
Cabinet to the Sutherlin Mansion, which then became practically the
Southern Capitol.

The President was busy night and day, examining and improving defenses and
fortifications and planning the junction of Lee's and Johnston's forces.
Men were seeking his presence at all hours; couriers coming and going;
telegrams flying hither and thither.

"In the midst of turmoil, and with such fearful cares and responsibilities
upon him, he did not forget to be thoughtful and considerate of others," I
have heard Mrs. Sutherlin say. "He was concerned for me. 'I cannot have
you troubled with so many interruptions,' he said. 'We must seek other
quarters.' But I would not have it so. 'All that you call a burden is my
privilege,' I replied. 'I will not let you go.' He had other quarters
secured for the Departments, but he and members of his Cabinet remained my
guests."

In that hospitable home the table was set all the time for the coming and
the going. The board was spread with the best the bountiful host and
hostess could supply. Mrs. Sutherlin brought out all her treasured
reserves of pickles, sweetmeats and preserves. This might be her last
opportunity for serving the Confederacy and its Chieftain.

The Sutherlins knew that the President's residence in their home was a
perilous honour. In case the Confederacy failed--and hope to the contrary
could not run high--their dwelling would be a marked spot.

Major Sutherlin had been a strong Union man. Mrs. Sutherlin has told me
how her husband voted against secession in the first convention to which
he was a delegate, and for it in the second, with deep regret. "I saw in
that convention," he told his wife, "strong, reserved men, men of years
and dignity, sign the Secession Ordinance while tears coursed down their
cheeks."

It is just to rehearse such things of men who were called "traitors" and
"rebels." It is just to remember how Jefferson Davis tried to prevent
secession. His letters to New England societies, his speeches in New
England and in Congress, testified to his deep and fervent desire for the
"preservation of the bond between the States," the "love of the Union in
our hearts," and "the landmarks of our fathers."

But he believed in States' Rights as fervently as in Union of States; he
believed absorption of State sovereignty into central sovereignty a
violation of the Constitution. Long before secession (1847) he declined
appointment of Brigadier General of Mississippi Volunteers from President
Polk on the ground that the central government was not vested by the
Constitution with power to commission officers of State Militia, the State
having this authority.[3]

Americans should not forget that this man entered the service of the Union
when a lad; that his father and uncles fought in the Revolution, his
brothers in the War of 1812. West Point holds trophies of his skill as
a commander and of his superb gallantry on the fields of Mexico. That
splendid charge without bayonets through the streets of Monterey almost to
the Plaza, and the charge at Buena Vista, are themes to make American
blood tingle! Their leader was not a man to believe in defeat as long as a
ray of hope was left.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, RICHMOND, VA.

It was to this church that the message was brought from Lee to Davis
announcing the necessity of evacuating Richmond.]

As Secretary of War of the United States, Mr. Davis strengthened the power
that crushed the South; in every branch of the War Department, his genius
and faithful and untiring service wrought improvements. In the days of
giants like Webster, Clay and Calhoun, the brilliant Mississippian drew
upon himself many eyes and his course had been watched as that of a bright
particular star of great promise. The candidacy of Vice-President of the
United States had been tendered him--he had been mentioned for the
Presidency, and it is no wild speculation that had he abjured his
convictions on the States' Rights' issue, he would have found himself some
day in the seat Lincoln occupied. He has been accused of overweening
ambition. The charge is not well sustained. He did not desire the
Presidency of the Confederacy.

In 1861, "Harper's Weekly" said: "Personally, Senator Davis is the Bayard
of Congress, _sans peur et sans reproche_; a high-minded gentleman; a
devoted father; a true friend ... emphatically one of those born to
command, and is doubtless destined to occupy a high position either in the
Southern Confederacy or in the United States." He was "gloriously linked
with the United States service in the field, the forum, and the Cabinet."
The Southern Confederacy failed, and he was "Davis, the Arch-Traitor."

"He wrote his last proclamation on this table," said Mrs. Sutherlin to me,
her hand on the Egyptian marble where the President's fingers had
traversed that final paper of state which expressed a confidence he could
not have felt, but that he must have believed it duty to affirm. He had
tried to make peace and had failed. Our armies were still in the field. A
bold front on his part, if it could do no more, might enable our generals
to secure better terms than unconditional surrender. At least, no worse
could be tendered. That final message was the utterance of a brave soul,
itself disheartened, trying to put heart into others. All along the way to
Danville, people had flocked to the railroad to hear him, and he had
spoken as he wrote.

He was an ill man, unutterably weary. He had borne the burden and heat of
the day for four terrible years; he had been a target for the criticism
even of his own people; all failures were laid at the door of this one man
who was trying to run a government and conduct a war on an empty treasury.
It must have cost him something to keep up an unwavering front.

Lieutenant Wise, son of General Henry A. Wise, brought news that Lee's
surrender was imminent; on learning of it, he had taken to horse and run
through the enemy's cavalry, to warn the President. Starvation had brought
Lee's army to bay. Men were living off grains of parched corn carried in
their pockets. Sheridan's cavalry had captured the wagon-trains of food
supplies. Also, the President was called from the dinner-table to see an
old citizen, who repeated a story from some one who had seen General Lee
in General Grant's tent. Other information followed.

Scouts came to say that Federal cavalry were advancing. There was danger
that the President's way to the South might be cut off, danger that he
might be captured. All were in haste to get him away; a special train was
made up. The Sutherlin carriage drove hurriedly to the Mansion, the
President and Major Sutherlin got out and entered the house.

"I am to bid you goodbye," said he to Mrs. Sutherlin, "and to thank you
for your kindness. I shall ever remember it."

"O, but it is a privilege--an honour--something for me to remember!"

As explanations were being made and preparations hastened, the President
said: "Speak low, lest we excite Mr. Memminger or distress his wife more
than need be."

Mr. Memminger, ex-Secretary of the Treasury, was upstairs, very ill; the
physician had just left after giving him a hypodermic of morphine and
ordering absolute quiet. Friends decided that the sick man and his wife
ran less risk in remaining than in following the President. But Mrs.
Memminger, leaning over the balustrade, heard; and she and her husband
came down and went after the President in a rude farm wagon, the only
vehicle Mrs. Sutherlin could impress.

"Mr. Davis kept up a cheerful countenance the whole time he was here," his
hostess has borne witness, "but I was sure that deep down in his heart he
was not cheerful--I felt it. He was brave, self-possessed. Only once did
he betray evidence of break-down. When he was leaving, I knew that he had
no money in his pockets except Confederate notes--and these would buy next
to nothing. We had some gold, and I offered it to him, pressed it upon
him. He shook his head. Tears came into his eyes. 'No, no, my child,' he
said, 'you and your husband are much younger than I am. You will need it.
I will not.' Mr. Davis did not expect to live long. He was sure he would
be killed."

When General Sherman was accused by Stanton of treachery because
he was not hotter on the scent of "Jeff Davis and his $13,000,000
treasure-trains," he retorted indignantly that those "treasure-trains
dwindled down to the contents of a hand-valise" found on Mr. Davis when
captured.

Mrs. Sutherlin pointed out to me the President's sleeping-room, an upper
chamber overlooking the lawn with its noble trees, in whose branches
mocking-birds lodge. At his first breakfast with her, Mr. Davis told Mrs.
Sutherlin how the songs of the mocking-birds refreshed him.

Another thing that cheered him in Danville was the enthusiasm of the
school-girls of the Southern Female College; when these young ladies, in
their best homespun gowns, went out on dress parade and beheld Mr. Davis
riding by in Major Sutherlin's carriage, they drew themselves up in line,
waved handkerchiefs and cheered to their hearts' content; he gave them his
best bow and smile--that dignified, grave bow and smile his people knew so
well. I have always been thankful for that bright bit in Mr. Davis' life
during those supremely trying hours--for the songs of the mocking-birds
and the cheers of the school-girls.

Some weeks after his departure, General Wright, U. S. A., in formal
possession of Danville, pitched his tent opposite the Sutherlin Mansion.
The next Mrs. Sutherlin knew, an orderly was bearing in a large pitcher,
another a big bowl, and between them General Wright's compliments and his
hopes "that you may find this lemonade refreshing" and "be pleased to
accept this white cut sugar, as the drink may not be sweet enough for your
taste." Another day, an orderly appeared with a large, juicy steak; every
short while orderlies came making presentation.

The Sutherlins accepted and returned courtesies. "We had as well be
polite," said Major Sutherlin. "There's no use quarrelling with them
because they have whipped us." When they came to him for official
information as to where Confederate Government ice-houses were, he
responded: "It is not my business to give you this information. Your
commanders can find out for themselves. Meanwhile, General Wright and his
staff are welcome to ice out of my own ice-houses." They found out for
themselves with little delay.

[Illustration: LAST CAPITOL OF THE CONFEDERACY

The Sutherlin Mansion, Danville, Va., which, for a short time after the
evacuation of Richmond, was the headquarters of the Confederate
Government. President Davis and the members of his Cabinet were guests of
Major Sutherlin at that time.

Photograph by Eutsler Bros., Danville, Va.]

On the verandah where the Confederate President and his advisers had
lately gathered, Federal officers sat at ease, smoking sociably and
conversing with the master of the house. If a meal-hour arrived, Major
Sutherlin would say: "Gentlemen, will you join us?" Usually, invitation
was accepted. Social recognition was the one thing the Northern soldier
could not conquer in the South by main strength and awkwardness; he
coveted and appreciated it.

All were listening for tidings of Johnston's surrender. At last the news
came. Around the Sutherlin board one day sat six guests: three Federal
officers in fine cloth and gold lace, three Confederate officers in shabby
raiment. A noise as of a terrific explosion shook the house. "Throw up the
windows!" said the mistress to her servants, an ordinary command when
shattering of glass by concussion was an every-day occurrence in
artillery-ridden Dixie. Save for this sentence, there was complete silence
at the table. The officers laid down their knives and forks and said not
one word. They knew that those guns announced the surrender of Johnston's
army. I suppose it was the salute of 200--the same that had been ordered
at every post as glorification of Lee's surrender.

Some time after this, Mayor Walker came to Major Sutherlin with a telegram
announcing that General Meade and his staff would stop in Danville over
night. They had been or were going to South Carolina on a mission of
relief to whites who were in peril from blacks. At the Mayor's request,
Major Sutherlin met the officers at the train.

"General," was his cordial greeting to General Meade, a splendid-looking
officer at that day, "I am here to claim you and your staff as my guests."
General Meade, accepting, said: "I will have my ambulance bring us up."
"O, no, General! You come in my carriage, if you will do me that honour.
It is waiting."

At breakfast, General Meade said to his hostess: "Madam, Southern
hospitality has not been praised too highly. I trust some day to see you
North that I may have opportunity to match your courtesy." Another time:
"Madam, I trust that no misfortune will come to you because of the
troubled state of our country. But if there should, I may be of service to
you. You have only to command me, and I ask it as a favour that you will."

A Northern friend had warned her: "Mrs. Sutherlin, I fear your property
may be confiscated because of the uses to which it has been put in the
service of the Confederate Government. You should take advantage of
General Wright's good will and of the good will of other Federal officers
towards Major Sutherlin to make your title secure." Did she ask General
Meade now to save her home to her?

"General, hospitality is our privilege and you owe us no debt. But I beg
you to extend the kindly feelings you express toward Major Sutherlin and
myself to one who lately sat where you now sit, at my right hand. I would
ask you to use your influence to secure more gracious hospitality to our
President who is in prison."

Dead silence. One could have heard a pin fall.

Wholesale confiscation of Greensboro was threatened because of Mr. Davis'
stop there. Major Sutherlin strove with tact and diligence to prevent it.
He lost no opportunity to cultivate kindly relations with Northerners of
influence, and to inaugurate a reign of good-will generally. Receiving a
telegram saying that Colonel Buford, a Northern officer, and his party,
would pass through Danville, the Major went to his wife and said: "I am
going to invite those Yankees here. I want you to get up the finest dinner
you can for them." Feeling was high and sore; she did not smile. The day
of their arrival he appeared in trepidation. "I have another telegram," he
said. "To my surprise, there are ladies in the party."

This was too much for the honest "rebel" soul of her. Men she could avoid
seeing except at table; but with ladies for her guests, more olive
branches must be exchanged than genuine feeling between late enemies could
possibly warrant. But her guests found her a perfect hostess, grave,
sincere, hospitable.

There was a young married pair. When her faithful coloured man went up to
their rooms to render service, they were afraid of him, were careful he
should not enter, seemed to fear that of himself or as the instrument of
his former owners he might do them injury.

Such queer, contradictory ideas Yankees had of us and our black people. A
Northern girl visiting the niece of Alexander H. Stephens at a plantation
where there were many negroes, asked: "Where are the blood-hounds?" "The
blood-hounds! We haven't any." "How do you manage the negroes without
them? I thought all Southerners kept blood-hounds--that only blood-hounds
could keep negroes from running away." "I never saw a blood-hound in my
life," Miss Stephens replied. "I don't know what one is like. None of our
friends keep blood-hounds."

But to the Sutherlin Mansion. The bride asked: "Mrs. Sutherlin, what room
did Mr. Davis occupy?"

"That in which you sleep."

The bride was silent. Then: "It is a pleasant room. The mocking-birds are
singing when we wake in the morning. Sometimes, I hear them in the night."

A shadow fell on the hostess' face. The words recalled the thought of Mr.
Davis, now shut out from the sight of the sky and the voice of the birds.

It has been said of this or that place at which Mr. Davis, moving
southward from Danville, stopped, that it was the "Last Capital of the
Confederacy." He held a Cabinet meeting in Colonel Wood's house in
Greensboro; was in Charlotte several days; held a Cabinet meeting or
council of war in the Armistead Burt House, Abbeville, S. C.; and in the
Old Bank, Washington, Ga. He said in council at Abbeville: "I will listen
to no proposition for my safety. I appeal to you for our country."

