Sea-gift

He made an effort to spring up as he uttered the last word, but his strength failed, and he fell across my lap, dead. The bravest spirit that ever led a charge was marching through the pearly gates!

I had him buried this morning before the battle, and marked the grave, so it may be easily found. You must go down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s and tell them how he died.

I close now to visit Ben, who is suffering with a broken arm. Love to mother, and a kiss to my dear boy.

May God bless and preserve you all.

Yours devotedly, John.**********—Our Country Home, Oct., 1864.

My Dear Boy:

Though it has been nearly three months since your sainted father’s death, this is the first time I have felt strong enough to rouse myself from my tears and grief, that I may write to you. My heart is broken, and I have nothing now to live for. I can only pray God for patience to wait His summons. But, my dear child, only those who are bereaved know how hard it is to say “Thy will be done!”

Sometimes I feel, so full of deep despair, as I look to the dark, lonely life before me, that I cannot help murmuring; and did I not know, from all our past, that God does all in love and infinite wisdom, He would seem now my bitterest enemy. O Christ! pardon the feeble rebellion of my burdened soul!

Dear Carlotta is as kind and tender as she can be, and does all she can to comfort and cheer me, but there are times when I feel that I shall die, when I think of your poor father’s languishing on his coarse prison bed, with no comforts near, and only his enemies to smooth his pillow and attend to his wants. I know how he longed for me at his bedside, and how his dying thoughts came back to his dear old home. O John! it almost kills me to think I shall never see him again, never hear his voice calling “Mary” any more.

I hope and pray now for the close of the war, that I may go with you to Elmira and bring home his dear remains to our quiet graveyard – where mine, I trust, will soon rest beside them.

But I must not fill my whole letter with sadness. Dear little Johnnie is running all about now, and lisps our names very sweetly. Carlotta is holding him on her knee near me as I write, and he says, “Tiss papa for me.”

You see from the date of our letter that we are up at the plantation. We brought most of our valuables up with us, and left the house in charge of Miss Wiggs, our housekeeper, who has taken her brother, the cripple, to stay with her, and says she is not afraid of the Yankees. All our servants left us except Horace and Hannah, who are touchingly faithful in their devotion. The negroes up here are too far from Federal influence to be much demoralized, and Mr. Bemby is gathering a very fine crop. Since we left Wilmington we have heard some very sad news about Lulie Mayland. Frank Paning, you know, has been in Wilmington for more than a year, in some position that exempted him from service. He and Lulie have been very intimate, and every one expected that they would soon be married. Lulie made a cloister of her home, and would see no one but Frank, who almost lived under her roof. Of late, dark rumors began to be whispered about them, but no one believed their slanderous import. At last, however, her shame could be no longer concealed, and your once bright, guileless little playmate is ruined for ever. Frank has fled, no one knows whither, though many believe he has gone to the Federal lines, which is, I think, probable. It is but the result of Frank’s long studied designs of evil and Lulie’s too implicit trust and confidence.

The blow has almost killed Dr. Mayland, whose health is very feeble. Carlotta has written to the poor girl, begging her to come up here to us, as her ruin will be less marked in this retired neighborhood. Lulie’s mother was my dearest friend, and I would love and protect her child for her sake.

Alas! all the news we hear now is sad and gloomy. Fort Fisher must soon fall and Wilmington be evacuated; and I fear that even our home here will not be safe from the invasion of the enemy. But we are in the hands of the Lord. May He deliver our struggling country!

Write to us often, my dear boy, for you can never know what a comfort are your letters to your mother’s sorrowing heart. May God enfold you with His arms of mercy! is her earnest prayer.

**********—Headquarters, Army of Va.,February 28, 1865. }

My Dear Smith: Your application for transfer to the Army of South Carolina has just been returned to us from the Department at Richmond, approved, and I take pleasure in enclosing it to you, together with transportation for yourself, servant and horse. We regret to give you up, but hope that you and Bemby may render as signal service to General Johnston as you have to General Early.

I remain, very truly yours,Amos Halstead,Acting Ass’t Adj’t Gen’lMajor John Smith,of Gen. Early’s staff.

