A visit to Confederate lines—A narrow escape—My return—The fall of Atlanta.
No news from “the front;” no tidings from the loved ones in gray; no friendly spirit whispering words of cheer or consolation. Shut up within a narrow space, and guarded by Federal bayonets! not a ray of friendly light illuminated my environment.
The constant roaring of cannon and rattling of musketry; the thousand, yea, tens of thousands of shots blending into one grand continuous whole, and reverberating in avalanchan volume over the hills of Fulton, and the mountain heights of old DeKalb—told in thunder tones of the fierce contest between Federal and Confederate forces being waged without intermission for the possession of Atlanta.
The haughty, insolent boast of the enemy, now that Joe Johnston was removed from the command of the Army of the Tennessee, that they would make quick work of the rebellion, and of the complete subjugation of the South, had in no way a tendency to mitigate anxiety or to encourage hope. Thus surrounded, I sought and obtained permission to read Federal newspapers. The United States mail brought daily papers to the officers in command of the forces quartered in our yard; and through this medium I kept posted, from a Northern standpoint, concerningthe situation of both armies. While there was little in these dispatches gratifying to me, there was much that I thought would be valuable to my people if I could only convey it to them; and I racked my brain day and night, devising ways and means by which to accomplish this feat. But the ways and means decided upon were, upon reflection, invariably abandoned as being impracticable.
In this dilemma, a most opportune circumstance offered an immediate solution of the difficult problem. In the midst of a deep study of the relative positions of the two armies, and of the hopes and fears animating both, a tall, lank, honest-faced Yankee came to the door of the portico and asked “if Miss Gay was in.”
I responded that I was she, and he handed me a letter addressed to myself. I hastily tore it open and read the contents. It was written by a reverend gentleman whose wife was a distant relative of my mother, and told that she was very ill. “Indeed,” wrote he, “I have but little hope of ever seeing her any better, and I beg you to come to see her, and spend several days.”
I showed the letter to my mother, who was sitting near by, and, like myself, engaged in studying the situation. She strenuously objected to my going, and advanced many good reasons for my not doing so; but my reasons for going counteracted them all in my estimation, and I determined to go.
Taking Telitha with me, I carried the letter to the Provost Marshal, and asked him to read it and grant me the privilege of going. After reading the letter,he asked me how I obtained it, and received my statement. He then asked me if I could refer him to the party who brought it to me. Leaving the letter with him, I ran home and soon returned with the desired individual who had fortunately lingered in the yard in anticipation of usefulness. Convinced that the invitation was genuine, and for a humane purpose, this usually morose marshal granted me “a permit” to visit those poor old sick people, for the husband was almost as feeble as his wife. I told the obliging marshal that there was another favor I should like to ask of him, if he would not think me too presumptuous. “Name it,” he said. I replied:
“Will you detail one or more of the soldiers to act as an escort for me? I am afraid to go with only this girl.”
To this he also assented, and said it was a wise precaution. He asked when I wished to come home.
“Day after to-morrow afternoon,” I told him, and received assurance that an escort would be in waiting for me at that time.
It now became necessary to make some important preparations for the trip. A great deal was involved, and if my plans were successful, important events might accrue. A nice white petticoat was called into requisition, and, when I got done with it, it was literally lined with Northern newspapers. “The Cincinnati Enquirer,” and “The New York Daily Times;” “The Cincinnati Commercial Gazette,” and “The Philadelphia Evening Ledger,” under the manipulation of my fingers, took their places on the inner sides and rear of the skirt, and served as a verystylish “bustle,” an article much in vogue in those days. This preparatory work having been accomplished, it required but a few moments to complete my toilet, and, under the auspices of a clear conscience and a mother’s blessing, doubtless, I started on a perilous trip. The ever-faithful Telitha was by my side, and the military escort a few feet in advance.
After a walk of a mile and a half, I reached my destination for that day. I found the old lady in question much better than I had expected. Nervous and sick himself, her husband had greatly exaggerated her afflictions. By degrees, and under protest, I communicated to these aged people my intention of carrying information to Hood’s headquarters, that might be of use to our army. I knew that these good old people would not betray me, even though they might not approve my course, and I confided to them my every plan. Both were troubled about the possible result if I should be detected; but my plans were laid, and nothing could deter me from pursuing them.
The rising sun of another day saw Telitha and me starting on our way to run the gauntlet, so to speak, of Federal bayonets. These good old people had given me much valuable information regarding the way to Atlanta—information which enabled me to get there without conflict with either Confederate or Federal pickets. Knowing the topography of the country, I took a circuitous route to an old mill; Cobb’s, I believe, and from there I sought the McDonough road. I didn’t venture to keep that highway to the city, but I kept within sight of it, andunder cover of breast-works and other obstructions, managed to evade videttes and pickets of both armies. After walking fourteen or fifteen miles, I entered Atlanta at the beautiful home of Mrs. L. P. Grant, at the southern boundary of the city. That estimable lady never lost an opportunity of doing good. The lessons of humanity and Christian grace impressed upon her youthful mind, and intensified by the life-long example of her devoted mother, Mrs. Ammi Williams, of Decatur, had called into action all that is ennobling in woman. On this occasion, as upon every other offering an opportunity, she remembered to do good. She ordered an appetizing lunch, including a cup of sure enough coffee, which refreshed and strengthened me after my long walk. Her butler having become a familiar personage on the streets of Atlanta, she sent him as a guide to important places. We entered the city unchallenged, and moved about at will. The force of habit, probably, led me to Mrs. McArthur’s and to Mrs. Craig’s on Pryor street; and, by the way, these friends still own the same property, and occupy almost the same homes. The head of neither of these families was willing to accompany me to Confederate headquarters, and without a guide I started to hunt them for myself. What had seemed an easy task now seemed insurmountable. I knew not in what direction to go, and the few whom I asked seemed as ignorant as myself. Starting from Mrs. Craig’s, I went towards the depot. I had not proceeded very far before I met Major John Y. Rankin. I could scarcely restrain tears of joy. He was a member of the very same command to whichmy brother belonged. From Major Rankin I learned that my brother, utterly prostrated, had been sent to a hospital, either in Augusta or Madison. He told me many other things of interest, which I cannot mention now, unless I was compiling a history instead of a series of personal reminiscences. Preferring not to stand upon the street, I asked Major Rankin to return with me to Mrs. Craig’s, which he did, and spent an hour in pleasant conversation. Mrs. Craig was a delightful conversationalist, and while she was entertaining the major with that fine art, I retired to a private apartment, and with the aid of a pair of scissors ripped off the papers from my underskirt and smoothed and folded them nicely, and after re-arranging my toilet, took them into the parlor as a trophy of skill in outwitting the Yankee. Telitha, too, had a trophy to which she had clung ever since we left home with the tenacity of an eel, and which doubtless she supposed to be an offering to “Marse Tom,” and was evidently anxious that he should receive it. Having dismissed Mrs. Grant’s butler as no longer necessary to my convenience, Major Rankin, myself and Telitha went direct to the headquarters of his command. The papers seemed to be most acceptable, but I noticed that the gleanings from conversation seemed far more so. The hopefulness and enthusiasm of our soldiers were inspiring. But alas! how little they knew of the situation, and how determined not to be enlightened. Even then they believed that they would hold Atlanta against Herculean odds, and scorned the idea of its surrender. At length the opening of Telitha’s package devolved on me. Shirts,socks and soap, towels, gloves, etc., formed a compact bundle that my mother had sent to our soldiers. Many cheery words were said, and good-byes uttered, and I left them to meet once more under very different circumstances.