He stopped one night at Salisbury, with the Episcopal minister, whose
little daughter ran in while all were at the breakfast-table, and standing
between her father and Mr. Davis, cried out in childish terror and
distress: "O, Papa, old Lincoln's coming and is going to kill us all!"
President Davis laid down his knife and fork, lifted her face, and said
reassuringly: "No, no, my little lady! Mr. Lincoln is not such a bad man,
and I am sure he would not harm a little girl like you."

While the President was at Charlotte, there was another memorable peace
effort, Sherman and Johnston arranging terms. Johnston's overture was
dated April 13; Sherman's reply, "I am fully empowered to arrange with you
any terms for the suspension of hostilities," April 14, the last day of
Lincoln's life. Mr. Davis wrote General Johnston: "Your course is
approved." Mr. Stanton nearly branded Sherman as a traitor. Sherman gave
Johnston notice that he must renew hostilities. Mr. Davis left Charlotte,
thinking war still on.

[Illustration: THE OLD BANK BUILDING, WASHINGTON, GA.

The last meeting place of the Confederate Cabinet when that body was
reduced to two or three members.

Photographed in 1899]

In Washington, Ga., the first town in America named for the Father of his
Country, the Confederate Government breathed its last. A quiet,
picturesque, little place, out of track of the armies, it was suddenly
shaken with excitement, when Mr. Davis, attended by his personal staff,
several distinguished officers, besides a small cavalry escort, rode in.

Mrs. Davis had left the day before. As long as her wagons and ambulances
had stood in front of Dr. Ficklen's house, the people of Washington were
calling upon her; first among them, General Toombs with cordial offers of
aid and hospitality, though there had been sharp differences between him
and Mr. Davis. Here, it may be said, she held her last reception as the
First Lady of the Confederacy. She had expected to meet her husband, and
went away no doubt heavy of heart--herself, her baby, Winnie, and her
other little children, and her sister, Maggie Howell, again to be
wanderers of woods and waysides. With them went a devoted little band of
Confederate soldiers, their volunteer escort, Burton Harrison, the
President's secretary, and one or two negro servants whose devotion never
faltered.

On a lovely May morning, people sat on the Bank piazza asking anxiously:
"Where can Mr. Davis be?" "Is he already captured and killed?" Dr.
Robertson, an officer of the bank, and his family lived in the building.
With them was General Elzey, on parole, his wife and son. Kate Joyner
Robertson and her brother, Willie, sixteen years old and a Confederate
Veteran, were on the piazza; also David Faver, seventeen, and a
Confederate Veteran; these boys were members of the Georgia Military
Institute Battalion. A description of this battalion was recently given me
by Mr. Faver:

"There were as many negroes--body-servants--in our ranks as boys when we
started out, spick and span. We saw actual service; guarded the powder
magazines at Augusta and Savannah, fought the Yankees at Chattanooga,
stood in front of Sherman in South Carolina. Young Scott Todd lost his
arm--Dr. Todd, of Atlanta, carries around that empty sleeve today. I bore
handsome Tom Hamilton off the field when he was shot. I was just fifteen
when I went in; some were younger. Henry Cabaniss and Julius Brown were
the smallest boys in the army. We were youngsters who ought to have been
in knee pants, but the G. M. I. never quailed before guns or duty! I
remember (laughing) when we met the Cits in Charleston. They were all
spick and span--'Citadel Cadets' blazoned all over them and their
belongings. We were all tattered and torn, nothing of the G. M. I. left
about us! Rags was the stamp of the regular, and we 'guyed' the Cits. We
had seen fighting and they had not." Sixteen-year-old Lint Stephens,
Vice-President Stephens' nephew, was of this juvenile warrior band. On the
occasion of his sudden appearance at home to prepare for war, Mr. Stephens
asked what he had quit school for. "To fight for the fair sex," he
replied. And to this day some people think we fought to keep negroes in
slavery!

A "Georgia Cracker" rode in from the Abbeville road, drew rein before the
bank, and saluting, drawled: "Is you'uns seen any soldiers roun' here?"
There were Confederate uniforms on the piazza. "What kind of soldiers?" he
was asked, and General Elzey said: "My friend, you have betrayed yourself
by that military salute. You are no ignorant countryman, but a soldier
yourself." The horseman spurred close to the piazza. "Are there any
Yankees in town?" "None. Tell us, do you know anything about President
Davis?" After a little more questioning, the horseman said: "President
Davis is not an hour's ride from here."

The piazza was all excitement. "Where should the President be
entertained?" Ordinarily, General Toombs was municipal host. Everybody is
familiar with the reply he made to a committee consulting him about
erecting a hotel in Washington: "We have no need of one. When respectable
people come here, they can stop at my house. If they are not respectable,
we do not want them at all." Everybody knew that all he had was at the
President's command. But--there had been the unpleasantness. "Bring the
President here," Mrs. Robertson said promptly. Dr. Robertson added: "As a
government building, this is the proper place." Willie Robertson,
commissioned to convey the invitation, rode off with the courier, the envy
of every other G. M. I. in town. The little "Bats" were ready to go to war
again.

Soon, the President dismounted in front of the bank. Mrs. Faver (Kate
Joyner Robertson that was) says: "He wore a full suit of Confederate gray.
He looked worn, sad, and troubled; said he was tired and went at once to
his room. My mother sent a cup of tea to him. That afternoon, or next
morning, all the people came to see him. He stood in the parlor door, they
filed in, shook hands, and passed out." So, in Washington, he held his
last Presidential reception.

"To hear Mr. Davis," Mr. Faver reports, "you would have no idea that he
considered the cause lost. He spoke hopefully of our yet unsurrendered
forces. Secretary Reagan, General St. John and Major Raphael J. Moses were
General Toombs' guests. That night after supper, they walked to the bank;
my father's house was opposite General Toombs'. I walked behind them. I
think they held what has been called the Last Cabinet Meeting that night."

Mr. Trenholm, too ill to travel, had stopped at Charlotte; Secretary of
State Benjamin had left Mr. Davis that morning; at Washington, Secretary
of the Navy Mallory went; Secretary of War Breckinridge, whom he was
expecting, did not come on time. News reached him of Johnston's surrender.
General Upton had passed almost through Washington on his way to receive
the surrender of Augusta. The President perceived his escort's peril. To
their commander, Captain Campbell, he said: "Your company is too large to
pass without observation, and not strong enough to fight. See if there are
ten men in it who will volunteer to go with me without question wherever I
choose?" Captain Campbell reported: "All volunteer to go with Your
Excellency."

He was deeply touched, but would not suffer them to take the risk. With
ten men selected by Captain Campbell, and his personal staff, he rode out
of Washington, the people weeping as they watched him go. When he was
mounting, Rev. Dr. Tupper, the Baptist minister, approached him, uttering
words of comfort and encouragement. "'Though He slay me, yet will I trust
in Him,'" the President responded gently. He had made disposition of most
of his personal belongings, giving the china in his mess-chest to Colonel
Weems, the chest to General McLaws; to Mrs. Robertson his ink-stand,
table, dressing-case, some tea, coffee, and brandy, portions of which she
still retained when last I heard; the dressing-case and ink-stand she had
sent to the Confederate Museum at Richmond.

His last official order was written at the old bank; it appointed Captain
H. M. Clarke Acting Treasurer of the Confederacy. The last Treasury
Department was an old appletree at General Basil Duke's camp a short
distance from Washington, under whose shade Captain Clarke sat while he
paid out small amounts in coin to the soldiers. General Duke's
Kentuckians, Mr. Davis' faithful last guard, were the remnant of John H.
Morgan's famous command.

Soon after his departure, the treasure-train, or a section of it, reached
Washington. Boxes of bullion were stored in the bank; Mrs. Faver remembers
that officers laughingly told her and her sisters if they would lift one
of the boxes, they might have all the gold in it; and they tried, but O,
how heavy it was! She recalls some movement on the part of her parents to
convey the treasure to Abbeville, but this was not practicable.

"It was a fitting conclusion of the young Government ... that it marked
its last act of authority by a thoughtful loyalty to the comfort of its
penniless and starved defenders," says Avery's "History of Georgia,"
commenting on the fact that under that act Major Raphael J. Moses conveyed
to Augusta bullion exceeding $35,000, delivering it to General Molineux on
the promise that it would be used to purchase food and other necessaries
for needy Confederate soldiers and our sick in hospitals.

Soon after the treasure-train left Washington, some one galloped back and
flung into General Toombs' yard a bag containing $5,000 in gold. The
General was in straits for money with which to flee the country, but swore
with a great round oath he would use no penny of this mysterious gift, and
turned it over to Major Moses, who committed it to Captain Abrahams,
Federal Commissary, for use in relieving needy Confederates
home-returning. At Greensboro, General Joseph E. Johnston had taken
$39,000 for his soldiers. There have been many stories about this
treasure-train.[4] It carried no great fortune, and Mr. Davis was no
beneficiary. He meant to use it in carrying on the war.

The point has been made that Mr. Davis should have remained in Richmond
and made terms. Since governments were governments, no ruler has followed
the course that would have been. He thought it traitorous to surrender the
whole Confederacy because the Capital was lost. Even after Lee's surrender
the Confederacy had armies in the field, and a vast domain farther south
where commanders believed positions could be held. He believed it would be
cowardly to fail them, and that it was his duty to move the seat of
government from place to place through the Confederacy as long as there
was an army to sustain the government. To find precedent, one has but to
turn to European history. In England, the rightful prince has been chased
all over the country and even across the channel. Mr. Davis believed in
the righteousness of his cause; and that it was his duty to stand for it
to the death.

His determination, on leaving Washington, was to reach the armies of
Maury, Forrest, and Taylor in Alabama and Mississippi; if necessary,
withdraw these across the Mississippi, uniting with Kirby-Smith and
Magruder in Texas, a section "rich in supplies and lacking in railroads
and waterways." There the concentrated forces might hold their own until
the enemy "should, in accordance with his repeated declaration, have
agreed, on the basis of a return to the Union, to acknowledge the
Constitutional rights of the States, and by a convention, or quasi-treaty,
to guarantee security of person and property." What Judge Campbell
thought could be secured by submission, Mr. Davis was confident could only
be attained by keeping in the field a military force whose demands the
North, weary of war, might respect. What he sought to do for his people in
one way, Judge Campbell sought to do in another. Both failed.

[Illustration: GENERAL AND MRS. JOHN H. MORGAN]

While Mr. Davis was riding out of Washington, Generals Taylor and Maury,
near Meridian, Mississippi, were arranging with General Canby, U. S. A.,
for the surrender of all the Confederate forces in Alabama and
Mississippi. These generals were dining together and the bands were
playing "Hail Columbia" and "Dixie."




THE COUNSEL OF LEE




CHAPTER VI

THE COUNSEL OF LEE


"A few days after the occupation, some drunken soldiers were heard talking
in the back yard to our negroes, and it was gathered from what they said
that the Federals were afraid General Lee had formed an ambuscade
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the city, and that he might fall upon
them at any time and deliver Richmond out of their hands. How our people
wished it might be so!" Matoaca relates. "Do not buoy yourself up with
that hope, my dear," said her monitor. "There's no hope save in the mercy
of our conquerors. General Lee is a great soldier, an extraordinary
tactician, but he cannot do the impossible. Our army cannot go on fighting
forever without money and without food."

When our beloved general came home, the doctrine he taught by precept and
example was that of peace. "The stainless sword of Lee" had been laid down
in good faith. We had fought a good fight, we had failed, we must accept
the inevitable, we must not lose heart, we must work for our country's
welfare in peace. The very first heard of him in his modest, unheralded
home-returning, he was teaching this.

Young William McCaw, his courier for four years, rode in with him; and
General Lee, before going to his own home, delivered William, safe and
sound, to his father. Dr. McCaw came out when they stopped in front of his
door, and General Lee said:

"Here, Doctor, is your boy. I've brought him home to you."

William was standing beside Traveller, his arm clasped around General
Lee's leg, and crying as if his heart would break. The General put his
hand on William's head and said:

"No more fighting--that's all over. You've been a good fighter, Will--now
I want to see you work for your country's welfare in peace. Be a good boy.
I expect a fine Christian manhood of you. Goodbye," and he rode away to
his own home, where his invalid wife awaited him.

It was good to have them home again, our men in gray; good though they
came gaunt and footsore, ragged and empty-handed. And glad was the man in
gray to cross his own threshold, though the wolf was at the door. Our men
were ready enough for peace when peace--or what they mistook for
peace--came; that is, the mass of them were. They had fought and starved
their fill. The cries of destitute women and children called them home.
They had no time to pause and cavil over lost issues, or to forge new
occasions for quarrel. All they asked now was a chance to make meat and
bread and raiment for themselves and those dependent on them.

Yet some young spirits were restive, would have preferred death to
surrender. The lesson of utter submission came hard. The freeborn
American, fearless of shot and shell, and regarding free speech as his
birthright, found the task of keeping close watch over his tongue
difficult. General Lee knew the mettle of the fiery young courier to whom
he uttered the parting words that have been recorded. To many another
youth just out of armor, he gave the same pacific counsel:

"We have laid down the sword. Work for a united country."

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF ROBERT E. LEE. 1861-65,

Richmond, Va.

Now the home of the Virginia Historical Society.]

One high-strung lad seeing a Federal soldier treat a lady rudely on the
street (a rare happening in Richmond), knocked him down, and was arrested.
The situation was serious. The young man's father went to General Ord and
said: "See here, General, that boy's hot from the battle-field. He doesn't
know anything but to fight." General Ord's response was: "I'll arrange
this matter for you. And you get this boy out of the city tonight."