As explanatory of this letter, I would state that, when our regiment first reached the Army of Virginia, it was placed in the old “Stonewall” brigade. Ben soon began to attract the attention not only of the officers, but of General Jackson himself, for his daring bravery in battle, but chiefly for his skill in conducting foraging and scouting expeditions. So successful was he in stealing through the enemy’s lines and gaining reliable information in regard to their strength and position, that General Jackson honored him with a special appointment for his own service. Soon after this a friend of father’s, in high position, secured for me a place on Jackson’s staff, and Ben and I were thus thrown together in many a field of danger and hair-breadth escape. After Ned’s death, at Gettysburg, and father’s capture and subsequent death in prison, I became more than ever attached to Ben, and we were fortunate in not being separated till near the close of the war. When Jackson fell at Chancellorsville we were both transferred to Ewell’s command, and at his death to Early’s – Ben receiving a commission as chief of scouts, while I was appointed aide-de-camp with the rank of major. After that memorable valley campaign, and when we had joined General Lee in the trenches around Petersburg, Ben was sent to General Beauregard, in South Carolina, to act as scout and spy; and as I felt lonely without him, and General Early had little need for staff officers in the trenches, I applied for transfer, with the result indicated in the letter.

When I reached the army, Johnston had, at Beauregard’s request, been placed in command, and, with his splendid skill, was fighting Sherman at every step, yet drawing his small force farther and farther back without demoralization, and without a wagon’s loss.

CHAPTER XL.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-five! Annus iræ! Year of blood and tears, famine and oppression! God send that Time’s womb may be barren ere such another offspring shall curse our land!

Could one behold, as in a panorama, the South of ‘60 and the South of ‘65, even a devil would weep over the ruin wrought in five years.

In the one picture he would see wide-spreading fields, with waving, luxuriant crops, worked by throngs of joyous light-hearted negroes, who sing, in a resounding chorus, as they guide their sleek teams up and down the fertile furrows; he would see long villages of negro quarters, each house with its garden and patch, its pig and chickens, and its happy children playing at the door, while within some old camp-meeting hymn is mingling with the drone of the wheel and the clack of the loom; he would see premises adorned with all the appliances of wealth, stables filled with blooded stock, pastures grazed by herds of purest breed, kennels filled with well trained dogs, gardens of roses, orchards of fruit, and groves of magnificent oaks, amid which towers the stately mansion, its windows aglow with hospitality, and its porches thronged with fair faces and noble forms.

In the other he would see the broad fields lying idle and waste, the ditches overflowed, the fences broken down; no chorus sounds, no life is seen save in a distant corner of the field, where a “fourth part tenant” plows a little steer around an arid patch of corn. He would see the quarters all deserted, the children gone, the wheel still, and the loom silent, the very doors holding their wooden lips ajar to speak “desolation!” He would see dotted over the country the squalid huts of the freedmen, their children sick, and no one to secure the doctor’s pay, that he may attend; their mortgage on the crop, made to the nearest merchant, for their year’s support, consumed in midsummer by their own extravagance, and the invariable bull, scarce able to plow an hour in the day for want of food. Oh, Boston! “Hub of the Universe!” “Cradle of Freedom!” You drove a sharp trade indeed with Africa’s children when you gave them the ballot in exchange for life, and comfort, and home! He would see the mansion amid the oaks, if standing at all, standing silent and drear, the smoke only rising from one chimney, the shutters all closed, and a woman in black walking wearily up and down the gloomy hall, while down in the garden, under the willow, rests a marble slab, with the inscription: “Killed at the battle of Somewhere.”

But, as I was saying, it was the spring of ‘65.

The great army of Sherman had wound its blasting way from Atlanta to the sea. In its trail lay ashes and ruin; lone, blackened chimneys, plundered cities, and weeping women. The ever ascending smoke told its course; not the white smoke of honorable battle, but thick black volumes from burning homes, that, like the ink of a recording angel, wrote their hellish deeds upon the scroll of the sky.

Day after day our wary General fell slowly back before thrice his numbers, checking them, wherever he could, with a fight, and retreating after the fight, ere they could crush him by heavier forces. Back, still back, retreating with undaunted hearts, but alas! too few; skirmishing at Fayetteville, battling at Averasboro’, the 17th March found us not far from Goldsboro’ and near my home; but between us and that dear spot was part of Sherman’s army and the commands of Schofield and Terry, who had met, one from Newbern, the other from Wilmington, in Goldsboro’. I had not heard from Carlotta since leaving General Lee’s army, and for her and mother’s safety I dared not hope. Mr. Bemby was their only protection, and with the Yankee army in Goldsboro’, I knew that one hour would suffice for the house to be rifled and themselves insulted. The agony of my suspense was terrible; to be so near home and yet not be able to see my wife and child. My fears and anxiety almost maddened me, and I seemed to hear continually their cries for help and protection.

