“I expect we will leave here for Middle Tennessee next Monday, as the river will be falling by that time. There is much talk of this brigade being sent home after this campaign. Major Rankin has been exchanged, and is with us. I gave Lieutenant Collins’ overcoat to his company to take care of for him.
“Am so glad to hear from ma and sister. We get no letters from Texas; but are continually sending some over, as all the disabled of the last campaign are beingretired and sent across. Poor Uncle James! His Joseph is gone.... Write to me often.
Affectionately,Your Brother.”
Ah, could the history of these brave men be written, what a record it would be of endurance, of daring, of heroism, of sacrifice! And the heart-breaking pathos of the last chapters of their experience, ere the furling of the flag they followed! Pat Cleburne and his fallen braves—
“On fame’s eternal camping ground,Their silent tents are spread,And glory marks with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.”
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.
Related to the writer by Hon. Roger Q. Mills, of Texas.
The night was black as Erebus. Not a scintillant of light from moon or star penetrated the dense forest, and no eye save that of God discerned the danger of the situation. Hill and dale, mountain and precipice, creek and surging stream, presented barriers that none but men inured to hardship, and unknown to fear, would have attempted to surmount.
Obedient to the command of the superior officer, the remnant of that magnificent and intrepid army, once guided by the unerring wisdom of Joseph E. Johnston, plodded their way uncomplainingly over these trying difficulties. The Lord must have been amazed at their temerity, and shook the very earth in rebuke, and ever and anon by the lightning’s flash revealed glimpses of the peril to which they were exposed; and yet in unbroken lines they groped their way, not knowing whither. At length bewildered, and made aware of impending danger, the general in command ordered a halt. The martial tread ceased, and all was still as death. In the midst of this stillness a voice, sweet as that of a woman, was heard repeating that grand old hymn, which has given comfort to many weary ones treading the wine press:
“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word!What more can He say than to you He hath said,You who unto Jesus for refuge have fled.“In every condition, in sickness, in health,In poverty’s vale, or abounding in wealth,At home and abroad, on the land, on the sea,As thy days may demand shall thy strength ever be.“Fear not, I am with thee, O! be not dismayed,I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;I’ll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand,Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,My grace all sufficient shall be thy supply;The flame shall not hurt thee; I only designThy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.“E’en down to old age, all My people shall proveMy sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,Like lambs they shall still in My bosom be borne.“The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,I will not, I will not desert to his foes;That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,I’ll never, no never, no never, forsake.”
General Mills said that during the rendition of this beautiful hymn, not even the breaking of a twig, or the changing of a footstep broke the silence of the midnight tranquillity. The rain drops ceased tofall; the electricity darted harmlessly through the tree tops; and the muttering of the thunder lulled.
After a most impressive silence of several minutes, the same voice, which had rendered the hymn so effectually, repeated from memory an appropriate passage of Scripture and proceeded to expatiate upon it. He had not uttered a dozen words before another flash of lightning revealed the upturned heads and listening attitudes of the men composing that weird congregation, and each one of them knew as if by instinct that he was going to hear something that would help him on his journey to the Land of Beulah. Strong in the faith, he carried many of the truths and promises of the Holy Word within his mind, and now, as many times before, he opened them by the magic key of memory and unfolded to view their unsearchable riches. He begged his fellow-men and comrades in arms to accept them without money and without price—to accept them that they might wear kingly robes and royal diadems, and be with Jesus in His Father’s regal mansions throughout the grand eternities. And as he told the old, old story of divine love, it assumed a contemporaneous interest and seemed a living present reality. Every man who heard it felt the living force and energizing influence of the theme. And thus by earnest, aggressive appeals, he exerted a wonderful power for good over the minds of his hearers; and those men, even now with phantom hands pointing gaunt fingers at them, by their deep interest testified to the warm suffusing purpose which made itself felt in every word that he uttered, as hetold of the Fatherhood of God and the ever-present sympathy of a benignant and infinite parent, who delighted not in the death of sinners, but rather that all should come to Him and have eternal life. General Mills added that, as the fine resonant voice of the speaker penetrated the dense forest and found its way to his hearers in distinct enunciation of well-chosen words, the deep-toned thunder emphasized the impressive points, and made it a scene which for grandeur and sublimity has never been surpassed, while the vivid flashes of lightning revealed again and again the earnest face and solemn mien of my brother, Lieutenant Thomas J. Stokes, of the Tenth Texas Infantry of Cleburne’s Division.
Picking up minie balls around Atlanta—Exchanging them for bread.
After mingling renewed vows of allegiance to our cause, and expressions of a willing submission to the consequences of defeat—privations and evil dire, if need be—with my morning orison; yet I could not be oblivious to the fact that I was hungry, very hungry. And there was another, whose footsteps were becoming more and more feeble day by day, and whose voice, when heard at all, was full of the pathos of despair, who needed nourishment that could not be obtained, and consolation, which it seemed a mockery to offer.
In vain did I look round for relief. There was nothing left in the country to eat. Yea, a crow flying over it would have failed to discover a morsel with which to appease its hunger; for a Sheridan by another name had been there with his minions of destruction, and had ruthlessly destroyed every vestige of food and every means of support. Every larder was empty, and those with thousands and tens of thousands of dollars, were as poor as the poorest, and as hungry too. Packing trunks, in every house to which refugees had returned, contained large amounts of Confederate money. We had invested all we possessed except our home, and land and negroes, in Confederate bonds, and these were now inefficient forpurchasing purposes. Gold and silver had we none. A more favored few had a little of those desirable mediums of purchase, and sent a great distance for supplies; but they offered no relief to those who had stayed at home and borne the brunt of battle, and saved their property from the destroyers’ torch.
What was I to do? Sit down and wait for the inevitable starvation? No; I was not made of such stuff. I had heard that there had been a provision store opened in Atlanta for the purpose of bartering provisions for munitions of war—anything that could be utilized in warfare. Minie balls were particularly desirable. I therefore took Telitha by the apron, and had a little talk with her, and when I was through she understood that something was up that would bring relief to certain organs that had become quite troublesome in their demands, and she was anxious to take part in the performance, whatever that might be. I went also to my mother, and imparted to her my plans of operation, and she took that pathetic little backward step peculiar to herself on occasions which tried her soul, and with quivering lip she assented in approving, though almost inaudible words.
With a basket in either hand, and accompanied by Telitha, who carried one that would hold about a peck, and two old dull case-knives, I started to the battle-fields around Atlanta to pick up the former missiles of death to exchange for food to keep us from starving.
It was a cold day. The wind was very sharp, and over the ground, denuded of forest trees andundergrowth, the wind was blowing a miniature gale. Our wraps were inadequate, and how chilled we became in that rude November blast! Mark you, it was the 30th of November, 1864. But the colder we were, the faster we walked, and in an incredibly short time we were upon the battle-field searching for lead.
