Life in Dixie during the War, 1861-1862-1863-1864-1865

CHAPTER XXVI.

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, her only 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, and clothes 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 to appease 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 sat near 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 my sister, 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?”

CHAPTER XXVII.

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 arms around 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 to

her

 old

white folks

 being 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 shoes and 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 house and 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 route

 to Atlanta, their future home, and even a synopsis of the subsequent achievements of that woman and her unlettered mother would be suggestive of Munchausen.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

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 here at 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. Ammi Williams, 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-away uniforms, 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 confined her 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

4

  This gentleman, who married sweet Maggie Morgan, (the sister of Dewitt and Billy), has now b