Ten years on a Georgia plantation since the war

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Great Land ! of all thy children 'tis the part To give themselves to thee, to shelter thee, To live for thee, and love with their whole heart, Or die for thy fair fame, if needs must be : And of thy children, both from South and North, Some went to battle called in thousands forth By thy dear voice, and conquered, though they died ;

And some, who heard indeed that solemn call, l-ut-weftgty-4*eard, fell on a vanquished side, Yet well contented for that side to fall ; Brothers with brothers fought, and in that fight Let all rejoice who fell, still thinking they were right.

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I wandered slowly through a far off-town, Where the white winter comes not, nor the storm Lashes with icy scourge fair flowers down To early graves ; where balmy winds disarm The wrathful tempests rage ; and as I went, Sudden I came upon a monument. Inscribed was this : To the Confederate Dead : And underneath, the period of the strife,— Those four dire years that dashed away the life, The life of priceless thousands, and o'erspread Our land with mourning ; — on the other side Only these words : ' Come from the four winds, O Breath,

And breathe upon these slain that they may live : ' No bitterness, no anger, naught beside A sigh of silence, unexpressed, that saith Of sorrow more than tears could weep, loud grief could give.

III

Then the whole story of the war, methought, Passed in its dreary length from first to last, — £ By those great words into my memory brought, Summoned from out the pages of the past. An April dawn, near ninety years before, Had seen a horseman in the shadowy night

Brothers Again.

Flit through New England's towns announcing war, Calling the stout old patriots out to fight : — An April dawn saw that first crashing shell Rush through the startled air, and thundering burst

On Sumter's head ; and as it shattering fell, The herald sound shrieked discord. This the last Alarm of strife, and then in dark array Battle on battle followed, fray on fray : Name after name, in stern succession falling, Bears with it countless tales of blood and woe ; What countless others, mournful, sad, appalling, Must silent rest, with voices silent too ! What multitudes of heroes now are resting Unknown beneath the sod where first they fell ! And slander's tongue their name has ceased molesting,—

Has let them lie untroubled where they fell ; While through the country each name with it bears A memory of triumph or of tears. Sadly to hearts bereaved they now must sound, Beginning with themselves a life-long grief, Recalling as each separate year comes round Some sorrow borne alone beyond relief. See quiet Williamsburg, where swaying shade O'erspreads the tree-girt college ; fire and blood In all their ghastly shapes her halls invade, While flames resistless scar the scorching wood. High soars the blaze, nor deigns on earth to tread, viii Brothers Again.

But flies remorseless o'er the silent dead. Above that fitful glare the leaden sky Grows lurid at the sight of agony, Till darker ever as the cloud descends Heaven pours the flood, and night the horror ends. Then followed seasons when the deadly heat Fell in its fury on the parching earth, And on the springing crops resistless beat, Bearing a time of drought, a time of dearth : Then gloomy Autumn, dismal with its rains, A weary time, when our fair nation's brow Was racked with sorrow, while on marshy plains Still poured her life-blood, still increased her woe ; Huge swamps extended o'er the tedious track, And rivers rose, and pestilence was shed On saddened ranks, and as report came back Of some new fight, of some new hero dead, Our land was forced to weep upon the graves Of sons unnatural, of erring braves. Still the grim trump of war, whose thrilling blast Shaketh the battlements of peace, whose shock Has made our country reel, its summons cast Forth to the skies, and to the battle smoke Marshalled both young and old, and wider through Both North and South the desolation grew. Up to the Northern gates the contest surges, And three long days at Gettysburg runs high : Out went both young and old ; the funeral dirges Blend with the glorious chant of victory.

Brothers Again.

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Three fearful days beneath the burning sun ! What hopes soared up, and fell, ere they were done ! And when the twilight bless'd came gently creeping,

For the third time over that bloody scene, Where their last slumber gallant forms were sleeping

On hills that once, alas ! were fair and green — When in that night of stillness, sad, serene, Fond mothers sought their voiceless sons with weeping,

And sounds of nature sang a solemn song Through the deep woods, and rushing brooks along —

Then was the land in the abysm of war, Yet still, how long a time ere it was o'er !

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Here the grim picture on my sight Crowded too swift to see each fight, But in the darkness of the night,

The Wilderness I saw ; And fighting forms and charging lines — Or in the dusk the beacon signs As through the wood the watch-fire shines,

And skulking foes withdraw : — Swift and more swift the pageant moves, Now climbing hills, and now in groves,

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Brothers Again.

