Dixie After the War
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Along with this corn-bread story, I recall how Dr. Minnegerode, Protestant, and Bishop Magill, Catholic, used to meet each other on the street, and the one would say: “Doctor, lend me a dollar for a sick Yankee.” And the other: “Bishop, I was about to ask you for a dollar for a sick Yankee.” And how Annie E. Johns, of North Carolina, said she had seen Confederate soldiers take provisions from their own haversacks and give them to Federal prisoners en route to Salisbury. As matron, she served in hospitals for the sick and wounded of both armies. She said: “When I was in a hospital for Federals, I felt as if these men would defend me as promptly as our own.”
In spite of the pillage, vandalism and violence they suffered, Southern women were not so biassed as to think that the gentle and brave could be found only among the wearers of the gray. Even in Sherman’s Army were the gentle and brave upon whom fell obloquy due the “bummers” only. I have heard many stories like that of the boyish guard who, tramping on his beat around a house he was detailed to protect, asked of a young mother: “Why does your baby cry so?” She lifted her pale face, saying: “My baby is hungry. I have had no food – and so – I have no nourishment for him.” Tears sprang into his eyes, and he said: “I will be relieved soon; I will draw my rations and bring them to you.” He brought her his hands full of all good things he could find – sugar, tea, and coffee. And like that of two young Philadelphians who left grateful hearts behind them along the line of Sherman’s march because they made a business of seeing how many women and children they could relieve and protect. In Columbia, during the burning, men in blue sought to stay ravages wrought by other men in blue. I hate to say hard things of men in blue, and I must say all the good things I can; because many were unworthy to wear the blue, many who were worthy have carried reproach.
On that morning of the occupation, our women sat behind closed windows, unable to consider the new path stretching before them. The way seemed to end at a wall. Could they have looked over and seen what lay ahead, they would have lost what little heart of hope they had; could vision have extended far enough, they might have won it back; they would have beheld some things unbelievable. For instance, they would have seen the little boy who played with the buttons and tassels, grown to manhood and wearing the uniform of an officer of the United States; they would have seen Southern men walking the streets of Richmond and other Southern cities with “U. S. A.” on their haversacks; and Southern men and Northern men fighting side by side in Cuba and the Philippines, and answering alike to the name, “Yankees.”
On the day of the occupation, Miss Mason and Mrs. Rhett went out to meet General Weitzel and stated that Mrs. Lee was an invalid, unable to walk, and that her house, like that of General Chilton and others, was in danger of fire. “What!” he exclaimed, “Mrs. Lee in danger? General Fitz Lee’s mother, who nursed me so tenderly when I was sick at West Point! What can I do for her? Command me!” “We mean Mrs. Robert E. Lee,” they said. “We want ambulances to move Mrs. Lee and other invalids and children to places of safety.” Using his knee as a writing-table, he wrote an order for five ambulances; and the ladies rode off. Miss Emily’s driver became suddenly and mysteriously tipsy and she had to put an arm around him and back up the vehicle herself to General Chilton’s door, where his children, her nieces, were waiting, their dollies close clasped.
“Come along, Virginia aristocracy!” hiccoughed the befuddled Jehu. “I won’t bite you! Come along, Virginia aristocracy!”
A passing officer came to the rescue, and the party were soon safely housed in the beautiful Rutherford home.
The Federals filled Libby Prison with Confederates, many of whom were paroled prisoners found in the city. Distressed women surrounded the prison, begging to know if loved ones were there; others plead to take food inside. Some called, while watching windows: “Let down your tin cup and I will put something in it.” Others cried: “Is my husband in there? O, William, answer me if you are!” “Is my son, Johnny, here?” “O, please somebody tell me if my boy is in the prison!” Miss Emily passed quietly through the crowd, her hospital reputation securing admission to the prison; she was able to render much relief to those within, and to subdue the anxiety of those without.
“Heigho, Johnny Reb! in there now where we used to be!” yelled one Yankee complacently. “Been in there myself. D – d sorry for you, Johnnies!” called up another.