Ben and I had been sitting in our tent, as the day drew to a close, talking of our loved ones and thinking of some plan by which we could get to them, when he rose and said:

“It’s no use a talkin’ ‘bout it, John, I’m goin’ through the lines; I’ll be darned if I musn’t see Viny and the young ones.”

“I’ll go with you, Ben,” I said; “shall we start tonight?”

“No, siree! not ef you think much of yer head; a Yankee would kill a angel ef he caught him flying in the night.”

“It will be impossible to pass them in the day,” I said, impatient of delay.

“Lem’me take keer of that,” he said, rising; “I’m goin’ to see Gen. Johnston now and get two days’ leave of absence, and we’ll git to the old man’s to-morrow night, or the devil may take my nose to plow ashes.”

He passed out under the flap of the tent, but in a second rushed back, dragging in an old negro man.

“Look here, John,” he exclaimed, “here’s Horace, he can tell us somethin’ ‘bout our folks.”

I sprang forward to the old man, who stood grinning in the door, and grasped his arm.

“Horace, for God’s sake, tell me about Carlotta and mother! are they safe?”

“Well, Marse John,” said Horace, with great deliberation, looking at me with love and pride, “Sho nough, dis is you, but you is changed a sight sence I seen you; you’s puttier’n ever.”

But I was in no mood for empty compliments, and led him in the tent almost rudely, as I pointed to a stool, and said:

“Sit down, Horace, and don’t speak another word about any subject till you have told me something of home.”

He shook his head slowly two or three times as he replied:

“U’m – m! dere’s news enough, Marse John, and bad at that.”

“Have the Yankees been at our house yet?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, I should say they has, but they won’t come again – not to the house.”

“Why?” I asked, leaning forward eagerly, “What will prevent them?”

“Dere ‘aint no house for ’em to come to, it’s done burnt clean to de groun’.”

“Burnt down!” exclaimed Ben and I, in one breath.

“That it is; but I’m mighty forgetful, here’s a letter from Miss C’lotta.”

He took off his old torn hat, and lifting up the lining, took out the back of an envelope, soiled and crumpled, and handed it to me. I snatched it eagerly and read —

“Dear John:

I write on this little scrap hastily, to let you hear something from us. Uncle Horace, who has alone been faithful, promises to get it to you, if he can. The Yankees have taken every thing from us, and burned the house. Darling mother, in escaping, was struck on the head by a piece of falling timber, and is in a most critical condition. My precious boy and myself are safe. We are now at Mr. Bemby’s, whose house escaped, though his supplies did not, and we have to depend on his and Uncle Horace’s ingenuity for our daily support. I feel I shall almost go mad with our trouble. God help me to bear it, and forgive my wild wicked thoughts! I fear you will be insane with fury when I tell you that Frank Paning was with the soldiers, piloting them around, and was very insulting to me. I cannot write more.

Carlotta.”

“May God help me to be revenged!” I shouted, crushing the letter in my hand, as I sprang to my feet.

Ben rushed to my side, and, clasping our hands, we held our revolvers above our heads, and registered a fearful oath of vengeance or death. Then my feelings quieted down enough for me to turn to Horace, who was looking at us with a frightened gaze.

“Horace, may Heaven bless you as you deserve. Here is the only reward I can make you now; take it all,” I said, drawing a large roll of Confederate money from my belt.

“No, sir!” said the old man, proudly, “I don’t want nothin’ for taking keer of Mistis and Miss C’lotta; ‘sides, that ain’t no ‘count ‘mongst dem blue coat debbels in Goldsboro’.”

“When did you leave home?” asked Ben, as I put back my currency, rather crestfallen at Horace’s very sensible reason for refusing it.

“Yistiddy mornin’. I been in camp all to-day trying to find you and Marse John, but dere’s so many solgers comin’ and gwine I was in a pyo maze like.”

“Horace, tell me all those scoundrels did,” I said, reading over the letter again. “Don’t leave out anything.”

“Well, you see, Marse John,” he said, taking off his hat and laying it on the ground, while he wiped his forehead with a very dingy red handkerchief, “we hears de Yankees is comin’ up from Newb’n, and Mistis axes me to hide de silver things, an’ I like a fool gets Reuben to help me, ‘cause Reuben swears he love Mistis better’n all de Yankees in de world. That’s how come de silver gone, in the fust place. Den we hears they is in Goldsboro’, and next morning, by sun up, a whole squad comes gallopin’ up to the house, and bust de crib door open, and gets out de corn. I was standin’ by, and says: ‘Dere ain’t much corn dere, ‘cause Wheeler’s folks got some yistiddy;’ and they say, ‘What Wheeler’s folks?’ skeered like. I say: ‘Some folks on horses that come from todes Fa’teville, and stopped all night down in dem woods yonder.’ Den dey jumped on dere horses ‘thout puttin’ ary foot in de stirrup, an’ lumbers down de road ‘thout techin de corn.”

