Photograph of the original manuscript of the diary
To edit oneself after the lapse of nearly half a century is like taking an appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober. The changes of thought and feeling between the middle of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century are so great that the impulsive young person who penned the following record and the white-haired woman who edits it, are no more the same than were Philip drunk with the wine of youth and passion and Philip sobered by the lessons of age and experience. The author's lot was cast amid the tempest and fury of war, and if her utterances are sometimes out of accord with the spirit of our own happier time, it is because she belonged to an era which, though but of yesterday, as men count the ages of history, is separated from our own by a social and intellectual chasm as broad almost as the lapse of a thousand years. In the lifetime of a single generation the people of the South have been called upon to pass through changes that the rest of the world has taken centuries to accomplish. The distance between the armor-clad knight at Acre and the "embattled farmers" at Lexington is hardly greater than that between the feudal aristocracy which dominated Southern sentiment in 1860, and the commercial plutocracy that rules over the destinies of the nation to-day.
Never was there an aristocracy so compact, so united, so powerful. Out of a population of some 9,000,000 whites that peopled the Southern States, according to the census of 1850, only about 300,000 were actual slaveholders. Less than 3,000 of these — men owning, say, over 100 negroes each, constituted the great planter class, who, with a small proportion of professional and business men affiliated with them in culture and sympathies, dominated Southern sentiment and for years dictated the policy of the nation. The more prominent families all over the country knew each other by reputation, if not by actual contact, and to be a member of the privileged few in one community was an ex-officio title to membership in all. To use a modern phrase, we were intensely "class conscious" and this brought about a solidarity of feeling and sentiment almost comparable to that created by family ties. Narrow and provincial we may have been, in some respects, but take it all in all, it is doubtful whether the world has ever produced a state of society more rich in all the resources for a thoroughly wholesome, happy, and joyous life than existed among the privileged "4,000" under the peculiar civilization of the Old South — a civilization which has served its purpose in the evolution of the race and passed away forever. So completely has it vanished that the very language in which we used to express ourselves is becoming obsolete. Many of our household words, among them a name scarcely less dear than "mother," are a dead language. Others have a strangely archaic sound to modern ears. When the diary was written, women were still regarded as "females," and it was even permissible to have a "female acquaintance," or a "male friend," when distinction of sex was necessary, without being relegated forthwith to the ranks of the ignobile vulgus. The words "lady" and "gentleman" had not yet been brought into disrepute, and strangest of all, to modern ears, the word "rebel," now so bitterly resented as casting a stigma on the Southern cause, is used throughout the diary as a term of pride and affectionate endearment.
It is for the sake of the light it throws on the inner life of this unique society at the period of its dissolution — a period so momentous in the history of our country — that this contemporaneous record from the pen of a young woman in private life, is given to the public. The uncompromising attitude of the writer's father against secession removed him, of course, from all participation in the political and official life of the Confederacy, and so this volume can lay claim to none of the dignity which attaches to the utterances of one narrating events "quorum párs magna fui." But for this reason its testimony will, perhaps, be of more value to the student of social conditions than if it dealt with matters pertaining more exclusively to the domain of history. The experiences recounted are such as might have come at that time, to any woman of good family and social position; the feelings, beliefs, and prejudices expressed reflect the general sentiment of the Southern people of that generation, and this is my apology for offering them to the public. As an informal contemporaneous record, written with absolutely no thought of ever meeting other eyes than those of the author, the present volume can claim at least the merit of that unpremeditated realism which is more valuable as a picture of life than detailed statistics of battles and sieges. The chief object of the writer in keeping a diary was to cultivate ease of style by daily exercise in rapid composition, and, incidentally, to preserve a record of personal experiences for her own convenience. This practice was kept up with more or less regularity for about ten years, but the bulk of the matter so produced was destroyed at various times in those periodical fits of disgust and self-abasement that come to every keeper of an honest diary in saner moments. The present volume was rescued from a similar fate by the intercession of a relative, who suggested that the period dealt with was one of such transcendent interest, embracing the last months of the war and the equally stormy times immediately following, that the record of it ought to be preserved along with our other war relics, as a family heirloom. So little importance did the writer attach to the document even then, that the only revision made in changing it from a personal to a family history, was to tear out bodily whole paragraphs, and even pages, that were considered too personal for other eyes than her own. In this way the manuscript was mutilated, in some places, beyond recovery. The frequent hiatuses caused by these elisions are marked in the body of the work by the usual signs of ellipsis.