A serio-comic incident of the grim period reveals the small boy in an attitude different from that of him who was dandled on the Federal knee. Some tiny lads mounted guard on the steps of a house opposite Military Headquarters, and, being intensely “rebel” and having no other means of expressing defiance to invaders, made faces at the distinguished occupants of the establishment across the way. General Patrick, Provost-Marshal General, sent a courteously worded note to their father, calling his attention to these juvenile demonstrations. He explained that while he was not personally disturbed by the exhibition, members of his staff were, and that the children might get into trouble. The proper guardians of the wee insurgents, acting upon this information, their first of the battery unlimbered on their door-step, saw that the artillery was retired in good order, and peace and normal countenances reigned over the scene of the late engagements.
I open a desultory diary Matoaca kept, and read:
“If the United States flag were my flag – if I loved it – I would not try to make people pass under it who do not want to. I would not let them. It is natural that we should go out of our way to avoid walking under it, a banner that has brought us so much pain and woe and want – that has desolated our whole land.
“Some Yankees stretched a flag on a cord from tree to tree across the way our children had to come into Richmond. The children saw it and cried out; and the driver was instructed to go another way. A Federal soldier standing near – a guard, sentinel or picket – ordered the driver to turn back and drive under that flag. He obeyed, and the children were weeping and wailing as the carriage rolled under it.”
In Raymond, Mississippi, negro troops strung a flag across the street and drove the white children under it. In Atlanta, two society belles were arrested because they made a detour rather than walk under the flag. Such desecration of the symbol of liberty and union was committed in many places by those in power.
The Union flag is my flag and I love it, and, therefore, I trust that no one may ever again pass under it weeping. Those little children were not traitors. They were simply human. If in the sixties situations had been reversed, and the people of New York, Boston and Chicago had seen the Union flag flying over guns that shelled these cities, their children would have passed under it weeping and wailing. Perhaps, too, some would have sat on doorsteps and “unbeknownst” to their elders have made faces at commanding generals across the way; while others climbing upon the enemy’s knees would have played with gold tassels and brass buttons.
Our newspapers, with the exception of the “Whig” and the “Sentinel,” shared in the general wreckage. A Northern gentleman brought out a tiny edition of the former in which appeared two military orders promulgating the policy General Weitzel intended to pursue. One paragraph read: “The people of Richmond are assured that we come to restore to them the blessings of peace and prosperity under the flag of the Union.”
General Shepley, Military Governor by Weitzel’s appointment, repeated this in substance, adding: “The soldiers of the command will abstain from any offensive or insulting words or gestures towards the citizens.” With less tact and generosity, he proceeded: “The Armies of the Rebellion having abandoned their efforts to enslave the people of Virginia, have endeavoured to destroy by fire their Capital… The first duty of the Army of the Union will be to save the city doomed to destruction by the Armies of the Rebellion.” That fling at our devoted army would have served as a clarion call to us – had any been needed – to remember the absent.
“It will be a blunder in us not to overlook that blunder of General Shepley’s,” urged Uncle Randolph.1 “The important point is that the policy of conciliation is to be pursued.” With the “Whig” in his hand, Uncle Randolph told Matoaca that the Thursday before Virginia seceded a procession of prominent Virginians marched up Franklin Street, carrying the flag of the Union and singing “Columbia,” and that he was with them.
The family questioned if his mind were wandering, when he went on: “The breach can be healed – in spite of the bloodshed – if only the Government will pursue the right course now. Both sides are tired of hating and being hated, killing and being killed – this war between brothers – if Weitzel’s orders reflect the mind of Lincoln and Grant – and they must – all may be well – before so very long.”
These were the men of the Union Army who saved Richmond: The First Brigade, Third Division (Deven’s Division), Twenty-fourth Army Corps, Army of the James, Brevet-Brigadier-General Edward H. Ripley commanding. This brigade was composed of the Eleventh Connecticut, Thirteenth New Hampshire, Nineteenth Wisconsin, Eighty-first New York, Ninety-eighth New York, One Hundredth and Thirty-ninth New York, Convalescent detachment from the second and third divisions of Sheridan’s reinforcements.