I now turned my thoughts to our negroes, who were hired in different parts of the city. Rachel, the mother of King, hired herself and rented a room from Mr. John Silvey, who lived upon the same lot on Marietta street upon which he has since erected his present elegant residence. In order that I might have an interview with Rachel without disturbing Mr. Silvey’s family, I went to the side gate and called her. She answered and came immediately. I asked her if she realized the great danger to which she was continually exposed. Even then “shot and shell” were falling in every direction, and the roaring of cannon was an unceasing sound. She replied that she knew the danger, and thought I was doing wrong to be in Atlanta when I had a home to be at. I insisted that she had the same home, and a good vacant house was ready to receive her. But she was impervious to every argument, and preferred to await the coming of Sherman in her present quarters. Seeing that I had no influence over her, I bade her good-bye and left. Telitha and I had not gone farther than the First Presbyterian church (not a square away) from the gate upon which I had leaned during this interview with Rachel, before a bombshell fell by that gate and burst into a thousand fragments, literally tearing the gate into pieces. Had I remained there one minute longer, my mortal being would have been torn toatoms. After this fearfully impressive adventure, unfortified by any “permit” I struck a bee line to Mrs. Grant’s, having promised her that I would go back that way and stop awhile. An old negro man belonging to Mrs. Williams, who had “come out” on a previous occasion, was there, and wanted to return under my protection to his home within the enemy’s lines. Very earnest assurances from Mrs. Grant to that effect convinced me that I had nothing to fear from betrayal by him, and I consented that he should be a member of my company homeward bound. Two large packages were ready for the old man to take charge of, about which Mrs. Grant gave him directions,sotto voce. Putting one of them on the end of a walking cane he threw it over his right shoulder, and with his left hand picked up the other bundle. Telitha and I were unencumbered. With a good deal of trepidation I took the advance position in the line of march, and walked briskly. We had not proceeded very far before we encountered our pickets. No argument was weighty enough to secure for me the privilege of passing the lines without an official permit. Baffled in this effort, I approved the action of the pickets, and we turned and retraced our steps in the direction of Atlanta, until entirely out of sight of them, and then we turned southward and then eastward, verging a little northward. Constant vigilance enabled me to evade the Yankee pickets, and constant walking brought me safely to the home of my aged and afflicted friends, from which I had started early in the morning of that day. Not being tired, I could have gone home; but the policy of carrying out theoriginal programme is too apparent to need explanation. These friends were conservative in every act and word, and, it may be, leaned a little out of the perpendicular towards that “flaunting lie,” the United States flag; therefore they were favorites among the so-called defenders of the Union, and were kept supplied with many palatable articles of food that were entirely out of the reach of rebels who were avowed and “dyed in the wool.”
A few minutes sufficed to furnish us with a fine pot of soup (and good bread was not lacking), of which we ate heartily. The old negro man was too anxious to get home to be willing to spend the night so near, just for the privilege of walking into Decatur under Yankee escort, and said he was “going home,” and left me.
The next day my escort was promptly on hand, and in due time I was in Decatur, none the worse for having put into practice a favorite aphorism of the Yankees, that “all things are fair in war.”
The old man had preceded me, and faithful to the behest of Mrs. Grant, had turned over a valuable package to my mother.
Not many mornings subsequent to the adventure just related, I discovered upon opening the door that the Yankee tents seemed to be vacant. Not a blue-coat was to be seen. What could it mean? Had they given up the contest and ignominiously fled? As if confirmatory of the gratifying suggestion, the booming of cannon in the direction of Atlanta was evidently decreasing. Then again I thought perhaps the wagon train had been sent out to forage upon the country,and as it would now have to go forty-five and fifty miles to get anything, it required an immense military escort to protect it from the dashing, sanguinary attacks of the “rebels.” The latter thought was soon dismissed and the former embraced, and how consoling it was to me. Before the sun had attained its meridian height, a number of our scouts appeared on the abandoned grounds; and what joy their presence gave us! But they left us as suddenly as they came, and on reflection we could not think of a single encouraging word uttered by them during their stay. Suspense became intolerable. With occasional lulls, the roaring of cannon was a continuous blending of ominous sound.
In the midst of this awful suspense, an apparition, glorious and bright, appeared in our presence. It was my brother. He had left Madison a few days before, where he had been allowed to spend a part of his furlough, instead of remaining at the Augusta hospital, and where he received the tender ministrations of his estimable cousin, Mrs. Tom Hillsman, and her pretty young daughters, and the loving care of his sister Missouri, who was also at this time an inmate of her cousin’s household. How I wished he could have remained there until restored to health. One less patriotic and conscientious would have done so. His mother’s joy at meeting her beloved son, and under such circumstances, was pathetic indeed, and I shall never forget the effort she made to repress the tears and steady the voice as she sought to nerve him for the arduous and perilous duties before him. Much of his conversation, though hurried, was regarding hisMary, in Texas, and the dear little boy dropped down from heaven, whom he had never seen. The shades of night came on, and darker grew until complete blackness enveloped the face of the earth, and still the low subdued tones of conversation between mother, son and daughter, mingled with unabated interest. Hark! Hark! An explosion! An earthquake? The angry bellowing sound rises in deafening grandeur, and reverberates along the far-off valleys and distant hilltops. What is it? This mighty thunder that never ceases? The earth is ablaze—what can it be? This illumination that reveals minutest objects? With blanched face and tearful eye, the soldier said:
“Atlanta has surrendered to the enemy. The mighty reports are occasioned by the blowing up of the magazines and arsenals.”
Dumbfounded we stood, trying to realize the crushing fact. Woman’s heart could bear no more in silence, and a wail over departed hopes mingled with the angry sounds without.
Impelled by a stern resolve, and a spirit like to that of martyred saints, our brother said:
“This is no place for me. I must go.”
And then he put an arm around each of us, and kissed us with a fervor of love that knew no bounds, and was quenching itself in unfathomable hopeless tenderness. The quiet fortitude and patriotism of his mother gave way in that dread hour, and she cried aloud in agonizing apprehension of never again clasping to her bosom her greatest earthly joy. No pen can describe the scene of that last parting betweenmother and son, and in sheer impotency I drop the curtain.
As he walked away from his sobbing mother, through the war-illuminated village, I never beheld mortal man so handsome, so heroically grand. His great tender heart, which I had seen heave and sway under less trying circumstances, seemed to have ossified, and not an emotion was apparent.
THE TEN DAYS’ ARMISTICE.
Going out with the Confederate clothes—Scenes at Atlanta and at Lovejoy’s Station—The visit to Granbury’s Brigade—The last interview with Thomie.