“But tell me about the house, Horace,” I exclaimed impatiently. “I don’t care about the crib and Wheeler’s men.”

“I’m a gittin to it, Marse John. You see mistis was poorly, and was stayin’ in bed, and every one de niggers lef’, an’ I had to cook, and tote water, an’ do every thing ‘bout de house; an’ that day, ‘bout dinner time, I see a dozen blue coats come dustin’ down de road. An’ ‘fore I c’d git to de house dey done kicked de door open, and was all over de rooms; and de first man I see was Frank Paning, and he had on a blue newniform, too. He knowed me, and looked sorter mean, but put on like he never been dere b’fore. They was all rippin’ and cussin’ all over de house, and Miss C’lotta she come and stood in mistis’ room door, and her eyes was like coals er fire; but they never noticed her, only Paning say ‘gim me de keys, my beauty!’”

“The villain!” I muttered, grinding my nails into my flesh.

“At last one on ’em foun’ de key basket, and den dey begun in earness. They took out all dere was to eat in de pantry, and drunk up and spilt all de wine; they eat some of the preserves, and bust the glass jars on de floor; they kicked open de ole clock, and split the pianner led wid one er de weights. Then dey swore they was gwine to have some silver an’ gold, or burn up de house; and they went into mistis’ room, where she was sick in de bed, and cussed her, and asked her where de silver was. Mistis, nor Miss C’lotta neither, never said a word, an’ one great big fellow, with cross eyes, come up to de bed and say: ‘Look here, ole gal! that won’t do; you got to hustle out er them bed close; you’s silver sick, I reckon.’ And mistis sees Frank Paning then, and says: ‘Mr. Paning, for de sake of de pass pertect me!’ an’ Paning says, ‘I don’t know you; git up!’ and two on ’em ketches mistis by de arm and jerks her outen de bed on de floor, and mistis faints like, while Miss C’lotta holds her head in her arms and cries. De Yankees rips up de bed and scatters de feathers all over de room, and when they find nothin’, one on ’em say, ‘Less leave; and Paning steps up to Miss C’lotta and says: ‘Ef I can’t git silver I’ll take a kiss,’ and smacks her right on de cheek; and then Miss C’lotta was mad for true. She jumped up quicker’n lightning and jerks a little bit er blue pistol outen her pocket, an’ ‘fore Paning could git away bang! went de little pistol, and Paning clap’d his hand to his shoulder and says, ‘Damnation! the fool has shot me,’ an’ he pulls out his sode and starts todes her, and Miss C’lotta was a standin’ lookin’ straight at him with de little pistol levelled; and a tall man, that hadn’t said much, kotch Paning by de arm, and say, ‘That’s a woman; let her ‘lone,’ and den dey all leaves. Then Miss C’lotta told me to run and fetch some water, and when I fotch the piggin I seed that de house was on fire, and de room was a fillin’ with smoke. Miss C’lotta tuk some shawls and ropped mistis up, and tole me to help tote her out, for de fire was all over de house. And then we starts out, mistis tryin’ to walk, an’ little Johnny a holden on to Miss C’lotta and cryin’, and jus’ as we gits to de front door a piece of scantlin’ fell outen de top of de porch and hits mistis plump on de head, and she fell – .”

“Hush, Horace, for the love of God, hush!” I groaned, as I staggered to my cot in the corner. “Do not tell me any more. Try to make your way back to Mr. Bemby’s, and tell Carlotta we are going to make the attempt to get to her. Ben, give him something to eat, please, and make your arrangements for our trip.”

I turned over on my face, and lay in a kind of stupor. The horrors of Horace’s narration seemed to paralyze all faculties of mind and body, and while Ben was off perfecting his arrangements, I lay through most of the night without moving, my ears ringing with Carlotta’s cries of anguish, and my eyes scorching with the light of my burning home.

About daybreak I awoke from a fitful slumber, full of horrid dreams, to find Ben standing near me with a large bundle on his arm, and a covered basket in his hand. “Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet, “this tame inaction will kill me. I must start now; if you will not go with me, Ben, I must go alone.”

Ben put his bundles down with great deliberation, as he replied:

“John, you know I’d go to Satan’s summer house with you if you wan’t goin’ to live there, but there is such a thing as bein’ in too much hurry. Less get somethin’ to eat first, for we ain’t goin’ to start till after sun up, and we can’t stop to cook dinners. What we’ve got to do ain’t like goin’ to preachin’ with your sweetheart, no how.”