“This Brigade led the column in the formal entry, and at the City Hall halted while I reported to Major-General Weitzel,” says General Ripley. “General Weitzel had taken up his position on the platform of the high steps at the east front of the Confederate Capitol, and there, looking down into a gigantic crater of fire, suffocated and blinded with the vast volumes of smoke and cinders which rolled up over and enveloped us, he assigned me and my brigade to the apparently hopeless task of stopping the conflagration, and suppressing the mob of stragglers, released criminals, and negroes, who had far advanced in pillaging the city. He had no suggestions to make, no orders to give, except to strain every nerve to save the city, crowded as it was with women and children, and the sick and wounded of the Army of Northern Virginia.
“After requesting Major-General Weitzel to have all the other troops marched out of the city, I took the Hon. Joseph Mayo, then Mayor of Richmond, with me to the City Hall, where I established my headquarters. With the help of the city officials, I distributed my regiment quickly in different sections. The danger to the troops engaged in this terrific fire-fighting was infinitely enhanced by the vast quantities of powder and shells stored in the section burning. Into this sea of fire, with no less courage and self-devotion than as though fighting for their own firesides and families, stripped and plunged the brave men of the First Brigade.
“Meanwhile, detachments scoured the city, warning every one from the streets to their houses… Every one carrying plunder was arrested… The ladies of Richmond thronged my headquarters, imploring protection. They were sent to their homes under the escort of guards, who were afterwards posted in the center house of each block, and made responsible for the safety of the neighborhood… Many painful cases of destitution were brought to light by the presence of these safeguards in private houses, and the soldiers divided rations with their temporary wards, in many cases, until a general system of relief was organised.”2
THE COMING OF LINCOLNCHAPTER IV
The Coming of Lincoln
The South did not know that she had a friend in Abraham Lincoln, and the announcement of his presence in Richmond was not calculated to give comfort or assurance.
“Abraham Lincoln came unheralded. No bells rang, no guns boomed in salute. He held no levee. There was no formal jubilee. He must have been heartless as Nero to have chosen that moment for a festival of triumph. He was not heartless.” So a citizen of Richmond, who was a boy at the time, and out doors and everywhere, seeing everything, remembers the coming of Lincoln.
One of the women who sat behind closed windows says: “If there was any kind of rejoicing, it must have been of a very somber kind; the sounds of it did not reach me.” Another who looked through her shutters, said: “I saw him in a carriage, the horses galloping through the streets at a break-neck speed, his escort clearing the way. The negroes had to be cleared out of the way, they impeded his progress so.” He was in Richmond April 4 and 5, and visited the Davis Mansion, the Capitol, Libby Prison, Castle Thunder and other places.
His coming was as simple, business-like, and unpretentious as the man himself. Anybody who happened to be in the neighbourhood on the afternoon of April 4, might have seen a boat manned by ten or twelve sailors pull ashore at a landing above Rockett’s, and a tall, lank man step forth, “leading a little boy.” By resemblance to pictures that had been scattered broadcast, this man could have been easily recognized as Abraham Lincoln. The little boy was Tad, his son. Major Penrose, who commanded the escort, says Tad was not with the President; Admiral Porter, General Shepley and others say he was.
Accompanied by Admiral Porter and several other officers and escorted by ten sailors, President Lincoln, “holding Tad’s hand,” walked through the city, which was in part a waste of ashes, and the smoke of whose burning buildings was still ascending. From remains of smouldering bridges, from wreckage of gunboats, from Manchester on the other side of the James, and from the city’s streets smoke rose as from a sacrifice to greet the President.
A Northern newspaper man (who related this story of himself) recognizing that it was his business to make news as well as dispense it, saw some negroes at work near the landing where an officer was having débris removed, and other negroes idling. He said to this one and to that: “Do you know that man?” pointing to the tall, lank man who had just stepped ashore.
“Who is dat man, marster?”
“Call no man marster. That man set you free. That is Abraham Lincoln. Now is your time to shout. Can’t you sing, ‘God bless you, Father Abraham!’”