After every morsel of food had been taken from the people, and every vestige of nutrition extracted from the earth, the following order, in substance, was proclaimed throughout the land held by the right of conquest:
“All who cannot support themselves without applying to the United States Commissary for assistance, must go outside of our lines, either north or south, within the period of time mentioned in this order, etc., etc.”
And by this order, and by others even more oppressive and diabolical, the Nero of the nineteenth century, alias William Tecumseh Sherman, was put upon record as the born leader of the most ruthless, Godless band of men ever organized in the name of patriotism—a band which, but for a few noble spirits who, by the power of mind over matter, exerted a restraining influence, would not have left a Southerner to tell the tale of fiendishness on its route to the sea.
And now, like Bill Nye, after one of his sententious and doubtless truthful introductions to a Westernsketch, I feel easier in my mind, and will proceed with my reminiscences of that unholy period of this country, and tell the truth about it, without favor or prejudice, if it kills me. After this pronunciamento had been issued, all was bustle and rapid movement in every household within the boundaries of usurpation. Under the strong arm of military power, delay was not permitted. Homes were to be abandoned, and household goods and household gods to be left for the enemy, or destroyed; and liberty under our own vine and fig tree was to be a thing of the past, and dependence upon strangers a thing of the future. In preparation for this enforced change, much that should have been done was left undone, but there was no time to correct mistakes—the armistice was only for ten days.
What were we to do, my mother and myself, was a question which presented itself with startling seriousness, and had to be answered without delay. Our farm in Gordon county had already been devastated by the invading army, and every improvement destroyed, and if we should lose our home in Decatur we would be poor indeed. But what were we to do? If we left our home, we knew it would share the fate of all other “abandoned” property, and furnish material for a bonfire for Nero to fiddle by; and if we remained, by grace of better men than he, what assurance had we that by any means within our grasp we could obtain even a scanty subsistence, or be protected from personal abuse and insult by an alien army whose gentlemen were vastly in the minority.
We learned that our neighbors and friends, Mrs. Ammi Williams and her estimable son, Mr. Frederick Williams, (an invalid from paralysis)—whose influence over General Schofield prevented my banishment from Decatur the very first night of its occupancy by the Federal army—and the venerable Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan (the latter a Bostonian and educated in Emerson’s celebrated school for young ladies), and other families as true to the South as the needle to the pole, were going to remain and take their chances within the enemy’s lines, and we determined to do so too.
The officers in command of the post, especially the provost marshal, interrogated us very closely regarding our plans and expectations during the occupancy of the place by Federal forces. Having satisfied them that our only remaining servant would do washing and ironing at reasonable prices, and that we would do darning and repairing, we were given a written permit to remain within the lines.
I, however, had a work to do, a feat to perform, which for audacity and courage, has seldom been surpassed, which would not admit of my staying at home until I had made a little trip to Dixie.
Knowing the value of his influence, I again went to Mr. Frederick Williams, and confiding my plans to him, asked his assistance in getting permission to go out and return during the armistice. I never knew what argument he employed for the accomplishment of this object. I only know by inference. But I received a letter from General Schofield, adjutant-general, of which the subjoined is an exact transcript:
“Decatur, Ga., Sept. 1, 1864.
“Miss Gay—It was hard for me to reconcile my conscience to giving the enclosed recommendation to one whose sentiments I cannot approve, but if I have committed an error it has been on the side of mercy, and I hope I’ll be forgiven. Hereafter I hope you will not think of Yankees as all being bad, and beyond the pale of redemption.
“To-morrow I leave for my own home in the ‘frozen North,’ and when I return it will be to fight for my country, and against your friends, so that I suppose I shall not have the pleasure of again meeting you.
Very respectfully,J. W. Campbell.”
And that Major Campbell’s gallant act may be fully appreciated, I will add the letter which secured for me the great favor which I had the temerity to ask.
“Headquarters, Army of Ohio,Decatur, Ga., Sept. 14, 1864.
“My Dear Colonel—I have the honor to introduce Miss Mary A. H. Gay, of this village, and I recommend her case to your favorable consideration. I do not know exactly what orders are now in force, but if you think you can grant her desires without detriment to the public service, I am confident the indulgence will not be abused.
Very respectfully your obedient servant,J. W. Campbell.
“To Colonel J. C. Parkhurst, Pro. Mar. Gen., Army of the Cumberland.”
Thus recommended by one high in army ranks, Colonel Parkhurst granted me the privilege of going to see my young sister, then in Augusta, and carrying anything I might have saved from the ravages of the war, “unmolested.” Fortified by these letters I went to the Provost Marshal in Decatur and told him I would be ready to go to Atlanta to-morrow morning at 8 o’clock, and I wanted to carry some old bed-clothing and other things to my sister, and would be grateful for an ambulance, or an army wagon all to myself, and an Irish driver. He promised that both should be at my service at the time indicated—not, however, without the sarcastic remark that “if the Yankees had been as bad as I had said they were, they would not have left anything for me to carry.”
I ran to my mother and imparted to her the glad tidings of success, and in a whispered conversation we soon had definite plans arranged for the consummation of the perilous duty before me. I went to the Federal camp and asked for some crocus sacks such as are used in the transportation of grain, and quite a number were given to me. I shook them thoroughly inside and out, and put them by. A ball of twine and some large needles had found their way into the house. The needles were threaded and placed in convenient proximity to the sacks. Telitha watched every movement with interest and intuitively divined its import. The wardrobe was empty and my very first touch moved it at least one inch in the desired direction, and a helping hand from her soon placed it in favorable position. This much being accomplished, I took a seat by my mother on the front door-steps andengaged in a pleasant conversation with a group of young Federal soldiers, who seemed much attached to us, and with whom I conversed with unreserved candor, and often expressed regret that they were in hostile array towards a people who had been goaded to desperation by infringement upon constitutional rights by those who had pronounced the only ligament that bound the two sections of the country together, “a league with hell, and a covenant with the devil.” This I proved to them by documents published at the North, and by many other things of which they were ignorant.
While thus engaged, Captain Woodbury approached and said: “I learn that you are going out into Dixie, Miss Gay.”
“Yes, for a few days,” I replied.
“I am prepared to furnish a more pleasant conveyance to Atlanta than the one you have secured,” said he, and continued, “I have a handsome new buggy and a fine trotter, and it will take only a few minutes to reach there. Will you accept a seat with me?”