There happened to be staying in the same house with some of our friends, a
young Confederate, Captain Wharton, who had come on sick leave to Richmond
before the evacuation, and who, after that event, was very imprudent in
expressing his mind freely on the streets, a perilous thing to do in those
days. His friends were concerned for his safety. Suddenly he disappeared.
Nobody knew what had become of him. Natural conclusion was that free
speech had gotten him into trouble. At last a message came: "Please send
me something to eat. I am in prison."

Ladies came to know if Matoaca would be one of a committee to wait on the
Provost-Marshal General in his behalf. She agreed, and the committee set
out for the old Custom House where the Federals held court. They were
admitted at once to General Patrick's presence. He was an elderly
gentleman, polite, courteous. "I was surprised," says Matoaca, "because I
had expected to see something with hoof and horns."

"General," she said, "we have come to see you about a young gentleman, our
friend, Captain Wharton. He is in prison, and we suppose the cause of his
arrest was imprudent speech. He has been ill for some time, and is too
feeble to bear with safety the hardships and confinement of prison life.
If we can secure his release, we will make ourselves responsible for his
conduct." She finished her little speech breathless. She saw the glimmer
of a smile way down in his eyes. "I know nothing about the case," he said
kindly. "Of course, I can not know personally of all that transpires. But
I will inquire into this matter, and see what can be done for this young
gentleman." Soon after, Captain Wharton called on Matoaca. She could
hardly have left General Patrick's presence before an orderly was
dispatched for his release.

Friction resulted from efforts to ram the oath down everybody's throat at
once. I recite this instance because of the part General Lee took and
duplicated in multitudes of cases. Captain George Wise was called before
the Provost to take the oath. "Why must I take it?" asked he. "My parole
covers the ground. I will not." "You fought under General Lee, did you
not?" "Yes. And surrendered with him, and gave my parole. To require this
oath of me is to put an indignity upon me and my general." "I will make a
bargain with you, Captain. Consult General Lee and abide by his decision."

The captain went to the Lee residence, where he was received by Mrs. Lee,
who informed him that her husband was ill, but would see him. The general
was lying on a lounge, pale, weary-looking, but fully dressed, in his gray
uniform, the three stars on his collar; the three stars--to which any
Confederate colonel was entitled--was the only insignia of rank he ever
wore. "They want me to take this thing, General," said the captain,
extending a copy of the oath. "My parole covers it, and I do not think it
should be required of me. What would you advise?"

"I would advise you to take it," he said quietly. "It is absurd that it
should be required of my soldiers, for, as you say, the parole
practically covers it. Nevertheless, take it, I should say." "General, I
feel that this is submission to an indignity. If I must continue to swear
the same thing over at every street corner, I will seek another country
where I can at least preserve my self-respect."

General Lee was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, quietly as before,
a deep touch of sadness in his voice: "Do not leave Virginia. Our country
needs her young men now."

When the captain told Henry A. Wise that he had taken the oath, the
ex-governor said: "You have disgraced the family!" "General Lee advised me
to do it." "Oh, that alters the case. Whatever General Lee says is all
right, I don't care what it is."

The North regarded General Lee with greater respect and kindness than was
extended to our other leaders. A friendly reporter interviewed him, and
bold but temperate utterances in behalf of the South appeared in the "New
York Herald" as coming from General Lee. Some of the remarks were very
characteristic, proving this newspaper man a faithful scribe. When
questioned about the political situation, General Lee had said: "I am no
politician. I am a soldier--a paroled prisoner." Urged to give his opinion
and advised that it might have good effect, he responded:

"The South has for a long time been anxious for peace. In my earnest
belief, peace was practicable two years ago, and has been since that time
whenever the general government should see fit to give any reasonable
chance for the country to escape the consequences which the exasperated
North seemed ready to visit upon it. They have been looking for some word
or expression of compromise and conciliation from the North upon which
they might base a return to the Union, their own views being considered.
The question of slavery did not lie in the way at all. The best men of the
South have long desired to do away with the institution and were quite
willing to see it abolished. But with them in relation to this subject,
the question has ever been: 'What will you do with the freed people?' That
is the serious question today. Unless some humane course based upon wisdom
and Christian principles is adopted, you do them a great injustice in
setting them free." He plead for moderation towards the South as the part
of wisdom as well as mercy. Oppression would keep the spirit of resistance
alive. He did not think men of the South would engage in guerilla warfare
as some professed to fear, but it was best not to drive men to
desperation. "If a people see that they are to be crushed, they sell their
lives as dearly as possible." He spoke of the tendency towards
expatriation, deploring it as a misfortune to our common country at a time
when one section needed building up so badly, and had, at the best, a
terribly depleted force of young, strong men. Throughout, he spoke of the
North and South as "we," and expressed his own great willingness to
contribute in every way in his power to the establishment of the communal
peace and prosperity.

A brave thing for a "rebel" officer to do, he spoke out for Mr. Davis.
"What has Mr. Davis done more than any other Southerner that he should be
singled out for persecution? He did not originate secession, is not
responsible for its beginning; he opposed it strenuously in speech and
writing."

[Illustration: MRS. ROBERT E. LEE

(Mary Randolph Custis)

Great-granddaughter of Martha Washington]

Wherever he appeared in Richmond, Federal soldiers treated him with
respect. As for our own people, to the day of his death Richmond stood
uncovered when General Lee came there and walked the streets. If, as he
passed along, he laid his hand on a child's head, the child never forgot
it. His words with our young men were words of might, and the cause of
peace owes to him a debt that the Peace Angel of the Union will not
forget.




"THE SADDEST GOOD FRIDAY"




CHAPTER VII

"THE SADDEST GOOD FRIDAY"


In Matoaca's little devotional note-book, I read: "Good Friday, 1865. This
is the saddest Good Friday I ever knew. I have spent the whole day praying
for our stricken people, our crushed Southland." "The saddest Good Friday
I ever knew"; nearly every man and woman in the South might have said that
with equal truth.

Her "Journal" of secular events contains a long entry for April 14; it is
as if she had poured out all her woes on paper. For the most part it is a
tale of feminine trivialities, of patching and mending. "Unless I can get
work and make some money," she writes, "we must stay indoors for decency's
sake." Her shoes have holes in them: "They are but shoes I cobbled out of
bits of stout cloth." The soles are worn so thin her feet are almost on
the ground. The family is suffering for food and for all necessaries. "O
God, what can I do!" she cries, "I who have never been taught any work
that seems to be needed now! Who is there to pay me for the few things I
know how to do? I envy our negroes who have been trained to occupations
that bring money; they can hire out to the Yankees, and I can't. Our
negroes are leaving us. We had to advise them to go. Cato will not. 'Me
lef' Mars Ran?' he cried, 'I couldn' think uv it, Miss Mato'ca!'"

Woes of friends and neighbours press upon her heart. Almost every home
has, like her own, its empty chair, its hungry mouths, its bare larder,
though some are accepting relief from the Christian Commission or from
Federal officers. Of loved ones in prison, they hear no tidings; from
kindred in other parts of the South, receive no sign. There are no
railroads, no mail service. In the presence of the conquerors, they walk
softly and speak with bated breath. The evening paper publishes threats of
arrest for legislators who may come to town obedient to the call Judge
Campbell issued with Mr. Lincoln's approval.

Good Friday was a day of joy and gladness North. From newspapers opened
eagerly in radiant family circles men read out such headlines as these:
"War Costs Over. Government Orders Curtailing Further Purchase of Arms,
Ammunition and Commissary Stores." "Drafting and Recruiting Stopped."
"Military Restrictions on Trade and Commerce Modified." Selma, Alabama,
with its rich stores of Confederate cotton, was captured. Mr. Lincoln's
conciliatory policy was commented on as "a wise and sagacious move."
Thursday's stock market had been bullish.

Rachel weeping for her children was comforted because they had not died in
vain. Larders were not bare, clothes were not lacking. The fastings and
prayers of the devout were full of praise and thanksgiving. For the
undevout, Good Friday was a feast day and a day of jollification.

In Charleston, South Carolina, gaping with scars of shot and shell of her
long, long, siege, the roses and oleanders and palmettoes strove to cover
with beauty the wounds of war, and in their fragrance to breathe nature's
sympathy and faithfulness. Her own desolate people kept within doors. The
streets were thronged with a cheerful, well-clad crowd; the city was
overflowing with Northern men and women of distinction. In the bay lay
Dahlgren's fleet, gay flags all a-flying. On land and water bands played
merrily.

Fort Sumter's anniversary was to be celebrated. The Union flag was to be
raised over the ruined pile by General Robert Anderson, who had lost the
fort in 1861. In the company duly assembled were Henry Ward Beecher,
Theodore Tilton, William Lloyd Garrison, Rev. Dr. Storrs. Mr. Beecher
uttered words of kindly sentiment towards the South. He gave God thanks
for preserving Lincoln's life, accepting this as a token of divine favor
to the Nation. Dr. Storrs read: "'When the Lord turned again the captivity
of Zion, we were like them that dream.'" The people: "'Then was our mouth
filled with laughter and our tongue with singing.'" And so on through the
126th Psalm. Then: "'Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we
will remember the name of the Lord our God.'" And: "'They are brought low
and fallen, but we are risen and stand upright.'"

"The Star-Spangled Banner" was sung, and the guns of Dahlgren's fleet
thundered honours to the Stars and Stripes, which, rising slowly and
gracefully, fluttered out in triumph against the Southern sky. At sunset,
guns boomed again, proud signal to the ending of the perfect day. The
city, silent and sad as far as its own people were concerned, rang with
the strangers' joyaunce. Social festivities ruled the hour. General
Gillmore entertained at a great banquet. The bay was ablaze with
fireworks; all forts were alight; the beautiful Sea Islands, whose owners
roamed in destitute exile, gleamed in shining circle, the jewels of the
sea.

The 14th was a red-letter day in the National Capital. Everything spoke of
victory and gladness. Washington held the two idols of the North--Lincoln
and Grant. It was Mr. Lincoln's perfect hour. He went about with a quiet
smile on his face. The family breakfast at the White House was very happy;
Captain Robert Lincoln was visiting his parents. General Grant was present
at the Cabinet meeting during the forenoon, Mr. Lincoln's last. These are
some of the President's words:

"I think it providential that this great rebellion is crushed just as
Congress has adjourned and there are none of the disturbing elements of
that body to hinder and embarrass us. If we are wise and discreet we shall
reanimate the States and get their governments in successful operation
with order prevailing, and the Union reëstablished before Congress comes
together in December. I hope there will be no persecution, no bloody work,
after the war is over. No one need expect me to take any part in hanging
or killing these men. Enough lives have been sacrificed. We must
extinguish resentment if we expect harmony and Union. There is too great a
disposition on the part of some of our very good friends to be masters, to
interfere with and dictate to these States, to treat the people not as
fellow-citizens; there is too little respect for their rights." He made it
plain that he meant the words of his second inaugural address, hardly six
weeks before, when he promised that his mission should be "to bind up the
wounds of the Nation."

"Very cheerful and very hopeful," Mr. Stanton reported, "spoke very kindly
of General Lee and others of the Confederacy, and of the establishment of
the Government of Virginia." Also, he spoke of the state government in
Louisiana, and that which he had mapped out for North Carolina. General
Grant was uneasy about Sherman and Johnston. The President said: "I have
no doubt that favourable news will come. I had a dream last night, my
usual dream which has preceded every important event of the war. I
seemed to be on a singular and indescribable vessel, always the same,
moving with great rapidity toward a dark and indefinite shore."

[Illustration: MRS. JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON

(Lydia McLane, daughter of Senator McLane, of Delaware.)]

He did not know that on that day Sherman was writing Johnston, "I am
empowered to make terms of peace." But he knew he had so empowered
Sherman. I can imagine that through his heart the refrain was beating:
"There will be no more bloodshed, no more devastation. There shall be no
more humiliations for this Southern people, and God will give it into my
hands to reunite my country."

He went for a long, quiet drive with his wife. "Mary," he said, "we have
had a hard time of it since we came to Washington; but the war is over,
and with God's blessing we may hope for four years of peace and happiness.
Then we will go back to Illinois and pass the rest of our days in quiet."
He longed for quiet. The Sabbath before, while driving along the banks of
the James, he said: "Mary, when I die, I would like to lie in a quiet
place like this," and related a dream which he felt to be presage of
death.

Sailing on the James, he read aloud twice, and in a manner that impressed
Charles Sumner, who was present, this passage from Macbeth:

                      "'Duncan is in his grave;
  After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;
  Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
  Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
  Can touch him further.'"

He was going, safe and whole, from the land of "rebels" to Washington. "We
have had a hard time in Washington, Mary." Read Sherman's "Memoirs," and
see what little liking great Federal generals had for journeys to
Washington; how for peace and safety, they preferred their battle-fields
to the place where politicians were wire-pulling and spreading nets.

The conclusion to his perfect day was a box in Ford's Theatre, his wife
and a pair of betrothed lovers for company; on the stage Laura Keene in
"Our American Cousin." The tragic sequel is indelibly impressed on the
brain of every American--the people leaning forward, absorbed in the play,
the handsome, slender figure of young Wilkes Booth moving with easy,
assured grace towards the President's box, the report of the pistol, the
leap of Booth to the stage, falling as the flag caught his foot, rising,
brandishing his weapon and crying: "_Sic Semper Tyrannis!_", his escape
with a broken ankle through the confused crowds; the dying President borne
out to the boarding-house on Tenth Street.

