Winona; a story of to-day

Preface

Many of the incidents which form the foundation of this story of to-day,” are true. The conversations between General Sherman, General McPherson, Dr. Shippen and Aunt Sallie,” are verbatim as they occurred in 1864, when the red hills of Georgia were dyed a deeper hue by the blood of war.

Being a child of this later day, and having heard ‘‘ war times ” talked around our Southern firesides since infancy — again having sojourned in the North — from two points of view, I have received my impressions.

Ella M. Powell.

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CHAPTER I. A LOW, dark “shanty,’' stood back a few feet from

the country road that led to W . No expression

of life, not even a faint flag of smoke waved from the chimney, to indicate to a passer-by that this humble, solitary abode was inhabited.

A bitter night had set in. The tall trees about the “ shanty ”♦ rattled and shivered under a sheet of ice. Great gusts of wind, full of weird sounds, spent their passion. A belated horseman rode up to the gate and hallooed. Again and again he called out, but each time his voice was borne away on the wind. It was not until the discouraged man had disappeared behind a hill, on his way, that a long-eared hound cautiously peeped his head from under the house, like a turtle from its shell, gave a few cowardly barks and drew back. Several minutes passed, when the door slowly opened and a faint, mellow light crept out. A lad about fifteen years tVINONA.

of age put his head out, and peered about in the darkness. An elderly man stood back of him holding a tallow candle, the flame of which he endeavored to protect with his hand, but a sudden gust of wind — it was out.

The door closed again, and the two resumed their seats, along with an old woman, around a bed of glowing coals in the big fireplace.

'' ’Taint likely it’s any of ’em ; they’ll have to be lyin’ low t’ night, I reckin. This spell ’ll about freeze ’em out, and I hope the last one er the plund- ’rin’ things ’ll git frost bit so it ’ll last ’em for life,” remarked the woman in a tone of revengeful satisfaction, while vigorously stirring with a cob, a skillet of parching corn.

“ Ole man, I think it’s purty nigh done, and the fire’s gittin’ low, so you’d better put on another turn o’ wood. Don’t git any o’ them chestnut sticks to have ’em a poppin about and burnin’ the tail o’ my coat agin. Put on a good, big turn o’ that hic’ry an’ oak, so it’ll last till mornin’. Things ’ll have to warm up a bit, or this milk ’ll never turn, fur thar aint a sign o’ clabber yit.”

At this she smoothed her hand down a brown stone jar on the hearth at her side, looked in, then re-tied the cloth over the mouth ; knocked the ashes out of her clay pipe and began to refill it. She made an interesting study in her checked homespun dress, as she sat bent over, with her elbow resting on her knee, smoking. The intervals between

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puffs were filled in with — I aintheered Muly-head low yit ; I jes’ know she haint come up ; likely as not, a parcel o’ them triflin’ gorillas ’ave made beef o’ her. That young heifer o’ hers ’as got the finest bag I ever seed on a three-year-ole in my life. She ’ll give four t’ five gallons a day ef she keeps on. I b’liev^e ole Brindle ’s got the hollow-horn ; this cold spell ’s likely t’ give it to her. Ef she aint more spritely soon, you’d better be a borin’ a hole in her horn, and pourin’ in some spirits o’ turpentine. I forgot and took hold o’ that sore tit o’ hers, to-day, and she come nigh kickin’ me over. She’s the hardest cow to milk anyhow, I ever seed ; never would stand still — come home here last spring with her tail all matted full o’ cuckleburs, and switched it aroun’ in my face, till my eyes was mighty nigh put out. Law, Master George, yo’ taters are roastin’ t’ death here’n these ashes. I’d forgot all about ’em — By the way, Mr. Giddins, didye cover up the tater hill with them ole sacks ? Some of ’em’s frost-bit already. Ye didn’t put enough corn-stalks over ’em in the beginnin’. Jes’ listen at that wind and sleet slappin’ the side o’ the house ! It ’ll blow every chicken and turkey off’n the roost. The ice on their backs yistiddy mornin’ ’peard a quarter o’ inch thick, and that ole gobbler’s snout ’s froze stark stiff. Bein’ it’s so powerful cold, we’d better pile on a leetlemore kiver t’night. Bed kiver’s mighty nigh given out too. I’ve got that ‘‘log cabin” quilt ’bout ready fur the frame, so I thought I’d tell Mary

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Ann Johnson and Lucindi Tilly, with two or three more o' them in the sittlement, to come over an’ we’d have a quiltin’ soon’s things kinder thaw out a bit. Well, I b’lieve I’ll pile in and git up soon in the mornin’, fur I want to finish knittin’ them blue yarn socks, and card and spin about ten hanks to’ards a counterpin.”