If all the blood within me had overflowed its proper channels, and rushed to the surface, I could not have flushed more. I felt it in the commotion of my hair, and in the nervous twitching of my feet. The indignation and contempt that I felt for the man! That one who was aiding and abetting in the devastation of my country and the spoliation of my home, should ask me to take a seat with him in a buggy which he doubtless had taken, without leave or license, from my countrymen, was presumptuous indeed, anddeserved a severe rebuke. But “prudence being the better part of valor,” I repressed all that would have been offensive in word and act, and replied with suavity, “Thank you, Captain Woodbury, for the honor you would have conferred upon me, but I cannot accept it.” Receiving no reply, I added:
“Let me in candor make a statement to you, and I think you will approve the motive that prompts my decision. I have not sought to conceal the fact that my only brother is in the Confederate army; he is there from motives purely patriotic, and not as a mercenary hireling. He is fighting for the rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States, a constitution so sacred that our people have never violated it in any particular, and of which we have shown our highest appreciation by adopting itverbatim, as the guiding star of the Southern Confederacy. You are in an army claiming to be fighting for the Union, and yet the government that sent you out on this glorious mission ignores every principle of fraternal relation between the North and the South, and would subvert every fundamental principle of self-government and establish upon the wreck a centralized despotism. Could I, while you and I are so antagonistic, accept your offer and retain your good opinion? I think not, and I prefer to go in the conveyance already stipulated.”
Silence, without the slightest manifestation of anger, assured me that my argument against taking a buggy drive with him to Atlanta had not been lost on Captain Woodbury, of Ohio, a member of Garrard’s Cavalry.
After this episode we bade our callers “good-evening,” went into the house and busied ourselves with the important work before us—a work which probably would not attract attention because of the darkness that would surround the scene of its execution. The table and chair had been placed, as once before, by the wardrobe already mentioned, and a little respite was employed in viewing the situation. The door connecting our room and this dining-room was generally kept shut. At length night came on with its friendly, helpful darkness. The shutters of the windows had been closed for weeks, and secured by nails, and the house had been too often searched and plundered to be suspected of containing valuables. Therefore, we felt that if no unusual sound attracted notice we would accomplish our object unsuspected. But I was anxious and nervous in view of what was before me, and wanted the perilous work over with. So when the darkness of night fully enshrouded the earth, with no other light than that which found its way from the camp-fires of the enemy through the latticed shutters, I stepped into the chair and thence upon the table, and Telitha followed and drew the chair up after her. Then with her strong dusky hands she seized the wardrobe as if it had been a toy in her hands. I steadied the chair by the wardrobe and stepped into it, and another step landed me on top of the wardrobe. My fingers penetrated the crevice between the slats which I wanted to pull off, and to a slight effort they yielded. Lest the noise occasioned by dropping them might attract notice, I stooped and laid each piece down as I drew it off thejoist. When the aperture thus made was sufficient, I began to draw from their hiding place the precious Confederate overcoats and other winter apparel confided to my keeping (as already related), by soldiers of General Joseph E. Johnston’s army, when they were at Dalton. One by one each piece was taken out and dropped down upon the floor. But by a lamentable oversight we afterwards found that one article had been left—a woolen scarf for the neck, knitted for my brother by his loving young wife in Texas.
Carefully I descended, and, with the aid of the girl, placed the chair, the table, and the dear old wardrobe (which deserves to be immortalized in song and story), in less suspicious positions, and then proceeded to pack in the sacks, already mentioned, the precious articles. The thought occurred to me that my mother would like to have a hand in this labor of love, and I opened the door between us. I shall never forget her appearance as she stood as if riveted to the spot, near a window, watching the moving figures without. I approached her and in a cheerful whisper told her that I was now putting the things in the sacks, and I knew she would like to have an interest in the job. She tried to respond, but she was too nervous to do so. Slowly but surely she was yielding to the pressure upon nerve and brain. As each sack was filled, a threaded needle securely closed the mouth. In a short while a number of these sacks stood in a group, as erect as if on parade, and I verily believe that if the host of profane, godless braggarts (with but few exceptions) who surrounded the housecould have seen them at that time and known their contents, they would have evacuated Decatur in mortal fear of the ghosts of “Johnnie Rebs.”
This important work having been accomplished without discovery or even a shadow of suspicion, I felt vastly relieved, and thanked the Lord with all my heart for the health, strength, and ingenuity which had enabled me to consummate it. My mother and I lay down upon the same bed, and were soon blessed with the invigorating influence of “tired nature’s sweet restorer.”
The song of the lark had ceased to be heard in this war-stricken locality; chanticleer had long since furnished a savory meal for camp followers, and the time-pieces had either been spoiled or stolen; but there was a silent, unerring chronometer within that never deviated, and needed no alarm attachment to arouse me from slumber, and the dawn found me up and preparing for the duties and perhaps the dangers of the day.
Telitha had become quite an attraction to a bevy of men who occupied soldiers’ quarters, and wore soldiers’ uniforms, and drew pay for doing so, from Uncle Sam’s coffers; and as she had been trained to ideas of virtue and morality she often came in frowning and much ruffled in temper by their deportment towards her. Being almost entirely deaf and dumb, her limited vocabulary was inadequate to supply epithets expressive of the righteous indignation and contempt which she evidently felt—she could only say, “Devil Yank, devil,” and these words she used with telling effect both to the amusement and chagrin ofthe Yankees. This state of affairs convinced me that for her protection she would have to be kept within doors, and I therefore assumed the task of drawing the water, and a few other jobs indispensable even in life’s rudest state. On this occasion, when I went to the well for a bucket of water, before preparing our frugal breakfast, I was asked by early marauders why I did not let “that young colored lady draw the water.” I candidly answered them, and told them I was going to ask the officers of the encampment to protect her while I was gone, and I also would ask them to report any misdemeanor toward her, that they might witness, at headquarters.
After a good night’s rest my mother’s nerves seemed all right again, and by 7 o’clock we had finished our breakfast, which consisted of bread and butter and coffee—the latter luxurious beverage being furnished by one whose heart was in touch with humanity. That the aperture in the ceiling of the dining room might not be discovered until I got the contraband goods out of the house, I had brought the sacks containing them into the adjoining room, and it was therefore the work of a very few minutes to convey them to the wagon, when that vehicle, drawn by a span of fine horses, under the guidance of the Irish driver, drove up to the front door. “Put those sacks into the wagon,” I said, pointing to them. When the last one of them was stored away safely in that moving repository, one of those feelings of relief and security came over me that had more than once given me courage to brave successfully impending danger—and I donned my hat, and bade my mother and thefaithful girl an almost cheerful “Good-bye,” and took my seat by the driver,en routefor Dixie. Would I get there? Ah! that was the question that had blanched my mother’s cheek when I said “Good-bye.” But hope, etc., “eternal in the human breast,” whispered “yes,” and thus encouraged, I spoke grateful words to the Irish driver, and asked him many questions about the land of the shamrock and sunny blue skies. He was evidently flattered by my favorable knowledge of the Emerald Isle, and would have done anything within his power for me. God bless the Irish forever!