That started the ball rolling. The news spread like wild-fire. Mercurial blacks, already excited to fever-heat, collected about Mr. Lincoln, impeding his progress, kneeling to him, hailing him as “Saviour!” and “My Jesus!” They sang, shouted, danced. One woman jumped up and down, shrieking: “I’m free! I’m free! I’m free till I’m fool!” Some went into the regular Voodoo ecstasy, leaping, whirling, stamping, until their clothes were half torn off. Mr. Lincoln made a speech, in which he said:
“My poor friends, you are free – free as air. But you must try to deserve this priceless boon. Let the world see that you merit it by your good works. Don’t let your joy carry you into excesses. Obey God’s commandments and thank Him for giving you liberty, for to Him you owe all things. There, now, let me pass on. I have little time here and much to do. I want to go to the Capitol. Let me pass on.”
Henry J. Raymond speaks of the President as taking his hat off and bowing to an old negro man who knelt and kissed his hand, and adds: “That bow upset the forms, laws and customs of centuries; it was a death-shock to chivalry, a mortal wound to caste. Recognize a nigger? Faugh!” Which proves that Mr. Raymond did not know or wilfully misrepresented a people who could not make reply. Northern visitors to the South may yet see refutation in old sections where new ways have not corrupted ancient courtesy, and where whites and blacks interchange cordial and respectful salutations, though they may be perfect strangers to each other, when passing on the road. If they are not strangers, greeting is usually more than respectful and cordial; it is full of neighbourly and affectionate interest in each other and each other’s folks.
The memories of the living, even of Federal officers near President Lincoln, bear varied versions of his visit. General Shepley relates that he was greatly surprised when he saw the crowd in the middle of the street, President Lincoln and little Tad leading, and that Mr. Lincoln called out:
“Hullo, General! Is that you? I’m walking around looking for Military Headquarters.”
General Shepley conducted him to our White House, where President Lincoln wearily sank into a chair, which happened to be that President Davis was wont to occupy while writing his letters, a task suffering frequent interruption from some one or other of his children, who had a way of stealing in upon him at any and all times to claim a caress.
Upon Mr. Lincoln’s arrival, or possibly in advance, when it was understood that he would come up from City Point, there was discussion among our citizens as to how he should be received – that is, so far as our attitude toward him was concerned. There were several ways of looking at the problem. Our armies were still in the field, and all sorts of rumors were afloat, some accrediting them with victories.
A called meeting was held under the leadership of Judge Campbell and Judge Thomas, who, later, with General Joseph Anderson and others, waited on Mr. Lincoln, to whom they made peace propositions involving disbandment of our armies; withdrawal of our soldiers from the field, and reëstablishment of state governments under the Union, Virginia inaugurating this course by example and influence.
Mr. Lincoln had said in proclamation, the Southern States “can have peace any time by simply laying down their arms and submitting to the authority of the Union.” It was inconceivable to many how we could ever want to be in the Union again. But wise ones said: “Our position is to be that of conquered provinces voiceless in the administration of our own affairs, or of States with some power, at least, of self-government.” Then, there was the dread spectre of confiscation, proscription, the scaffold.
Judge Campbell and Judge Thomas reported: “The movement for the restoration of the Union is highly gratifying to Mr. Lincoln; he will give it full sympathy and coöperation.”
“You people will all come back now,” Mr. Lincoln had said to Judge Thomas, “and we shall have old Virginia home again.”
Many had small faith in these professions of amity, and said so. “Lincoln is the man who called out the troops and precipitated war,” was bitterly objected, “and we do not forget Hampton Roads.”
A few built hopes on belief that Mr. Lincoln had long been eager to harmonize the sections. Leader of these was Judge John A. Campbell, ex-Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, and ex-Assistant Secretary of War of the expiring Confederacy. He had served with Mr. Hunter and Mr. Stephens on the Hampton Roads Peace Commission, knew Mr. Lincoln well, had high regard for him and faith in his earnest desire for genuine reconciliation between North and South. When the Confederate Government left the city, he remained, meaning to try to make peace, Mr. Davis, it is said, knowing his purpose and consenting, but having no hope of its success.