I made it a point to keep very near the road in the direction of Atlanta, and soon found myself on the very spot where the Confederate magazine stood, the blowing up of which, by Confederate orders, shook the very earth, and was distinctly heard thirty-five or forty miles distant. An exclamation of glad surprise from Telitha carried me to her. She had found a bonanza, and was rapidly filling her basket with that which was more valuable to us than gold. In a marshy place, encrusted with ice, innumerable bullets, minie balls, and pieces of lead seemed to have been left by the irony of fate to supply sustenance to hungry ones, and employment to the poor, as all the winter those without money to send to more favored and distant points found sure returns from this lead mine. It was so cold! our feet were almost frozen, and our hands had commenced to bleed, and handling cold, rough lead cramped them so badly that I feared we would have to desist from our work before filling the baskets.
Lead! Blood! Tears! O how suggestive! Lead, blood and tears, mingled and commingled. In vain did I try to dash the tears away. They would assert themselves and fall upon lead stained with blood. “God of mercy, if this be Thy holy will, give me fortitude tobear it uncomplainingly,” was the heart-felt invocation that went up to the throne of grace from over lead, blood and tears, that fearful day. For relief, tears did not suffice. I wanted to cry aloud; nature would not be satisfied with less, and I cried like a baby, long and loud. Telitha caught the spirit of grief, and cried too. This ebullition of feelings on her part brought me to a realization of my duty to her, as well as to my poor patient mother to whom the day must seem very long, and I tried to stifle my sobs and lamentations. I wondered if she had the forebodings of coming bereavement that were lacerating my own heart. I did not doubt but that she had, and I cried in sympathy for her.
At length our baskets were filled, and we took up our line of march to the desolated city. There were no labyrinths to tread, no streets to follow, and an occasional question secured information that enabled us to find the “commissary” without delay. Telitha was very ambitious that I should appear a lady, and wanted me to deposit my load of lead behind some place of concealment, while we went on to deliver hers, and then let her go back for mine. But I was too much a Confederate soldier for that, and walked bravely in with my heavy, precious load.
A courteous gentleman in a faded grey uniform, evidently discharged because of wounds received in battle, approached and asked what he could do for me. “I have heard that you give provisions for lead,” I replied, “and I have brought some to exchange.” What seemed an interminable silenceensued, and I felt without seeing that I was undergoing a sympathetic scrutiny, and that I was recognized as a lady “to the manor born.”
“What would you like in exchange,” he asked. “If you have sugar, and coffee, and meal, a little of each if you please,” I timidly said. “I left nothing to eat at home.” The baskets of lead were removed to the rear and weighed, and in due time returned to me filled to the brim with sugar, coffee, flour, meal, lard, and the nicest meat I had seen in a long time.
“O, sir,” I said, “I did not expect so much.”
“You have not yet received what is due you,” this good man replied, and handed me a certificate which he assured me would secure as much more on presentation.
Joy had gone out of my life, and I felt no thrill of that kind; but I can never describe the satisfaction I experienced as I lifted two of those baskets, and saw Telitha grasp the other one, and turned my face homeward.
The Decatur women’s struggle for bread—Sweet singing in hard places—Pleasant visitors—I make a trip to Alabama—The news of my brother’s death.
The tug of war was upon us from the mountains to the sea-board, and ingenious was the woman who devised means to keep the wolf, hungry and ravenous, from the door. The depreciation of our currency, and its constant diminution in value, had rendered it an unreliable purchasing commodity, and we had nothing to give in exchange for food. I, therefore, felt that I had literally rubbed against Aladdin’s lamp when I saw much needed food, good and palatable, given in exchange for minie balls, and for any kind of metal convertible into destructive missiles, and I was anxious that others should share the benefit accruing from the lead mines mentioned in a former sketch. In pursuance of this humane desire, I proclaimed its discovery and results from house to house; for, mark you, we had no “Daily Courier,” nor messenger boy to convey the glad tidings to the half-famished women and children in and around Decatur. And if my words could have been changed into diamonds by the magic wand of a fairy, not one of those starving people would have accepted the change of diamonds for bread.
It required only a short time to raise a large company of women, girls and little boys, who were readyto do service for themselves and their country by digging lead with case-knives from mines providentially furnished them. And was it not serving the cause of the Confederacy? I thought so; and never walked with more independent step than when acting as generalissimo of that band of devoted, patriotic women,en routeto the “lead mines” around Atlanta. Telitha, too, evidently felt that she was an important adjunct in the mining enterprise, and a conspicuous personage in the scenes being enacted, and emphasized her opinion by strong and suggestive gesticulation. On this occasion she playfully wrenched from my hand the small vessel with which I had supplied myself and which I carried on the former trip, and substituted a larger one, while for herself she got at least a half-bushel measure.
All who remember the month of December, 1864, know that it abounded in clouds and rain and sleet, and was intensely cold in the Confederate States of America; and in the latitude embracing Atlanta, such severity of weather had never been known to the oldest inhabitant. But what mattered it? Each one in that little band of women was connected by a bright link to the illustrious armies that were enduring greater privation and hardship than those to which she was exposed, and counted it a willing oblation upon his country’s altar, and why should she not prove faithful to the end, and suffer the pangs of hunger and privation too?
The work of picking up minie balls began as soon as we reached the battle-field, and, consequently, we carried several pounds some distance unnecessarily.The “mine” proper, I doubt not, could have filled several wagons. As “a little fun now and then is relished by the wisest men,” I found a grim smile asserting itself at the quaint and ready wit of those estimable girls, the Misses Morton, whose Christian names I have forgotten and who, alas! have long since joined the silent majority. One of them assumed the character of a Confederate soldier and the other that of a Federal, and the conversation carried on between them, as they “exchanged coffee and tobacco,” was rich, rare and racy. The exchange having been effected, the signal of combat was given. “Look out, Billy Yank!” “Look out, Johnnie Reb!” were simultaneous warnings from opposing forces, and minie balls whizzed through the air, much to the merriment of the little boys who wished themselves men, that they might be with their fathers, whizzing minie balls from musket mouths.
The sham battle over, the work of digging lead was resumed, and in an amazingly short time our vessels were filled to overflowing. I watched Telitha with interest. She was eager to fill her basket, and more than once she said, “Me full!” and added a little gutteral laugh that always indicated pleasure. Her attempt to raise the basket from the ground, and her utter failure to do so surprised her amazingly, and her disappointment was pathetic. With great reluctance she saw her treasure reduced to her capacity of handling. Each member of the party experienced similar disappointment on attempting to raise her burden, and we left more exhumed lead and other valuables than we carried away.