The original manuscript was written in an old day-book fished out of some forgotten corner during the war, when writing paper was as scarce as banknotes, and almost as dear, if measured in Confederate money. The pale, home-made ink, never too distinct, at best, is faded after nearly fifty years, to a light ocher, but little darker than the age-yellowed paper on which it was inscribed. Space was economized and paper saved by writing between the closely-ruled lines, and in a hand so small and cramped as to be often illegible, without the aid of a lens. The manuscript suffered many vicissitudes, the sheets having been torn from the covers and crumpled into the smallest possible space for better concealment in times of emergency.
As a discourager of self-conceit there is nothing like an old diary, and I suppose no one ever knows what a full-blown idiot he or she is capable of being, who has not kept such a living record against himself. This being the case, the gray-haired editor may be pardoned a natural averseness to the publication of anything that would too emphatically "write me down an ass" — to borrow from our friend Dogberry — though I fear that in some of the matter retained in the interest of truth, I have come perilously near to that alternative.
But while the "blue line" has been freely used, as was indispensable in an intimate private chronicle of this sort, it has not been allowed to interfere in any way with the fidelity of the narrative. Matter strictly personal to the writer — tiresome reflections, silly flirtations, and the like — has been omitted, and thoughtless criticisms and other expressions that might wound the feelings of persons now living, have been left out or toned down. Connectives, or other words are supplied where necessary for clearness; where more particular information is called for, it is given in parentheses, or in the explanatory notes at the heads of the chapters. Even the natural temptation to correct an occasional lapse into local barbarisms, such as "like" for "as," "don't" for "doesn't," or the still more unpardonable offense of applying the terms "male" and "female" to objects of their respective genders, has been resisted for fear of altering the spirit of the narrative by too much tampering with the letter. For the same reason certain palpable errors and misstatements, unless of sufficient importance to warrant a note, have been left unchanged — for instance, the absurd classing of B. F. Butler with General Sherman as a degenerate West Pointer, or the confusion between fuit Ilium and ubi Troja fuit that resulted in the misquotation on page 190. For my "small Latin," I have no excuse to offer except that I had never been a school teacher then, and could enjoy the bliss of ignorance without a blush. As to the implied reflection on West Point, I am not sure whether I knew any better at the time, or not. Probably I did, as I lived in a well-informed circle, but my excited brain was so occupied at the moment with thoughts of the general depravity of those dreadful Yankees, that there was not room for another idea in it.
Throughout the work none but real names are employed, with the single exception noted on page 105. In extenuation of this gentleman's bibulous propensities, it must be remembered that such practices were much more common in those days than now, and were regarded much more leniently. In fact, I have been both surprised and shocked in reading over this story of a bygone generation, to see how prevalent was the use of wines. and other alcoholic liquors, and how lightly an occasional over-indulgence was regarded. In this respect there can be no doubt that the world has changed greatly for the better. When "gentlemen," as we were not afraid to call our men guests in those days, were staying in the house, it was a common courtesy to place a bottle of wine, or brandy, or both, with the proper adjuncts, in the room of each guest, so that he might help himself to a "night-cap" on going to bed, or an "eye-opener" before getting up in the morning. It must also be taken into account that at this particular time men everywhere were ruined, desperate, their occupation gone, their future without hope, the present without resources, so that they were ready to catch at any means for diverting their thoughts from the ruin that enveloped them. The same may be said of the thoughtless gayety among the young people during the dark days preceding the close; it was a case of "eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."
In the desire to avoid as far as possible any unnecessary tampering with the original manuscript, passages expressive of the animosities of the time, which the author would be glad to blot out forever, have been allowed to stand unaltered — not as representing the present feeling of the writer or her people, but because they do represent our feelings forty years ago, and to suppress them entirely, would be to falsify the record. While recognizing the bad taste of many of these utterances, which "Philip sober" would now be the first to repudiate, it must be remembered that he has no right to speak for "Philip drunk," or to read his own present feelings into the mind of his predecessor. The diary was written in a time of storm and tempest, of bitter hatreds and fierce animosities, and its pages are so saturated with the spirit of the time, that to attempt to banish it would be like giving the play of Hamlet without the title-role. It does not pretend to give the calm reflections of a philosopher looking back dispassionately upon the storms of his youth, but the passionate utterances of stormy youth itself. It is in no sense a history, but a mere series of crude pen-sketches, faulty, inaccurate, and out of perspective, it may be, but still a true picture of things as the writer saw them. It makes no claim to impartiality; on the contrary, the author frankly admits that it is violently and often absurdly partisan — and it could not well have been otherwise under the circumstances. Coming from a heart ablaze with the passionate resentment of a people smarting under the humiliation of defeat, it was inevitable that along with the just indignation at wrongs which ought never to have been committed, there should have crept in many intemperate and indiscriminate denunciations of acts which the writer did not understand, to say nothing of sophomorical vaporings calculated now only to excite a smile. Such expressions, however, are not to be taken seriously at the present day, but are rather to be regarded as a sort of fossil curiosities that have the same value in throwing light on the psychology of the period to which they belong as the relics preserved in our geological museums have in illustrating the physical life of the past. Revolutions never take place when people are cool-headed or in a serene frame of mind, and it would be as dishonest as it is foolish to deny that such bitternesses ever existed. The better way is to cast them behind us and thank the powers of the universe that they exist no longer. I cannot better express this feeling than in the words of an old Confederate soldier at Petersburg, Va., where he had gone with a number of his comrades who had been attending the great reunion at Richmond, to visit the scene of their last struggles under "Marse Robert." They were standing looking down into the Crater, that awful pit of death, lined now with daisies and buttercups, and fragrant with the breath of spring. Tall pines, whose lusty young roots had fed on the hearts of dead men, were waving softly overhead, and nature everywhere had covered up the scars of war with the mantle of smiling peace. I paused, too, to watch them, and we all stood there awed into silence, till at last an old battle-scarred hero from one of the wiregrass counties way down in Georgia, suddenly raised his hands to heaven, and said in a voice that trembled with emotion: "Thar's three hundred dead Yankees buried here under our feet. I helped to put 'em thar, but so help me God, I hope the like 'll never be done in this country again. Slavery's gone and the war's over now, thank God for both! We are all brothers once more, and I can feel for them layin' down thar just the same as fur our own."