Seward's life was attempted the same evening by Booth's confederate, Lewis
Payne, who penetrated to the Secretary's sick-room and wounded him and his
son; Payne escaped. General Grant's death was a part of the plot; he and
Mrs. Grant had declined invitation to share the President's box, and
started west; Mr. Stanton's murder was also intended; but he escaped,
scathless of body but bitterer of soul than ever, bitterer than Mr.
Seward, who was wounded.

In a letter which Matoaca wrote years afterward, she said: "I well
remember the horror that thrilled our little circle when the news came.
'Now, may God have mercy on us!' Uncle exclaimed. He sat silent for a
while and then asked: 'Can it be possible that any of our own people could
do this thing? Some misguided fanatic?' And then, after a silence: 'Can
some enemy of the South have done it? Some enemy of the South who had a
grudge against Lincoln, too?' 'What sort of secret service could they
have had in Washington that this thing could happen? How was it that the
crippled assassin was able to make his escape?' he said when full accounts
appeared. The explanations given never explained to him.

"I heard some speak who thought it no more than just retribution upon Mr.
Lincoln for the havoc he had wrought in our country. But even the few who
spoke thus were horrified when details came. We could not be expected to
grieve, from any sense of personal affection, for Mr. Lincoln, whom we had
seen only in the position of an implacable foe at the head of a power
invading and devastating our land; but our reprobation of the crime of his
taking off was none the less. Besides, we did not know what would be done
to us. Already there had been talk of trying our officers for treason, of
executing them, of exiling them, and in this talk Andrew Johnson had been
loudest.

"I remember how one poor woman took the news. She was half-crazed by her
losses and troubles; one son had been killed in battle, another had died
in prison, of another she could not hear if he were living or dead; her
house had been burned; her young daughter, turned out with her in the
night, had died of fright and exposure. She ran in, crying: 'Lincoln has
been killed! thank God!' Next day she came, still and pale: 'I have prayed
it all out of my heart,' she said, 'that is, I'm not glad. But, somehow, I
_can't_ be sorry. I believe it was the vengeance of the Lord.'"

Jefferson Davis heard of Lincoln's death in Charlotte. A tablet in that
beautiful and historic city marks the spot where he stood. He had just
arrived from Greensboro, was dismounting, citizens were welcoming him when
the dispatch signed by Secretary of War Breckinridge was handed him by
Major John Courtney. Mrs. Courtney, the Major's widow, told me that her
husband heard the President say: "Oh, the pity of it!" He passed it to a
gentleman with the remark, "Here are sad tidings." The Northern press
reported that Jefferson Davis cheered when he heard of Lincoln's death.

Mrs. Davis, at the Armistead Burt House, Abbeville, received a message
from her husband announcing his arrival in Charlotte and telling of the
assassination. Mrs. Davis "burst into tears, which flowed from sorrow and
a thorough realization of the inevitable results to the
Confederates,"--her own words.

General Johnston and General Sherman were in Mr. Bennett's house near
Raleigh. Just before starting to this meeting, General Sherman received a
dispatch announcing Mr. Lincoln's assassination. He placed it in his
pocket, and, as soon as they were alone, handed it to General Johnston,
watching him narrowly. "He did not attempt to conceal his distress,"
General Sherman relates. "The perspiration came out in large drops on his
forehead." His horror and detestation of the deed broke forth; he
earnestly hoped General Sherman would not charge this crime to the
Confederacy. "I explained," states General Sherman, "that I had not yet
revealed the news to my own personal staff or to the army, and that I
dreaded the effect when it was made known." He feared that "a worse fate
than that of Columbia would befall" Raleigh, particularly if some "foolish
man or woman should say or do something that would madden his men." He
took pains when making the calamity known to assure his army that he did
not consider the South responsible.

Mr. Davis, under arrest, and on the way to Macon, heard that Andrew
Johnson had offered a reward of $100,000 for his arrest, charging him,
Clement C. Clay and other prominent Southerners with "inciting,
concerting, procuring" the "atrocious murder" of President Lincoln.
Between threatening soldiery, displaying the proclamation and shouting
over his capture, Mr. Davis and his family rode and walked.

At Macon, General Wilson received him with courtesy; when the proclamation
was mentioned, Mr. Davis said one person at least in the United States
knew the charge to be false, and that was the man who signed it, for
Andrew Johnson knew that he preferred Lincoln to himself.

In Augusta, Colonel Randall (author of "Maryland, My Maryland"), meeting
Clement C. Clay on the street, informed him of the proclamation. The old
ex-Senator at once surrendered, asking trial.[5]

In Southern cities citizens held meetings condemning the murder and
expressing sorrow and regret at the President's death. Ex-Governor Aiken,
known as the largest slave-owner in South Carolina, led the movement in
Charleston, heading a petition to General Gillmore for use of the
Hibernian Hall that the people might have a gathering-place in which to
declare their sentiments.

Even the Confederates in prison were heard from. The officers confined at
Fort Warren signed with General Ewell a letter to General Grant,
expressing to "a soldier who will understand" their detestation of Booth's
horrible crime. The commandant of the Fort, Major William Appleton, added
a note testifying to their deep sincerity.




THE WRATH OF THE NORTH




CHAPTER VIII

THE WRATH OF THE NORTH


The mad act of crazy Wilkes Booth set the whole country crazy. The South
was aghast, natural recoil intensified by apprehension. The North,
convulsed with anguish, was newly inflamed, and even when the cooler
moment came and we were acquitted of any responsibility for Booth's crazy
act, the angry humour of a still sore heart was against us. We, of both
sections, who suffered so lately as one people in the death of President
McKinley, can comprehend the woe and unreason of the moment.

Indignation and memorial meetings simply flayed the South alive. At one in
the New York Custom House, when the grieving, exasperated people did not
know whether to weep or to curse the more, or to end it by simply hanging
us all, Mr. Chittenden rose and said: "Peace, be still!" And declared the
death of Lincoln providential, God removing the man of mercy that due
punishment might be meted out to rebels. Before the pacific orator
finished, people were yelling: "Hang Lee!" and "The rebels deserve
damnation!" Pulpits fulminated. Easter sermons demanded the halter, exile,
confiscation of property, for "rebels and traitors"; yet some voices rose
benignly, as Edward Everett Hale's, Dr. Huntington's, and Rufus Ellis', in
words fitting the day. Beecher urged moderation.

The new President, Andrew Johnson, was breathing out threatenings and
slaughter before Lincoln's death. Thousands had heard him shout from the
southern portico of the Patent Office, "Jeff Davis ought to be hung
twenty times as high as Haman!"

In Nicolay and Hay's Life of Lincoln, the following paragraph follows
comment upon unanimity in Southern and Northern sentiment: "There was one
exception to the general grief too remarkable to be passed over in
silence. Among the extreme Radicals in Congress, Mr. Lincoln's determined
clemency and liberality towards the Southern people had made an impression
so unfavourable that, though they were shocked at his murder, they did
not, among themselves, conceal their gratification that he was no longer
in the way. In a political caucus held a few hours after the President's
death, 'the thought was nearly universal,' to quote the language of one of
their most representative members, 'that the accession of Johnson to the
Presidency would prove a godsend to the country.'"

The only people who could profit by Lincoln's death were in the Radical
wing of the Republican party. These extremists thought Johnson their man.
Senator Wade, heading a committee that waited on him, cried: "Johnson, we
have faith in you! By the gods, it will be no trouble now running the
Government!"

"Treason," said the new President, "is the highest crime in the calendar,
and the full penalty for its commission should be visited upon the leaders
of the Rebellion. Treason should be made odious." It is told as true
"inside history" that the arrest and execution of General Lee had been
determined upon; General Grant heard of it and went in the night to see
President Johnson and Secretary Stanton and said to them: "If General Lee
or any of the officers paroled by me are arrested while keeping the terms
of their parole, I will resign my commission in the United States Army."

But on April 15, even General Grant was of a divided mind, for he wired
General Ord: "Arrest J. A. Campbell, Mayor Mayo, and members of the old
Council who have not yet taken the oath of allegiance, and confine them in
Libby Prison ... arrest all paroled officers and surgeons until they can
be sent beyond our lines unless they have taken the oath of allegiance.
Extreme rigour will have to be observed whilst assassination is the order
of the day with rebels."

General Ord replied: "The two citizens we have seen. They are old, nearly
helpless, and, I think, incapable of harm. Lee and staff are in town among
the paroled prisoners. Should I arrest them under the circumstances, I
think the rebellion here would be reopened. I will risk my life that
present paroles will be kept, if you will allow me to so trust the people
here, who are ignorant of the assassination, done, I think, by some insane
Brutus with but few accomplices. Judge Campbell and Mr. Hunter pressed me
earnestly yesterday to send them to Washington to see the President. Would
they have done so if guilty?"

General Grant answered: "I leave my dispatch of this date in the light of
a suggestion to be executed only as far as you may judge the good of the
service demands." But the venerable peace-maker and his associates were
not to escape vengeance.

General Halleck, from Richmond, to General Grant, May 5: "Hunter is
staying quietly at home, advises all who visit him to support the Union
cause. His hostility to Davis did much to make Davis unpopular in
Virginia. Considering this, and the fact that President Lincoln advised
against arresting Hunter, I would much prefer not to arrest him unless
specially ordered to do so. All classes are taking the Amnesty Oath; it
would be unfortunate to shake by unnecessary arrests this desire for
general amnesty. Lee's officers are taking the oath; even Lee himself is
considering the propriety of doing so and petitioning President Johnson
for pardon."

May 11, Halleck to Stanton: "R. M. T. Hunter has, in accordance with
General Grant's orders, been arrested, and is now on a gunboat in the
James. Judge Campbell is still at his house. If necessary, he can be
confined with Mr. Hunter. He voluntarily submits himself to such
punishment as the Government may see fit to impose. He is very destitute
and much broken down, and his case excites much sympathy."

Fortress Monroe, May 22, General Halleck wires General Ord, Richmond: "The
Secretary of War directs that John A. Campbell be placed in the Libby or
some other secure prison. Do this at once." Announcements of arrivals at
Fort Pulaski in June would have made a fine page for any hotel desiring a
brilliant register, thus: "Ex-Senator R. M. T. Hunter, Virginia;
ex-Assistant Secretary of War Judge J. A. Campbell, Alabama; ex-Senator D.
L. Yulee, Florida; ex-Governor Clark, Mississippi; ex-Secretary of the
Treasury G. A. Trenholm, South Carolina;" and so on. Pulaski had rivals in
other Federal prisons.

A reward of $25,000 for "Extra Billy" did not bring him in, but he
delivered himself up to General Patrick, was paroled, and went to his home
in Warrenton, Fauquier, and set to work with a will, though he was, to
quote General Halleck, "seventy years old and quite feeble." The rightful
Governor of Virginia, he advised her people to cheerful acceptance of
Pierpont.

As soon as the aged Governor of Mississippi learned that General Dick
Taylor would surrender, he convened the Legislature; his message,
recommending the repeal of the secession ordinance and deploring
Lincoln's murder, was not more than read, when General Osband, under
orders from Washington, dissolved the Legislature with threats of arrest.
Governor Clark was arrested: "The old soldier straightened his mangled
limbs as best he could, with great difficulty mounted his crutches, and
with a look of defiance, said: 'General Osband, I denounce before high
Heaven this unparalleled act of tyranny and usurpation. I am the duly and
constitutionally elected Governor of Mississippi, and would resist, if in
my power, to the last extremity the enforcement of your order.'"

[Illustration: LIBBY PRISON, RICHMOND, VA.

Before 1861 this building was used as a warehouse, and in 1888-9 was
transported by a syndicate to Chicago, and is now known as Libby Prison
War Museum.]

Governors, generals and statesmen were arrested in all directions. No
exception was made for Alexander H. Stephens, the invalid, the
peace-maker, the gentlest Roman of them all. At Liberty Hall, Mr. Stephens
and a young friend, Robert W. Hull, were playing casino, when Tim, a
negro, ran in, exclaiming: "Marster, de town is full uh Yankees! Whole
heaps uv 'em, gallopin' all about, carryin' guns." Mr. Stephens rose and
said to his guest: "I have been expecting this. They have come for me.
Excuse me, please, while I pack." He went into his bedroom and began this
task, when an officer called. Mr. Stephens met him in the parlor. The
officer said, "Are you Alex Stephens?" "That is my name." "I have an order
for your arrest." "I would like to have your name and see your order." "I
am Captain Saint, of the 4th Iowa, acting under General Upton's orders.
Here is the order." Mr. Stephens saw that himself and General Toombs were
to be brought before General Upton in Atlanta. "I have been anticipating
arrest," he said quietly, "and have been careful not to be out of the way,
remaining here at home. General Upton need not have sent an armed force
for me. A simple intimation from him that my presence was desired would
have taken me to Atlanta." His negroes were weeping when he was carried
away; one, by special permission, accompanied him.

He was left under guard in a shanty on the road; the troops went on to
Washington, "to be back in a little while with Bob Toombs." "Where is
General Toombs?" asked Mr. Stephens, when they returned. "We don't know,"
was the rejoinder. "He flanked us." Thus:

General Toombs, going to the basement doorway of his house in Washington,
exclaimed suddenly: "My God! the blue-coats!" turned and went rapidly
through his house and out at the back door, saying to his wife: "Detain
them at the front as long as you can." Their daughter, Mrs. Du Bose,
helped her. "Bob Toombs" was asked for. Mrs. Du Bose went to bring "Bob
Toombs"; she reappeared leading a lovely boy. "Here is Bob Toombs," she
said, "Bob Toombs Du Bose, named for my father, General Toombs."