I saw that he knew best, and let him have his own way.

“I have been to Gen. Johnston,” he said, drawing some papers from his pocket, “and got two days leave of absence; here’s his pass through our pickets. Now get your writing tricks and fill up this one as I say.”

He drew from among his papers a regular Federal pass, already printed, with only the date and name to fill up, and gave it to me, telling me to write it for Mrs. Sarah Jenkins and her son. It seemed to me a foolish waste of time, but I did as directed, and signed it as all adjutants do, with such a flourish and complicated A. A. G. that Champollion would have been puzzled to decipher it.

“And now,” said Ben, taking the two passes, “string up your nerves while I get breakfast, and then we’ll dress for the frolic.”

I ate some of the hard tack and drank the cup of coffee which he kindly brought me, and told him I was ready.

“Hold on yit,” he said, as he finished his cup, “the sun’s jes’ gittin’ up. We must change our clothes – here, you put on these, as you ain’t as tall as I am,” and he untied his bundle, and took out an old faded calico dress, a white cap and a large fly bonnet.

“You see,” he said, as he spread out the articles, “we are bound to rig up outlandish, for we can’t help seeing some of the Yanks. Here’s mine,” and he produced an old home-spun suit and a wide-brim wool hat. I now saw the design of his disguises, and giving his hand a warm grasp for his sympathy and assistance, entered into his scheme and began to make ready.

“I can tell you,” said Ben, talking while I was shaving off my beard, “I had a hard time gittin’ these traps. I rode about ten mile last night, and had to steal the bonnet at that, though I stuck a five dollar Confed. on the fence where I grabbed it.”

After half an hour’s preparation I stood as complete an old woman, with specs and muffled chin, as ever sold eggs or peddled cakes. Ben was his old self again, and looked as essentially rustic as when he carried us fishing when we were boys.

“Now we are ready,” said Ben, when we were fully disguised. “Less go; don’t mind what our boys holler at you, it’ll help fool the Yankees better.”

Just outside the tent door were two sorry looking horses, with rope bridles, and a side saddle on one of them; beside them on the ground was a hamper basket, with a cloth tied over it, and another smaller basket full of eggs.

In reply to my regret that our horses looked so poor, Ben said that our own were too good, that the Yankees would dismount us, and that these would be no temptation.

I got up to my seat, and after some instructions from Ben as to how I must hold my basket and how to hide my feet, we started off.

We took a circuitous route around Goldsboro’, and striking the Neuse, kept down the bank of the river ‘till we were near our homes. So well was Ben acquainted with every path through the woods that we did not come in sight of a Yankee during the day, ‘till, just before sunset, we came into the road leading to our house, at its junction with the County road; and here we found three or four soldiers apparently on picket duty. We rode carelessly up and, on being halted, presented our passes, which were examined by one of the men, with the bars of a corporal on his arm.

“All right, you can pass,” he said, returning the papers to Ben, while I sat with my face averted and my shoulders bent as if I was very decrepit. We had hardly started from the group when one of them called out —

“Stop, old lady, let us see what you have in your basket.” Knowing that the closeness of interview required by bargaining for eggs would lead to our detection, I could not repress a tremor of apprehension; but Ben instantly relieved my embarrassment by kicking my horse into a trot, and saying in a loud tone:

“Go ‘long, mammy; don’t you know the man with stars on shoulder, what give us the pass, tole us not to talk to folks that was standin’ guard?”

None of the soldiers said anything more to us and we rode on without molestation. We had scarcely gone a mile when we came to the large gate of our grove. It was standing open and strange cattle were browsing under the oaks. We looked down the long avenue, and instead of the tall white house, with its broad porch and door, distant woods, and the red evening sky beyond, were all that caught the eye. We galloped hurriedly down the avenue, and dismounted at the yard palings, a few steps in front of the ruins. Where the house had been was now a heap of ashes, that rose in little clouds as the March winds blew over them. The tall, silent chimneys stood with their mouth-like fireplaces whispering to each other of ruin and desolation, across the smouldering pile. The old cedar near the house, under whose branches I had wept, as a boy, over Lulie’s cruelty, was withered and blackened, and even the palings on which we leaned were charred to coal. A broad rock chimney showed where the kitchen had been; and the well house and dairy, which were still standing, were scorched and blackened with the heat. There was no sign of life on the premises; all was silent and still, the stables were open and the horses gone, the negro houses all deserted, and not even a dog lurked around the lot.