That is the sentiment of the new South and of the few of us who survive from the old. We look back with loving memory upon our past, as we look upon the grave of the beloved dead whom we mourn but would not recall. We glorify the men and the memories of those days and would have the coming generations draw inspiration from them. We teach the children of the South to honor and revere the civilization of their fathers, which we believe has perished not because it was evil or vicious in itself, but because, like a good and useful man who has lived out his allotted time and gone the way of all the earth, it too has served its turn and must now lie in the grave of the dead past. The Old South, with its stately feudal régime, was not the monstrosity that some would have us believe, but merely a case of belated survival, like those giant sequoias of the Pacific slope that have lingered on from age to age, and are now left standing alone in a changed world. Like every civilization that has yet been known since the primitive patriarchal stage, it was framed in the interest of a ruling class; and as has always been, and always will be the case until mankind shall have become wise enough to evolve a civilization based on the interests of all, it was doomed to pass away whenever changed conditions transferred to another class the economic advantage that is the basis of all power. It had outlived its day of usefulness and was an anachronism in the end of the nineteenth century — the last representative of an economic system that had served the purposes of the race since the days when man first emerged from his prehuman state until the rise of the modern industrial system made wage slavery a more efficient agent of production than chattel slavery.
It is as unfair to lay all the onus of that institution on the Southern States of America as it would be to charge the Roman Catholic Church with the odium of all the religious persecutions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The spirit of intolerance was in the air; everybody persecuted that got the chance even the saints of Plymouth Rock, and the Catholics did the lion's share only because there were more of them to do it, and they had more power than our Protestant forefathers.
In like manner, the spirit of chattel slavery was in the race, possibly from its prehuman stage, and through all the hundreds of thousands of years that it has been painfully traveling from that humble beginning toward the still far-off goal of the superhuman, not one branch of it has ever awakened to a sense of the moral obliquity of the practice till its industrial condition had reached a stage in which that system was less profitable than wage slavery. Then, as the ethical sentiments are prone to follow closely the line of economic necessity, the conscience of those nations which had adopted the new industrialism began to awaken to a perception of the immorality of chattel slavery. Our Southern States, being still in the agricultural stage, on account of our practical monopoly of the world's chief textile staple, were the last of the great civilized nations to find chattel slavery less profitable than wage slavery, and hence the "great moral crusade" of the North against the perverse and unregenerate South. It was a pure case of economic determinism, which means that our great moral conflict reduces itself, in the last analysis, to a question of dollars and cents, though the real issue was so obscured by other considerations that we of the South honestly believe to this day that we were fighting for States Rights, while the North is equally honest in the conviction that it was engaged in a magnanimous struggle to free the slave.
It is only fair to explain here that the action of the principle of economic determinism does not imply by any means that the people affected by it are necessarily insincere or hypocritical. As enunicated by Karl Marx, under the cumbrous and misleading title of "the materialistic interpretation of history," it means simply that the economic factor plays the same part in the social evolution of the race that natural selection and the survival of the fittest are supposed to play in its physical evolution. The influence of this factor is generally so subtle and indirect that we are totally unconscious of it. If I may be pardoned an illustration from my own experience, I remember perfectly well when I myself honestly and conscientiously believed the institution of slavery to be as just and sacred as I now hold it to be the reverse. It was according to the Bible, and to question it was impious and savored of "infidelity." Most of my contemporaries would probably give a similar experience. Not one of us now but would look upon a return to slavery with horror, and yet not one of us probably is conscious of ever having been influenced by the economic factor!