Mrs. Toombs took them through the house, showing them into every
room--keys of which were lost and had to be looked for. They would burn
the building, they insisted, if General Toombs was not produced. "Burn,"
she said, "and burn me in it. If I knew my husband's hiding-place, I would
not betray him." They told her to move her furniture out. She obeyed. They
changed their minds about the burning and went off. General Toombs escaped
to the woods, where he remained hidden until nightfall. His friend,
Captain Charles E. Irvin, got some gold from Mrs. Toombs, and carried the
money to him, together with his mare, Gray Alice. From Nassau Island he
crossed to England, where the doughty "rebel" was mightily liked.

Mr. Davis, Mr. Stephens, Mr. Clay, General Wheeler, and General Ralls met
aboard the steamer at Augusta, all prisoners. The President's arrest
occurred the day before Mr. Stephens', near Irwinsville. Picture it. Gray
dawn in the Georgia woods. A small encampment of tents, horses, and
wagons. Horses saddled and bridled, with pistols in holsters, picketed on
the edge of the encampment. A negro watching and listening. Suddenly, he
hurries to one of the tents: "Mars Jeff!" His call wakes a man lying fully
dressed on one of the cots. "What's the matter, Jim?" "Firin' 'cross de
branch, suh. Jes behin' our camp. Marauders, I reckon."

After leaving Washington, Mr. Davis had heard that marauders were in
pursuit of his wife's cortege, and turning out of his course, he rode hard
across country, found his family, conveyed them beyond the present danger,
as he thought, and was about to renew his journey south. Horses for
himself and staff were ready, when he heard that marauders were again
near; he concluded to wait, and so lay down to rest. At Jim's call, he
went to the tent-door, then turned to where his wife bent over her
sleeping baby, Winnie. "They are not marauders," he said, "but regular
troopers of the United States Army."

She begged him to leave her quickly. His horses and weapons were near the
road down which the cavalry was coming. In the darkness of the tent, he
caught up what he took to be his raglan, a sleeveless, waterproof garment.
It was hers. She, poor soul, threw a shawl over his head. He went out of
the tent, she keeping near. "Halt!" cried a trooper, levelling a carbine
at him. He dropped his wraps and hurried forward. The trooper, in the
dark, might miss aim; a hand under his foot would unhorse him; when Mr.
Davis would mount and away. Mrs. Davis saw the carbine, cast her arms
about her husband, and lost him his one chance of escape.

In one of her trunks, broken open by pilferers of the attacking party, a
hoop-skirt was found. I shall refer to this historic hoop-skirt again.

I left Generals Johnston and Sherman discussing Mr. Lincoln's death and
arranging terms of peace, based upon what Sherman recognized as the object
of the war--salvation of the Union; and upon instructions received from
Mr. Lincoln's own lips in their last interview when the President
authorized him to "assure Governor Vance and the people of North Carolina
that, as soon as the rebel armies will lay down their arms, they will at
once be guaranteed all their rights as citizens of a common country; and
that, to avoid anarchy, the State Governments now in existence will be
recognized."

"When peace does come, you may call upon me for anything. Then, I will
share with you the last crust and watch with you to shield your homes and
families against danger from every quarter." Thus Sherman closed his reply
to Calhoun's protest against the depopulation of Atlanta. Now that war was
over, he was for living up to this.

In soldierly simplicity, he thought he had done an excellent thing in
securing Johnston's guarantee of disbandment of all Confederate forces,
and settling all fear of guerilla warfare by putting out of arms not only
regular Confederates, but any who might claim to be such.

Stanton disposed of the whole matter by ordering Grant to "proceed to the
headquarters of Major-General Sherman and direct operations against the
enemy." This was, of course, the end to any terms for us. As is known,
General Johnston surrendered on the same conditions with Lee. Grant so
ordered his course as not to do Sherman injustice.

General Sherman wrote a spicy letter for Mr. Stanton's benefit: the
settlement he had arranged for would be discussed, he said, in a different
spirit "two or three years hence, after the Government has experimented a
little more in the machinery by which power reaches the scattered people
of this vast country known as the South." He had made war "hell"; now, the
people of "this unhappy country," as he pityingly designated the land he
had devastated, were for peace; and he, than whom none had done more to
bring them to that state of mind, was for giving them some of its fruits.
"We should not drive a people to anarchy"; for protection to life and
property, the South's civil courts and governments should be allowed to
remain in operation.

"The assassination has stampeded the civil authorities," "unnerved them,"
was the conclusion he drew when he went to Washington when, just after the
crime, the long roll had been beaten and the city put under martial law;
public men were still in dread of assassination. At the grand review in
Washington, Sherman, hero of the hour, shook hands with the President and
other dignitaries on the stand, but pointedly failed to accept Mr.
Stanton's.

After Mr. Lincoln's death, leniency to "rebels" was accounted worse than a
weakness. The heavy hand was applauded. It was the fashion to say hard
things of us. It was accounted piety and patriotism to condemn "traitors
and rebels." Cartoonists, poets, and orators, were in clover; here was a
subject on which they could "let themselves out."




THE CHAINING OF JEFFERSON DAVIS




CHAPTER IX

THE CHAINING OF JEFFERSON DAVIS


Strange and unreal seem those days. One President a fugitive, journeying
slowly southward; the other dead, journeying slowly north and west. Aye,
the hand of God was heavy on both our peoples. The cup of defeat could not
be made more bitter than it was; and into the cup of triumph were gall and
wormwood poured.

Hunters pursuing one chieftain with hoarse cries of "rebel!" and
"traitor!" For the other, bells tolling, guns booming requiem, great
cities hung with black, streets lined with weeping thousands, the
catafalque a victor's chariot before which children and maidens scattered
flowers. Nearly a month that funeral march lasted--from Washington through
Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, Cleveland, Columbus,
Indianapolis, Chicago--it wound its stately way to Springfield. Wherever
it passed, the public pulse beat hotter against the Southern chieftain and
his people.

Yet the dead and the hunted were men of one country, born in the same
State. Sharp contrasts in many ways, they were yet enough alike in
personal appearance to have been brothers. Both were pure men, brave,
patriotic; both kindly and true. The dead had said of the living: "Let
Jeff escape."

Johnson's proclamation threw the entire South into a white rage and an
anguish unutterable, when it charged the assassination to Mr. Davis and
other representative men of the South. Swift on it came news that our
President was captured, report being spread to cast ridicule upon him
that, when caught, he was disguised in his wife's garments. Caricatures,
claiming to be truthful portraiture, displayed him in hoops and petticoats
and a big poke bonnet, of such flaming contrasts as certainly could not
have been found in Mrs. Davis' wardrobe.

In 1904, I saw at a _vaudeville_ entertainment in a New York department
store, a stereopticon representation of the War of Secession. The climax
was Mr. Davis in a pink skirt, red bonnet, yellow bodice, and
parti-coloured shawl, struggling with several Federals, while other
Federals were rushing to the attack, all armed to the teeth and pointing
warlike weapons at this one fantastic figure of a feeble old man. The
theatre was full of children. The attraction had been running some time
and thousands of young Americans had doubtless accepted its travesties as
history. The Northern friend with me was as indignant as myself.

When Mr. Davis' capture was announced in theatres and other places of
amusement in the North, people went crazy with joy, clapping their hands
and cheering, while bands played "Yankee Doodle" and "Star-Spangled
Banner." Many were for having him hung at once. Wendell Phillips wanted
him "left to the sting of his own conscience."

Presently, we heard that the "Clyde" was bringing Mr. Davis, his family,
General Wheeler, Governor Vance, and others, to Fortress Monroe. And
then--will I ever forget how the South felt about that?--that Mr. Davis
was a prisoner in a damp, casemated cell, that lights were kept burning in
his face all night until he was in danger of blindness; that human eyes
were fixed on him night and day, following his every movement; that his
jailer would come and look at him contemptuously and call him "Jeff";
that sightseers would be brought to peer at him as if he were some strange
wild beast; that his feeble limbs had been loaded with chains; that he was
like to lose his life through hardships visited upon him! To us who knew
the man personally, his sensitiveness, dignity, and refinement, the tale
is harrowing as it could not be to those who knew him not thus. Yet to all
Americans it must be a regrettable chapter in our history when it is
remembered that this man was no common felon, but a prisoner of State, a
distinguished Indian-fighter, a Mexican veteran, a man who had held a seat
in Congress, who had been Secretary of War of the United States, and who
for four years had stood at the head of the Confederate States.

When they came to put chains upon him, he protested, said it was an
indignity to which as a soldier he would not submit, that the intention
was to dishonour the South in him; stood with his back to the wall, bade
them kill him at once, fought them off as long as he could--fought them
until they held him down and the blacksmiths riveted the manacles upon his
wasted limbs. Captain Titlow, who had the work in charge, did not like his
cruel task, but he had no choice but to obey orders.[6]

And this was in Fortress Monroe, where of old the gates fell wide to
welcome him when he came as Secretary of War, where guns thundered
greeting, soldiers presented arms, and the highest officer was proud to do
him honour! With bated breath we speak of Russian prisons. But how is
this: "Davis is in prison; he is not allowed to say a word to any one nor
is any one allowed to say a word to him. He is literally in a living tomb.
His position is not much better than that of the Turkish Sultan, Bajazet,
exposed by his captor, Tamerlane, in a portable iron cage." ("New York
Herald," May 26, 1865.) The dispatch seemed positively to gloat over that
poor man's misery.

A new fad in feminine attire came into vogue; women wore long, large, and
heavy black chains as decorations.

The military murder of Mrs. Surratt stirred us profoundly. Too lowly,
simple, and obscure in herself to rank with heroic figures, her execution
lifts her to the plane where stand all who fell victims to the troubled
times. Suspicion of complicity in Mr. Lincoln's murder, because of her
son's intimacy with Wilkes Booth, led to her death. They had her before a
military tribunal in Washington, her feet linked with chains.

Several men were executed. Their prison-life and hers was another tale to
give one the creeps. They were not allowed to speak to any one, nor was
any one allowed to speak to them; they were compelled to wear masks of
padded cloth over face and head, an opening at the mouth permitting space
for breathing; pictures said to be drawn from life showed them in their
cells where the only resting-places were not beds, but bare, rough
benches; marched before judges with these same horrible hoods on, marched
to the gallows with them on, hanging with them on.

One of the executed, Payne, had been guilty of the attack on Mr. Seward
and his son; the others had been dominated and bribed by Booth, but had
failed to play the parts assigned them in the awful drama his morbid brain
wrought out.




OUR FRIENDS, THE ENEMY




CHAPTER X

OUR FRIENDS, THE ENEMY


There was small interchange of civilities between Northern and Southern
ladies. The new-comers were in much evidence; Southerners saw them riding
and driving in rich attire and handsome equipages, and at the theatre in
all the glory of fine toilettes.

There was not so much trouble opening theatres as churches. A good many
stage celebrities came to the Richmond Theatre, which was well patronised.
Decorated with United States flags, it was opened during the first week of
the occupation with "Don Cæsar de Bazan." The "Whig" reported a brilliant
audience. Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Grant, who had been driving over the city,
were formally invited by General Weitzel to attend the play, but did not
appear.

The band played every evening in the Square, and our people, ladies
especially, were invited to come out. The Square and the Capitol were at
one time overrun with negroes. This was stopped. Still, our ladies did not
go. Federal officers and their ladies had their music to themselves.
"There was no intentional slight or rudeness on our part. We did not draw
back our skirts in passing Federal soldiers, as was charged in Northern
papers; if a few thoughtless girls or women did this, they were not
representative. We tried not to give offense; we were heart-broken; we
stayed to ourselves; and we were not hypocrites; that was all." So our
women aver. In most Southern cities efforts were made to induce the ladies
to come out and hear the band play.

The day Governor Pierpont arrived, windows of the Spotswood and Monumental
were crowded with Northern ladies waving handkerchiefs. "I only knew from
the papers," Matoaca tells, "that the Mansion was decorated with flowers
for his reception. Our own windows, which had been as windows of a house
of mourning, did not change their aspect for his coming. Our rightful
governor was a fugitive; Governor Pierpont was an alien. We were
submissive, but we could not rejoice." This was the feminine and social
side. On the political and masculine side, he was welcomed. Delegations of
prominent Virginians from all counties brought him assurances of
coöperation. The new Governor tried to give a clean, patriotic
administration.

Northerners held socials in each others' houses and in halls; there were
receptions, unattended by Southerners, at the Governor's Mansion and
Military Headquarters. It might have been more politic had we gone out of
our way to be socially agreeable, but it would not have been sincere.
Federal officers and their wives attended our churches. A Northern
Methodist Society was formed with a group of adherents, Governor and Mrs.
Pierpont, and, later, General and Mrs. Canby among them. "We of the
Northern colony were very dependent upon ourselves for social pleasures,"
an ex-member who now considers herself a Southerner said to me recently.
"There were some inter-marriages. I remember an elopement; a Petersburg
girl ran away with a Federal officer, and the pair sought asylum at my
father's, in Richmond's Northern colony. Miss Van Lew entertained us
liberally. She gave a notable reception to Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase
and his beautiful daughter, Kate." Miss Van Lew, a resident, was suspected
of being a spy during the war.

Our ladies went veiled on the street, the motive that caused them to close
their windows impelling them to cover their faces with sorrow's shield.
There was not much opportunity for young blue-coats to so much as behold
our pretty girls, much less make eyes at them, had they been so minded.
That veil as an accompaniment of a lissome figure and graceful carriage
must have sometimes acted as a tantalising disguise.

I heard of one very cute happening in which the wind and a veil played
part. Mary Triplett, our famous blonde beauty, then in the rosy freshness
of early youth, was walking along when the wind took off her veil and
carried it to the feet of a young Federal officer. He bent, uplifted the
vagrant mask, and, with his cap held before his eyes, restored it. That
was a very honest, self-denying Yankee. Perhaps he peeped around the
corner of his cap. There was at that time in Richmond a bevy of
marvellously lovely buds, Mattie Ould, Miss Triplett's antithesis, among
the number.