We took up our line of march, and as there were no obstructions in the way (for, be it remembered, Sherman had been there, and with torch and explosive removed all obstructions save the standing chimneys and carcasses of horses and cattle shot by his order to prevent the possibility of use to the rebels), we struck a bee-line to the commissary. As the first to take advantage of this industry, I took the lead, and the vigor of young womanhood, and “a heart for every fate,” gave elasticity to my steps, and I soon outdistanced even the girls. In due time we reached the commissary, and in a short while a most satisfactory exchange was made, thanks to one whose great heart beat in unison with ours, and in lieu of the heavy burden which we laid down, we picked up food for the nourishment of our tired bodies and those of our loved ones at home. Oh, how light, comparatively, it seemed! I verily believe if it had weighed the same number of pounds, it would have seemed lighter, and the change would have seemed restful. “Good-bye, noble ladies and sisters in a righteous cause,” was the parting salutation of our no less noble benefactor.
With our respective packages of food we again turned our faces homeward, solemn as a funeral march, for, strive against them as we would, we all had forebodings of ill, and the swaying of our bodies and our footsteps kept time with the pulsations of our sad hearts. I fancied as I approached standing chimneys and other evidences of destroyed homes, that the spirit of Sherman, in the guise of an evil spirit, was laughing over the destruction his diabolism had wrought. In the midst of these reflections asong, which for sweetness and tranquilizing melody I have seldom heard equalled and never surpassed, broke the stillness of the scene and added to the melancholy interest of the occasion. It was the well known ballad, then familiar to every child in the Confederacy, “When this Cruel War is Over,” and sung by those gifted sisters mentioned as a part of the lead digging company. The pure, sweet soprano voice of one of the girls put to flight the spirit of Sherman, and when it was joined by the flute-like alto of the others, every evil spirit within and without was exorcised, and the spirit of submission took its place. And yet as the words rang out and found an echo in my own heart, I had to walk very straight, and turn my head neither to the right nor to the left, lest I betray the copious tears trickling down my cheeks. At length pent-up feelings burst the fetters, and an audible sob removed restraint, and we cried as women burdened with great sorrow. Precious tears! Nature’s kind alleviator in time of trouble.
“The day was cold and dark and dreary,And it rained and the winds were never weary,”
and yet I was nerved for its duties and toil by the consciousness of having met, uncomplainingly, the work which the preservation of my own principles made me willing to endure. Several days subsequent to this trip to Atlanta, the Morton girls came running in and told me that we had some delightful friends at the “Swanton place,” who requested to see us. My mother was too much exhausted by anxiety and waiting for that which never came, to go, butapproved my doing so. I, therefore, donned my sun-bonnet and went; and whom should I meet but Mrs. Trenholm and her sweet young daughters, Essie and Lila? I was delighted to see them, and invited them to go home with me. Ma received them in a spirit of cordial hospitality, and they were invited to remain at her house. Without hesitation, Mrs. Trenholm accepted the proffered kindness, and returned to her wayside rendezvous only to send her trunks, bedding and other household goods. And truly the coming of that saintly woman and those lovely girls was a rare benediction, especially at that time. Day by day ma looked in vain for tidings from “the front”—wherever that might be—and day by day her health and strength was perceptibly weakened by disappointment. Mrs. Trenholm’s sympathy with her in her suspense regarding the operations of Hood’s army, and the fate of her beloved son, was both touching and consoling. Seeing that my mother and myself were hoping almost against hope, she endeavored to bring us to a realization of that fact, and a complete submission to the will of God, even though that will deprived us of our loved one. All of her Christian arguments and consolations had been pondered over and over by mother and daughter, but they never seemed so sweet and potent as when coming in the chaste and simple language of a precious saintly woman.
With the tact peculiar to the refined of every clime and locality, Mrs. Trenholm assumed management of the culinary department, and her dinner-pot hung upon our crane several weeks, anddaily sent forth appetizing odors of bacon and peas. How we enjoyed those peas and that bacon, and the soup seasoned with the only condiments at our command—salt and red pepper—and the good hoe cakes! Mrs. Trenholm had a large sack of cow peas, and a sack of dried fruit, and other articles of food which she had provided for herself and her family before she left Southwest Georgiaen routeto her home in Marietta, which she left in obedience to the order of William Tecumseh Sherman, and which she learned, before reaching Decatur, had shared the fate of nearly all other homes which had to be thus abandoned. Although magnanimously proffered, we were averse to sharing Mrs. Trenholm’s well-prepared and ofttimes temptingcuisine, unless our proportion of food equaled hers; and fearing even the appearance of scanty supplies, I set about to gather up “the miners,” so that we might appoint a day to again go lead digging, if that which we left in as many little heaps as there were members of the company had been, in the interim, gathered up by others.
On former occasions I had led my company to victory over that malignant general left by Sherman to complete his work, and styled by him “General Starvation,” and they were willing to go wherever I led. Now, I had two recruits of whom I was very proud. Telitha, too, had gathered from observation that the sweet young Trenholm girls were going with us, and she set about to provide very small baskets for their use, which, with gestures amusing and appropriate, she made us understand were large enough to contain all the lead that girls so pretty and so ladylike oughtto carry. To their credit, however, they repudiated that idea, and carried larger vessels. By appointment the “lead diggers” were to meet at the tan-yard, those arriving first to wait until the entire number came. “Man proposes and God disposes.” Just as my last glove was drawn on, Telitha, ever on the alert, said “Morton, Morton,” and I looked and saw the girls coming. “We needn’t go—the commissary has folded its tents, and silently stolen away,” was the voluntary announcement. Imagine my consternation and disappointment—the last hope of supply cut off! Ma saw the effect upon me, and said in a more hopeful voice than was her wont, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” And good Mrs. Trenholm said her sack of peas was like the cruse of oil that never seemed to diminish in quantity, however much was taken out of it. An examination, too, of our own resources was quite gratifying; but I knew I ought to be “providing for a rainy day.”
I pass now over an interval which brings me to the latter part of January, 1865. My sister returned home from Madison and spent several weeks with us, but had accepted an offer to teach at Grantville, on the LaGrange and West Point Railroad. I had a precious aunt, my mother’s sister, Mrs. Annie Watson, whom I loved dearly, and of whom I had not heard a word since the interruption of the mail communication by the siege of Atlanta, and my mother’s frequent mention of her determined me to go and see if this beloved aunt was living, and, if so, in what condition. I knew she was one of the favored onesof earth, viewed from a worldly standpoint, but I knew not what changes had come over her or her worldly possessions. Rumor conveyed startling accounts of the atrocious deeds of Wilson’s raiders, and I knew that they were operating in that rich cotton belt of Alabama which embraced my aunt’s plantation and beautiful home. I could scarcely hope that that home and its valuable appointments had escaped the cupidity of an organized band of robbers protected by the United States Government.