The truth of the matter is that the transition from chattel to wage slavery was the next step forward in the evolution of the race, just as the transition from wage slavery to free and independent labor will be the next. Some of us, who see our own economic advantage more or less clearly in this transformation, and others who do not see it so clearly as they see the evils of the present system, are working for the change with the zeal of religious enthusiasts, while the capitalists and their retainers are fighting against it with the desperation of the old Southern slaveholder against the abolitionist. But here, in justice to the Southerner, the comparison must end. He fought a losing battle, but he fought it honestly and bravely, in the open — not by secret fraud and cunning. His cause was doomed from the first by a law as inexorable as the one pronounced by the fates against Troy, but he fought with a valor and heroism that have made a lost cause forever glorious. He saw the civil fabric his fathers had reared go down in a mighty cataclysm of blood and fire, a tragedy for all the ages — but better so than to have perished by slow decay through ages of sloth and rottenness, as so many other great civilizations of history have done, leaving only a debased and degenerate race behind them. It was a mediæval civilization, out of accord with the modern tenor of our time, and it had to go; but if it stood for some outworn customs that should rightly be sent to the dust heap, it stood for some things, also, that the world can ill afford to lose. It stood for gentle courtesy, for knightly honor, for generous hospitality; it stood for fair and honest dealing of man with man in the common business of life, for lofty scorn of cunning greed and ill-gotten gain through fraud and deception of our fellowmen — lessons which the founders of our New South would do well to lay to heart.
And now I have just a word to say on a personal matter — a solemn amende to make to the memory of my dear father, to whose unflinching devotion to the Union these pages will bear ample testimony. While I have never been able to bring myself to repent of having sided with my own people, I have repented in sackcloth and ashes for the perverse and rebellious spirit so often manifested against him. How it was that the influence of such a parent, whom we all loved and honored, should have failed to convert his own children to his way of thinking, I do not myself understand, unless it was the contagion of the general enthusiasm around us. Youth is impulsive, and prone to run with the crowd. We caught the infection of the war spirit in the air and never stopped to reason or to think. And then, there were our soldier boys. With my three brothers in the army, and that glorious record of Lee and his men in Virginia, how was it possible not to throw oneself heart and soul into the cause for which they were fighting so gallantly? And when the bitter end came, it is not to be wondered at if our resentment against those who had brought all these humiliations and disasters upon us should flame up fiercer than ever. In the expression of these feelings we sometimes forgot the respect due to our father's opinions and brought on scenes that were not conducive to the peace of the family. These lapses were generally followed by fits of repentance on the part of the offender, but as they led to no permanent amendment of our ways, I am afraid, that first and last, we made the old gentleman's life a burden to him. In looking back over the sufferings and disappointments of those dreadful years the most pathetic figure that presents itself to my memory is that of my dear old father, standing unmoved by all the clamor of the times and the waywardness of his children, in his devotion to the great republic that his father had fought for at Yorktown. I can see now, what I could not realize then, that the Union men in the South — the honest ones, I mean, like my father — sacrificed even more for their cause than we of the other side did for ours. These men are not to be confounded with the scalawags and traitors who joined the carpet-baggers in plundering their country. They were gentlemen, and most of them slaveholders, who stood by the Union, not because they were in any sense Northern sympathizers, but because they saw in division death for the South, and believed that in saving her to the Union they were saving her to herself. They suffered not only the material losses of the war, but the odium their opinions excited; and worst of all, the blank disillusionment that must have come to them when they saw their beloved Union restored only to bring about the riot and shame of Reconstruction. My father died before the horrors of that period had passed away; before the strife and hatred he so bitterly deplored had begun to subside; before he could have the satisfaction of seeing his grandson fighting under the old flag that his father had followed and that his sons had repudiated. Which of us was right? which was wrong? I am no Daniel come to judgment, and happily, there is in my mind no reason to brand either side as wrong. In the clearer understanding that we now have of the laws of historical evolution, we know that both were right, for both were struggling blindly and unconsciously in the grasp of economic tendencies they did not understand, towards a consummation they could not foresee. Both were helpless instruments of those forces that were hurrying our nation forward another step in its evolutionary progress, and whatever of praise or blame may attach to either side for their methods of carrying on the struggle, the result belongs to neither; it was simply the working out of that natural law of economic determinism which lies at the root of all the great struggles of history.
And now that we have learned wisdom through suffering; now that we have seen how much more can be accomplished by peaceful coöperation under the safe guidance of natural laws, than by wasteful violence, we are prepared to take our part intelligently in the next great forward movement of the race — a movement having for its object not merely a closer union of kindred states, but that grander union dreamed of by the poet, which is to find its consummation in
"The parliament of man, the federation of the world."