The entire South seems to have been very rich then in buds of beauty and
women of distinction. Or, was it that the fires of adversity brought their
charms and virtues into high relief? Names flitting through my mind are
legion. Richmond's roll has been given often. Junior members of the
Petersburg set were Tabb Bolling, General Rooney Lee's sweetheart (now his
widow); Molly Bannister, General Lee's pet, who was allowed to ride
Traveller; Anne Bannister, Alice Gregory, Betty and Jeannie Osborne, Betty
Cabaniss, Betty and Lucy Page, Sally Hardy, Nannie Cocke, Patty Cowles,
Julia, Mary and Marion Meade, and others who queened it over General Lee's
army and wrought their pretty fingers to the bone for our lads in the
trenches. To go farther afield, Georgia had her youthful "Maid of Athens,"
Jule King, afterwards Mrs. Henry Grady; in Atlanta were the Clayton
sisters, and Maggie Poole, Augusta Hill, Ella Ezzard, Eugenia Goode,
besides a brilliant married circle. In South Carolina were Mrs. James
Chesnut, her sister, Mrs. David R. Williams, and all the fair troop that
figure in her "Diary From Dixie." Louisiana's endless roster might begin
with the Slocomb family, to which General Butler paid official tribute,
recording that "Mrs. Slocomb equipped the crack military company of New
Orleans, the Washington Artillery, in which her son-in-law, Captain David
Urquhart, is an officer." Mrs. Urquhart's daughter, Cora (afterwards Mrs.
James Brown Potter), was, I think, a tiny maiden then. Beloved for her
social charm and her charities, Mrs. Ida B. Richardson, Mrs. Urquhart's
sister, still lives in the Crescent City. There were the Leacock sisters,
Mrs. Andrew Gray and Mrs. Will Howell, the "madonna of New Orleans." There
was the King family, which produced Grace King, author and historian. A
Louisiana beauty was Addie Prescott, whose face and presence gave warrant
of the royal blood of Spain flowing in her veins. In Mississippi was
"Pearl Rivers," afterwards Mrs. Nicholson, good genius of the "Picayune";
and Mary E. Bryan, later the genius of the "Sunny South." Georgia and
Alabama claim Mme. Le Vert, to whose intellect Lamartine paid tribute, and
Augusta Evans, whose "Macaria" ran the blockade in manuscript and came out
up North during the war; that delightful "Belle of the Fifties," Mrs.
Clement C. Clay, is Alabama's own. Besides the "Rose of Texas" (Louise
Wigfall), the Lone Star State has many a winsome "Southern Girl" and woman
to her credit. Mrs. Roger A. Pryor is Virginia's own. Among Florida's fair
was the "Madonna of the Wickliffe sisters," Mrs. Yulee, Senator Yulee's
wife and, presently, Florida's Vice-Regent for the Ladies' Association
of Mt. Vernon. Mrs. Sallie Ward Hunt and Mrs. Sallie Ewing Pope lead a
long list in Kentucky, where Mary Anderson, the actress, was in her tender
teens, and Bertha Honoré (afterwards Mrs. Potter Palmer) was in pinafores.
To Mississippi and Missouri belongs Theodosia Worthington Valliant; and to
Tennessee Betty Vance, whose beauty's fame was world-wide, and Mary
Wright, later Mrs. Treadwell. At a ball given Prince Arthur when in this
country, a wealthy belle was selected to lead with him. The prince
thinking he was to choose his partner, fixed on Mary Wright, exquisite in
poverty's simple white gown, and asked: "May I lead with her?" In North
Carolina were Sophia Portridge, women of the houses of Devereaux, Vance,
Mordecai--but I am not writing the South's "Book of Fair and Noble Women."
I leave out of my list names brilliant as any in it.

[Illustration: MRS. DAVID L. YULEE

(Daughter of Governor Wickliffe, of Kentucky)

She was the wife of Senator Yulee, of Florida, Vice Regent of the Mount
Vernon Association of Florida, and was known as the "Madonna of the
Wickliffe Sisters."]

Of all the fair women I have ever seen, Mary Meade was fairest. No
portrait can do justice to the picture memory holds of her as "Bride" to
D'Arcy Paul's "Bridegroom" in the "Mistletoe Bough," which Mrs. Edwin
Morrison staged so handsomely that her amateurs were besought to "star" in
the interest of good causes. Our fair maids were no idle "lilies of
loveliness." The Meade sisters and others turned talents to account in
mending fallen family fortunes. Maids and matrons labored diligently to
gather our soldier dead into safe resting-places. The "Lyrical Memorial,"
Mrs. Platt's enterprise, like the "Mistletoe Bough" (later produced), was
called for far and wide. The day after presentation in Louisville, the
Federal Commandant sent Mary Meade, who had impersonated the South
pleading sepulture for her sons, a basket of flowers with a live white
dove in the center.

Slowly in Richmond interchange of little human kindnesses between
neighbors established links. General Bartlett, occupying the Haxall house,
who had lost a leg in the war, was "the Yankee who conquered my wife," a
Southerner bears witness. "I came home one day and found him sitting with
her on my steps. He suffered greatly from his old wound, bore it
patiently, and by his whole conduct appealed to her sweet womanliness. His
staff was quiet and orderly."

The beautiful daughter of one family and her feeble grandmother were the
only occupants of the mansion into which General Ord and his wife moved.
The pair had no money and were unable to communicate with absent members
of the household who had been cut off from home by the accidents of war
while visiting in another city. The younger lady was ill with typhoid
fever. The general and his wife were very thoughtful and generous in
supplying ice, brandy, and other essentials and luxuries.

"Under Heaven," the invalid bore grateful witness when recovering, "I owe
my life to General and Mrs. Ord." Her loveliness and helplessness were in
themselves an argument to move a heart of stone to mercy; nevertheless, it
was virtue and grace that mercy was shown.

We made small appeal for sympathy or aid; were too much inclined to the
reverse course, carrying poverty and other troubles with a stiff-neck,
scantily-clad backs, long-suffering stomachs, and pride and conscience
resolved. But--though some form of what we considered oppression was
continually before our eyes--our conquerors, when in our midst, were more
and more won to pity and then to sympathy. Our commandants might be stern
enough when first they came, but when they had lived among us a little
while, they softened and saw things in a new light; and the negroes and
the carpet-baggers complained of them every one, and the authorities at
Washington could not change them fast enough.

Southerners here and in other cities who had Federal boarders were
considered fortunate because of the money and protection secured. In such
cases, there was usually mutual kindness and consideration, politeness
keeping in the background topics on which differences were cruel and
sharp; but the sectional dividing lines prevented free social
intermingling.

In places garrisoned by soldiers of coarser types and commanded by men
less gentlemanly, women sometimes displayed more pronounced
disapprobation. Not always with just occasion, but, again, often with
cause only too grave. At the best, it was not pleasant to have strange men
sauntering, uninvited, into one's yard and through one's house, invading
one's kitchen and entertaining housemaids and cooks. That these men wore
blue uniforms was unfortunate for us and for the uniform. At that time,
the very sight of "army blue" brought terror, anguish and resentment.

Our famous physicians, Maguire and McCaw, were often called to the
Northern sick. Dr. McCaw came once direct to Uncle Randolph from the
Dents, where he had been summoned to Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant, and Matoaca
listened curiously to his and her uncle's cordial discussion of General
Grant, who had made friends at the South by his course at Appomattox and
his insistence on the cartel.

A conversation occurring between another of our physicians and a feminine
patient is not without significance. The lady and the doctor's wife had
been friends before the war. "Why has your wife not called upon me,
Doctor?" she asked. "Has she forgotten me?" "No, ma'am," he answered
gently, and then in a low, kindly voice: "But she cannot--yet--forget all
that has happened since you were girls together." "But she should not
treasure it against me individually." "She does not, ma'am. But she cannot
forget--yet. You would understand if you had been in the beleagured land.
If the good women of the North could only imagine themselves in the place
of the women of the South during the last four years and in their place
now!"

She sighed. "I can see only too plainly that they have suffered
unutterably many things that we have been spared. And that they suffer
now. It's natural, too, that they should hate to have us here lording it
over them."

Very different was the spirit of the wife of a Federal officer stationed
at Augusta, Georgia, whose declaration that she hoped to see the day when
"black heels should stand on white necks" startled the State of Georgia.
Many good ladies came South firm in the belief that all Southerners were
negro-beaters, slave-traders, and cut-throats; a folk sadly benighted and
needing tutelage in the humanities; and they were not always politic in
expressing these opinions.

After war, the war spirit always lingers longest in non-combatants--in
women and in men who stayed at home and cheered others on. "The soldiers,"
said General Grant, "were in favor of a speedy reconstruction on terms
least humiliating to the Southern people." He wrote Mrs. Grant from
Raleigh, North Carolina, in 1865: "The suffering that must exist in the
South ... will be beyond conception; people who speak of further
retaliation and punishment do not conceive of the suffering endured
already, or they are heartless and unfeeling."

General Halleck to General Meade, April 30, 1865: "The Army of the
Potomac have shown the people of Virginia how they would be treated as
enemies. Let them now prove that they know equally well how to treat the
same people as friends."

"The terrible sufferings of the South," our press commented, "have
softened the hearts of the stern warriors of the Armies of the Potomac and
the Cumberland, and while they are calling for pity and justice for us,
politicians and fanatics call for vengeance." General Sherman said: "I do
think some political power might be given to the young men who served in
the rebel army, for they are a better class than the adventurers who have
gone South purely for office."

During an exciting epoch in reconstruction, I was sitting beside a wounded
ex-Confederate in an opera-box, listening to a Southern statesman
haranguing us on our wrongs, real and heavy enough, heaven knows, heavier
than ever those of war had been. "Rather than submit to continued and
intensified humiliations," cried the orator, a magnetic man of the sort
who was carrying Northern audiences to opposite extremes, "we will buckle
on our swords and go to war again!" "It might be observed," remarked my
veteran drily, while I clapped my hands, "that if he should buckle on his
sword and go to war, it would be what he did not do before." I held my
hands quite still during the rest of that speech.

"Our women never were whipped!" I have heard grizzled Confederates say
that proudly. "There is a difference," remarked one hoary-headed hero,
who, after wearing stars on his collar in Confederate service represented
his State in the Federal Congress, "between the political and the feminine
war-spirit. The former is too often for personal gain. Woman's is the
aftermath of anguish. It has taken a long time to reconstruct Southern
women. Some are not reconstructed yet. Suffering was stamped too deep for
effacement. The Northern woman suffered with her Southern sister the agony
of anxiety and bereavement. But the Southern had other woes, of which the
Northern could have no conception. The armies were upon us. There was
devastation. The Southern woman and her loved ones lacked food and
raiment, the enemy appropriating what we had and blocking ways by which
fresh supplies might come; her home was burned over her head. Sometimes
she suffered worse things than starvation, worse things than the
destruction of her home.

"And women could only sit still and endure, while we could fight back.
Women do not understand that war is a matter of business. I had many
friends among the men I fought--splendid, brave fellows. Personally, we
were friends, and professionally, enemies. Women never get that point of
view."

Woman's war spirit is faithfulness and it is absolutely reckless of
personal advantages, as the following incident may illustrate. General
Hunton and General Turner knew each other pretty well, although in their
own persons they had never met. They had commanded opposing forces and
entertained a considerable respect for each other. General Turner was the
first Federal officer that came to Lynchburg, when General Hunton's wife
and youthful son were refugees; he sent Dr. Murray, a Confederate surgeon,
to call upon Mrs. Hunton with the message that she was to suffer for
nothing he could supply. General Hunton was in prison, she knew not where;
was not sure if he were alive or dead.

She had not the feelings her lord entertained for his distinguished
antagonist, and her response was: "Tell General Turner I would not accept
anything from him to save my life!"

Yet she must have been very hungry. She and her youthful son had been
reduced to goober-peas. First, her supplies got down to one piece of
beef-bone. She thought she would have a soup. For a moment, she left her
son to watch the pot, but not to stir the soup. But he thought he would do
well to stir it. So he stirred it, and turned the pot over. That day, she
had nothing for dinner but goober-peas.

"When I came home," said General Hunton, when asked for this story's
sequel, "and she told me about her message to General Turner, I wrote him
the nicest letter I knew how to write, thanking him for his kindness to
the wife of a man whose only claim on him was that he had fought him the
best he knew how.

"I don't think we would ever have had the trouble we had down here," he
continued, "if Northern people had known how things really were. In fact,
I know we would not. Why, I never had any trouble with Northern men in all
my life except that I just fought them all I knew how. And I never had
better friends than among my Republican colleagues in Congress after the
war. They thought all the more of me because I stood up so stoutly for the
old Confederate Cause."

Bonds coming about in the natural, inevitable order through interchange of
the humanities were respected. But where they seemed the outcome of
vanity, frivolity, or coquetry, that was another matter, a very serious
one for the Southern participant. The spirit of the times was morbid, yet
a noble loyalty was behind it.

Anywhere in the land, a Southern girl showing partiality for Federal beaux
came under the ban. If there were nothing else against it, such a course
appeared neither true nor dignified; if it were not treason to our lost
Confederacy, it were treason to our own poor boys in gray to flutter over
to prosperous conquerors.

Nothing could be more sharply defined in lights and shadows than the life
of one beautiful and talented Southern woman who matronised the
entertainments of a famous Federal general at a post in one of the Cotton
States, and thereby brought upon herself such condemnation as made her
wines and roses cost her dear. Yet perhaps such affiliations lessened the
rigors of military government for her State.