When I think of my mother’s fond affection for her children, and her tender solicitude for their welfare, I am constrained to think that she thought I was endowed with a sort of charmed existence not subject to the perils which beset the pathway of ordinary mortals, and hence her ready acquiescence to my proposition to undertake a journey of many miles, under circumstances of imminent danger, inspired with confidence amounting to certainty that I would be preserved by an All-wise Providence for future usefulness. I had very little preparation to make for the contemplated trip. A pretty, small-checked dress, which had done service through many a changing scene, and was good for as many more, and a hat—well, I beg to be excused from describing it—and gloves upon which I had expended skill in darning until it was difficult to perceive where the darning ceased and the glove began, completed my toilet, and I bade to all appearance a cheerful good-bye to my mother and kind friends, and went by private conveyance to Fairburn. There I took the train for Cowles’ Station, Alabama.
Nothing of particular interest transpired on the way. My country was prostrate and bleeding from many lacerations, and my tears flowed so freely that by the time I reached my railroad destination I had a very sick headache. That “there is a providence that shapes our ends” was again illustrated. Some of my aunt’s neighbors, who knew me at least by name, were at the station, and kindly offered to carry me to her residence, a distance of ten miles. I found my aunt in feeble health, and all alone save her usual dusky attendant. Her only child, Mrs. Mary E. Seaman, had gone to Tuskeegee to see her little daughter, who was there going to school in care of a friend and relative, Col. Smith Graham. My closest scrutiny failed to detect any change in my aunt’s mode of living. The same retinue of servants came into the house to see and shake hands with mistress’ niece, and after many questions about “our white folks in Georgia,” retired from my presence with the same courtesy that had marked their demeanor towards me in ante-bellum days.
My aunt manifested her joy at seeing me in many ways, and wept and smiled alternately, as I related my adventures with the Yankees. “And my sister, what was their treatment of her?” My evasive answer, “It could have been worse,” heightened her desire to learn particulars, and I told them to her. She was grateful for all leniency shown by them, and affected to tears by unkindness. As the day waned, and the middle of the afternoon came on, my aunt proposed walking “to meet Mary.” I supported her fragile form, and guided her footsteps in the bestpart of the road. How like her beloved sister in Georgia she seemed! Accustomed to this little diversion, for she always went to meet Mary, she had reckoned accurately regarding the time of her daughter’s coming, and we had not gone far when we saw the carriage descending a declivity in the distance. Nelson, the coachman, had also recognized “Mistress and Miss Mary,” and announced his discovery to my cousin. Increased speed in the gait of the horses soon brought us together, and she opened the door and stepped to the ground. After kissing her dear mother, she encircled me in her arms, and kissed me time and again, and then assisted me into the carriage, and she and her mother followed. I greeted the coachman in a cordial manner, because of past service and present fidelity to “mistress and my white folks” generally.
With my rapidity in conversation, I could scarcely keep up with my cousin’s questions. Happy woman! She had never seen any “Blue-coats,” or, in the parlance of the times, “Yankees,” and she enjoyed my description of them, especially when in answer to the question, “Do they look like our men?” I attempted to define the difference. It was amusing to me to hear her describe the preparations she made for the coming of Wilson and his raiders.
After reaching home, she left her mother and myself only a few minutes. I scarcely perceived her absence, and yet when she returned the disparity in our dress was not so apparent. The elegant traveling suit had been exchanged for her plainest home attire, and every article of jewelry had disappeared. The briefperiod spent with these dear relatives was spent in mutual efforts to entertain and amuse each other. My aunt’s conversation was like sweet music in which minor chords abounded. Her love for her sister, and apprehension of evil, gave a pathetic turn to every conversation she attempted, and it was evident to me that she had given up all hope of my brother’s safety, and her resignation under similar circumstances was a great support to me.
Much as I enjoyed this luxurious home, and its refined appointments, there was a controlling motive—a nearer tie—that made me willing to again take up the hardships and perils of warfare, and battle for life with that relentless enemy left by Sherman to complete his cruel work, the aforesaid General Starvation.
After many farewell words were spoken, I left my aunt, accompanied by her daughter, who went with me to the station for the purpose of seeing me on the train bound for Fairburn, then the terminus of the railroad. It was past noon when the train left the station, and in those days of slow railroad locomotion, it was all the afternoon reaching West Point. I learned before reaching there that I would have to remain over until the next morning, and, therefore, as soon as I stepped from the cars, started to hunt a place at which to spend the night. Wending my way, solitary and alone, through the twilight, I saw Mr. John Pate, the depot agent at Decatur, coming towards me.
“Oh, Mr. Pate, have you heard anything from ma in the last week?”
“Yes; it went very hard with her, but she was some better this morning.”
I did not have to ask another question. I knew it all, and was dumb with grief. The thought that I would never see my darling brother again paralyzed me. I saw him in the mirror of my soul, in all the periods of his existence. The beautiful little baby boy, looking at me the first time out of his heavenly blue eyes, and his second look, as if not satisfied with the first, followed by the suggestion of a smile. Ah, that smile! It had never failed me through successive years and varying scenes. The boyhood and youth—honest, truthful and generous to a fault—and the noble, genial boyhood, had all developed within my recollection, and I loved him with an intensity bordering on idolatry. These scenes and many others rushed through my mind with kaleidoscopic rapidity and made me so dizzy that I had no knowledge of how I reached the “hotel.” My heart cried and refused to be comforted. From the consolation of religion and patriotism it recoiled and cried all the more. A great tie of nature had been sundered, and the heart, bruised and crushed and bleeding, pulsated still with vitality that would have flickered out but for the hope of giving comfort to the poor bereaved mother and sister in our great sorrow. Good ladies bathed my throbbing temples and kissed my cheeks and spoke comforting words, for they were all drinking the bitter waters of Marah, and knew how to reach the heart and speak of the balm of Gilead.
“Killed on the battle-field, thirty steps from the breastworks at Franklin, Tennessee, November 30th,1864,” was the definite information regarding my brother’s death, left for me by Mr. Pate.
Interminable as the darkness of night appeared, it at length gave way to the light of day, and I was ready with its dawn to take the train. But, oh, the weight of this grief that was crushing me! Had the serpents which attacked Laocoon, and crushed him to death by their dreadful strength, reached out and embraced me in their complicated folds, I could not have writhed in greater agony. I did not believe it was God’s will that my brother should die, and I could not say to that Holy Being, “Thy will be done.” In some way I felt a complicity in his death—a sort of personal responsibility. When my brother wrote to me from his adopted home in Texas that, having voted for secession, he believed it to be his duty to face the danger involved by that step, and fight for the principles of self-government vouchsafed by the Constitution of the United States, I said nothing in reply to discourage him, but rather I indicated that if I were eligible I should enter the contest. These, and such as these were the harrowing reflections which accused me of personal responsibility for the demon of war entering our household and carrying off the hope and prop of a widowed mother.
I found my poor stricken mother almost prostrate. The tidings of her son’s tragic death did the work apprehended by all who knew her nervous temperament. Outwardly calm and resigned, yet almost paralyzed by the blow, she was being tenderly cared for by our saintly neighbor, Mrs. Ammi Williams and her family, who will always be held in grateful remembrance by her daughters.