Now on some blasted heath, While- still the lurid smoke and glare Cover the sky and choke the air,

Leaving their work beneath ; For all along that weary way The dead and dying scattered lay. And so proceeding to the close,

They fight, and fall, and die, Until no more the watch-fire glows,

Nor swells the battle cry : 'Tis done ; — the dead are now at rest Upon their country's rugged breast.

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The wild bird builds her nest in branches tall, Amid the sheltering foliage of the tree Whose life was shattered by the deadly ball That crashed its green boughs once so ruthlessly : The wild bird sings his carol o'er the graves Of many fallen heroes where the grass Has grown, or where the ceaseless murmuring waves

The site of some past conflict scarce can trace :

If Nature thus, with all her healing arts,

Hath striven to smooth the furrows from the breast

Of our dear land, should we not do our best

To smooth all furrows from our wounded hearts ?

Then let us pray that as the sun and showers

Brothers Again.

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Have charmed with their soft spell the dreary scenes.

Till scarce they know themselves through all the flowers

Strewn in their brakes and on their sloping greens, So we may let the showers of Lethe flow Upon the memory of that time of woe.

Shade- wrapped Savannah ! By thy monument A lesson hath been taught to great and small, O may thy prayers be heard, its answer sent, Granted by Heaven's grace unto us all ! And when th' Eternal breath shall come at last, Breathing upon the land and summoning From all the battle-field an army vast, And by its power from every region bring Both young and old, from every sepulchre On mountain side, by stream and forest brake, And shall along the moaning ocean stir, Causing our dead from their long sleep to wake — The soldiers shall arise, mingled in death, And come together to the throne all bright, Each to be judged according to his light, Made perfect by that Great All-healing Breath ; No strife, no rancour, nothing bitter then, But they shall join their hands Brothers again/V^

VI. Ten Years

ON

A GEORGIA PLANTATION.

Chapter I. Chaos

The year after the war between the North and the South, I went to the South with my father to look after our property in Georgia and see what could be done with it.

The whole country had of course undergone a complete revolution. The changes that a four years' war must bring about in any country would alone have been enough to give a different aspect to everything ; but at the South, besides the changes brought about by the war, our slaves had been freed ; the Jy B

A Georgia Plantation.

white population was conquered, ruined, and disheartened, unable for the moment to see anything but ruin before as well as behind, too wedded to the fancied prosperity of the old system to believe in any possible success under the new. And even had the people desired to begin at once to rebuild their fortunes, it would have been in most cases impossible, for in many families the young men had perished in the war, and the old men, if not too old for the labour and effort it required to set the machinery of peace going again, were beggared, and had not even money enough to buy food for themselves and their families, let alone their negroes, to whom they now had to pay wages as well as feed them.

Besides this, the South was still treated as a conquered country. The white people were disfranchised, the local government in the hands of either military men or Northern adventurers, the latter of whom, with no desire to promote either the good of the country or people, but only to advance their own private ends, encouraged the negroes in all their foolish and extravagant ideas of freedom, set them against their old masters, filled their minds with false hopes, and pandered to their worst passions, in order to secure for themselves some political office which they hoped to obtain through the negro vote.

Into this state of things we came from the North, and I was often asked at the time, and have been since, to write some account of my own personal experience of the condition of the South immediately after the war, and during the following five years. But I never felt inclined to do so until now, when, in reading over a quantity of old letters written at the time, I find so much in them that is interesting, illustrative of the times and people, that I have determined to copy some of my accounts and descriptions, which may interest some persons now, and my children hereafter. Soon everything will be

b 2 so changed, and the old traits of the negro slave have so entirely vanished, as to make stories about them sound like tales of a lost race ; and also because even now, so little is really known of the state of things politically at the South.

The accounts which have been written from time to time have been written either by travellers, who with every desire to get at the truth, could but see things superficially, or by persons whose feelings were too strong either on one side or the other to be perfectly just in their representations. I copy my impressions of things as they struck me then, although in many cases later events proved how false these impressions were, and how often mistaken I was in the opinions I formed. Indeed, we very often found ourselves taking entirely opposite views of things from day to day, which will explain apparent inconsistencies and contradictions in my statements ; but the new and unsettled condition of everything could not fail to produce this result, as well as the excited state we were all in.