One of the loveliest of Atlanta's gray-haired dames tells me: "I am
unreconstructed yet--Southern to the backbone." Yet she speaks of
Sherman's godless cohorts as gently as if she were mother of them all. Her
close neighbour was a Yankee encampment. The open ground around her was
dotted with tents.

There were "all sorts" among the soldiers. None gave insolence or
violence. Pilfering was the great trouble; the rank and file were "awfully
thievish." Her kitchen, as usual with Southern kitchens of those days, was
a separate building. If for a moment she left her pots and ovens to answer
some not-to-be-ignored demand from the house, she found them empty on her
return, her dinner gone--a most serious thing when it was as by the skin
of her teeth that she got anything at all to cook and any fuel to cook
with; and when, moreover, cooking was new and tremendously hard work. "We
could not always identify the thief; when we could, we were afraid to
incur the enmity of the men. Better have our things stolen than worse
happen us, as might if officers punished those men on our report. I kept a
still tongue in my head."

Though a wife and mother, she was yet in girlhood's years, very soft and
fair; had been "lapped in luxury," with a maid for herself, a nurse for
her boy, a servant to do this, that, or the other thing, for her. She
thus describes her first essay at the family wash. There was a fine well
in her yard, and men came to get water. A big-hearted Irishman caught the
little lady struggling over soap-suds. It looked as if she would never get
those clothes clean. For one thing, when she tried to wring them, they
were streaked with blood from her arms and hands; she had peculiarly fine
and tender skin.

"Faith an' be jabbers!" said Pat, "an' what is it that you're thryin' to
do?" "Go away, and let me alone!" "Faith, an' if ye don't lave off clanin'
thim garmints, they'll be that doirty--" "Go 'way!" "Sure, me choild, an'
if ye'll jis' step to the other soide of the tub without puttin' me to the
inconvaniance--" He was about to pick her up in his mighty hands. She
moved and dropped down, swallowing a sob.

"Sure, an' it's as good a washerwoman as ivver wore breeches I am," said
Pat. "An' that's what I've larned in the army." In short order, he had all
the clothes hanging snow-white on the line; before he left, he cut enough
wood for her ironing. "I'm your Bridget ivery wash-day that comes 'roun',"
he said as he swung himself off. He was good as his word. This brother-man
did her wash every week. "Sure, an' it's a shame it is," he would say,
"the Government fadin' the lazy nagurs an' God an' the divvil can't make
'em wur-r-k."

Through Tony, her son, another link was formed 'twixt late enemies. It was
hard for mothers busy at housework to keep track of young children;
without fences for definement of yard-limits, and with all old landmarks
wiped out, it was easy for children to wander beyond bearings. A lost
child was no rarity. One day General and Mrs. Saxton drove up in their
carriage, bringing Tony. Tony had lost himself; fright, confusion, lack of
food, had made him ill; he had been brought to the attention of the
general and his wife, who, instead of sending the child home by a
subordinate, came with him themselves, the lady holding the pale little
fellow in her arms, comforting and soothing him. Thus began friendship
between Mrs. S. and Mrs. Saxton; not only small Tony was now pressed to
take airings with Yankees, but his mother. The general did all he could to
make life easier for her; had wood hauled and cut for her. The Southern
woman's reduction to poverty and menial tasks mortified him, as they
mortified many another manly blue-coat, witness of the reduction. "It is
pitiable and it is all wrong," said one officer to Mrs. S. "Our people up
North simply don't know how things are down here." A lady friend of Mrs.
S.'s tells me that she knew a Northern officer--(giving his name)--who
resigned his commission because he found himself unable to witness the
sufferings of Southern women and children, and have a hand in imposing
them.

Rulers who came under just condemnation as "military satraps" governing in
a democracy in time of peace by the bayonet, when divorced from the
exercise of their office, won praise as men. Thus, General Meade's rule in
Georgia is open to severest criticism, yet Ellen Meade Clarke, who saw him
as the man and not as the oppressor, says: "I had just married and gone to
Atlanta when Sherman ordered the citizens out, which order I hastily
obeyed, leaving everything in my Peachtree cottage home. Was among the
first to return. Knew all the generals in command; they were all
neighbors; General Meade, who was sent to see me by some one bearing our
name, proved a good and faithful friend and, on his death-bed, left me his
prayer-book."

[Illustration: MISS MARY MEADE, OF PETERSBURG, VA.

She was known far and wide for her loveliness of person and character, her
intellectual gifts and social graces.]




LOVERS AND PRAYERS




CHAPTER XI

BUTTONS, LOVERS, OATHS, WAR LORDS, AND PRAYERS FOR PRESIDENTS


Some military orders were very irritating.

The "Button Order" prohibited our men from wearing Confederate buttons.
Many possessed no others and had not money wherewith to buy. "Buttons were
scarce as hens' teeth." The Confederacy had been reduced to all sorts of
makeshifts for buttons. Thorns from thornbushes had furnished country
folks with such fastenings as pins usually supply, and served convenience
on milady's toilette-table when she went to do up her hair.

One clause in that monstrous order delighted feminine hearts! It provided
as thoughtful concession to all too glaring poverty that: "When plain
buttons cannot be procured, those formerly used can be covered with
cloth." Richmond ladies looked up all the bits of crape and bombazine they
had, and next morning their men appeared on the streets with buttons in
mourning! "I would never have gotten Uncle out of the front door if he had
realized what I was up to," Matoaca relates. "Not that he was not mournful
enough, but he did not want to mourn that way."

Somehow, nobody thought about Sam's button; he was a boy, only fifteen. He
happened to go out near Camp Grant in his old gray jacket, the only coat
he had; one of his brothers had given it to him months before. It was held
together over his breast by a single button, his only button. A Yankee
sergeant cut it off with his sword. The jacket fell apart, exposing
bepatched and thread-bare underwear. His mother and sisters could not help
crying when the boy came in, holding his jacket together with his hand,
his face suffused, his eyes full of tears of rage and mortification.

The "Button Trouble" pervaded the entire South. The Tennessee Legislature,
Brownlow's machine, discussed a bill imposing a fine of $5 to $25 upon
privates, and $25 to $50 upon officers for wearing the "rebel uniform."
The gaunt, destitute creatures who were trudging, stumping, limping,
through that State on their way from distant battlefields and Northern
prisons to their homes, had rarely so much as fifty cents in their
pockets. Had that bill become a law enforced, Tennessee prisons must have
overflowed with recaptured Confederates, or roads and woods with men in
undress.

Many a distinguished soldier, home-returning, ignorant that such an order
existed, has been held up at the entrance to his native town by a saucy
negro sergeant who would shear him of buttons with a sabre, or march him
through the streets to the Provost's office to answer for the crime of
having buttons on his clothes.

The provision about covering buttons has always struck me as the unkindest
cut of all. How was a man who had no feminine relatives to obey the law?
Granted that as a soldier, he had acquired the art of being his own
seamstress, how, when he was in the woods or the roads, could he get
scraps of cloth and cover buttons?

But of all commands ever issued, the "Marriage Order" was the most
extraordinary! That order said people should not get married unless they
took the Oath of Allegiance. If they did, they would be arrested. I have
forgotten the exact wording, but if you will look up General Order No.
4,[7] April 29, and signed by General Halleck, you can satisfy any
curiosity you may feel. It was a long ukase, saying what-all people should
not do unless they took the oath (some felt like taking a good many
daily!). Naturally, young people were greatly upset. Many had been engaged
a weary while, to be married soon as the war should be over.

Among those affected was Captain Sloan, whose marriage to Miss Wortham was
due the Tuesday following. The paper containing the order, heavily ringed
with black, darkened the roseate world upon which the bride-elect opened
her lovely eyes Saturday morning. The same hand that had put the order in
mourning had scribbled on the margin: "If Captain Sloan is not ready to
take that oath, I am."

Her maid informed her that Mr. Carrington, an elderly friend, fond of a
joke, was awaiting her. Descending to the drawing-room, she found it full
of sympathising neighbours, her betrothed in the midst, all debating a way
out of the difficulty. Not even sharp-witted lawyers could see one. In
times so out of joint law did not count.

The situation was saved by the fact that General Halleck had a namesake in
Captain Sloan's family. The Captain's "Uncle Jerry" (otherwise General
Jerry Gilmer, of South Carolina) had called a son "Henry Halleck" in
honour of his one-time class-mate at West Point. When the idea of the
namesake as basis of appeal dawned on Captain Sloan, day was passing. Miss
Wortham's father, who, before the Federal Government had interfered with
his dominion as a parent, had been anxious that his very youthful daughter
and her betrothed should defer their union, was now quite determined that
the rights of the lovers should not be abrogated by Uncle Sam. As member
of the Confederate Ambulance Committee, he had been in close touch with
Colonel Mulford, Federal Commissioner of Exchange; Judge Ould, Confederate
Commissioner, was his personal friend; in combination with these
gentlemen, he arranged a meeting twixt lover and war lord.

General Halleck received Hymen's ambassador with courtesy. The story of
the namesake won his sympathetic ear. When told what consternation his
order was causing--Captain Sloan plead other cases besides his own--the
war lord laughed, scribbled something on a slip of official paper and
handed it to Captain Sloan, saying: "Let this be known and I suppose there
will be a good many weddings before Monday." The slip read like this:
"Order No. 4 will not go into effect until Monday morning. H. W. Halleck,
General Commanding."

Alas! there were no Sunday papers. The news was disseminated as widely as
possible; and three weddings, at least, in high society, happened Sunday
in consequence. Mrs. Sloan, a prominent member of Baltimore society, gave
her own account of the whole matter in Mrs. Daniel's "Confederate
Scrap-Book," which any one may see at the Confederate Museum.

"The gown I wore the day after my marriage," she relates, "was a buff
calico with tiny dots in it, and as it was prettily and becomingly made,
I looked as well, and I know I was as happy, as if it had been one of
Worth's or Redfern's most bewildering conceits--and I am sure it was as
expensive, as it cost $30 a yard."

General Halleck's order was not unique. Restrictions on marriage had been
incorporated in the State Constitution of Missouri, 1864, a section
prescribing that "No person shall practice law, be competent as bishop,
priest, deacon, minister, elder, or other clergyman of any religious
persuasion, sect, or denomination, teach, preach, or solemnise marriage
until such person shall have first taken the oath required as to voters."
"Under these provisions," commented Senator Vest, from whom I borrow, "the
parent who had given a piece of bread or a cup of water to a son in the
Confederate service, or who had in any way expressed sympathy for such
son, was prohibited from registering as voter, serving as juror, or
holding any office or acting as trustee, or practicing law, or teaching in
any school, or preaching the Gospel, or solemnising the marriage rite."[8]

Strictly construed, the test-oath imposed by Congress in 1867, like that
of Missouri, excluded from franchise and office, the parent who had given
a piece of bread or a cup of water or his sympathy to a son in the
Confederate service; and the negro who had made wheat and corn for his
master's family, as the applicant must swear that he had not "given aid or
comfort to" Confederates.

The Missouri test-oath was one that prominent Union men, among them
General Francis P. Blair, leader of the Union Party in his State, a man
who had taken part in the siege of Vicksburg and marched with Sherman to
the sea, were unable to take. Americans beholding his statue in Statuary
Hall, Washington, as that of one of the two sons Missouri most delights to
honour, will find food for curious reflection in the fact that General
Blair, going in full Federal uniform to register as a voter, was not
allowed to do so. Visitors to Blair Hall at the St. Louis Exposition may
have been reminded of this little incident of reconstruction. In 1867,
Father John A. Cummings was arrested and tried for performing parochial
duties without taking the oath. A bill forbidding women to marry until
they took the oath was passed by Tennessee's Senate, but the House
rejected it. This bill, like Missouri's law, discriminated against
ministers of the Gospel; those who had sympathised with "rebels" or in any
way aided them, were condemned to work on the public roads and other
degrading forms of expiation.

There was no appreciable reluctance on the part of the people to take the
oath of allegiance. They could honestly swear for the future to sustain
the Government of the United States, but few, or no decent people, even
Unionists, living among Confederates, could vow they had given no "aid or
comfort" to one. The test-oath cultivated hypocrisy in natives and invited
carpet-baggers. A native who would take it was eligible to office, while
the honest man who would not lie, was denied a right to vote.

In readiness to take the oath of allegiance, people rushed so promptly to
tribunals of administration that the sincerity of the South was questioned
at the North, where it could not be understood how sharp was our need to
have formalities of submission over and done with, that we might get to
work. One striking cartoon pictured Columbia upon a throne gloomily
regarding a procession that came bending, bowing, kneeling, creeping,
crawling, to her feet, General Lee leader and most abject, with Howell
Cobb, Wade Hampton, and other distinguished Southerners around him.
Beneath was this: "Can I trust these men?" On the opposite page, a
one-legged negro soldier held out his hand; beneath was: "Franchise? And
not this man?"

[Illustration: MRS. HENRY L. POPE

(Sarah Moore Ewing)

First Kentucky State Regent D. A. R.

From a portrait by de Franca, photographed by Doerr. Louisville, Ky.]

A few people had serious scruples of conscience against taking the oath. I
know of two or three whose attitude, considering their personalities, was
amusing and pathetic. There was one good lady, Mrs. Wellington, who walked
all the way from Petersburg to Richmond, a distance of twenty miles, for
fear the oath might be required if she boarded a car!

I turn to Matoaca's journal:

"I have been visiting Cousin Mary in Powhatan. Of course they have
military government there, too. Soldiers ride up, enter without
invitation, walk through the house, seat themselves at the piano and play;
promenade to the rear, go into the kitchen, sit down and talk with the
darkeys.