EXPLANATORY NOTE. — At the time of this narrative, the writer's eldest sister, Mrs. Troup Butler, was living alone with her two little children on a plantation in Southwest Georgia, between Albany and Thomasville. Besides our father, who was sixty-two when the war began, and a little brother who was only twelve when it closed, we had no male relations out of the army, and she lived there with no other protector, for a good part of the time, than the negroes themselves. There were not over a hundred of them on the place, and though they were faithful, and nobody ever thought of being afraid on their account, it was lonely for her to be there among them with no other white person than the overseer, and so the writer and a younger sister, Metta, were usually sent to be her companions during the winter. The summers she spent with us at the old home.
But in the fall of 1864, while Sherman's army was lying around Atlanta like a pent-up torrent ready to burst forth at any moment, my father was afraid to let us get out of his sight, and we all stood waiting in our defenseless homes till we could see what course the destroying flood would take. Happily for us it passed by without engulfing the little town of Washington, where our home was situated, and after it had swept over the capital of the State, reaching Milledgeville November 23d, rolled on toward Savannah, where the sound of merry Christmas bells was hushed by the roar of its angry waters.
Meanwhile the people in our part of Georgia had had time to get their breath once more, and began to look about for some way of bridging the gap of ruin and desolation that stretched through the entire length of our State. The Georgia Railroad, running from Atlanta to Augusta, had been destroyed to the north of us, and the Central of Georgia, from Macon to Savannah, was intact for only sixteen miles; that part of the track connecting the former city with the little station of Gordon having lain beyond the path of the invaders. By taking advantage of this fragment, and of some twelve miles of track that had been laid from Camack, a station on the uninjured part of the Georgia railroad, to Mayfield, on what is now known as the Macon branch of the Georgia, the distance across country could be shortened by twenty-five miles, and the wagon road between these two points at once became a great national thoroughfare.
By the middle of December, communication, though subject to many difficulties and discomforts, was so well established that my father concluded it would be practicable for us to make the journey to our sister. We were eager to go, and would be safer, he thought, when once across the line, than at home. Sherman had industriously spread the impression that his next move would be on either Charleston or Augusta, and in the latter event, our home would be in the line of danger. Southwest Georgia was at that time a "Land of Goshen" and a "city of refuge" to harassed Confederates. Thus far it had never been seriously threatened by the enemy, and was supposed to be the last spot in the Confederacy on which he would ever set foot — and this, in the end, proved to be not far from the truth.
So then, after careful consultation with my oldest brother, Fred, at that time commandant of the Georgia camp of instruction for conscripts, in Macon, we set out under the protection of a reliable man whom my brother detailed to take care of us. It may seem strange to modern readers that two young women should have been sent off on such a journey with no companion of their own sex, but the exigencies of the times did away with many conventions. Then, too, the exquisite courtesy and deference of the Southern men of that day toward women made the chaperon a person of secondary importance among us. It was the "male protector" who was indispensable. I have known matrons of forty wait for weeks on the movements of some male acquaintance rather than take the railroad journey of fifty miles from our village to Augusta, alone; and when I was sent off to boarding school, I remember, the great desideratum was to find some man who would pilot me safely through the awful difficulties of a railroad journey of 200 miles. Women, young or old, were intrusted to the care of any man known to their family as a gentleman, with a confidence as beautiful as the loyalty that inspired it. Under no other social régime, probably, have young girls been allowed such liberty of intercourse with the other sex as were those of the Old South — a liberty which the notable absence of scandals and divorces in that society goes far to justify.
Dec. 24, 1864, Saturday. — Here we are in Macon at last, and this is the first chance I have had at my journal since we left home last Monday. Father went with us to Barnett, and then turned us over to Fred, who had come up from Augusta to meet us and travel with us as far as Mayfield. At Camack, where we changed cars, we found the train literally crammed with people going on the same journey with ourselves. Since the destruction of the Georgia, the Macon & Western, and the Central railroads by Sherman's army, the whole tide of travel between the eastern and western portions of our poor little Confederacy flows across the country from Mayfield to Gordon. Mett and I, with two other ladies, whom we found on the train at Camack, were the first to venture across the gap — 65 miles of bad roads and worse conveyances, through a country devastated by the most cruel and wicked invasion of modern times.
As we entered the crowded car, two young officers gave up their seats to us and saw that we were made comfortable while Fred was out looking after the baggage. Near us sat a handsome middle-aged gentleman in the uniform of a colonel, with a pretty young girl beside him, whom we at once spotted as his bride. They were surrounded by a number of officers, and the bride greatly amused us, in the snatches of their conversation we overheard, by her extreme bookishness. She was clearly just out of school. The only other lady on the car was closely occupied with the care of her husband, a wounded Confederate officer, whom we afterwards learned was Maj. Bonham, of South Carolina.