I mention many rumours that reached us, which at the time we believed to be true, and which sometimes turned out to be so, but as often, not, as well as the things I know to be facts from my own personal experience, for rumours and exaggerations of all kinds made in a great measure the

interest and excitement of our lives, although the reality was strange and painful enough.

On March 22, 1866, my father and myself left the North. The Southern railroads were many of them destroyed for miles, not having been rebuilt since the war, and it was very questionable how we were to get as far as Savannah, a matter we did accomplish however, in a week's time, after the following adventures, of which I find an account in my letters written at the time. We stopped one day in Washington, and werft all over the new Capitol, which had been finished since I was there five years ago.

A Georgia Plantation.

On Saturday we left, reaching Richmond at four o'clock on Sunday morning. I notice that it is a peculiarity of Southern railroads that they always either arrive, or start, at four o'clock in the morning. That day we spent quietly there, and sad enough it was, for besides all the associations with the place which crowded thick and fast upon one's memory, half the town was a heap of burnt ruins, showing how heavily the desolation of war had fallen upon it. And in the afternoon I went out to the cemetery, and after some search found the grave I was looking for. There he lay, with hundreds of others who had sacrificed their lives in vain, their resting place marked merely by small wooden headboards, bearing their names, regiments, and the battles in which they fell. The grief and excitement made me quite ill, so that I was glad to leave the town before daylight the next morning, and I hope I may never be there again.

W e travelled all that day in the train,

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reaching Greensborough that night at eight o'clock. Not having been able to get any information about our route further on, we thought it best to stop where we were until we did find out. This difficulty was one that met us at every fresh stopping place along the whole journey ; no one could tell us whether the road ahead were open or not, and, if open, whether there were any means of getting over it. So we crawled on, dreading at each fresh stage to find ourselves stranded in the middle of the pine woods, with no means of progressing further.

That night in Greensborough is one never to be forgotten. The hotel was a miserable tumble-down old frame house, and the room we were shown into more fit for a stable than a human habitation ; a dirty bare floor, the panes more than half broken out of the windows, with two ragged, dirty calico curtains over them that waved and blew about in the wind. The furniture consisted of a bed, the clothes of which looked as if

A Georgia Plantation.

they had not been changed since the war, but had been slept in, in the meanwhile, constantly, two rickety old chairs, and a table with three legs. The bed being entirely out of the question, and I very tired, I took my bundle of shawls, put them under my head against the wall, tilted my chair back, and prepared to go to sleep if I could. I was just dozing off when I heard my maid, whom I had kept in the room for protection, give a start and exclamation which roused me. I asked her what was the matter, to which she replied, a huge rat had just run across the floor. This woke me quite up, and we spent the rest of the night shivering and shaking with the cold, and knocking on the floor with our umbrellas to frighten away the rats, which from time to time came out to look at us.

At four in the morning my father came for us, and we started for the train, driving two miles in an old army ambulance. From that time until eight in the evening we did not leave the cars, and then only left them to

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get into an old broken-down stage coach, which was originally intended to hold six people, but into which on this occasion they put nine, and, thus cramped and crowded, we drove for five hours over as rough a road as can well be imagined, reaching Columbia at three o'clock a.m., by which time I could hardly move. Our next train started at six, but I was so stiff and exhausted that I begged my father to wait over one day to rest, to which he consented. At this place we struck General Sherman's track, and here the ruin and desolation was complete. Hardly any of the town remained ; street after street was merely one long line of blackened ruins, which showed from their size and beautifully laid-out gardens, how handsome some of the houses had been. It was too horrible !

On Thursday, at six a.m., we again set off, going about thirty miles in a cattle van which brought us to the Columbia River, the bridge over which Sherman had destroyed. This we crossed on a pontoon bridge, after i

A Georgia Plantation.

which we walked a mile, sat two hours in the woods, and were then picked up by a rickety old car which was backed down to where we were, and where the rails began again, having been torn up behind us. In this, at the rate of about five miles an hour, we travelled until four in the afternoon, when we were again deposited in the woods, the line this time being torn up in front of us. Here, after another wait, we were packed into a rough army waggon, w4th loose boards put across for seats, and in which we were jolted and banged about over a road composed entirely of ruts and roots for four more hours, until I thought I should not have a whole bone left in my body.