MY MOTHER’S DEATH.
Rev. Dr. John S. Wilson performs the funeral service
In sympathy with a disappointed people who had staked all and lost all in the vain effort to defend the inherited rights of freemen, and had not yet rallied from the depression occasioned by defeat, the spring of 1866 had withheld her charms, and, instead of donning a mantle of green, decorated with pansies, violets and primroses, hyacinths, bluebells and daffodils, verbenas, phlox and geraniums, and bloom of vine and briar in endless variety, the first day of April found her wounded, bleeding bosom wrapped in the habiliments of sorrow and despondency. A few brave old apple trees, as if to encourage the more timid, had budded and blossomed and sent forth sweet fragrance as of yore, and a few daring sprigs of grass suggested spring-time and sunny skies. Loneliness, oppressive and melancholy, and a spirit of unrest, prompted me to go to the depot in quest of something that never came, and my sister had stepped over to our neighbor, Mrs. Williams’.
Our mother loved the spring-time. It had always been her favorite season of the year. Fifty-nine vernal suns had brought inspiration and hope to her sensitive, tender heart, and given impulse to a checkered life; but now no day-star of hope shed its effulgence for her. As I mentioned in a former sketch, heronly son had fallen mortally wounded upon the sanguinary battle-field of Franklin, and she had never recovered from the shock.
After a few months of patient endurance, an attack of paralysis had occurred, and during many days life and death contended for the victory. But the skill of good physicians, among them Dr. Joseph P. Logan, and faithful, efficient nursing, aided in giving her a comfortable state of health lasting through several months. But the fiat had gone forth, and now after a pathetic survey of earth, mingled with thankfulness even then to the God of the spring-time, she succumbed to the inevitable.
Returning from the depot, I espied in the distance the approaching figure of Telitha. As she came up to me she was the very picture of despair. With one hand clasped to her head, she fell on the ground and lay as if dead for a moment. My worst apprehensions were more than realized. I found my mother speechless, and never more heard her voice—never more heard any sound emanating from her lips except labored, heavy breathing. It was all so sudden and strange and sad, I cannot describe it. Neighbors and friends came in by the score, and did all they could to mitigate our great sorrow. “Johnnie” Hardeman stayed until all was over, and mother never received from loving son kinder care or more unremitting attention. Paul Winn also remained and manifested deep sympathy, and so did other neighbors. Oh, the sorrow, the poignant sorrow, to see a mother in the embrace of death, and to have no power over the monster! About thirty hours of unconsciousness,and without a struggle, “life’s fitful dream was over,” about 9 o’clock p. m., April 1st, 1866. The silent hush that ensued was sacred, and scarcely broken by the sobs of those most deeply afflicted.
Loving hands fashioned a shroud, and a beautiful casket was obtained from Atlanta. When all was done, and our mother arrayed for the tomb, she looked like the bride of Heaven. I gazed long and earnestly upon her face and figure, and went away and came back, and gazed again admiringly. For every lineament was formed into a mold that compelled admiration.
During the two days that she lay there, I often lingered by her side; and I recalled the many scenes, ofttimes perilous and sad, and ofttimes joyous and gay, through which we had gone together. Although a wee bit girl, scarcely turned in my fifth year at the time of my mother’s second marriage, I remembered her as a bride. I remembered our journey by gig and wagon to Cassville, then, paradoxical as it may sound now, situated in the heart of a wilderness of beauty and savagery. The war-whoop of an uncivilized race of Indians, justly angry and resentful, reverberated though the impenetrable forest that belted the little settlement of white people that had the hardihood and bravery to make their homes among them. I remembered how she soon became a favorite, and was beloved by every one in that sparsely-settled locality, and won even the hearts of the Indians, by kindness towards them. She taught them how to make frocks and shirts, andclothes for their children, for the Cherokees were an ambitious people, and aspired to assimilation with the white race; and, to please them, she learned to bead moccasins, and other articles, ornamental and useful, just as they did. She also learned their alphabet, and became able to instruct them in their own language.
I remembered how she had always worked for the poor; not so much in societies (where the good that is accomplished in one way is often more than counterbalanced by the harm that is done in others), as in the quiet of her home, and in the humble habitations of God’s poor. I remembered, with a melancholy thrill, how she had worked for our soldiers, and had not withheld good deeds from an invading alien army. Reverently I took in mine her little, symmetrical hand as it lay peacefully over the heart that had ever beat in unison with all that was good. It was weather-beaten, and I could feel the rough places on the palm through the pretty white silk glove in which it was encased. Cold and stark in death, it gave no responsive pressure to my own. I thought of its past service to me in which it never tired. It had trained my own from the rudimentary “straight lines” and “pot hooks,” through all the intricacies of skilled penmanship, and from the picturesque letters on a sampler to the complete stitches of advanced embroidery. The little motionless hand that I now held in my own had picked corn from cracks and crevices in bureau drawers, which served as troughs for Garrard’s cavalry horses, to make bread with which toappease her hunger and mine. I gazed upon the pallid face and finely-chiseled features. The nose never seemed so perfect, or the brow so fair, or the snow-white hair so beautiful. The daintiest of mull caps heightened the effect of the perfect combination of feature, placidity and intellectual expression. I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful, and felt that it was meet that we should lay her away in a tomb where she could rest undisturbed until the resurrection morn, not doubting that the verdict of a great and good God would assign her a place among His chosen ones.
Soothing to our bruised hearts was the sweet singing of those who watched at night beside her lifeless form. With gratitude we remember them still: Laura and Mary Williams, Emma and John Kirkpatrick, Josiah Willard and John McKoy. One of the hymns they sang was “Jerusalem, My Happy Home.”
The hour for the funeral service came. Friends and neighbors and fellow-citizens had been assembling for several hours, and now the house was full, and the yard was thronged. Where did this concourse of people come from—old men, war-stricken veterans, and a few young men who had survived the bloody conflict that had decimated the youth of the South, and boys and women and girls! All alike came to pay respect to the deceased friend, and to show sympathy for the bereaved and lonely sisters. That sainted man and friend of ours, Rev. John S. Wilson, took his stand near the casket, and we satnear him, and those who loved us best got very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued, broken by the man of God uttering in hopeful intonation and animated manner, “She is not dead, but sleepeth,” and a sermon followed upon the resurrection of God’s people, never surpassed in interest and pathos. All felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an unobtrusive manner, and who practically illustrated the divine command: “Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.” This beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
which was sung with an unction which none but Christians can feel.
The last earthly look, solemn and earnest, was taken of our long-suffering, patient, loving mother, and everybody in the house followed our example and gazed reverently upon the pretty face, cold in death. And then the pall-bearers, “Johnnie” Kirkpatrick, “Johnnie” Hardeman, Virgil Wilson and Mr. G. W. Houston, bore her to the grave.