Photograph of the original manuscript of the diary
It is only eleven miles from Camack to Mayfield, but the road was so bad and the train so heavy that we were nearly two hours in making the distance. Some of the seats were without backs and some without bottoms, and the roadbed so uneven that in places the car tilted from side to side as if it was going to upset and spill us all out. We ate dinner on the cars — that is, Fred ate, while Metta and I were watching the people. The weather was very hot, and I sweltered like a steam engine under the overload of clothing I had put on to save room in my trunk. At three o'clock in the afternoon we reached Mayfield, a solitary shanty at the present terminus of the R. R. Fred had sent Mr. Belisle, one of his men, ahead to engage a conveyance, and he met us with a little spring wagon, which he said would take us on to Sparta that night for forty dollars. It had no top, but was the choice of all the vehicles there, for it had springs, of which none of the others could boast. There was the mail hack, which had the advantage of a cover, but could not carry our trunks, and really looked as if it were too decrepit to bear the weight of the mail bags. We mounted our little wagon, and the others were soon all filled so full that they looked like delegations from the old woman that lived in a shoe, and crowds of pedestrians, unable to find a sticking place on tongue or axle, plodded along on foot. The colonel and his wife were about to get into a rough old plantation wagon, already overloaded, but Fred said she was too pretty to ride in such a rattle-trap, and offered her a seat in ours, which was gladly accepted. We also made room for Dr. Shine, one of the officers of their party, who, we afterwards found out, was a friend of Belle Randolph.
About a mile from Mayfield we stopped at a forlorn country tavern, where Fred turned us over to Mr. Belisle, and went in to spend the night there, so as to return to Augusta by the next train. I felt rather desolate after his departure, but we soon got into conversation with the colonel and his bride, the gentlemen who were following on foot joined in, and we sang rebel songs and became very sociable together. We had not gone far when big drops of rain began to fall from an angry black cloud that had been gradually creeping upon us from the northwest. The bride raised a little fancy silk parasol that made the rest of us laugh, while Metta and I took off our hats and began to draw on shawls and hoods, and a young captain, who was plodding on foot behind us, hastened to offer his overcoat. When we found that he had a wounded arm, disabled by a Yankee bullet, we tried to make room for him in the wagon, but it was impossible to squeeze another person into it. Ralph, the driver, had been turned afoot to make room for Dr. Shine, and was walking ahead to act as guide in the darkness.
Just after nightfall we came to a public house five miles from Sparta, where the old man lives from whom our wagons were hired, and we stopped to pay our fare and get supper, if anybody wanted it. He is said to be fabulously rich, and owns all the land for miles around, but he don't live like it. He is palsied and bed-ridden, but so eager after money that guests are led to his bedside to pay their reckoning into his own hands. Mett and I staid in the wagon and sent Mr. Belisle to settle for us, but the gentlemen of our party who went in, said it was dreadful to see how his trembling old fingers would clutch at the bills they paid him, and the suspicious looks he would cast around to make sure he was not being cheated. They could talk of nothing else for some time after they came out. We stopped at this place nearly an hour, while the horses were being changed and the drivers getting their supper. There was a fine grove around the house, but the wind made a dismal howling among the branches, and ominous mutterings of distant thunder added to our uneasiness. Large fires were burning in front of the stables and threw a weird glare upon the groups of tired soldiers gathered round them, smoking their pipes and cooking their scanty rations, and the flashing uniforms of Confederate officers, hurrying in and out, added to the liveliness of the scene. Many of them came to our wagon to see if they could do anything for us, and their presence, brave fellows, gave me a comfortable feeling of safety and protection. Dr. Shine brought us a toddy, and the colonel and the captain would have smothered us under overcoats and army blankets if we had let them.
When the horses were ready, we jogged on again towards Sparta, which seemed to recede as we advanced. Dr. Shine, who was driving, didn't know the road, and had to guide the horses by Ralph's direction as he walked ahead and sung out: "Now, pull to de right!" "Now, go straight ahead!" "Take keer, marster, dar's a bad hole ter yo' lef'," and so on, till all at once the long-threatened rain began to pour down, and everything was in confusion. Somebody cried out in the darkness; "Confound Sparta! will we never get there?" and Ralph made us all laugh again with his answer:
"Yessir, yessir, we's right in de subjues er de town now." And sure enough, the next turn in the road revealed the lights of the village glimmering before us. We drove directly to Mr. William Simpson's, and when Metta and I had gotten out, the wagon went on with its other passengers to the hotel. We met with such a hearty reception from Belle and her mother that for the moment all our troubles were forgotten. A big, cheerful fire was blazing in the sitting-room, and as I sank into a soft easy chair, I felt my first sensation of fatigue.