It was a lovely evening however, and the moon rose full and clear. The air, delicious and balmy, was filled with the resinous scent of the pine and perfume of yellow jessamine, and we were a very jolly party, four gentlemen, with ourselves, making up our number, so I thought it good fun on the whole. In fact,

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i i rough as the journey was, I rather enjoyed it all ; it was so new a chapter in my book of travels.

Between nine and ten in the evening we arrived at a log cabin, where, until three a.m. we sat on the floor round a huge wood fire. The train then arrived and we started again, and did not stop for twenty-four hours ; at least, when I say did not stop, I mean, did not leave the cars, for we really seemed to do little else but stop every few minutes. This brought us, at three a.m., to Augusta, where we were allowed to go to bed for three hours, starting again at six and travelling all day, until at seven in the evening we at last reached Savannah. Fortunately we started from the North with a large basket of provisions, that being our only luggage, the trunks having been sent by sea; and had it not been for this, I think we certainly should have starved, as we were not able to get anything to eat on the road, except at Columbia and Augusta.

A Georgia Plantation.

The morning after our arrival in Savannah, my father came into my room to say he was off to the plantation at once, having seen some gentlemen the evening before, who told him if he wished to do anything at all in the way of planting this season, that he must not lose an hour, as it was very doubtful even now if a crop could be got in. So off he went, promising to return as soon as possible, and report what state of things he found on the island. I consoled myself by going off to church to hear Bishop Elliott, who preached one of the most beautiful sermons I ever heard, on the Resurrection, the one thought that can bring hope and comfort to these poor heart-broken people. There was hardly anyone at church out of deep mourning, and it was piteous to see so many mere girls' faces, shaded by deep crape veils and widows' caps.

I can hardly give a true idea of how crushed and sad the people are. You hear no bitterness towards the North ; they are too

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sad to be bitter ; their grief is overwhelming. Nothing can make any difference to them now ; the women live in the past, and the men only in the daily present, trying, in a listless sort of way, to repair their ruined fortunes. They are like so many foreigners, whose only interest in the country is their own individual business. Politics are never mentioned, and they know and care less about what is going on in Washington than in London. They received us with open arms, my room was filled with flowers, and crowds of people called upon me every day, and overwhelmed me with thanks for what I did for their soldiers during the war, which really did amount to but very little. I say this, and the answer invariably is, ' Oh yes, but your heart was with us,' which it certainly was.

We had, before leaving the North, received two letters from Georgia, one from an agent 'of the Freedmen's Bureau, and the other from one of our neighbours, both

A Georgia Plantation.

stating very much the same thing, which was that our former slaves had all returned to the island and were willing and ready to work for us, but refused to engage themselves to anyone else, even to their liberators, the Yankees ; but that they were very badly off, short of provisions, and would starve if something were not done for them at once, and, unless my father came directly (so wrote the agent of the Freedmen's Bureau), the negroes would be removed and made to work elsewhere.

On Wednesday, when my father returned, he reported that he had found the negroes all on the place, not only those who were there five years ago, but many who were sold three years before that. Seven had worked their way back from the up country. They received him very affectionately, and made an agreement with him to work for one half the crop, which agreement it remained to be seen if they would keep. Owing to our coming so late, only a small crop could be

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planted, enough to make seed for another year and clear expenses. I was sorry we could do no more, but too thankful that things were as promising as they were. Most of the finest plantations were lying idle for want of hands to work them, so many of the negroes had died ; 1 7,000 deaths were recorded by the Freedmen's Bureau alone. Many had been taken to the South-west, and others preferred hanging about the towns, making a few dollars now and then, to working regularly on the plantations ; so most people found it impossible to get any labourers, but we had as many as we wanted, and nothing could induce our people to go anywhere else. My father also reported that the house was bare, not a bed nor chair left, and that he had been sleeping on the floor, with a piece of wood for a pillow and a few negro blankets for his covering. This I could hardly do, and as he could attend to nothing but the planting, we agreed that he should devote himself to that, while I looked after some furniture. So the day after, armed with five hundred bushels of seed rice, corn, bacon, a straw mattress, and a tub, he started off again for the plantation, leaving me to buy tables and chairs, pots and pans.

We heard that our overseer had removed many of the things to the interior with the negroes for safety on the approach of the Yankees, so I wrote to him about them, waiting to know what he had saved of our old furniture, before buying anything new. This done, I decided to proceed with my household goods to the plantation, arrange things as comfortably as possible, and then return to the North.