I asked him to drive under my direction to the residence of my estimable friends, Mr. and Mrs. Posey Maddox, the parents of the accomplished and erudite Charles K. Maddox, of Atlanta. To my great joy I saw wagons in the yard, already laden with their household goods, to be carried to the depot and turned over to the Federal authorities, who assumed the transportation of them to Jonesboro and the safe delivery of them to the Confederate authorities, who in turn assumed the transportation and delivery of them to the nearest Confederate station. Mr. Maddox had secured the use of an entire freight car, and gladly consented to take me and my baggage in with theirs. Mrs. Maddox was particularly glad to have me go with them, and to her I confided the character of my baggage, and received in return many words of sympathy and approbation. Those who have studied mythical lore, and dwelt in imagination upon the attributes of mythical characters, especially those of an evil nature, can perhaps form some idea of the confusion and disquietof an entire city yielding its possession to an alien army, which now, that success had been achieved by brute force, was bent upon the utter impoverishment of the people, and their extreme humiliation. Curses and imprecations too vile to repeat, and boisterous laughter, and vulgar jests resounded through the streets of Atlanta. Federal wagons followed in the tracks of Confederate wagons, and after a few light articles were placed in the latter for Southern destination, the former unblushingly moved up to receive pianos and other expensive furniture which found its way into every section of the North. And this highway robbery was permitted by William Tecumseh Sherman, the Grand Mogul of the Army of the Republic. Truly had the city of Atlanta been turned into a veritable pandemonium.
At length our time came to move in the worse than death-like processions going southward, and in a short while we were at Jonesboro, our destination, so far as Federal aid extended. As soon as I stepped from the car I wended my way to the Confederate officer of the day, whom I recognized by his regalia, and told him of my success in concealing and bringing out of Federal lines the winter clothing of our soldiers. He listened with polite attention and said it was a wonderfully interesting story, but altogether improbable.
“Go with me and I will prove to you the truthfulness of it,” I eagerly said.
As it was a bleak equinoctial day, and drizzling rain, Mr. and Mrs. Maddox had not yet left their car (by way of parenthesis, I would say that the favorsshown to these excellent people was in consideration of Mr. Maddox being a very prudent minister of the gospel), and, when we reached it, I asked Mr. Maddox to roll one of my sacks to the door. He did so, and I then asked the officer to examine its contents. A blade of a pen-knife severed the twine with which the edges of the mouth had been sewed together, and the loved familiar gray and brass buttons, and other articles, verified the truth of my statement. He looked amazed, and exhausted his vocabulary of flattering encomiums upon me, and, what was more desirable and to the point, he asked what he could do in the matter, and assured me that there was nothing within the range of his jurisdiction that he would not do. I told him that the object of my coming to him was to ask that he send me and my precious charge to General Granbury’s headquarters, as, among other overcoats, I had one of his in charge, as well as many other things belonging to his staff officers. He told me the finest span of Confederate horses and the best ambulance on the ground should be at my service as soon as possible.
During the interim, I opened wide my eyes and took in the situation in all its horrible details. The entire Southern population of Atlanta, with but an occasional exception, and that of many miles in its vicinity, were dumped out upon the cold ground without shelter and without any of the comforts of home, and an autumnal mist or drizzle slowly but surely saturating every article of clothing upon them; and pulmonary diseases in all stages admonishing them of the danger of such exposure. Aged grandmothers tottering upon the verge of the grave, and tendermaidens in the first bloom of young womanhood, and little babes not three days old in the arms of sick mothers, driven from their homes, were all out upon the cold charity of the world.
Apropos, I will relate an incident that came under my observation during my brief stay at this station: When one of the long trains from Atlanta rolled in with its living freight and stopped at the terminus, a queenly girl, tall and lithe in figure and willowy in motion, emerged from one of the cars, and stood, the embodiment of feminine grace, for a moment upon the platform. In less time than it takes to chronicle the impression, her Grecian beauty, classic expression and nobility of manner, had daguerreotyped themselves upon the tablets of my memory never to be effaced by mortal alchemy. The pretty plain debeige dress, trimmed with Confederate buttons and corresponding ribbon, all conspired to make her appear, even to a casual observer, just what she was—a typical Southern girl who gloried in that honor. She stood only a moment, and then, as if moved by some divine inspiration, she stepped from the car, and falling upon her knees, bent forward and kissed the ground. This silent demonstration of affection for the land of Dixie touched a vibrating chord, and a score or more of beautiful girlish voices blended in sweetest harmony while they told in song their love for Dixie. I listened spellbound, and was not the only one thus enchanted. A United States officer listened and was touched to tears. Approaching me, he asked if I would do him the favor to tell him the name of the young lady who kissed the ground.
“I do not think she would approve of my telling you her name, and I decline to do so,” I said in reply. Not in the least daunted by this rebuff he responded: “I shall learn it; and if she has not already become the wife or the affianced of another, I shall offer her the devotion of my life.”
The Confederate officer of the day, God forever bless him! came for me. The army wagon was ready and standing by Mr. Posey Maddox’s car, waiting to receive its precious freight, and a few minutes sufficed to transfer it from car to wagon, and, after waiting to see the last sack securely placed in the wagon, I, too, got in and took my seat by the driver. A long cold drive was before us, but I was so robust I had no fear of the result.
The driver was a veritable young Jehu, and we got over the ground rapidly; but, owing to a mistake in following directions, it was a long time before we reached our destination, the course of which must have been due west from Jonesboro, and through a dense forest. And oh, the beauty of that forest! It will remain a living, vivid memory, as long as life endures. Its rich and heavy foliage had been but lightly tinged by the frosts of autumn, and it was rendered more beautiful by the constant dripping of rain drops from every leaf and blossom. As the evening came on, dense, impenetrable clouds canopied the earth, and shut out every ray of sunlight, and almost every ray of hope. At length night came on, dark and weird, and silent, and we were still in the woods, without compass or star.
Just as my brave heart was about to succumb todespair, a vision of delight burst upon me—a beacon light, yea, hundreds of beacon lights, appeared before me, and filled my soul with joy. The camp-fires of General Cleburne’s brave men beckoned us onward, and gave us friendly greeting. Every revolution of the wagon wheels brought us perceptibly nearer the haven of rest. Sabbath-like quiet reigned throughout the encampment. No boisterous sounds nor profane imprecations broke the stillness. But there was a sound that reached my ear, filling my soul with joy unspeakable. A human voice it was. I had heard it before in the slight wail of infancy; in the merry prattle of childhood; in the melodious songs of youth; in the tender, well-modulated tones of manhood; and now—there was no mistaking it—in the solemn, earnest invocation to the Lord of Hosts for the salvation of the world, for the millenial dawn, and that “peace on earth, and good will to men,” which would never again be broken by the clarion of war, or earth’s rude alarms. No sweeter voice ever entered the courts of Heaven.
My obliging young driver stopped the horses at a favorable distance, and I heard the greater part of that grand prayer, and wept for joy. When it was finished, we moved on, and were hailed by a sentinel who demanded the countersign, I believe it is called. The driver satisfied him, and calling to a soldier, I asked him if he knew Lieutenant Stokes. “Like a book,” he answered. “Please tell him his sister Mary is here,” I said. In a moment I was clasped in his arms with the holy pressure of a brother’s love. His first thought on seeing me was that some calamitymust have occurred, and he said, “Sister, is Ma or Missouri dead?” “No, Thomie, but Toby is.”
His brave head bowed low and he wept—sobbed audibly. I told him of Toby’s loving mention of him, and of the boy’s hope of Heaven. After his natural paroxysm of grief had subsided, he looked up, and with an ineffable smile, said:
“Sister, I know you have a secret to tell—what is it?”