Next morning the sky was overcast, everything outside was wet and dripping and a cold wind had sprung up that rattled the naked boughs of a great elm, heavy with raindrops, against our window. As soon as the houseboy had kindled a fire, Mrs. Simpson's maid came to help us dress, and brought a toddy of fine old peach brandy, sweetened with white sugar. I made Mett take a big swig of it to strengthen her for the journey, as she seemed very weak; but not being accustomed to the use of spirits, it upset her so that she couldn't walk across the floor. I was frightened nearly out of my wits, but she soon recovered and felt much benefited by her unintentional spree, at which we had a good laugh.
We had a royal breakfast, and while we were eating it, Mr. Belisle, who had spent the night at the hotel, drove up with a four-mule wagon, in which he had engaged places for us and our trunks to Milledgeville, at seventy-five dollars apiece. It was a common plantation wagon, without cover or springs, and I saw Mr. Simpson shake his head ominously as we jingled off to take up more passengers at the hotel. There were several other conveyances of the same sort, already overloaded, waiting in front of the door, and a number of travelers standing on the sidewalk rushed forward to secure places in ours as soon as we halted. The first to climb in was a poor sick soldier, of whom no pay was demanded. Next came a captain of Texas Rangers, then a young lieutenant in a shabby uniform that had evidently seen very hard service, and after him our handsome young captain of the night before. He grumbled a little at the looks of the conveyance, but on finding we were going to ride in it, dashed off to secure a seat for himself. While we sat waiting there, I overheard a conversation between a countryman and a nervous traveler that was not calculated to relieve my mind. In answer to some inquiry about the chances for hiring a conveyance at Milledgeville, I heard the countryman say:
"Milledgeville's like hell; you kin get thar easy enough, but gittin' out agin would beat the Devil himself."
I didn't hear the traveler's next remark, but it must have been something about Metta and me, for I heard the countryman answer:
"Ef them ladies ever gits to Gordon, they'll be good walkers. Sherman's done licked that country clean; d — n me ef you kin hire so much as a nigger an' a wheelbarrer."
I was so uneasy that I asked Mr. Belisle to go and question the man further, because I knew that after her long attack of typhoid fever, last summer, Metta couldn't stand hardships as well as I could. When the captain heard me he spoke up immediately and said:
"Don't give yourselves the slightest uneasiness, young ladies; I'll see that you get safe to Gordon, if you will trust to me."
He spoke with an air of authority that was reassuring, and when he sprang down from the wagon and joined a group of officers on the sidewalk, I knew that something was in the wind. After a whispered consultation among them, and a good deal of running back and forth, he came to us and said that they had decided to "press" the wagon in case of necessity, to take the party to Gordon, and all being now ready, we moved out of Sparta. We soon became very sociable with our new companions, though not one of us knew the other even by name. Mett and I saw that they were all dying with curiosity about us and enjoyed keeping them mystified. The captain said he was from Baltimore, and it was a sufficient introduction when we found that he knew the Elzeys and the Irwins, and that handsome Ed Carey I met in Montgomery last winter, who used to be always telling me how much I reminded him of his cousin "Connie." Just beyond Sparta we were halted by one of the natives, who, instead of paying forty dollars for his passage to the agent at the hotel, like the rest of us, had walked ahead and made a private bargain with Uncle Grief, the driver, for ten dollars. This "Yankee trick" raised a laugh among our impecunious Rebs, and the lieutenant, who was just out of a Northern prison, and very short of funds, thanked him for the lesson and declared he meant to profit by it the next chance he got. The newcomer proved to be a very amusing character, and we nicknamed him "Sam Weller," on account of his shrewdness and rough-and-ready wit. He was dressed in a coarse home-made suit, but was evidently something of a dandy, as his shirt-front sported a broad cotton rude edged with home-made cotton lace. He was a rebel soldier, he said: "Went in at the fust pop and been a-fightin' ever since, till the Yankees caught me here, home on furlough, and wouldn't turn me loose till I had took their infernal oath — beg your pardon, ladies — the jig's pretty nigh up anyway, so I don't reckon it'll make much diff'rence."
He told awful tales about the things Sherman's robbers had done; it made my blood boil to hear them, and when the captain asked him if some of the rascals didn't get caught themselves sometimes — stragglers and the like — he answered with a wink that said more than words:
"Yes; our folks took lots of prisoners; more'n'll ever be heard of agin."
"What became of them?" asked the lieutenant.
"Sent 'em to Macon, double quick," was the laconic reply. "Got 'em thar in less'n half an hour."