With uncovered head and grey locks fluttering in the vernal breeze, Dr. Wilson repeated the beautiful burial service of the Presbyterian Church. I can never describe the utter desolation of feeling I experienced as I stood clasped in the arms of mysister, and heard the first spadeful of earth fall over the remains of our loved one.
But we had heard above all the glorious words, “This mortal shall put on immortality,” and “O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy victory?”
A REMINISCENCE.
“Sister, you are not paying any attention whatever to my reading, and you are losing the most beautiful thoughts in this delightful book.”
“Yes, and I am sorry to do so; but I think I see one of Rachel’s children—Madaline or Frances.”
My sister closed her book, and, looking in the direction indicated, agreed with me that the negro woman, clothed in the habiliments of widowhood, who was coming up the avenue with a little boy by her side and one in her arms, was one of Rachel’s children; and, although she was scarcely in her teens when she went away, she was a mother now, and traces of care were visible in every lineament of her face. I recognized her, however, as Rachel’s youngest daughter, Frances, and went to meet her.
“Is that you, Frances?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Mary, this is me; your same nigger Frances, and these are my children.”
“I am glad to see you and your children;” and I extended my hand in genuine cordiality to her who had once been a slave in my mother’s family, and I bade her welcome to her old home. Frances was too demonstrative to be satisfied with simply hand-clasping, and putting her boy on the ground, she threw her armsaround me and literally overwhelmed me with kisses. My hands, neck and face were covered with them, and she picked me up and carried me in her arms to the house, her children following in amazed astonishment. She now turned her attention to them, and, after deliberately shaking the wrinkles out of their clothes, she as deliberately introduced them to me. The older of the two she introduced as “King by name,” and the younger as “Lewis by name.”
“You see, Miss Mary, I named my children King and Lewis ’cause my white folks named my brothers King and Lewis.”
The ceremony of introducing her sons toheroldwhite folksbeing performed to her satisfaction, she again turned her attention to me, and again literally overwhelmed me with caresses.
Entering the house, I asked Frances and her children to come in too.
“Miss Mary, whar’s Miss Polly?”
“Have you not heard, Frances, that ma is dead?”
“Seem to me I has heard somethin’ about it, but some how I didn’t believe it. And my poor Miss Polly is dead! Well, she ain’t dead, but she’s gone to heaven.”
And Frances became quite hysterical in demonstrations of grief.
“And Marse Thomie, what about him, Miss Mary?”
“He was killed by the enemy at Franklin, Tenn., the 30th of November, 1864.”
“Miss Mary, did them old Yankees kill him?”
“Yes, he was killed in battle.”
And again, whether sincere or affected, Frances became hysterical in demonstrations of grief.
“Miss Mary, whar’s Miss Missouri? Is she dead too?”
“No; that was she who was sitting in the portico with me as you were coming up the avenue. She always has to go off and compose herself before meeting any of you—ma was that way, too—I suppose you remind her of happier days, and the contrast is so sad that she is overcome by grief and has to get relief in tears.”
“Yes’m, I have to cry, too, and it does me a monstous heap of good. I know it’s mighty childish, but I jest can’t help it. Jest to think all my white folks is done dead but Miss Mary and Miss Missouri!”
“Our brother left a dear little boy in Texas, and I am going after him next winter. He and his mother are going to live with us, and then we will not be so lonely.”
“That’s so, Miss Mary.”
Frances and her children having partaken of a bountiful supper, she resumed, with renewed vigor, her erratic conversation, which consisted, chiefly, of innumerable questions, interspersed with much miraculous information regarding herself since she left her white folks and became a wife, a mother, and a widow.
“Miss Mary, whar’s my children going to sleep tonight?”
“With your help I will provide a comfortable place for them, and, also, for you.”
And taking a lantern and leading the way to the kitchen, I entered and pointed to a light bedstead, and told her to carry a portion of it at a time to my room, and we would put it up in there.
“Same old room, jest like it was when me and my mammy used to sleep in it.
“Well, things do look mighty nateral if it has been a long time since I seed it.
“And Miss Mary is agoing to let me and my children sleep in her room. Well!”
The bedstead having been placed in position, a mattress and bed clothing were furnished. And soon the little negro children were soundly sleeping under the protecting roof of their mother’s former young mistresses.
“Whar’s your teakettle, Miss Mary?” Having been told where to find it, Frances took it to the well and filled it with water, and, by adding a little more fuel to the fire, soon had it boiling.
“Whar’s your bath-tub, Miss Mary?”
That, too, was soon produced and supplied with hot water, reduced to proper temperature. Memories of the past left no doubt in my mind as to the use to which the water was to be applied, and I determined to gratify every fancy that would give pleasure to our former handmaid, and, therefore, I made no resistance when garters were unbuckled, shoes and stockings removed, and feet tenderly lifted into the tub. She knew just how long to keep them there, and how to manipulate them so as to give the most satisfaction and enjoyment; and how to dry them—a very important process. And then the shoesand stockings were again put on, and giving me an affectionate pat on the head she told me to sit still until she told me to move.
“Now, whar’s your comb and brush?”
The force of habit must have impelled her to ask this question, as, without awaiting an answer, she went to the bureau and got the articles about which she had asked, and in a few moments she had my long, luxuriant black hair uncoiled and flowing over my shoulders. She was delighted; she combed and braided it, and unbraided and combed it again and again, and finally, as if reluctant to do so, arranged it for the night.
“Now, whar’s your gown?”
“You will find it hanging in the wardrobe.”
Having undressed me, Frances insisted upon putting the gown on me, and then wanted to carry and put me in bed; this service, however, I declined with thanks. All these gentle manipulations had a soporific effect upon me, and I fain would have slept, but no such pleasure was in store for me. Frances had an axe to grind, and I had to turn the grindstone, or incur her displeasure. Mark her proposition:
“Miss Mary, I come to give you my children.”
“Your what?”
“My children, these smart little boys. I’ll go with you to the court-house in the mornin’ and you can have the papers drawn up and I’ll sign ’em, and these little niggers will belong to you ’til they’s of age to do for theyselves; and all I’ll ever ask you to do for me for ’em is to raise them like my Miss Polly raised me.”
“That you should be willing to give your children away, Frances, surprises me exceedingly. If you are without a home, and would like to come here and live, I will do all I can for you and your children. The kitchen is not occupied, only as a lumber or baggage room, and you can have that without paying rent; and you can take care of the cow and have all you can make off of her milk and butter, except just enough for the table use of two; and you can have a garden without paying rent, and many other favors—indeed, I will favor you in every possible way.”
“Well, I tell you how it is, Miss Mary. You see, mammy wants to open up a laundry, and she wants me to help her. She’s done ’gaged several womens to help her, and she wants me to go in with her sorter as a partner, you see. And I wants to get my children a good home, for you knows if I had to take care of ’em I couldn’t do much in a laundry.”