"At church, I saw officers wearing side-arms. They come regularly to watch
if we pray for the President of the United States. I hope they were
edified; a number stood straight up during that prayer. Among the most
erect were the M. girls, who have very _retroussé_ noses. The Yankees
reported: 'Not only do they stand up when the President is prayed for, but
they turn up their noses.' They sent word back: 'A mightier power than the
Yankee Army turned up our noses.'

"I hear they have dealt severely with Rev. Mr. Wingfield because he would
not read that prayer for the President. When brought up for it, he told
the examining officer he could not--it was a matter of conscience. They
put a ball and chain on him and made him sweep the streets. And these
people are the exponents of 'freedom,' and 'liberty of conscience.' They
come from a land whose slogan is these words! They have no right to force
us to pray according to their views. For myself, I kneel during the
prayer, I try to pray it; I seek to feel it, since to pray without feeling
is mockery. But I don't feel it.

"Uncle advised: 'My daughter, no man needs your prayers more than the
President of the United States. He has great and grave responsibilities.
We must desire that a higher power shall direct him. The President is
surrounded by advisers bent on revenge, so bent on it that they seem to
care nothing whatever for the Union--the real union of the North and
South.' So I bow my head, and I try--God knows I try! But thoughts of all
the blood that has been shed, of the homes that have been burned, the
suffering and starvation endured, will rush into my mind as I kneel. Dear
Christ! did you know how hard a command you laid upon us when you said,
'Pray for your enemies?'"

An entry after Mr. Lincoln's death says: "How can I pray that prayer in
the face of this?" Below is pasted Johnson's proclamation charging the
assassination to Mr. Davis and other Southern leaders. This follows: "How
_can_ I pray for the President of the United States? That proclamation is
an insult flung in the face of the whole South! And we have to take it."

They had as much trouble at Washington over our prayers as over our few
buttons and clothes.

The Sunday after the evacuation--one week from the day on which the
messenger came from General Lee to Mr. Davis--the Federals were
represented in St. Paul's by distinguished and respectful worshippers.
Nearly all women present were in black. When the moment came for the
petition for "the President of the Confederate States and all others in
authority," you could have heard a pin fall. The congregation had kinsmen
in armies still under the authority of the President of the Confederacy;
they were full of anxiety; their hearts were torn and troubled. Were they
here before God to abjure their own? Were they to utter prayer that was
mockery? To require them to pray for the President of the United States
was like calling upon the martyrs of old to burn incense to strange gods.
Dr. Minnegerode read the prayer, omitting the words "for the President of
the Confederate States," simply saying "for all in authority." Generals
Weitzel, Shepley and Ripley had consented that it was to be thus.

Assistant Secretary of War Dana writes to Secretary of War Stanton: "On
Friday, I asked Weitzel about what he was going to do in regard to opening
the churches on Sunday. He said ministers would be warned against
treasonable utterances and be told they must put up loyal prayers."

It seems that after this conversation the determination of the Commandant
and his Staff to wrest piety and patriotism out of the rebels at one fell
swoop, underwent modification, partly, perhaps, as a concession to the
Almighty, of whom it was fair to presume that He might not be altogether
pleased with prayers offered on the point of a sword.

Scandalised at official laxity in getting just dues from Heaven for the
United States, Dana continues: "It shakes my faith a good deal in
Weitzel." In subsequent letters he says it was Shepley's or Ripley's
fault; Weitzel really thought the people ought to be made to pray right;
the crime was somehow fastened finally on Judge Campbell's back, and
Weitzel was informed that he must have no further oral communications with
this dangerous and seditious person. Thus Mr. Stanton rounded up Weitzel:
"If you have consented that services should be performed in the Episcopal
Churches of Richmond without the usual prayer said in loyal churches for
the President, your action is strongly condemned by this Department. I am
not willing to believe that an officer of the United States commanding in
Richmond would consent to such an omission of respect for the President of
the United States." Weitzel: "Do you desire that I should order this form
of prayer in Episcopal, Hebrew, Roman Catholic, and other churches where
they have a liturgy?" Stanton: "No mark of respect must be omitted to
President Lincoln which was rendered to the rebel, Jeff Davis." Weitzel:
"Dispatch received. Order will be issued in accordance therewith."

Is it any wonder that Grant and Sherman between them finally said to
President Johnson: "Mr. President, you should make some order that we of
the army are not bound to obey the orders of Mr. Stanton as Secretary of
War."

The Episcopal clergy presented the case clearly to General Weitzel and his
Staff, who, as reasonable men, appreciated the situation. "The Church and
State are not one in this country; we, as men, in all good faith take the
oath of allegiance required of us. As priests, we are under ecclesiastical
jurisdiction; we cannot add to the liturgy. A convention of the Church
must be called. Meanwhile, we, of course, omit words held treasonable,
reciting, 'for all in authority,' which surely includes the President.
Forcing public feeling will be unwise; members will absent themselves, or
go to a church which, not using any ritual, is not under compulsion; the
order is, in effect, discrimination against the Episcopal Church."

Our people, they said, "desire by quiet and inoffensive conduct to respond
to the liberal policy of those in command; they deeply appreciate the
conciliatory measures adopted, and all the more regret to appear as
dissenters." They wrote to President Johnson, asking opportunity for
action by heads of the diocese; they said that when the South seceded,
standing forms had obtained for months till change was so wrought. That
letter went the rounds of the War, State, and Executive Departments, and
was returned "disapproved," and the Episcopal Churches of Richmond were
actually closed by military order until they would say that prayer.

Even President Lincoln was moved to write General Weitzel, asking what it
meant that he hadn't made people pray as they ought! "You told me not to
insist upon little things," said Weitzel.

Had we been let alone in the matter of praying for the President, we would
all very soon have come to see the subject in the light in which Uncle
Randolph presented it. As it was, conscientious prelates were in
straitened positions, not wishing to lead their people in petitions which
the latter would resent or regard at the best as empty formula. Omission
of the prayer altogether was recommended by Bishop Wilmer, of Alabama, as
the wisest course for the moment; General Woods suspended the Bishop and
all clergy of his diocese; they were not to preach or to lead in church
service; and, I believe, were not to marry the living, baptise the
new-born, or bury the dead. President Johnson set such orders aside as
soon as he came to his senses after the shock of Mr. Lincoln's death.

General McPherson commanded pastors of Vicksburg (1864) to read the
prescribed prayer for the President at each and every service; pastors of
churches without such prescribed form were instructed to invent one. The
Bishop of Natchez, William Henry Elder, was banished because he would not
read the prayer. Some young ladies, of Vicksburg, were banished because
they rose and left the church, on Christmas morning, when a minister read
it. An order signed by General McPherson, served on each, said she was
"hereby banished and must leave the Federal lines within forty-eight hours
under penalty of imprisonment." No extension of time for getting "their
things ready" was allowed. Permission was given for the mother of one
delinquent to chaperon the bevy, which, with due ceremony, was deported
under flag of truce, hundreds of Federal soldiers watching.

One Sunday in New Orleans under Butler's rule, Major Strong was at Dr.
Goodrich's church; time came for prayer for the Confederacy; there was
silence. Major Strong rose and thundered: "Stop, sir! I close this church
in ten minutes!" Rev. Dr. Leacock[9] wrote Butler a tender letter begging
him not to force people to perjury in taking the oath through fear,
prefacing: "No man more desires restoration of the Union than I." Helen
Gray, Dr. Leacock's granddaughter, tells me: "My grandfather was arrested
in church and marched through the city in ecclesiastical robes to answer
for not praying as Butler bade; Rev. Dr. Goodrich and Rev. Mr. Fulton (now
Editor of the 'Church Standard') were also arrested. Butler sent them
North to be imprisoned in Fort Lafayette. The levee was thronged with
people, many weeping to see them go. They were met at New York by
influential citizens, among these Samuel Morse, the inventor, who
offered them his purse, carriage and horses. They were paroled and
entertained at the Astor House. Some people were bitter and small towards
them; many were kind, among these, I think, was Bishop Potter. Hon.
Reverdy Johnson took up their case. Grandfather served St. Mark's,
Niagara, Canada, in the rector's absence; the people presented him,
through Mrs. Dr. Marston, with a purse; he served at Chamblee, where the
people also presented him with a purse. Mrs. Greenleaf, Henry W.
Longfellow's sister, sent him a purse of $500; she had attended his church
during ante-bellum visits to New Orleans, and she loved him dearly. Rev.
F. E. Chubbuck, the Yankee Chaplain appointed to succeed my grandfather,
called on my grandmother, expressed regrets and sympathies, and offered to
do anything he could for her. I tell the tale as it has come to me."
Government reports confirm this in essentials.

[Illustration: MRS. WILLIAM HOWELL (Mary Leacock)

MRS. ANDREW GRAY (Lina Leacock)

Daughters of the Rev. Dr. Leacock, of Christ Church, New Orleans.]

Of course, denominations not using a liturgy, had an advantage, but they
were not exempt. Major B. K. Davis, Lexington, Mo., April 25, 1865, to
Major-General Dodge: "On the 7th of April, from the well-known disloyalty
of the churches of this place, I issued an order that pastors of all
churches return thanks for our late victories. The pastor of the M. E.
Church declined to do so, and I took the keys of his church."

In Huntsville, Alabama, 1862, Rev. F. A. Ross, Presbyterian minister, was
arrested and sent north by General Rousseau because, when commanded to
pray for the Yankees, he prayed: "We beseech thee, O Lord, to bless our
enemies and remove them from our midst as soon as seemeth good in Thy
sight!"[10]

"The Confederate Veteran" tells this of General Lee. At Communion in St.
Paul's soon after the occupation, the first person to walk up to the altar
and kneel was a negro man. Manner and moment made the act sinister, a
challenge, not an expression of piety. The congregation sat, stunned and
still, not knowing what to do. General Lee rose, walked quietly up the
aisle and knelt near the negro. The people followed and service proceeded
as if no innovation had been attempted. The custom by which whites
preceded negroes to the altar originated, not in contempt for negroes, but
in ideas of what was right, orderly and proper. So far were whites from
despising negroes in religious fellowship that it was not strange for both
races to assemble in plantation chapels and join in worship conducted by
the black preacher in the white preacher's absence. I sometimes think
those old Southerners knew the negro better than we ever can. But just
after the war, they were not supposed to know anything of value on any
subject.

Wherever there was a press, it was muzzled by policy if not by such direct
commands as General Sherman's in Savannah, when he ordained that there
should be no more than two newspapers, and forbade "any libelous
publication, mischievous matter, premature acts, exaggerated statements,
_or any comments whatever upon the acts of the constituted authorities_,"
on pain of heavy penalties to editors and proprietors. Some people say we
ought, even now, for the family honour, to hush up everything unpleasant
and discreditable. Not so! It is not well for men in power to think that
their acts are not to be inquired into some day.




CLUBBED TO HIS KNEES




CHAPTER XII

CLUBBED TO HIS KNEES


As illustrations of embarrassments we had to face, I have chiefly chosen
incidents showing a kindly and forbearing spirit on the part of Federal
commanders, because I desire to pay tribute wherever I may to men in blue,
remembering that Southern boys are now wearing the blue and that all men
wearing the blue are ours. I have chiefly chosen incidents in which the
Federal officers, being gentlemen and brave men--being decent and
human--revolted against exercise of cruelty to a fallen foe.

Truth compels the shield's reverse.

In Richmond, one officer in position went to a prominent citizen and
demanded $600 of him, threatening to confiscate and sell his home if he
did not give it. This citizen, a lawyer and man of business, knew the
threat could not be executed, and refused to meet the demand. Others not
so wise paid such claims. In all parts of the South, many people, among
them widows and orphans, were thus impoverished beyond the pinched
condition in which war left them. Some sold their remnants of furniture,
the very beds they slept on, a part of their scanty raiment, and in one
case on official record, "the coverlid off the baby's bed," to satisfy the
spurious claims of men misusing authority.

An instance illustrating our helplessness is that of Captain Bayard, who
came out of the war with some make-shift crutches, a brave heart, and a
love affair as the sum total of his capital in life. He made his first
money by clerical work for sympathetic Federal officials. This he invested
in a new suit of clothes; "They are right nice-looking," he said with
modest pride when conveying the pleasing intelligence to one interested;
and he bought a pair of artificial feet.

Then he set out to see his sweetheart, feeling very proud. It was the
first time he had tried his feet on the street, and he was not walking
with any sense of security, but had safely traversed a square or two and
was crossing a street, when a Federal officer came galloping along and
very nearly ran over him; he threw up his cane. The horse shied, the
cavalryman jumped off and knocked him down. As fast as he struggled up,
the cavalryman knocked him down again. A burly man ran to his assistance;
the cavalryman struck this man such a blow that it made tears spring in
his eyes; then mounted and galloped off. "He was obliged to see," said the
captain, "that I was a cripple, and that I could not get out of his way or
withstand his blows."

The worst Virginia had to bear was as nothing to what the Carolinas
suffered. There was that poor boy, who was hung in Raleigh on Lovejoy's
tree--where the Governor's Mansion now stands. He had fired off a pistol;
had hurt nobody--had not attempted to hurt anybody; it was just a boy's
thoughtless, crazy deed.

Entering Rosemont Cemetery, Newberry, S. C., one perceives on a tall
marble shaft "The Lone Star of Texas" and this: "Calvin S. Crozier, Born
at Brandon, Mississippi, August 1840, Murdered at Newberry, S. C.,
September 8, 1865."

At the close of the war, there were some 99,000 Confederates in Federal
prisons, whose release, beginning in May, continued throughout the
summer. Among these was Crozier, slender, boyish in appearance, brave,
thin to emaciation, pitifully weak and homesick. It was a far cry to his
home in sunny Galveston, but he had traversed three 

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