"How did they manage it?" continued the lieutenant, in a tone that showed he understood Sam's metaphor.
"Just took 'em out in the woods and lost 'em," he replied, in his jerky, laconic way. "Ever heerd o' losin' men, lady?" he added, turning to me, with an air of grim waggery that made my flesh creep — for after all, even Yankees are human beings, though they don't always behave like it.
"Yes," I said, "I had heard of it, but thought it a horrible thing."
"I don't b'lieve in losin' 'em, neither, as a gener'l thing," he went on. "I don't think it's right principul, and I wouldn't lose one myself, but when I see what they have done to these people round here, I can't blame 'em for losin' every devil of 'em they kin git their hands on."
"What was the process of losing?" asked the captain. "Did they manage the business with fire-arms?"
"Sometimes, when they was in a hurry," Mr. Weller explained, with that horrible, grim irony of his, "the guns would go off an' shoot 'em, in spite of all that our folks could do. But most giner'ly they took the grapevine road in the fust patch of woods they come to, an' soon as ever they got sight of a tree with a grape vine on it, it's cur'ous how skeered their hosses would git. You couldn't keep 'em from runnin' away, no matter what you done, an' they never run fur before their heads was caught in a grape vine and they would stand thar, dancin' on nothin' till they died. Did you ever hear of anybody dancin' on nothin' before, lady?" — turning to me.
I said he ought to be ashamed to tell it; even a Yankee was entitled to protection when a prisoner of war.
"But these fellows wasn't regular prisoners of war, lady," said the sick soldier; "they were thieves and houseburners," — and I couldn't but feel there was something in that view of it.1
About three miles from Sparta we struck the "Burnt Country," as it is well named by the natives, and then I could better understand the wrath and desperation of these poor people. I almost felt as if I should like to hang a Yankee myself. There was hardly a fence left standing all the way from Sparta to Gordon. The fields were trampled down and the road was lined with carcasses of horses, hogs, and cattle that the invaders, unable either to consume or to carry away with them, had wantonly shot down to starve out the people and prevent them from making their crops. The stench in some places was unbearable; every few hundred yards we had to hold our noses or stop them with the cologne Mrs. Elzey had given us, and it proved a great boon. The dwellings that were standing all showed signs of pillage, and on every plantation we saw the charred remains of the gin-house and packing-screw, while here and there, lone chimney-stacks, "Sherman's Sentinels," told of homes laid in ashes. The infamous wretches! I couldn't wonder now that these poor people should want to put a rope round the neck of every red-handed "devil of them" they could lay their hands on. Hay ricks and fodder stacks were demolished, corn cribs were empty, and every bale of cotton that could be found was burnt by the savages. I saw no grain of any sort, except little patches they had spilled when feeding their horses and which there was not even a chicken left in the country to eat. A bag of oats might have lain anywhere along the road without danger from the beasts of the field, though I cannot say it would have been safe from the assaults of hungry man. Crowds of soldiers were tramping over the road in both directions; it was like traveling through the streets of a populous town all day. They were mostly on foot, and I saw numbers seated on the roadside greedily eating raw turnips, meat skins, parched corn — anything they could find, even picking up the loose grains that Sherman's horses had left. I felt tempted to stop and empty the contents of our provision baskets into their laps, but the dreadful accounts that were given of the state of the country before us, made prudence get the better of our generosity.
The roads themselves were in a better condition than might have been expected, and we traveled at a pretty fair rate, our four mules being strong and in good working order. When we had made about half the distance to Milledgeville it began to rain, so the gentlemen cut down saplings which they fitted in the form of bows across the body of the wagon, and stretching the lieutenant's army blanket over it, made a very effectual shelter. Our next halt was near a dilapidated old house where there was a fine well of water. The Yankees had left it, I suppose, because they couldn't carry it away. Here we came up with a wagon on which were mounted some of the people we had seen on the cars the day before. They stopped to exchange experiences, offered us a toddy, and brought us water in a beautiful calabash gourd with a handle full three feet long. We admired it so much that one of them laughingly proposed to "capture" it for us, but we told them we didn't care to imitate Sherman's manners. A mile or two further on we were hailed by a queer-looking object sitting on a log in the corner of a half-burnt fence. It was wrapped up in a big white blanket that left nothing else visible except a round, red face and a huge pair of feet. Before anybody could decide whether the apparition was a ghost from the lower regions or an escaped lunatic from the state asylum in his nightgown, Sam Weller jumped up, exclaiming:
"Galvanized, galvanized! Stop, driver, a galvanized Yankee!" 2
As soon as Uncle Grief had brought his mules to a halt, the strange figure shuffled up to the side of the wagon and began to plead piteously, in broken Dutch,