“It is this; I have saved all those precious things that were sent to me from Dalton, and I have brought them to deliver to their rightful owners. Help me to do so as quickly as possible, that I may go back to Jonesboro to-night.”
Had a bombshell exploded at his feet, the effect could not have been more electrical. He bounded to General Granbury’s tent with the agility of a deer; he told the news to him and the others assembled there; and he came back, and they all came with him; and had I been a magician, I could not have been an object of greater interest. General Granbury protested against my return to Jonesboro through the darkness of the night, and offered his tent for my occupancy, saying he would go in with some of the other officers. Colonel Robert Young, a friend of years’ standing, was also earnest in his efforts to keep me from carrying out my purpose to go back, and I gave it up. I knew that I was with friends, and permitted myself to be lifted out of the wagon and conducted to the General’s tent. I took a seat upon a camp stool which was placed for me about thecenter of the tent. The General and his staff officers sat around, and my dear brother was very near me. Thus arranged, a conversation was commenced which continued with slight interruptions into the “wee sma’ hours” of the night. Colonel Young seemed to have something upon his mind which rendered him indifferent to society, or some duty to perform which required his attention outside the tent. At length, however, he came to the door and asked my brother to come out awhile. In a short time both of them came in together, and Colonel Young, after asking us to excuse the interruption of the conversation, remarked that there was something outside that he would like for us to see. My brother took me by the hand and led me out in front of the tent, and all the officers stood in a group around. Imagine my surprise when I perceived a long line of soldiers before us, and an officer on horseback galloping from one end of the line to the other. I ventured to ask my brother if they were going to have a moonlight drill without the moon? He smiled, and a faint pressure of the hand indicated that there was something on the tapis that would please me, but I must wait until it was revealed to others as well. In much less time than it has taken to record this episode a signal was given, and one of the grandest cheers ever heard by mortal man resounded through the midnight darkness and the dense forest, and was echoed over hill and dale. Another signal and another cheer, and yet another of each, and I broke down completely and cried heartily. What had I done that my name should thus be honoredby men enduring all the hardships of warfare and fighting for my principles; and yet to me it was the most acceptable compliment ever paid to living woman. I often fancy I hear those voices now blending in one grand harmonious shout of praise to the great God of Heaven and earth, who has doubtless given rest to many of those weary ones.
Once more in General Granbury’s tent, at the earnest solicitation of all present, I continued the rehearsal of all the Federal army news that I had gleaned from close perusal of the United States newspapers and from careless and unsuspicious talkers. General Granbury was evidently startled when I told him that I had heard Federal officers say “Hood was working to their hand precisely in going back to Tennessee, as Thomas was there with an army that was invincible, and would whip him so bad that there would not be a Johnnie Reb left to tell the tale;” and they criticised severely the “generalship” of giving an invading army unobstructed route to the goal of their ambition, which, in this case, was South Carolina. I was asked by one of my auditors to give my impression of the situation, and I did so. As I described the magnitude of the Federal army, and its vindictive spirit as I had seen it, and its implacable feeling towards the South, I saw a shade of sadness pass over the noble faces of all present. “Have you lost hope of the ultimate success of our cause?” was a question I was compelled to answer, because anxiously asked. I, however, imitated a Yankee by asking a question in reply, as to what our resources were, andif they were deemed adequate to cope with a foe which had the world to draw from, both for men and means? “But have you lost hope?” was the question I was called upon to answer without equivocation.
Silence and tears which would well up were interpreted to mean what my tongue refused to speak. My brother perceiving this, put his hand on mine as it lay motionless upon my lap, and said, “Cheer up, sister mine; if you could have seen ‘Old Pat’s’ men on drill this afternoon, you would think we are some ourselves.”
Colonel Young continued to seem very much engaged outside, and, since the demonstration in my honor, had given us only an occasional glimpse of himself. At length he came to the door and said, “Lieutenant, I should like to speak to you.” My brother responded to the call, and soon returned and said: “As there is a hard day’s march before us for to-morrow, we must let the General get a little sleep, and this brave sister of mine must need it, too. Come, let me conduct you to your room.”
Good-byes were spoken that night which, in the providence of God, were destined never to be repeated, and Thomie and Colonel Young led the way to a bran new tent, never used before, and opened the door that I might enter. Thomie said, “My room is next to yours, sister. Pleasant dreams, and refreshing slumbers,” and he kissed me good night. “Good night, dear brother.” “Good night, dear friend,” said I, as he and Colonel Young left the tent. By the dim lightI surveyed the “room” and its furnishings, and wept to think that dear Confederate soldiers had deprived themselves of comforts that I might be comfortable. A handsome buffalo robe lay on the ground; and a coat nicely folded for a pillow, and a gray blanket for a cover, invited me to repose. A small pan of water for morning ablution, and a towel, and a mirror about the size of a silver dollar, and a comb and brush, furnished every needed convenience. I removed the skirt of my dress that it might not be wrinkled in the morning, and my mantle for the same cause, and lay down and slept, oh, how sweetly, under the protecting care of those noble men, until awakened by the sweet familiar voice of my brother, saying, “Get up, sister, or you will not be ready for the roll-call,” was his never-to-be-forgotten morning salutation. “As a short horse is soon curried,” it required only a few moments to make myself presentable, and just as I was about announcing myself in that condition, Thomie again appeared at the door with a plate containing my breakfast in one hand, and a tin cup containing a decoction, which he called coffee, in the other. “Here is your breakfast, sister;” and he added, “the ambulance is waiting to carry you to Lovejoy’s station. Lieutenant Jewell and myself have been detailed to accompany you there.”
The army wagons were already falling in line one after another and moving onward in a northwesterly direction; and what remained of the infantry and cavalry of that once magnificent army, which so oftenhad achieved victory under General Joseph E. Johnston, had made their last grand bivouac on Georgia soil, and were moving onward in the line of march to Tennessee, under the command of Hood. They were leaving many a gallant comrade who had bitten the dust and drenched the soil of Georgia with their life-blood, and although they must have feared that the flag they loved so well was now leading them to defeat, yet not one of those true hearts would have deserted it for the wealth of India. As they marched in a different direction from that I was going to take, and the demand for rapid movement was imperative, I could not follow them long with my eye, but the memory of the little I saw will ever be fresh, and, like an inspiration yet to me, their bayonets glittered in a perfect halo of glory, for the mists and clouds of the preceding day had passed away during the night, and a blue sky and bright sun gladdened the earth.
The two young lieutenants took seats opposite to me in the ambulance. Thus arranged, I caught every movement and look of that dear brother from whom I was so soon to part. He never looked more handsome, or appeared to greater advantage. I was his guest, and he entertained me with a “feast of reason and a flow of soul.” At my request he sang some of the songs of “auld lang syne,” but he preferred to talk of our mother and our sister. He recalled incidents of his childhood, and laughed heartily over some of them. He spoke of his Mary in Texas and his love for her, and he took from his vest pocket theimpression of the foot and hand of his only child, a dear little boy whom he had never seen, and kissed them, then folded them carefully and put them back in his pocket and said:
“I must hurry back to Texas.”