I cannot give a better idea of the condition of things I found on the Island than by copying the following letter written at the time.

Dearest S , I have relapsed into

barbarism total ! How I do wish you could see me ; you would be so disgusted. Well, I know now what the necessaries of life mean, and am surprised to find how few they are, and how many things we consider absolutely necessary which are really luxuries.

When I wrote last I was waiting in Savannah for the arrival of some things the overseer had taken from the Island, which I wished to look over before I made any further purchases for the house. When they came, however, they looked more like the possessions of an Irish emigrant than anything else ; the house linen fortunately was in pretty good order, but the rest I fancy had furnished the overseer's house in the country ever since the war ; the silver never reappeared. So I began my purchases with twelve common wooden chairs, four washstands, four bedsteads, four large tubs, two bureaux, two large tables and four smaller ones, some china, and one common lounge, my one luxury — and this finished the list.

Thus supplied, my maid and I started last Saturday morning for the Island ; half-

C way down we stuck fast on a sand -bar in the river, where we remained six hours, very hot, and devoured by sand-flies, till the tide came in again and floated us off, which pleasant little episode brought us to Darien at i a.m. My father was there, however, to meet us with our own boat, and as it was bright moonlight we got off* with all our things, and were rowed across to the island by four of our old negroes.

I wish I could give you any idea of the house. The floors were bare, of course, many of the panes were out of the windows, and the plaster in many places was off the walls, while one table and two old chairs constituted the furniture. It was pretty desolate, and my father looked at me in some anxiety to see how it would affect me, and seemed greatly relieved when I burst out laughing. My bed was soon unpacked and made, my tub filled, my basin and pitcher mounted on a barrel, and I settled for the rest of the night.

The next morning I and my little German maid, who fortunately takes everything very cheerily, went to work, and together we made things quite comfortable ; unpacked oar tables and chairs, put up some curtains (made out of some white muslin I had brought down for petticoats) edged with pink calico, covered the tables with two bright-coloured covers I found in the trunk of house linen, had the windows mended, hung up my picture of General Lee (which had been sent to me the day before I left Philadelphia) over the mantelpiece, and put my writing things and nicknacks on the table, so that when my

father and Mr. J came in they looked

round in perfect astonishment, and quite rewarded me by their praise.

Our kitchen arrangements would amuse you. I have one large pot, one frying-pan, one tin saucepan, and this is all ; and yet you would be astonished to see how much our cook accomplishes with these three utensils, and the things don't taste very much alike.

A Georgia Plantation.

Yesterday one of the negroes shot and gave me a magnificent wild turkey, which we roasted on one stick set up between two others before the fire, and capital it was. The broiling is done on two old pieces of iron laid over the ashes. Our food consists of corn and rice bread, rice, and fish caught fresh every morning out of the river, oysters, turtle soup, and occasionally a wild turkey or duck. Other meat, as yet, it is impossible to get.

Is it not all strange and funny ? I feel like Robinson Crusoe with three hundred men Fridays. Then my desert really blooms like the rose. On the acre of ground enclosed about the house are a superb magnolia tree, covered with its queenly flowers, roses running wild in every direction ; orange, fig, and peach trees now in blossom, give promise of fruit later on, while every tree and bush is alive with red- birds, mocking-birds, blackbirds, and jays, so as I sit on the piazza the air comes to me laden with sweet smells and sweet sounds of all descriptions.

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There are some drawbacks ; fleas, sand-flies, and mosquitoes remind us that we are not quite in Heaven, and I agree with my laundry woman, Phillis, who upon my maid's remonstrating with her for taking all day to wash a few towels, replied, ' Dat's true, Miss Louisa, but de fleas jist have no principle, and dey bites me so all de time, I jist have to stop to scratch.'

The negroes seem perfectly happy at getting back to the old place and having us there, and I have been deeply touched by many instances of devotion on their part. On Sunday morning, after their church, having nothing to do, they all came to see me, and I must have shaken hands with nearly four hundred. They were full of their troubles and sufferings up the country during the war, and the invariable winding up was, ' Tank the Lord, missus, we's back, and sees you and massa again.' I said to about twenty strong men, ' Well, you know you are free and your own masters now,' when they broke out with, ' No, missus, we belong to you ; we be yours as long as we lib.'