“And you want me to take care of them?”
“Yes’m; just like you used to take care of your own little niggers before freedom, and after I sign the papers they’ll belong to you,don’t you know.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Frances, but I cannot accept your offer. If slavery were restored and every negro on the American continent were offered to me, I should spurn the offer, and prefer poverty rather than assume the cares and perplexities of the ownership of a people who have shown very little gratitude for what has been done for them.” Without seeming to notice the last sentence, Frances exclaimed:
“Well, it’s mighty strange. White folks used to love little niggers, and now they won’t have them as a gracious gift.”
Under the cover of night she had made her proposition and received her disappointment, after which she lay down by her children and was soon sleeping at the rate of 2:40 per hour, if computed by the snoring she kept up. In due time morning, cheerful, sun-lighted morning, came, and with it many benign influences and good resolutions for the day.
Frances asked where everything was, and having ascertained, went to work and soon had a nice, appetizing breakfast for us, as well as for herself and children. After that important meal had been enjoyed, she inquired about the trains on the Georgia Railroad, and asked what time she could go into Atlanta. I told her she could go at nine o’clock, but I preferred that she should stay until twelve o’clock, m.
“Miss Mary, what was in that trunk I saw in the kitchen last night?”
“I scarcely know; odds and ends put there for safekeeping, I suppose.”
“May I have the trunk and the odds and ends in it? They can’t be much, or they wouldn’t be put off there.”
“We will go and see.” Again I took the kitchen key, and the trunk key as well, and having unlocked both receptacles, I told Frances to turn the contents of the trunks out upon the floor. When she saw them I noticed her disappointment, and I told her to remain there until I called her. I went in the houseand got a pair of sheets, a pair of blankets, a quilt, several dresses and underclothing, and many things that she could make useful for her children, and put them together, and then called her and told her to take them and put them in the trunk.
“Look here, Miss Mary, you ain’t going to give me all them things, is you?”
“Yes, put them in the trunk and lock it.”
A large sack of apples, a gift also, was soon gathered and a boy engaged to carry it and the trunk over to the depot in a wheelbarrow. Promptly at half-past eleven o’clock the trunk and apples, and Frances and her little boys, were on the way to the depot,en routeto Atlanta, their future home, and even a synopsis of the subsequent achievements of that woman and her unlettered mother would be suggestive of Munchausen.
HOW THE DECATUR WOMEN KEPT UP THE SABBATH SCHOOL.
A Brief Sketch of the Old Churches and the Union Sunday School—The Resumption of Church Services.
Before the war there were in Decatur but two churches, the Methodist and the Presbyterian; although Baptist and Episcopal services were occasionally held. The churches first mentioned had been organized about 1825. The Presbyterians first worshipped in a log church, and afterwards in a frame building, but in 1846 had erected a substantial brick church. In this building was also taught the Decatur Union Sabbath School, organized in 1831, and for twenty-five years preceding the summer of 1864 it had been superintended by that godly man, Mr. Levi Willard.
The Federals had now come in. The church had been rifled of all its contents, including the pews. The faithful Sunday School superintendent with his lovely family soon after went away. Being nearer to our house, I remember more about the dismantling and refurnishing of the Presbyterian church than of the Methodist. So far as can be ascertained, the last sermon at the Presbyterian church had been preached by Rev. James C. Patterson, who was then living at Griffin, but was the stated supply of the pulpit hereat that time. He will be remembered as a most godly man, and as a sweet singer of sacred songs.
The Sabbath before the entrance of the Federals, no service was held in the dear old church. The last prayer service had been held on Wednesday afternoon, led by Mr. Levi Willard, who was an efficient elder.
In July, 1864, but few families remained in Decatur; but there was still a goodly number of children and young people whose training must not be neglected. On the southwest corner of the Courthouse stood, and still stands, a long, narrow, two-story house. The lower story was occupied as a residence—the upper story, for many years preceding and succeeding these times, was the quarters of the Masonic Lodge. In the ante-room of this lodge, Miss Lizzie Mortin taught a day school. The first story of the building was now occupied by the family of Mr. John M. Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins had enlisted in the army early in the war, but for some reason had returned home and been elected clerk of the court, which position he held until forced to leave before the advancing foe.
Mrs. Hawkins, whose maiden name was Valeria A. Perkins, the eldest daughter of Reuben Perkins of Franklin county, gladly opened her house on Sunday mornings that the children might be taught in the Sacred Scriptures. And thus a Sunday School was begun, and Mrs. Hawkins was made the superintendent.
Among the organizers and teachers may be mentioned Miss Cynthia Brown, Mrs. H. H. Chivers, Mrs. Eddleman, Miss Lizzie Morton, and Miss Lizzie McCrary. Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan, Mrs. AmmiWilliams, and Mr. Fred Williams acted as a sort of advisory board. Rev. Dr. Holmes and Rev. P. F. Hughes, two elderly Baptist ministers, sometimes came; and Mr. R. J. Cooper, a godly layman, came a few times.
The names of some of these Sabbath school pupils can yet be re-called:—Charley, Guss and Lizzie Hawkins; their Cousins John, Sam, Ellen and Lizzie Hawkins, the children of Mr. Sam Hawkins, who is still living in Summerville, Georgia; the children of Mr. R. J. Cooper, and of Mrs. Eddleman, Mrs. Chivers, and of Mr. Ed Morton. There were others whose names I cannot recall.
The number of pupils increased to forty, and the school, having out-grown its quarters, was moved to the Court House; but when the Federals chose to occupy the Court House, the Sunday school was moved back to Mrs. Hawkins’s home. The Bible was the text book; for there were no Sunday-school papers or song books.
Imagine the scene, if you can. Says one of the participants, who was then a young girl: “We were a peculiarly dressed lot. I had a stand-by suit, the skirt made of a blanket shawl; with this I wore one of my brother’s white shirts and a red flannel jacket. I had grown so fast that I was taller than my mother, and there was literally nothing large enough in our house or circle of friends to make me a whole suit. One of the ladies wore a gray plaid silk, a pair of brown jeans shoes, and a woven straw bonnet. She had nothing else to wear. Many of the children were rigged out in clothes made from thrown-awayuniforms, picked up, washed, and cut down by the mothers.”
Mrs. Hawkins is still living near Decatur. She remembers that on several occasions the soldiers came in while the school was in session, much to the demoralizing of good order and comfort of mind. On one occasion the raiders piled barrels one on top of another, near the house, and set them afire, frightening the children very much.
When the war was over, the refugees began to return. Among the first were the families of Mr. J. W. Kirkpatrick, Mr. Ezekiel Mason, Captain Milton A. Candler, Dr. W. W. Durham, Dr. P. F. Hoyle, Mrs. Jane Morgan, Mrs. Cynthia Stone, Mr. James Winn, Mr. Benjamin Swanton, Mr. Jonathan Wilson, and Mr. J. N. Pate. But, alas! our faithful old Sunday-school superintendent and his family returned not, but remained in Springfield, Ohio, with the exception of Mr. Josiah J. Willard, who afterwards married Miss Jessie Candler, a sister of Captain Candler.