But back of all this glee and apparent hopefulness I saw, in characters unmistakable, that he was almost bereft of hope, and sustained only by Christian resignation.
We knew, by the immense crowd of people standing and sitting around on improvised seats, that we were approaching the station. The two soldiers got out of the ambulance with the elasticity of youth and health, and Thomie assisted me out. I stood for a moment, as if uncertain where to go, and Lieutenant Jewell grasped my hand and said:
“Good-bye, dear Miss Mary!” and stepped back into the wagon and resumed his seat.
Seeing a large, square old house, which appeared to be full of people, Thomie and I advanced toward it a few steps. Suddenly, as if admonished that a soldier’s duties should have precedence over everything else, he took me in his arms and kissed me fervently once, twice, thrice. I understood for whom they were intended—that trio of kisses. Not a word did he speak, and when he turned his back on me I saw him brush off the silent tears, and more than one step was uneven before his nerves became steady and he ready to report for duty. I felt intuitively that I should never look upon his face again, and I watched him with riveted eyes until I could no longer see him,and then I gazed upon the vehicle containing him until it, too, disappeared forever from my sight. Then, and not till then, I gave way to pent-up sorrow, and cried as one without hope—unreservedly.
THE RETURN HOME.
From Jonesboro via Augusta—Scenes and Incidents by the way—The lonely journey from Stone Mountain to Decatur.
Dazed by a full realization that my brother and every male relative and friend were in the octopus arms of war, cruel and relentless, I stood riveted to the spot where my brother had parted from me, until a gentle hand touched my shoulder, and a pleasant voice gave me friendly greeting. Turning I saw Mrs. Anderson, sister of the brave and gallant Robert Alston, whose tragic fate is known to every reader in this country.
“I am glad to see you. I have just seen your brother Robert,” I said.
“Where? Where? Do tell me that I may go to him!” cried his devoted sister, laughing and weeping alternately.
Having ascertained that the long train of exiles would not leave the station for several hours, I offered to conduct the tender-hearted woman to the camp-fire of her brother. The route took me over the same ground which only a few moments ago I had traveled with my own dear brother; and along which I had seen so vividly a lean, gaunt, phantom hand pointingat his retreating form. Even the horses’ tracks and the ruts made by the wheels could be plainly traced by their freshness and the yet quivering sands; and as I gazed upon them, I fancied they were connecting links between me and him which were binding our souls together, and which I would never grow weary in following. These reflections were often disturbed by questions about “my dear brother Robert,” and by alternate sobs and laughter. The distance seemed much greater, now that I was walking it, but at length we attained our destination, the headquarters of a few of General John Morgan’s gallant defenders of Southern homes and firesides. It would require the descriptive power of a Sims or a Paul Hayne to give an adequate idea of the meeting on this occasion of this demonstrative brother and sister. I will not undertake to do so. He, too, was ready to move in that disastrous campaign, which lost to us thecreme de la cremeof the Army of the Tennessee, and which aided, as if planned by the most astute Federal tactician, Sherman, in his “march to the sea.”
During the interview between Colonel Alston and his sister, it developed to him that his pretty home had been abandoned to the tender mercies of the enemy by the family in whose care he had left it, and that the Yankees had shipped his wife’s elegant European piano, mirrors and furniture, as well as his library, cut glass and Dresden china to the North; and, besides, in the very malignity of envy and sectional hate, had mutilated and desecrated his house in a shameful manner. His imprecations were fearful; and his vows to get even with the accursedYankees were even more so. The lamb of a few moments ago was transformed into a lion, roaring and fierce. He accompanied his sister and myself on our return to the station; and never will I forget that walk.
The station reached, the scene of separation of brother and sister was again enacted, and he, too, went to battle-fields, sanguinary and relentless, she to peaceful retreats undisturbed by cannon’s roar.
Here, as at Jonesboro, the face of the earth was literally covered with rude tents and side-tracked cars, which were occupied by exiles from home—defenseless women and children, and an occasional old man tottering on the verge of the grave, awaiting their turn to be transported by over-taxed railroads farther into the constantly diminishing land of their love. During the afternoon I boarded an already well-filled south-bound train, and moved about among its occupants as if at home. For were we not one people, the mothers, wives and sisters of Confederates? The diversity of mind, disposition and temper of this long train of representative women and children of Atlanta, and many miles contiguous, who were carrying minds and hearts brimful of memories never to be obliterated, but rather to harden into asphalt preservation, was illustrated in various ways. Some laughed and talked and jested, and infused the light and warmth of their own sunny natures into others less hopeful; some were morose and churlish, and saw no hope in the future and were impatient with those who did see the silver lining beyond the dark cloud suspended over us; and some very plainly indicated that if our cause failed, they would lose all faith in a prayer-answeringGod; and others saw wisdom and goodness in all His ways and dispensations, and were willing to submit to any chastisement if it only brought them nearer to the Mercy Seat.
After many delays and adventures, not of sufficient importance to relate, I reached Griswoldville. Here I was received with open arms by that good old father and mother in Israel, Rev. Dr. John S. Wilson and his wife, and his excellent family, whom I found residing in an old freight car. But they were living in a palace compared to many of their neighbors and friends, who had scarcely a shelter to protect them from the inclemency of the weather. Every moment of time with these good people was spent in answering questions and receiving blessings. Not long after this pleasant meeting, Stoneman’s raiders came into Griswoldville, and the household effects of Dr. Wilson’s family were consumed by devouring torches. All their winter clothing, the doctor’s library and his manuscript sermons, were burned to ashes. These sermons were the result of the study and experience of forty years. But this grand old soldier of the cross, although on the verge of threescore years and ten, faltered not; for his eye was fixed on the goal of his heavenly inheritance. Wherever he went, he still preached, and died a few years afterwards at his post in Atlanta, having missed but two preaching appointments in all his ministry, one of these on the Sabbath before he died.
By a circuitous route, which I can now scarcely recall, in the course of time I reached Augusta, the beautiful. I wended my way through the crowdedthoroughfares to the residence of friends on Green street, where my sister had sojourned for several weeks, far from the distracting confusion of warfare. After all these long and varied years, I never see that Elysian street without feeling as if I would like to kneel and kiss the ground whereon she found surcease of hostile tread and rancorous foe.
I could scarcely approach the house, in exterior beautiful in all that makes a home attractive. I feared that within sorrowful tidings might await me. No word of the absent sister had come through the enemy’s lines since they were first established, and now I dreaded to hear. More than once I stood still and tried to nerve myself for the worst tidings that could be communicated. And then I ascended the stone steps and rang the door-bell. When the butler came, I hurriedly asked if Miss Stokes was in. As if apprehending my state of feelings, he answered with a broad African grin: “She is, ma’am.”