These last words came with a thick tongue, for Mrs. Giddings had almost talked herself to sleep, and Mr. Giddings, and young George Hardeman, as well, who were both nodding. Her harmless volley of words never disturbed either their thoughts or slumbers, for they were quite accustomed to them. Mr. Giddings said : “ She al’ays did have a way o’ talkin’ jes’ to be a talkin’.”

The old woman had just finished putting her pipe away for the night, her last duty before pilin’ in,” when there came a sudden, heavy knock on the door. Mr. Giddings sprang to his feet, and reached for the gun that rested on pegs over the doorway. George Hardeman seized a six-shooter from a shelf with one hand ; the other on the door latch ; while Mrs. Giddings nervously re-lighted the tallow candle.

There came another heavy knock, to which George called out : “ Who’s there ? ”

“ A stranger, sir, that’s lost his way and purty nigh froze to death. I’d be mighty grateful ef you’d take me in fur the night, and jes’ let me lie on the flo’, if nowhars else.”

Mr. Giddings, Mrs. Giddings and George debated

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the matter under their breath for some moments, while old Trip joined in with a suppressed growl from under the house.

“ Come in, sir,” at last said George, boldly, opening the door, but all the while keeping his thumb on the cocked trigger of the pistol.

There was an awkward silence and a scrutinizing glance from each at the entrance of the stranger. He was a tall, raw boned man, whose ragged Confederate uniform, with an empty sleeve, war-worn knapsack and canteen, spoke eloquently of deeds of valor passed and suffering present, as he sat shivering and chafing his numb hand before the fire. Some time passed without a word from either of the party, when Mr. Giddings suddenly leaned forward and peered closely into the man’s face.

“ Bless my soul, ef it taint Billy Simpkins ! — honest Billy, as folks uster call ye.”

‘‘Well, sho’s I’m livin’, it’s Jim Giddin’s !”

Then followed a long, hearty hand-shaking, and various other expressions of recognition and greeting of an original style. Each took a fresh chaw ” of tobacco, and were soon punctuating their friendly conversation and reminiscences with spirts of tobacco juice.

“Well, Jim, I know’d you was in this part o’ the country somewhar, but I never thought o’ cornin’ up on ye. I passed here about an hour ago, and hallooed, but no one ’peard to hear me, and as I seed no light about, ’lowed the house was empty.

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I rid on a mile or two, when I heered horses’ hoofs a gallopin’ up behind ; so I turned into the woods a bit. As they passed on, I heerd two men a cussin” and a makin’ their threats ’bout puttin’ a bullet thro’ some un at sight. I knowed they ment me, fur I’d been a dodgin’ of ’em fur two or three hours. I’d been told thar was a band o’ guerillas ’bout through this sittlement, and ’lowed soon as I seed ’em, they was a part of ’em. It was a stormin’ so, I thought I’d better turn back and come ’ere and git under shelter, anyhows till daylight, fur I didn’t know how many more of ’em I’d run over fore I could come across a place to stay all night. That’s how I lost my road — a tryin’ to git out o’ their way. I’m a findin’ my way to Nashville — tryin’ to git back to Georgi — Yes, Jim, I’m goin’ back to Georgi ; thar to live and die, I reckin. I knows you’re a Union man, Jim, but I tell ye, it’s pow’ful hard fur a man that’s got any grit in him, to set down and see the cause he knows is right, a suf’rin, and not be able to lend a helpin’ hand. I’m a gittin’ too old to fight, anyways, they say, but I’d a never giv up till I died, ef I hadn’t er lost this arm. Ef I’d er had any say-so in it. I’d er stayed on and peppered the Yankees, with the one I had left, but I fired my last shot at Gettysburg.”