These returning refugees were devoted to the Sunday-school. Mr. John C. Kirkpatrick, just from the war, and scarce twenty-one, undertook the task of re-seating the Presbyterian church. He went out to a saw-mill and had puncheons sawed and carried to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s cabinet shop, where they were fashioned into temporary seats. These were placed in the church, and it was once more opened for the exercises of the union Sunday-school, and also for divine worship. Who conducted those exercises, I can find no one who now remembers. My mother had been stricken in July, 1865, with paralysis, which confinedher to her bed for many weeks. It was not to be supposed that her daughters could leave her; so that neither one of them can recollect these sessions of the resumed Sabbath-school.
There lies before me “the Sunday-school register and minute-book of 1866,” kindly furnished for inspection by Mr. Hiram J. Williams, who had from early youth been constantly identified with the Sunday-school and church. The Superintendent was Mr. Ben T. Hunter; the librarian, Mr. John C. Kirkpatrick; the treasurer, Mr. John J. McKoy. Mr. Kirkpatrick removed to Atlanta in the August of that year, and Mr. Josiah Willard was elected to fill his place, but resigned in December to go on to Ohio, from whence he soon returned, and died a few years ago in Atlanta.
But I must not forget that I am not writing a history of the Sabbath-school, yet I cannot leave the theme without mentioning the fact that all the faithful ones who had taught in the stormy days of war still came in time of peace, and many others whose hearts had not grown cold by their enforced absence. Let me mention the teachers: Mr. J. W. Kirkpatrick, Dr. P. F. Hoyle, Rev. A. T. Holmes, Mr. W. W. Brimm, Captain Milton A. Candler, Mr. G. A. Ramspeck[4], Dr. John L. Hardman, Mr. H. H. Puckett, Mr. W. A. Moore (afterwards a Superintendent), Miss Cynthia Brown, Mrs. H. H. Chivers, Mrs. Eddleman, Mrs. Catharine Winn, Mrs. Jane Morgan, Miss Lizzie Swanton, Mrs. E. A. Mason, Mrs. Valeria A. Hawkins, Mrs. J. J. McKoy and Miss Lee Moore. MissM. H. Stokes had been appointed one of the teachers, but her mother’s feeble health, and the great shock consequent upon her death, prevented this teacher from attending that year with any regularity.
Among the names of “visitors” we notice those of Mr. Bryce, Rev. P. F. Hughes, Mr. Cooper, and Mr. L. J. Winn.
The re-opening of the Sabbath school at the old church was doubtless a great blessing to many. To one young man the joining of that school, and the acceptance of a teacher’s place, meant the first public step to a profession of faith in Christ. Captain Milton A. Candler was the child of pious parents, but so far as he knew, was at this time an unconverted man. He reluctantly and with great diffidence accepted a teacher’s place. Said he quite recently: “I attribute my subsequent union with the church to the study of the Bible which I made while teaching a class of little boys, Sabbath after Sabbath, in the old church with its puncheon seats. I taught my pupils, a class of little boys, to read from ‘the blue-back speller,’ and, when that lesson was over, read to them from the Bible, explaining it to them as best I could in all humility.” In a few years he made a public profession of his faith in Christ, and was elected to the Superintendency of the Sabbath-school, (which office he still holds), and has labored for its interests with a love and an unflagging zeal rarely ever equalled.
How sweet were the voices of many of the teachers and pupils! John C. Kirkpatrick sang a fine tenor; and clear and soft and true were the tones of Josiah Willard, sweet as the lovely character of this saintedone. All who knew Rev. J. D. Burkhead remember his singing, and he often led the music. A little later came Mrs. Mary Jane Wood with her magnificent voice, and the grand bass of Joseph Morgan, the son of one of the pioneer teachers, Mrs. Martha Morgan. From this Sunday-school, and from its ex-Confederate soldiers, there went into the ministry W. W. Brimm, Paul P. Winn and Sam K. Winn. Promoted to the Glory Land long ago was Mrs. Jane Morgan; and, more recently, Mrs. Catherine Winn.
In the summer of 1866, a Sabbath-school was organized at the Methodist church, which, while a step in the right direction, was the sundering, in one sense, of ties that were very dear.
I cannot ascertain when the first sermon was preached in the church after the war, but think it must have been in August, as there is this entry in the journal of my sister, Miss Stokes, already quoted from in a former part of this volume: “Sunday, August 27th, 1865.—Dr. Holmes preached in the Presbyterian church, which has been re-opened for divine service, being furnished with puncheon seats without backs. There are a few benches with backs. Next Sabbath, Dr. Wilson will administer the communion of the Lord’s supper.” This was done at the time appointed—the first communion held in the church after the war. (The Dr. Wilson referred to was the venerable Rev. John S. Wilson, D. D., who had organized the church forty years before.)
So far as is known, the only part of the former church furnishings that ever re-appeared was the melodeon (or “seraphine”), which Rosella Stone, anegro woman, had preserved. She must have done this for the sake of Miss Marian Stone, who had formerly played it in church, and who, if I remember aright, played it again after the resumption of church services.
In the winter of 1865 and 1866, there was preaching for a short while by the Rev. Theodore Smith. Then followed Rev. J. D. Burkhead, and under his preaching, in the early spring, there occurred a protracted meeting, at which many persons were added to the church.
Gladly would I recall, if I could, the preachers who supplied the Methodist church at that time, but my memory fails me as to the exact details. I believe, however, that the Rev. William Henry Clarke, referred to in a preceding sketch, was the first Methodist minister who preached there after the war; and that Rev. Mr. Morgan and Rev. William A. Dodge were the first ministers in charge appointed by Conference.
In ante-bellum times, on many of the large plantations, special services were held for the negroes—some planters paying a regular salary for this purpose. In pious families, members of the household often taught the slaves, especially the house servants, the Bible and Catechism. So far as I can recollect, certain seats were assigned to them in all churches at all services, besides the special services usually held for them on Sabbath afternoons.
After the war, the negroes of Decatur and surrounding country were organized into a Sabbath-school at the Presbyterian Church, They came inlarge numbers, and were faithfully taught by the people of Decatur. To the kind courtesy of Mr. George A. Ramspeck I am indebted for the loan of the Minute-book of this school, which seems to have been organized in 1867. The pastor was the Superintendent. The Vice-Superintendent was Mr. Samuel K. Winn, the Treasurer, Mr. George A. Ramspeck, and the Librarian, Mr. Moses S. Brown. But after several months the negroes went off to themselves, and eventually founded the African Methodist Episcopal Church. They have also a Baptist Church. In these undertakings they were assisted by the people of the village.