The pressure of a mountain was removed from my heart, and with a lighter step than I had taken for some time I entered that friendly portal, a welcome guest. A moment sufficed for him to carry the joyous tidings of my presence to my sister, and, as if by magic, she was with me. O, the joy and the sadness of our meeting! To say that each of us was glad beyond our ability to express it, would be a tame statement; and yet neither of us was happy. There was too much sadness connected with ourselves and our country to admit of happiness; yet the report of our mother’s fortitude and usually good health, and the hopeful spirit of our brother, and his numerousmessages of love and playful phraseology, cheered my sister so much that she rallied and did all she could to render my brief stay with her as pleasant as possible. And there was a charm in her sweet voice and pleasant words that were soothing to me, and did much to assuage my own grief. Nor were our good friends wanting in efforts of like character. They, too, had drank deep of Marah’s bitter waters. Two noble boys, yet in their teens, had been laid upon the sacrificial altar, an oblation to their country. And a fair young girl had gone down into the tomb, as much a sacrifice to Southern rights as if slain on the battle-field. One other girl and her war-stricken parents survived, and they were devoting their lives to the encouragement of those similarly bereaved.
Although I knew it would pain her greatly, I thought it would be wrong to leave without telling my sister about Toby’s death, and, therefore, I told her. Like our brother, she wept, but not as one without hope. She had been his spiritual instructor, and thoroughly taught him the great and yet easy plan of salvation; and I have never doubted that he caught on to it, and was supported by the arm of Jesus, as he “passed through the dark valley and the shadow of death.”
The time for leaving this peaceful retreat came, and was inexorable; nor would I have stayed if I could. There was a widowed mother, whose head was whitened, not so much by the frost of winters as by sorrow and care, grief and bereavement, awaiting my coming—oh, so anxiously! Waiting to hear from the soldier son, who, even for her sake, and that ofhis gentle young wife and baby boy in Texas, would listen to no plan of escape from the dangers involved by his first presidential vote. Waiting to hear from the fair young daughter, whom she preferred to banish from home rather than have her exposed to the rude chances of war. That she might not be kept in painful suspense, I determined not to linger on the way. I, therefore, took the morning train on the good old reliable Georgia Railroad for Social Circle. The parting from my sister pained me exceedingly; but I knew she had put her trust in the Lord, and He would take care of her. It may be asked why I did not have the same faith regarding the preservation of my brother. He, too, was a Christian. “He that taketh the sword shall perish by the sword,” is a divine assertion, and it was constantly repeating itself in my ears; yea, I had heard him repeat it with emphasis.
The trip from Augusta to Social Circle was replete with melancholy interest, and differed very materially from the trip from Atlanta to Jonesboro. Here those who had the courage to do so were returning to their homes, and were on thequi vivefor every item of news obtainable from within the enemy’s lines; but nothing satisfactory encouraged their hope of better treatment. One marked difference appeared in the character of those who were venturing homeward. There was scarcely any young persons—not a single young lady. The good old mother railroad was very deliberate in her movements, and gave her patrons time to get acquainted and chat a little on the way, and this we did without restraint.
We discussed the situation, and narrated our diversified experiences, and this interchange of thought and feeling brought us very near together, and made us wondrous kind to one another. At one of the stations at which the train stopped, and had to wait a long while, I saw several of the young soldiers from Decatur. Among them was Ryland Holmes, and, I think, Mose Brown.
About a dozen ladies were going within the enemy’s lines and would there separate for their respective homes. We agreed to hire a wagon team and driver at Social Circle, that we might take it “turn about” in riding to Stone Mountain. As I was the only one going beyond that point, I determined to take my chance from there for getting to Decatur, and go on foot if need be. Our plan was successful, as, after much effort, we obtained an old rickety wagon, which had doubtless done good service in its day, and a yoke of mis-mated oxen, and a negro driver. For this equipage we paid an enormous sum, and, thinking we ought to have the full benefit of it, we all got into the wagon to take a ride. Compassion for the oxen, however, caused first one and then another to descend to the ground, and march in the direction of home, sometimes two abreast and sometimes in single file. Night overtook us at a house only a short distance from the Circle, and in a body we appealed for shelter beneath its roof. The man of the family was at home, under what circumstances I have never heard, and to him we appealed, and from him we received an ungracious “permit” to stay in his house. Seeing no inviting prospects for rest andrepose, I established myself in a corner and took out of my reticule some nice German wool that had been given to me by my friends in Augusta, and cast on the stitches for a throat-warmer, or, in the parlance of that day, “a comforter.” Mine host watched the process with much interest. When the pattern developed, he admired it, and expressed a wish to have one like it. Glad of the privilege to liquidate my indebtedness for the prospective night’s shelter, I told him if he would furnish the material I would knit him one just like it. The material seemed to be in waiting, and was brought forward, soft, pretty lambs’ wool thread, and I put it in my already well-filled hand satchel to await future manipulation. The accommodation in the way of bedding was inadequate, and more than one of our party passed a sleepless night; but what mattered it? Were we not Confederate soldiers, or very near akin to them?
As the first sunbeams were darting about among the tree tops, I donned my bonnet and bade adieu to our entertainers, and started on my journey homeward, walking. Being in the very vigor of womanhood, and in perfect health, I never experienced the sensation of fatigue, and I verily believe I could have walked to my desolated home sooner than the most of the resources within our means could have carried me; and I was impatient under the restraint and hindrance of slow teams. Hence my start in advance of the other ladies. And I wanted to be alone. The pent-up tears were constantly oozing out of my eyes and trickling down my face, and I wanted to open the flood-gates and let them flow unrestrainedly.I wanted to cry aloud like a baby. I plunged into the woods, for the seldom traveled road was scarcely a barrier to perfect solitude. I walked rapidly, and closed my eyes to all the attractions of nature lest they divert my mind, and appease my hungry heart. I wanted to cry, and was even then doing so, before I got ready for it. At length I came to a rivulet of crystal water, as pure as the dew drops of Arcadia. I sat down beside it and mingled the anguished tears of my very soul with its sparkling, ever-changing, nectarian waters. I bathed my hot face and hands in the pellucid stream, and still the lachrymal fountain flowed on. I thought of my lonely mother, surrounded by those who were seeking the subversion of all that her heart held dear, and I cried. I thought of my brother—of his toilsome marches and weary limbs, and of his consecrated life—and I cried. I thought of the fair young sister, still hopeful in early womanhood, and I refused to be comforted, and wept bitterly. In this disconsolate frame of mind, I was ready to give up all hope and yield to direful despair. At this fearful crisis a still, small voice whispered, “Peace, be still!” The glamour of love invested sky and earth with supernal glory. The fountain of tears ceased to flow, and I looked around upon the handiwork of the Great Supreme Being in whose creation I was but an atom, and wondered that He should have been mindful of me—that He should have given surcease of agony to my sorrowing soul. All nature changed as if by magic, and the witchery of the scene was indescribable. The pretty wildwood flowers, as I bent my admiring gaze upon them, seemed to say inbeautiful silent language, “Look aloft.” The birds, as they trilled their morning roundelay, said in musical numbers, “Look aloft;” and the merry rivulet at my feet affected seriousness, and whispered, “Look aloft.” Thus admonished, “in that moment of darkness, with scarce hope in my heart,” I looked aloft—looked aloft.