‘‘Gettysburg!” interrupted George Hardeman; “ why, brother was wounded in that battle — I wonder if you could have known him.”

“ And what mought yo’ name be ? ”

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II

George Hardeman, sir ; the brother of Dan Hardeman, who was in Pickett’s Division under General Longstreet.”

“You Dan Hardeman’s brother ! Why, bless ye. I’ve been all through the war with Dan Hardeman — him and me was messmates, and I love him same’s he was my own. Ye see, I was born and raised in the same sittlement as your paw and Aunt Sallie. Yo’ paw an’ me was friends long ’fore yo’ time. I rickolect'when you was born same’s twas yistiddy. Arter that, I moved up nigh Roswell, and when I come back, I found yo’ paw an’ maw both dead — yo’ brother Dan and little Sis er livin’ with yo’ Aunt Sallie, and they told me you was in Tinnessee with a friend o’ yo’ gran’paw’s. I al’ays did like Dan, and when we went t’ the war, we went t’gether, leavin’ your Aunt Sallie at the big gate, a wipin’ her eyes and sayin’ — ‘ Good-by’ Bill ; take care o’ yo’ sef, and look arter Dan. And I tried to do it ; but I had t’ give it up at Gettysburg.”

Here Mr. Simpkins ceased — gave a long, loud spit-t-o-o-o — shook his head seriously, and then went on :

“ Him and me both was wounded at that battle. Somehow,, we both had a feelin’ somethin’ was goin’ to happen, fur the night befo’, him and me was a settin’ in camp by ourselves — jes’ settin’ thar, sayin’ nothin’, but thinkin’ a powerful lot, when we heerd the rebel yell a soundin’ all along, up and down the line. They kep’ it up, purty nigh all night, and Dan tVINO^A.

an’ me sot thar a listenin’ and a talkin*. Nigh to’ards day, everything got still’s a meetin’ house — couldn’t see nothin’ but the picket guard a treadin’ soft’s a cat, up and down. Way in the East a little streak o’ light riz — made me think o’ a white tombstone in a graveyard on a dark night, and I got to feelin’ mighty lonesome — reck’n that was the feelin’. At last, Dan, he fell to sleepin’, po’ feller he was mighty chokin’ too, that night ; I could tell it by the way he swallowed. I never had no mo’ talk with ’im, fur the next day was nigh like Judgment day, sho’. Thar wasn’t no talkin’ with nobody sich times as them. Ye couldn’t hear a word but the commands o’ the officers, and the dyin’ a callin’ on the Lord. The rest had their teeth set and a doin’ their best. Sometimes the officers’ tongues clove to the roof o’ their mouths too, fur I remember that day when things was mighty hot — the bullets was a hissin’ an’ a peltin’ roun’ thick as rain — the cannons was a belchin’ like fury — the ground was a tremblin’, till it made yo’ head swim — two or three ammunition wagons busted up, and the smoke come ’er rolling up like hell itself had turned loose — men was thick all ’round, a bleedin’ — cussin’ — prayin’ — groanin’ — and their eyes walled back a dyin’. ’Bout that time, Gen’al Longstreet rid up on his charger, and Pickett said: ‘Gen’al, shall I advance?’ and the Gen’al jest looked at him pow’ful solemn, and bowed his head — couldn’t say a word. Pickett led on and made a good fight too, even if he did have

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to give it up. Shortly arter that, I fell wounded. They picked me up and took me to the field hospital, and while I was a lyin’ thar, suff’rin’ mightly, I saw ’em puttin’ Dan in the ambulance. 1 tried to crawl to him, but I couldn’t make it ; so I waved my hand, and the ambulance stopped in a few feet o’ me, jest long enough to say good-by. Ye know Dan’s a likely fellow — kaint none o’ ’em beat him on looks, but he looked mighty pitiful a lyin’ thar. * Good-by, Mr. Simpkins,’ he said, ^ ef you live and I don’t, tell ’em to kiss little Sis, and, think kindly o’ me, and remember all I’ve told ye.’ Then, they drove on, but I don’t know whar.”

Here, the old man broke down and young George sobbed like a child. Mrs. Giddings brushed the tears away, and poked the fire, while Mr. Giddings got up with his hands in his pockets, in a meditative way, and went for a drink of water. For some time there was silence. At last, George Hardeman spoke :

‘‘ Mr. Simpkins,” he said, will you do a favor for me ? ”

Ef it’s in my power, son, I will.”

Well, you know I’m living with the Colonel

over at W , a rich man. I would go to the war

myself, if the Colonel would let me — he says I’m too young, but I know how to level a gun if I am. The other day, four of these guerillas around here, fell on to the Colonel, and were about to shoot him, when his wife ran out and threw herself between

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him and the scoundrels. One of them threatened to shoot her too, if she didn’t leave, but she clung the closer about the Colonel’s neck — ‘the tears streaming down her pretty face — her long hair falling in masses of golden curls, down her back. I could stand it no longer. There was no one at the house but me, and I felt in a moment that everything depended on my efforts. I had just returned from hunting, and my gun was loaded. I took good aim from behind a cedar tree — there were four against two, and one of the two unarmed you know. I put one load right through the temple of the man who was making his threats, killing him instantly ; the other load wounded another man, so that he died several hours after. The remaining two spurred their horses and run, firing back bullets and oaths as they went. Since that affair, several of their band have been seen scouting about here, and as it got out through the settlement that I did the shooting, the Colonel thinks they are after me, and insisted that I should come over here to Mr. Giddings’ for awhile, as he is a Union man, and I would be better protected, though they are generally no respecters of persons. I didn’t want to come — looked cowardly to me, but the Colonel still insisted, and made me. I would be dying in a good cause, if I died killing such villains. Both the Colonel and his wife have never ceased to talk of their gratefulness, though they think I was pretty daring, and the other day made me a present of a

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young filly of the famous Lightfoot breed, that he brought out from Kentucky. Now, Mr. Simpkins, I want to send that filly to little sister, and I want you to take it to her.’’

In several days, after a pleasant sojourn with his old friend Mr. Giddings, Mr. Simpkins and Mett ” — the filly — set out for Georgia.

CHAPTER 11.

“ I TELL ye, MissSallie, she sets the saddle pow’ful well fur a youngster.’'

‘‘Yes, Mr. Simpkins, Winona is an unusual child anyway. I don’t know what we would do without her sweet little face and cunning ways. She has been such a comfort to me since the men folk left. I am so glad George sent Mett to her — a finer horse I never saw, and well named, too, for she is mettle to the bone. Should any one steal her, they will have no trouble in finding her name from the mark I see you have given her ; but don’t you think you had better be off, Mr. Simpkins? The sun is getting very warm, and they may stop grinding soon.”

Mr. Simpkins flung his sack of corn over his horse’s back, mounted, then started off, side by side with little Winona, towards Mason’s Mill. At the branch, they stopped to water the horses, when Mett, with a horse’s keen perception, suddenly raised her head with pricked ears, and began to shy.

“Oh, Mr. Simpkins, see, it’s old Jake! he’ll catch us, oh — oh — oh ! ” exclaimed Winona in a frightened, childish undertone, ready to burst into tears.

'' Don’t be afeered, Honey — he’ll not bother ye ; he’s nothin’ but a sneakin’ coward nohow — al’ways a skulkin’ about in these woods round here, or lyin’ drunk. A little, old, shriveled up Jew, with a gold ring in his ear, kaint mean much good to this honest sittlement. Don’t know what he come here fur anyhows ; been roun’ here sometime now and nobody knows no more ’bout him than when he first come — jes’ know he’s ole Jake, the rag-picker, with a peach of a daughter. Daughter ! umph ! don’t believe it neither. Well, he’d better never come a meddlin’ round me, fur I’ll do some work with this one arm here.”

And so Mr. Simpkins went on, subduing his inward contempt with an outward volley of words, until the strange dwarf of a man had, for the time, passed out of sight — then out of mind. In the mean time. Aunt Sallie had busied herself with housework, and now sat on the front porch, leisurely stringing beans for dinner. It was the nineteenth of July, 1864. All about there was such a lazy, hot expression. The shimmering heat rose from the baking earth and sweltered every living thing. Not a sound was to be heard except an occasional stridulous note of the July fly, or lonely chirp of a grasshopper. Mr. Simpkins and Winona returned ere long, with the fresh ground meal. The child, exhausted from her jaunt, and the fright from old Jake, soon fell asleep on the big walnut bed.

I fear she has overdone herself,” Aunt Sallie i8 murmured, as she bent over and kissed the little pale brow.

Cindy, one of the blackest darkies that Africa ever produced, and one of the best-hearted, kept time to the ker-slush, ker-slosh, ker-slish” of her churn-dasher, with a weird and almost barbaric strain, from the shed. She hushed suddenly. Even the grasshopper and the July fly retired ; perhaps for their daily siesta. Indeed, all nature seemed to hold her breath for a time over that peaceful country-home. The stillness became oppressive. Was it woman’s intuition or premonition, that made Aunt Sallie go quickly to the edge of the porch, and look out from behind the wilted morning-glory vines with a feeling of — something is going to happen!” All that was to be seen was a lone buzzard, careening along the blue horizon, as stately and still as a ship at sea. Aunt Sallie stood gazing vacantly, her thoughts far away with her loved ones from whom she was separated by the bloody hand of war, when a mounted courier dashed up to the gate — waved his hand and shouted : “ The Yankees are coming ! ” — turned and was gone. Like an alarm of fire to a sound sleeper at midnight, came that cry to Aunt Sallie. She stood for a moment stunned, feeling as if the man had struck her with a club upon the head. Only for a moment she stood, then, rallying all her reserve force, hastened to reach a large horn and blow several vigorous blasts. Of all the darkies on the plantation, Cindy was the trustworthy one.

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With her assistance Aunt Sallie gathered a few valuables and provisions, and proceeded to hide them in the “dungeon.” This “dungeon,” as Aunt Sallie termed it, was merely the space between the flat ceiling and slanting roof of the front piazza. It was used as a storage place for broken furniture, old clothes and such things as “might come in some day.” She filled in the “ shuttle hole” as well as possible, to keep it from being detected, and hastened down-stairs just in time to see the Yankees advancing through the orchard. The horn blasts had brought the darkies from the field, and at the sight of the army, they took to their cabins in great confusion. In less than five minutes, the yard was crowded with soldiers, and the house was taken possession of by General Sherman and his entire staff as his headquarters.

The Confederates, in the mean time, had advanced to meet the foe, and skirmishing immediately commenced. Aunt Sallie took Winona in her arms — the child having waked with a high fever — and sat down near General Sherman on the back shed. Cindy followed and crouched at the side of her mistress, half crazed with fear. The General and his men viewed the group with curiosity, but not a word was exchanged, until when Winona asked for water. Aunt Sallie went to the pail, which sat on a shelf just outside the shed, and as she was in the act of lifting the gourd to the little parched lips, a bullet whizzed by, severing it from its handle.

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‘‘ Pretty close clipping, eh ? indifferently remarked General Sherman.

Rather, ” Aunt Sallie replied, with assumed calmness, resuming her seat.

Don’t you think you had better get inside your shanty? ’’

At the word shanty, Aunt Sallie's cavalier blood began to boil, but having always been taught there was one thing a lady was bound to keep — her temper — she gave a big swallow and replied carelessly. Oh, no ; if you are safe here, I reckon we will be also, ” with emphasis on the you.

Where is your husband? he went on.

Here, Aunt Sallie hesitated, looking him straight in the eye ; then in a most deliberate manner said : ^‘He is from home to-day, like you, sir. ’’

This repartee brought a significant smile all around, while General Sherman picked up a newspaper and began reading. General McPherson, who had been a silent spectator of what had passed, walked over, and taking Winona’s hand caressingly in his, said, “The little one dosn’t seem to be quite well.”

His tone, his manner, shot a bolt into Aunt Sallie’s breast, and though it came from the enemy, it was not one of antagonism, but one that brought the tears to her eyes, for she felt that he was a gentleman,

“ Yes, I fear she is going to be ill, having been exposed to the sun so much to-day, and then she has such a nervous temperament and easily excited, ” Aunt Sallie replied in a friendly tone.

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The child, hearing herself discussed, looked wonderingly at the strangers a moment, then proceeded to an informal introduction.

‘‘ My name is Winona, but Banni calls me “ Noni ’’ for short. A Yankee lady named me — a good Yankee — not one who fights. Did you ever see a Yankee?’' she innocently prattled.

Oh, yes, ” was General McPherson’s good natured answer.

‘‘A fighting one?”

‘‘And didn’t you run?”

Winona regarded him curiously with wide opened eyes. Meditating a moment she went on : “ My Sunday-school book says, God made you and me. Aunt Sallie, and all good people ; but I don’t know who made fighting Yankees. I reckon Mr. Lincoln and the bad man did it, don’t you ? ”

General McPherson laughed heartily and lifted Winona to his knee, when, to the merriment of the whole party, she began singing in a sweet childish voice :

“ Jeff Davis is a clever man —

Old Lincoln is a fool —

Jeff Davis rides a milk-white horse —

Old Lincoln rides a mule.

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the bonnie blue flag ; Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the bonnie blue flag,

That bears a single star. ”

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At the end, there was a burst of applause, to which Winona shyly hung her head, while toying with the brass buttons on the General^s coat, and said — “ I always charge Uncle John a nickel when I sing. ”

“And who is Uncle John?'’ he replied.

“Why, he's Aunt Sallie's John, and my uncle; but they come and took him and brother Dan away off to the war, and left us all by ourselves. Aunt Sallie cries and cries, but they won't come back, and I don’t have nobody to give me nickels to buy stick candy with now.”

Here Winona rested her little tired head against the General’s breast. He nestled her closely — took a silver quarter from his pocket, and placed it in her hand — leaned over and kissed her. By this time, the bullets had begun to whiz on all sides. Thicker and faster they came, making the leaves of the massive oaks round the house to fall in great numbers. All conversation ceased, and desperate work commenced. General Thomas' Artillery had advanced and was pouring shot and shell into the ranks of the Confederates, that caused them to begin to give way. The sky, so serene and blue but a short while before, was now covered by a boiling cloud of sullen gray. General Sherman wore an anxious expression, and was heard to say, “If they give way here. I’m satisfied.” But a little while, and his hopes were realized. It often takes but a moment for desperate men to do the work of years. The Confeder-

TrrfrTirrrrrin ti t r

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^3 ates were compelled to fall back after the heaviest fighting, since leaving Kennesaw Mountain, They had lost the battle of Peachtree Creek. Things became more quiet. The thick veil of smoke was slowly lifted from the faces of the bloody dead and dying, revealing a most pitiful spectacle. Everywhere was such a naked, forlorn expression. Trees were stripped of their limbs and foliage ; fences down, and grass, flowers and herbs trampled to the earth. As many of the wounded as could be accommodated, were placed upon the floor of the front piazza, these quarters being at the same time used by Dr. Shippen, surgeon of Haskell’s division. Twenty-third Corps, for the purpose of a hospital. The genial doctor approached Aunt Sallie most courteously, and asked if she would be kind enough to give him some old cloths for bandages ; their supply having run short.

“Certainly, sir,” was her prompt reply, and she proceeded to gather every thing in her possession that could be utilized for that purpose and gave to him. Even some of her new sheets and table-linen were torn into strips to alleviate suffering ; the dining table itself being used for the surgeon’s operating table.

Winona’s fever rose higher and higher under the excitement and thundering noise, and when, at last, Aunt Sallie had to explain to her that it was the Yankees and the war, she clung pitifully first to her, then to Cindy, trembling like a little, innocent hunted animal. Her nausea soon became so great that she had to give up, and take to her bed.

Why, what is the matter, little one?’' said Dr. Shippen, seeing her lying there so still.

Oh, sir, the big guns hurt me here,” she answered, placing both her hands to her throat.

Ah, there are many strong men out there in front, whose hearts are in their mouths too,” seriously replied the doctor, sitting down on the side of the bed, and feeling her pulse. In a moment he turned to Aunt Sallie saying, Madame, you have here a very sick child. While I am here. I’m at your service, and will do all I can for her.”

Before Aunt Sallie had time to express her gratitude, a soldier stepped up to the back door and called her hurriedly : Madame,” he said, ‘‘ the men are tearing down your barn and out-houses. I think a word from you to General Sherman would save them — ” tipped his cap and was gone.