Only the Christmas before, when peace sentiments that led to the Hampton Roads Conference were in the air, striking illustrations in Northern journals reflected Northern sentiment. One big cartoon of a Christmas dinner in the Capitol at Washington, revealed Mr. Lincoln holding wide the doors, and the seceded States returning to the family love feast. Olive branches, the “Prodigal’s Return,” and nice little mottoes like “Come Home, Our Erring Sisters, Come!” were neatly displayed around the margin. Fatted calves were not to be despised by a starving people; but the less said about the pious influences of the “Prodigal’s Return” the better. That Hampton Roads Conference (February, 1865) has always been a sore spot. In spite of the commissioners’ statements that Mr. Lincoln’s only terms were “unconditional surrender,” many people blamed Mr. Davis for the failure of the peace movement; others said he was pusillanimous and a traitor for sanctioning overtures that had to be made, by Lincoln’s requirements, “informally,” and, as it were, by stealth.
“We must forget dead issues,” our pacificators urged. “We have to face the present. The stand Mr. Lincoln has taken all along, that the Union is indissoluble and that a State can not get out of it however much she tries, is as fortunate for us now as it was unlucky once.”
“In or out, what matters it if Yankees rule over us!” others declared.
“Mr. Lincoln is not in favor of outsiders holding official reins in the South,” comforters responded. “He has committed himself on that point to Governor Hahn in Louisiana. When Judge Thomas suggested that he establish Governor Pierpont here, Mr. Lincoln asked straightway, ‘Where is Extra Billy?’ He struck the table with his fist, exclaiming, ‘By Jove! I want that old game-cock back here!’”
When in 1862-3 West Virginia seceded from Virginia and was received into the bosom of the Union, a few “loyal” counties which did not go with her, elected Francis H. Pierpont Governor of the old State. At the head of sixteen legislators, he posed at Alexandria as Virginia’s Executive, Mr. Lincoln and the Federal Congress recognizing him. Our real governor was the doughty warrior, William Smith, nick-named “Extra Billy” before the war, when he was always asking Congress for extra appropriations for an ever-lengthening stage-coach and mail-route line, which was a great Government enterprise under his fostering hand.
Governor Smith had left with the Confederate Government, going towards Lynchburg. He had been greatly concerned for his family, but his wife had said: “I may feel as a woman, but I can act like a man. Attend to your public affairs and I will arrange our family matters.” The Mansion had barely escaped destruction by fire. The Smith family had vacated it to the Federals, had been invited to return and then ordered to vacate again for Federal occupation.
Mr. Lincoln said that the legislature that took Virginia out of the Union and Governor Letcher, who had been in office then, with Governor Smith, his successor, and Governor Smith’s legislature, must be convened. “The Government that took Virginia out of the Union is the Government to bring her back. No other can effect it. They must come to the Capitol yonder where they voted her out and vote her back.”
Uncle Randolph was one of those who had formally called upon Mr. Lincoln at the Davis Mansion. Feeble as he was, he was so eager to do some good that he had gone out in spite of his niece to talk about the “policy” he thought would be best. “I did not say much,” he reported wistfully. “There were a great many people waiting on him. Things look strange at the Capitol. Federal soldiers all about, and campfires on the Square. Judge Campbell introduced me. President Lincoln turned from him to me, and said: ‘You fought for the Union in Mexico.’ I said, ‘Mr. Lincoln, if the Union will be fair to Virginia, I will fight for the Union again.’ I forgot, you see, that I am too old and feeble to fight. Then I said quickly, ‘Younger men than I, Mr. President, will give you that pledge.’ What did he say? He looked at me hard – and shook my hand – and there wasn’t any need for him to say anything.”
Mr. Lincoln’s attitude towards Judge Campbell was one of confidence and cordiality. He knew the Judge’s purity and singleness of purpose in seeking leniency for the conquered South, and genuine reunion between the sections. The Federal commanders understood his devotion and integrity. The newspaper men, in their reports, paid respect to his venerable, dignified figure, stamped with feebleness, poverty, and a noble sorrow, waiting patiently in one of the rooms at the Davis Mansion for audience with Mr. Lincoln.
None who saw Mr. Lincoln during that visit to Richmond observed in him any trace of exultation. Walking the streets with the negroes crowding about him, in the Davis Mansion with the Federal officers paying him court and our citizens calling on him, in the carriage with General Weitzel or General Shepley, a motley horde following – he was the same, only, as those who watched him declared, paler and wearier-looking each time they saw him. Uncle Randolph reported: