I remember well when Abraham Lincoln was elected.
Boss and the madam had been reading the papers, when he broke
out with the exclamation: "The very idea of electing a old
rail splitter to the presidency of the United States! Well he'll
never take his seat." When Lincoln was inaugurated, Boss,
old Master Jack and a great company of men met at our house to
discuss the matter, and they were wild with excitement. Was not
this excitement an admission that their confidence in their ability
to whip the Yankees, five or six to one, was not so strong as
they pretended?
The war had been talked of for some time, but
at last it was time. When the rebels fired upon Fort Sumpter,
then great excitement arose. The next day when I drove Boss to
town, he went into the store of one Williams, a merchant, and
when he came out, he stepped to the carriage, and said: "What
do you think? Old Abraham Lincoln has called for four hundred
thousand men to come to Washington immediately. Well, let them
come; we will make a breakfast of them. I can whip a half dozen
Yankees with my pocket knife." This was the chief topic everywhere.
Soon after this Boss bought himself a six shooter. I had to mould
the bullets for him, and every afternoon he would go out to practice.
By his direction, I fixed a large piece of white paper on the
back fence, and in the center of it put a large black dot. At
this mark he would fire away, expecting to hit it; but he did
not succeed well. He would sometimes miss the fence entirely,
the ball going out into the woods beyond. Each time he would shoot
I would have to run down to the fence to see how near he came
to the mark. When he came very near to it—within an inch
or so, he would say laughingly: "Ah! I would have got him
that time." (Meaning a Yankee soldier.) There was something
very ludicrous in this pistol practice of a man who boasted that
he could whip half a dozen Yankees with a jacknife. Every day
for a month this business, so tiresome to me, went on. Boss was
very brave until it came time for him to go to war, when his courage
oozed out, and he sent a substitute; he remaining at home as a
"home guard." One day when I came back with the papers
from the city, the house was soon ringing with cries of victory.
Boss said: "Why, that was a great battle at Bull Run. If
our men had only known, at first, what they afterwards found out,
they would have wiped all the Yankees out, and succeeded in taking
Washington."
PETTY DISRESPECT TO THE EMBLEM OF THE UNION
Right after the bombardment of Fort Sumpter,
they brought to Memphis the Union flag that floated over the fort.
There was a great jubilee in celebration of this. Portions of
the flag, no larger than a half dollar in paper money, were given
out to the wealthy people, and these evidences of their treason
were long preserved as precious treasures. Boss had one of these
pieces which he kept a long time; but, as the rebel cause waned
these reminders of its beginning were less and less seen, and
if any of them are now in existence, it is not likely that their
possessors will take any pride in exposing them to view.
As the war continued we would, now and then,
hear of some slave of our neighborhood running away to the Yankees.
It was common when the message of a Union victory came to see
the slaves whispering to each other: "We will be free."
I tried to catch everything I could about the war, I was so eager
for the success of the Union cause. These things went on until.
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH, APRIL 9, 1862
Boss came hurrying in one morning, right after
breakfast, calling to me: "Lou, Lou, come; we have a great
victory! I want to go up and carry the boys something to eat.
I want you and Matilda to get something ready as quickly as you
can." A barrel of flour was rolled into the kitchen, and
my wife and I "pitched in" to work. Biscuit, bread,
hoe-cake, ham, tongue — all kinds of meat and bread were
rapidly cooked; and, though the task was a heavy one for my wife
and me, we worked steadily; and, about five o'clock in the afternoon
the things were ready. One of the large baskets used to hold cotton
was packed full of these provisions. Our limbs ached from the
strain of the work, for we had little help. One reason for the
anxiety of the Boss for the preparation of this provision for
the soldiers was that he knew so many in one of the companies,
which was known as the "Como Avengers," and he had a
son, a nephew and a brother of his wife connected with it; the
latter a major on Gen. Martin's staff. On the following morning
I got up early, and hurried with my work to get through, as I
had to go to the postoffice. Madam hurried me off, as she expected
a letter from her husband, who had promised to write, at the earliest
moment, of their friends and relatives. I rushed into the city,
at full speed, got some letters and a morning paper, and, returning
as rapidly as possible, gave them to her. She grasped them eagerly,
and commenced reading the paper. In a short time I heard her calling
me to come to her. I went in, and she said, in great excitement:
"Louis, we want to have you drive us into town, to see the
Yankee prisoners, who are coming through, at noon, from Shiloh."
I went and told Madison to hitch up, as soon as he could. In the
meantime I got myself ready, and it was not long before we were
off for the city. The madam was accompanied by a friend of hers,
a Mrs. Oliver. We were at the station in plenty of time. About
twelve o'clock the train from Shiloh drew into the station; but
the prisoners that were reported to be on board were missing —
it proved to be a false report. While they were looking for the
prisoners, Mrs. Oliver saw Jack, a servant of Edward McGee, brother
of madam. "Oh! Look," said Mrs. Oliver, "there
is Edward's Jack. Lou, run and call him." In a minute I was
off the carriage, leaving the reins in madam's hands. Jack came
up to the carriage, and the women began to question him: "Where
is your Master, Ed," asked both of them. "He is in the
car, Missis—he is shot in the ankle," said Jack. In
a minute the women were crying. "I was going to get a hack,"
said Jack, "to — " "No, No!" said both
of them. "Go, Lou, and help Jack to bring him to our carriage.
You can drive him more steadily than the hackman." Jack and
I went to the car, and helped him out, and after some effort,
got him into our carriage. Then I went and got a livery hack to
take the women and his baggage home. When we reached home, we
found there old Mrs. Jack McGee, mother of the madam, Mrs. Charles
Dandridge, Mrs. Farrington, sisters of madam, and Fanny, a colored
woman, Edward's housekeeper and mistress — a wife in all
but name. All of these had come to hear the news of the great
battle, for all had near relatives in it. Mrs. Jack McGee and
Mrs. Dr. Charles Dandridge had each a son in the terrible conflict.
MOURNING IN MASTER'S FAMILY
In the afternoon, when all were seated in the
library reading, and I was in the dining room, finishing up my
work, I happened to look out of the window, and saw a messenger
coming up the graveled walk. I went out to meet him. "Telegram
for Mrs. McGee," he said. I took it to her; and, reading
it without a word, she passed it to the next member of the family,
and so it was passed around until all had read it except Mrs.
Dandridge. When it was handed to her, I saw, at a glance, that
it contained for her the most sorrowful tidings. As she read she
became livid, and when she had finished she covered her face with
her handkerchief, giving a great, heavy sob. By this time the
whole family was crying and screaming: "Oh, our Mack is killed."
"Mars, Mack is killed," was echoed by the servants,
in tones of heart-felt sorrow, for he was an exceptional young
man. Every one loved him — both whites and blacks. The affection
of the slaves for him bordered on reverence, and this was true
not alone of his father's slaves, but all of those who knew him.
This telegram was from Boss, and announced that he would be home
the next day with the remains. Mrs. Farrington at once wrote to
old Master Jack and to Dr. Dandridge, telling them of Mack's death
and to come at once. After I mailed those letters nothing unusual
happened during the afternoon, and the house was wrapped in silence
and gloom. On the following morning I went for the mail as usual,
but there was nothing new. At noon, the remains of the much loved
young man arrived at our station, accompanied by Boss and Dr.
Henry Dandridge, brother of the father of the deceased, who was
a surgeon in the rebel army. I went to the station with another
servant, to assist in bringing the body to the house. We carried
it into the back parlor, and, after all had been made ready, we
proceeded to wash and dress it. He had lain on the battlefield
two days before he was found, and his face was black as a piece
of coal; but Dr. Henry Dandridge, with his ready tact, suggested
the idea of painting it. I was there to assist in whatever way
they needed me. After the body was all dressed, and the face painted,
cheeks tinted with a rosy hue, to appear as he always did in life,
the look was natural and handsome. We were all the afternoon employed
in this sad work, and it was not until late in the evening that
his father and mother came down to view the body for the first
time. I remember, as they came down the broad stairs together,
the sorrow-stricken yet calm look of those two people. Mrs. Dandridge
was very calm — her grief was too great for her to scream
as the others did when they went in. She stood and looked at her
Mack; then turning to Boss, she said: "Cousin Eddie, how
brave he was! He died for his country." Poor, sorrowing,
misguided woman! It was not for his country he died, but for the
perpetuation of the cruel, the infamous system of human slavery.
All the servants were allowed to come in and view the body. Many
sad tears were shed by them. Some of the older slaves clasped
their hands, as if in mute prayer, and exclaimed, as they passed
by the coffin: "He was a lovin boy." It seems that all
his company but five or six were killed. At an early hour next
morning the funeral party started for the home in Panola, where
the body of the lamented young man, sacrificed to an unholy cause,
was buried, at the close of the same day.
Edward stayed at our house some six weeks, his
ankle was so slow in getting well. At the end of that time, he
could walk with the aid of crutches, and he took Fanny and went
home.
ALARM OF THE MEMPHIS REBELS
Not long after this the people were very much
worked up over the military situation. The Yankees had taken Nashville,
and had begun to bombard Fort Pillow. The officials of the Memphis
and Ohio railroad company became alarmed at the condition of things,
fearing for the safety of their stock. The officers, therefore,
set about devising some plan by which they might get the cars
down on the Memphis and Jackson road, where they imagined their
property would be safe from the now terrible Yankees. The railroad
officials at once set to work to buy the right of way through
Main street, to give them the connection with the southern road
named. At first it was refused by the city authorities, but finally
the right of way was granted. When, however, the railroad men
began to lay the ties and rails, the people grew furious. Some
fled at once, for they imagined that this act of the railroad
officials indicated that the Yankees must be coming pretty near.
Boss became so excited, at this time, that he almost felt like
going away too. The family grew more and more uneasy; and it was
the continual talk: "We must get away from Memphis. The companies
are already moving their rolling stock, fearing the Yankees may
come at any time and destroy everything; we must get away,"
said Boss, speaking to the madam.
THE FAMILY FLEE FROM MEMPHIS
Things continued in this way until about June,
1862. The Union troops had taken Fort Pillow. We had heard the
firing of cannon, and did not know what it meant. One morning
I was in the city after the mail, and I learned that a transient
boat had just come down the river, which had lost a part of her
wheelhouse. She was fired on from Fort Pillow, sustaining this
serious damage from the shot. This increased the excitement among
the people; and our folks became alarmed right away, and commenced
talking of moving and running the servants away from the Yankees,
to a place of safety. McGee was trying for some time to get some
one to take the house, that is, to live in and care for it until
after the war, while the family were gone. They never thought
that slavery would be abolished, and so hoped to come back again.
After some search, they found a widow, a Mrs. Hancock. She was
to have full charge of the house and continue keeping boarders,
as she had been doing in Memphis. The vaunted courage of this
man seems to have early disappeared, and his thought was chiefly
devoted to getting his family and his slaves into some obscure
place, as far away as possible from the Yankees, that were to
be so easily whipped. We were about two weeks getting ready to
leave, stowing away some of the things they did not want to move.
The Boss and his family, my wife and I, and all the house servants
were to go to Panola, to his father's. The family went by rail,
but I had to drive through in a wagon.
I AM TAKEN TO BOLIVAR FARM
Soon after the family all reached Master Jack's,
Boss took me to his own farm in Bolivar county. This separated
me for a time from my wife, for she remained with the family.
I had to look after the house, at the farm, attend the dining
room, and, between meals, sew every day, making clothes for the
hands. I could run on the machine eighteen to twenty pairs of
pants a day, but two women made the button holes and did the basting
for me, getting the goods all ready for the machine.
CAPTURE OF A UNION TRADING BOAT
The Yankees had made a raid through Bolivar,
before I came, and the excitement had not abated, as they were
spreading themselves all through the state. There was a union
trading boat, the Lake City, that had been successful in exchanging
her goods for cotton that came from Memphis. She usually stopped
at Helena, Fryer's Point and other small towns; but on a trip
at this time she came about fifty miles farther down the river,
to Carson's Landing, right at Boss' farm. She was loaded with
all kinds of merchandise—sugar, tobacco, liquor, etc. She
had a crew of about forty men, but they were not well prepared
for a vigorous defense. The rebel soldiers stationed in the vicinity
saw her as she dropped her anchor near the landing, and they determined
to make an effort for her capture. They put out pickets just above
our farm, and allowed no one to pass, or stop to communicate with
the boat. Every one that sought to pass was held prisoner, and
every precaution taken to prevent those on the boat from learning
of the purposes of the rebels, knowing that the boat would land
in the morning, if not informed of the danger, and then it was
anticipated that they could easily make her a prize. There was
a small ferry boat behind the steamer, and as the latter dropped
down stream, and then steamed up to the landing, the former stood
off for a few moments. As the steamer touched shore, the rebels
charged on her, and captured her without a struggle. In the meantime
the ferry boat, seeing what had happened, sped away up stream,
the soldiers firing at her, but doing little damage,f except the
breaking of the glass in the pilot house. The rebels, seeing that
the ferry boat had escaped them, turned their attention to the
unloading of the steamer. They sent out for help in this work,
and the summons was answered by the neighbors far and near. Wagons
were brought, two of which were from our farm, and loaded with
goods, which were taken to Deer Creek, forty miles from Carson
Landing. What goods they found themselves unable to carry away
were packed in the warehouse. The steamer was then burned. McGee
was present, and the rebel captain gave him a written statement
of the affair to the effect that the residents were not responsible
for it, and that this should be a protection for them against
the Union forces. The officers and crew of the steamer to the
number of forty were made prisoners, and taken to Deer Creek,
the rebel headquarters of that region, and put in the jail there.
The ferry boat that escaped went to Helena, Arkansas, and carried
the news of the affair to the Union forces there.
BOSS TAKEN PRISONER
I was told by Boss to take my stand on our veranda,
and keep watch on the river, and if I saw any boat coming down
to let him know at once. I kept a close watch the next morning
until about eight o'clock, when I saw a boat, but she had almost
gone past our house before I discovered her. I ran into the house
and told Boss. He ordered me to get his horse at once, which I
did; and he mounted and went down to the landing as fast as he
could. Upon reaching there, he was taken prisoner by the Union
soldiers, who had just landed from the boat. All who came near
were captured. The Union soldiers went to work and transferred
all the goods which the rebels had put into the warehouse from
the boat which they had captured, then setting fire to the warehouse
and the postoffice, they pushed off yelling and shouting with
glee. Among those captured by the Union soldiers were three other
rich planters besides Boss, all of whom were taken to Helena.
After they had been there about a week, the planters offered to
secure the release of the Unionists captured on the boat which
the rebels had burned at Carson Landing, and who had been sent
to the rebel jail at Deer Creek, if they were guaranteed their
own release in exchange. They offered to bear the expense of a
messenger to the rebel officer, at Deer Creek, with this proposition.
The Union officer at Helena accepted the proposition, and the
messenger was sent off. It was arranged that he should stop over
at our house, both on his way down and back. Upon his return,
he stopped over night, and the next morning proceeded on his way.
When he had gone about five miles, he saw a flat-boat at a landing,
on which were people drinking and having a merry time. He stopped,
and went aboard; and, in joining the carousal, he soon became
so intoxicated that he was unable to go on with his journey. Among
those present was one Gilcrease, a cousin of the McGees, who recognized
the man as the messenger in this important business, went to him
and asked him for the letters he carried. The fellow refusing
to give them up, Gilcrease took them from him, and at once sent
to our overseer for a reliable man by whom to forward them to
the commandant at Helena. The overseer called me up from the cabin
to his room, and told me that I was to go to Helena to carry some
important papers, and to come to him for them in the morning,
and make an early start. I left him and went back to my cabin.
MY THIRD EFFORT FOR FREEDOM
I made up my mind that this would be a good chance
for me to run away. I got my clothes, and put them in an old pair
of saddle bags — two bags made of leather, connected with
a strip of leather, and used when traveling horseback for the
same purpose as a satchel is used in traveling in the cars. I
took these bags, carried them about a half mile up the road, and
hid them in a fence corner, where I could get them in the morning
when I had started on my trip. Fryer's Point, the place to which
I was to go, was about fifty miles from the farm. I started early
in the morning, and, after I had gone twenty-five miles, I came
to the farm of William McGee, a brother of the madam, and stopped
to change horses. I found that William McGee was going, in the
morning, down to old Master Jack's; so I took one of their horses,
leaving mine to use in its place, went right to Fryer's Point,
delivered the letters to a man there to carry to Helena, and got
back to William McGee's farm that night. I made up my mind to
go with William down to Panola, where madam was, to tell her about
Boss being captured. The next morning, he started, and Gibson,
his overseer and myself accompanied him. He questioned me about
the capture of Boss, what the soldiers had done, etc., and I told
him all I knew of the matter. "Well, Lou," he said,
"why did you not bring us some whisky?" "I did
bring a little with me," I said. He laughed, saying: "Oh,
well, when we come to some clear water we will stop and have a
drink." Then I said; "Mr. Smith will look for me to-night,
but he won't see me. I am going to tell the madam that Boss is
captured." "Hey, no!" he said, " then you
are running away." I replied: "Well I know Miss Sarah
don't know Boss is in prison." We traveled on, all three
of us, stopping at intervals to be refreshed. After two days,
we arrived at Panola. Our journey was a tedious one. The streams
were so swollen in places that we could hardly pass. The Tallehatchie
we had to swim, and one of the men came near losing his horse
and his life. The horses became tangled in a grape vine, as we
were nearing the shore at which we aimed, and, the current being
very swift, we were carried below the landing place; but, finally,
we got safely ashore, McGee landing, and we following. Reaching
Panola, wet and weary, I conveyed to madam the story of her husband's
capture and imprisonment, a rumor of which had already reached
her.
The next morning was Christmas, and a number
of the family had come to spend it together. They had heard that
McGee was captured and in prison; but, now, as I told them every
feature of the affair in detail, they grew excited and talked
wildly about it. Among those who came were Dr. Dandridge and his
wife, Blanton McGee and his wife, Tim Oliver and his wife. All
these women were daughters of old Master Jack McGee, and sisters
to the madam. Mrs. Farrington and old lady McGee were already
there. These re-unions on Christmas were a long established custom
with them, but the pleasure of this one was sadly marred by the
vicisitudes and calamities of the war. A shadow hung over all
the family group. They asked me many questions about Boss, and,
of course, I related all I knew.
After I had been there three days, they started
me back with letters for Boss. When I felt it was near night,
and I was to stop over at Master Jack's farm fifteen miles away.
It was expected that I would reach Fryer's Point on the third
morning, thus allowing me three days to go sixty miles; but I
could not make much headway, as the roads were so heavy. The understanding
was that I was to deliver the letters to the same gentleman, at
Fryer's, to whom I delivered the others, for forwarding to Boss
at Helena. I was then to go straight to the farm at Boliver, and
report to Smith, the overseer. But I had got about four miles
away, I concluded that I would not go back to the farm, but try
to get to the Yankees. I knew I had disobeyed Smith by going down
to the madam's to tell her about Boss, because he told me not
to go when I spoke to him about it. And now if I went back I feared
he would kill me; for I knew there would be no escape for me from
being run into the bull ring, and that torture I could not think
of enduring. I, therefore, stopped, and, taking the bridle and
saddle from the horse, hid them in the corner of a fence in a
cornfield. Then I went into the woods. The papers which I had
were in the saddlebag safe. The place where I stayed in the daytime
was in a large shuck-pen — a pen built in the field to feed
stock from, in the winter time. This pen was on Dr. Dandridge's
farm; and the second night I worked my way up near the house.
Knowing all the servants, I was watching a chance to send word
to the coachman, Alfred Dandridge, that I wanted him to tell my
wife that I was not gone. I went down to his cabin, in the quarters;
and, after a short time he came. I was badly scared, and my heart
was heavy and sore; but he spoke comfortingly to me, and I was
cheered, somewhat, especially when he promised to see Matilda,
and tell her of my whereabouts. He gave me some food, and hid
me away for the night in his house. I kept close all the next
day; and, at night, when all was still, Alfred and I crept out,
and went to old Master Jack's. The distance was not great, and
we soon covered it. Alfred went in and told my wife that I was
outside and wanted to see her. She came out, and was so frightened
and nervous that she commenced sobbing and crying, and almost
fainted when I told her, in low tones, that I was going to try
to get to Memphis, and that Alfred was helping to plan a way to
this end. The rebels occupied both roads leading to Memphis, and
I was puzzled to know how to reach the city without coming in
contact with them. Two days after I had talked with my wife, the
rebel troops who were camped on the Holly Springs road left for
some other point. My friend Alfred found this out, and came and
told me the encouraging news. The following night I went to old
Master Jack's and told my wife that the way now seemed clear,
and that I was going at once. I was bent on freedom, and would
try for it again. I urged my wife not to grieve, and endeavored
to encourage her by saying that I would return for her, as soon
as possible, should I succeed in getting to a land of freedom.
After many tears and blessings, we parted, and I left, Uncle Alfred
going with me some three miles, as I was not acquainted with the
road. When he left me I went on alone with gloomy forebodings,
but resolved to do my best in this hazardous undertaking, whatever
might happen. The road passed over hills and through swamps, and
I found the traveling very wearisome. I had travelled some hours,
and thought I was doing well; when, about one o'clock in the night,
I came up out of a long swamp, and, reaching the top of a hill,
I stopped for a moment's rest, raising myself to an erect position
from that of walking, inclined by reason of weariness and the
weight of the saddle-bags thrown across my shoulders. The weather
was bad, a heavy mist had come up, and it was so dark that I could
hardly see my way. As I started on, a soldier yelled at me from
the mist: "Halt! advance and give the countersign."
I stopped immediately, almost scared out of my wits. "Come
right up here," said the soldier, "or I'll blow you
into eternity." I saw at once he was a rebel soldier. I knew
not what to do. This place where I was halted was Nelson's farm,
and the house was held as headquarters for a company of rebel
soldiers, known as bushwhackers. While they belonged to the rebel
army, they were, in a measure, independent of its regulations
and discipline, kept back in the woods, ready for any depradation
upon the property of unionists — any outrage upon their
persons. The soldier who had halted me took me up to the house,
and all began to question me. I told them that I had been sent
on an errand, and that I had lost my way. The next morning I was
taken about a mile away down in the swamp, over hills and through
winding paths, till at last we came to the regular rebel camp.
I was in great fear and thought my end had come. Here they began
to question me again—the captain taking the lead; but I
still stuck to my story that I had been sent on an errand, and
had lost my way. I knew that this was my only chance. They tried
to make me say that I had come from the Yankees, as they were
in camp near Holly Springs. They thought the Yankees had sent
me out as a spy; but I said the same as at first — that
I had lost my way. A soldier standing by said: "Oh! we will
make you talk better than that;" and stepping back to his
horse, he took a sea-grass halter, and said: "I'll hang you."
There was a law or regulation of the rebel government directing
or authorizing the hanging of any slave caught running away; and
this fellow was going to carry it out to the letter. I talked
and pleaded for my life. My feelings were indescribable. God only
knows what they were. Dr. Carter, one of the soldiers, who knew
me and the entire McGee family, spoke up and said: "You had
better let me go and tell Mr. Jack McGee about him." The
captain agreed to this, and the doctor went. The following day,
Old Jack came, and steadily refused to consent to my being hung.
He said: "I know Edmund would not have him hung-ung. He is
too valuable-aluable. No, no! we will put him in jail and feed
him on bread and water—too valuable a nigger to be hung-ung."
They tried again to make me say that I was with
the Yankees. The whipped me a while, then questioned me again.
The dog-wood switches that they used stung me terribly. They were
commonly used in Mississippi for flogging slaves — one of
the refinements of the cruelty of the institution of slavery.
I refused to say anything different from what I had said; but
when they had finished whipping me I was so sore I could hardly
move. They made up their minds to put me in jail at Panola, twenty-two
miles away, to be fed on bread and water. The next day was Sunday,
and all arrangements having been made for taking me to the place
appointed for those whose crime was a too great love for personal
freedom, they started with me, passing on the way Old Master Jack's,
where they halted to let him know that his advice respecting me
was to be carried out. The old man called to my wife: "Come
out and see Louis." Some one had told her that they were
going to hang me; and I shall never forget her looks as she cause
out in the road to bid me good-by. One of the soldiers was softened
by her agony, and whispered to her: "Don't cry, aunty, we
are not going to hang him — we will only put him in jail."
I saw this changed my wife's looks in a minute. I said a few words
to her, and, with a prayer for God's blessing on us both, we parted,
and they moved on. After we had gone about seven miles, we met
two soldiers, who belonged to the regiment at Nelson. They said:
"Hello! where you going with that nigger?" The two men
in charge of me replied: "We are going to take him to Panola
jail." "Why," said one of the soldiers, "there
is no jail there; the Yanks passed through and pulled down the
doors and windows of the jail, and let all the prisoners out."
This caused a stop; and a council of war was held in the fence
corner, the result of which was decision to take me back to old
Jack McGee's. After we had gotten back there, they took me and
gave me another flogging to satisfy the madam. I was never so
lacerated before. I could hardly walk, so sore and weak was I.
The law was given me that if ever I was caught out in the public
road again, by any soldier, I was to be shot. Monday morning I
was sent to the field to plow; and, though I was very stiff and
my flesh seemed sore to the bone, my skin drawn and shriveled
as if dead, I had, at least, to make the attempt to work. To have
said: "Master, I am too sore to work," would only have
gotten me another whipping. So I obeyed without a word.
REBELS BURN THEIR COTTON
The capture of Memphis by the Union troops closed
the principal cotton market of the country, and there was, as
a consequence, an immense accumulation of the product in the hands
of the farmers of that region. They were, therefore, compelled
to resort to temporary expedients for its protection from the
elements. Old Master Jack had his piled up in a long rick, and
shelters built over it. Other farmers did the same. As cotton
was almost the only source of revenue for the farmers, and as
there was now no opportunity of getting it to market, there was
such a dearth of money as had seldom, if ever, been known, and
a corresponding dearth of those necessaries of life which money
was the only means of procuring. The accumulations of our family
in this product were very great. While the rebel farmers were
waiting for a time when they could turn their stores of this valuable
article into money, a proclamation was issued by the rebel government
that all the owners of cotton that had it stored on their farms
must prepare to have it burned. Hundreds of rebel soldiers marched
to every section of Mississippi that they could reach, and applied
the torch to these cotton ricks. The destruction was enormous.
This was to prevent the cotton from falling into the hands of
the Unionists. Jeff Davis said to his deluded followers that it
was better for them to destroy this property than to risk its
coming into the possession of their enemies, since that would
equally impoverish themselves, while it might result to the pecuniary
advantage of those with whom they were at war. I know that it
was a terrible sight when our cotton was burned. Hundreds of bales
were consumed, and it seemed like a wholly unnecessary destruction
of property, and, therefore, unwise as a war measure. Many were
sorry that they had acquiesced in the policy, as it cost them
thousands of dollars, and made many poor. They thought that possibly
their farms might have escaped the visits of the Union soldiers,
and the property, so much needed, been saved in whole or in part.
They reasoned, and reasoned correctly, that their condition would
in no sense have been worse if their cotton had not been burned
by their own soldiers but might have been much better in many
cases, without any real detriment to the rebel cause. The sacrifice
of the property of their own people, by the rebel authorities,
was evidence of the desperation of the condition of the rebellion,
and was so regarded by not a few at that time. Those were terrible
days. One could see anxiety written on every face among the whites.
The slaves even looked worried at times, though the war meant
so much to them, as they were always looking forward to freedom,
at its close, if the Union troops were successful.
MY FOURTH RUNAWAY TRIP
After I had been working on the farm about two
months, and had thoroughly talked the matter over with Alfred
Dandridge, we planned to make a careful and persistent effort
to escape from the land of bondage. We thought that as others,
here and there, all through the neighborhood, were going, we would
make trial of it. My wife and I were at old Master Jacks; and,
after we had consulted with Alfred and Lydia, his wife, we all
concluded to go at once. Alfred had been a teamster for Dandridge
for many years, and was familiar with the road, as he had hauled
cotton into Memphis for his master for so long a time he could
hardly tell when he began. Matt Dandridge was a fellow servant,
belonging to the same man, and both had, as was not unusual, taken
their master's name, or, rather, were known by it. Matt had learned
of our purpose to run away, and concluded to join our party. So
one night, when all was still, we started. Uncle Alfred, as I
always called him, was to be our leader. He was older than any
of the rest of us, and had had a good deal of experience; we,
therefore, all looked to him — in fact, we relied entirely
upon him. After we had traveled about twelve miles, we came to
a swamp, called Hicke-Halley. Here we stopped, as day was dawning,
and settled down for the day, as we could travel only in the night,
lest we should be seen and caught. We were wet — our clothes
soaked through from the heavy dew. We had to travel through corn
fields, cotton patches, oat fields and underbrush, not daring
to take the main road. This is why we were so wet. Uncle Alfred
traveled wholly by the stars — they were his guide. He knew
by looking at them the four cardinal points of the compass. Many
old slaves were guided in this way when traveling in the night,
and some could tell the time of night by the position of the stars.
We stayed in Hicke-Halley all day, and in the evening, when it
was dark enough, we started on again, Uncle Alfred offering up
a prayer to God to guide us safely through. Cold Water was our
next stopping place, and here a difficulty rose before us that
made us fearful. We had nothing to wear but what we had on, and
not much of that, so had small space for carrying anything, and,
therefore, had brought with us only a little bite to eat. As we
had lived on this small provision for a day, there was now but
little left for our increasing wants; and the difficulty of securing
anything from the houses without danger of detection was almost
insurmountable. But we felt encouraged as we thought of what we
were striving for, and sped on our way. But the way was hard,
for sometimes we got completely stuck in brier patches, and had
to turn and go back, in order to find a way out. Old logs and
driftwood, that had been piled up year after year, were other
obstacles in our way; and one can imagine how hard it was to make
our way through such a mass of brush and forrest by the dim light
of the stars as they struggled through the dense branches of the
trees. We stumbled on, however, as best we could, each fearful,
yet silently praying for guidance and help. When within four or
five miles of Cold Water, Uncle Alfred stopped, and cautioned
us not to speak above a whisper, as the rebel troops were camped
on both sides of us. We were in a swamp between the two roads,
gradually working our way through to the river, as we could not
go on either of the roads for fear of detection. At the bridges,
where these roads crossed the river, there were rebel camps, and
it was useless for us to think of crossing either. We, therefore,
worked our way carefully through the thicket that we were in until
we came within sight of the river. Then Uncle Alfred went ahead,
creeping a few steps, then stopping to see if the river was clear
of soldiers. From this point it was some two and a half miles
to the bridges, each way; and it was our idea that if we could
cross here without being seen by the soldiers, we would be all
right. Uncle Alfred came back to us and told us that he thought
the way was clear. "I can not hear a sound," said he,
"so let us go on." We followed the river down until
we came to a place where we could cross. Here we found some drift-wood—an
old tree had been blown down, nearly across the river, leaving
a space of about twenty feet. Over this natural bridge we crept
to the open space which we waded, the water being up to our knees;
but we did not mind this. There was no talking above a whisper,
or fear of being heard by the soldiers. Daylight had begun to
dawn, and we felt good that we had succeeded thus far. We went
on quietly until we got entirely out of the swamp and reached
some hills. The woods were on each side of us and still thick;
so we stopped here, on the side of a hill, where the sun shone
brightly on us, expecting to rest for the day. Our clothes had
already become quite dry from the sunshine; and, so far, we felt
all right. Alfred and I had made a turn around the place, listening
to see if we could hear any noise, or see any trace of soldiers;
but we discovered no trace of them, and went back to our stopping
place. I had been asleep and some of the others were still asleep,
when suddenly I heard the yelp of blood hounds in the distance.
It seemed quite far away at first, but the sound came nearer and
nearer, and then we heard men yelling. We knew now that they were
on our trail, and became so frightened that we all leaped to our
feet, and were about to run, when Uncle Alfred said: "Stop
children, let me oil you feet." He had with him a bottle
of ointment made of turpentine and onions, a preparation used
to throw hounds off a trail. All stopped; and the women, having
their feet anointed first, started off, Uncle Alfred telling them
to run in different directions. He and I were the last to start.
Alfred said: "Don't let the bushes touch you;" at the
same time he ran through the bushes with such a rattling noise
one could have heard him a great distance. He wore one of those
old fashioned oil cloth coats made in Virginia; and, as he ran,
the bushes, striking against the coat, made a noise like the beating
of a tin board with sticks. The funny part of it was that, having
cautioned us to be careful about noise, he made more than all
of us. By this time the woods were resounding with the yelping
of the hounds and the cries of their masters. The hounds numbered
some fourteen. The men howled and cheered in concert with the
brutes, for they knew that they were on the right trail, and it
would be but a short time before they caught us all. I had gotten
further away than any of them. Having run about a mile, I came
to a farm, and started across an open field, hoping to reach a
wood beyond, where I might conceal myself. Before I was half way
across the field, on looking back, I saw the dogs coming over
the fence, and knowing there was no chance of my getting to the
woods, I turned around, and ran back to a persimmon tree, and
just had time to run up one of the branches when the dogs came
upon the ground. I looked and saw the men, Williams the nigger-catcher,
and Dr. Henry and Charles Dandridge. As soon as Williams rode
up, he told me to come down, but I was so frightened I began to
cry, yet came down trembling. The dogs laid hold of me at once,
tearing my clothes and biting my flesh. Dr. Dandridge was just
riding up, and seeing what was happening, yelled out to Williams:
"I thought your dogs didn't bite." "Oh! well,"
said Williams, "he aint hurt — we've got to let 'em
bite a little."
They took us all back to the fence where I crossed
over, all the others having been caught. Our hearts were filled
with dismay. All looked as if they were condemned to be hung.
We knew not what was to be done with us. The women were pitiful
to see, crying and moaning — all courage utterly gone. They
started back with us to Old Master Jack's, at Panola, and we stopped
for the night at a small farm house. The old woman who kept it
said, tauntingly: "You niggers going to the Yankees? You
all ought to be killed." We started on the following morning,
and got back home at one o'clock in the afternoon. All of us were
whipped. All the members of the family were very angry. Old Lady
Jack McGee was so enraged that she said to my wife: "I thought
you were a Christian. You'll never see your God." She seemed
to think that because Matilda had sought freedom she had committed
a great sin.
INCIDENTS
Ever since the beginning of the war, and the
slaves had heard that possibly they might some time be free, they
seemed unspeakably happy. They were afraid to let the masters
know that they ever thought of such a thing, and they never dreamed
of speaking about it except among themselves. They were a happy
race, poor souls! notwithstanding their down-trodden condition.
They would laugh and chat about freedom in their cabins; and many
a little rhyme about it originated among them, and was softly
sung over their work. I remember a song that Ann Kitty, the cook
at Master Jack's used to sing. It ran something like this:
There'll be no more talk about Monday, by and
by,
But every day will be Sunday, by and by.
The old woman was singing, or rather humming,
it one day, and old lady McGee heard her. She was busy getting
her dinner, and I suppose never realized she was singing such
an incendiary piece, when old Mrs. McGee broke in upon her: "Don't
think you are going to be free; you darkies were made by God and
ordained to wait upon us." Those passages of Scripture which
refer to master and servants were always cited to us when we heard
the Word preached; and they were interpreted as meaning that the
relation of master and slave was right and proper—that they
were rightly the masters and we the slaves.
I remember, not long after Jeff Davis had been
elected president of the Confederacy, that I happened to hear
old Master Jack talking to some of the members of the family about
the war, etc. All at once the old man broke out: "And what
do you think! that rascal, Abraham Lincoln, has called for 300,000
more men. What is Jeff Davis doin'-doin'? He talked on, and seemed
so angry that he gave no one a chance to answer: "Jeff Davis
is a grand rascal-rascal," said he, "he ought to go
into the field himself." At first all the Southerners were
jubilant over Davis; but as they were losing so, and the Unionists
gaining, they grew angry and denounced him oftentimes in unsparing
terms.
UNION RAID AT MASTER'S FARM
During the time the Union headquarters were at
Helena, a Union gun-boat came down the river as far as Boliva,
and stopped at Miles McGee's. The soldiers made a raid through
the farm, taking chickens, turkeys, meat and everything that they
could lay hands on. During this raid Miles McGee came out of the
house with a gun, and shot the commanding officer of the party.
He became alarmed over that he had done, and hid in the cabin
of one of the servants. He never came near the house. The Union
soldiers came three different times to catch him, but never succeeded.
The last time they came, he made for the canebrake, and hid himself
there until they were gone. But though he had escaped their righteous
vengeance, he became so nervous that he left his hiding place
in the canebraker, and went to Atlanta, Ga., and staid there among
friends until things became more quiet. At last wearying of this,
he determined to return to old Master Jack's, but not to his own
home. Word had been received of his coming, and great preparations
were made for his reception. After he had started on his return,
he was taken ill on the train, and was left at a small town called
Jackson, where he soon died.
I drove the family to the depot upon the day
of his expected arrival, and as the train came in, the women waved
their handkerchiefs; and, when the conductor stepped off, they
asked him if Mr. McGee was aboard. He said no — " I
have his remains." The scene that followed, I can not describe
— such wailing and screaming! I could not but feet sad,
even though they had treated me so meanly, causing the death of
my children, and separating me from my wife. Their grief was indeed
great. The sad news was conveyed to his mother, old Mrs. Jack
McGee, at the house by an advance messenger, and we soon followed
with the body. He was the favorite son of his mother, and her
grief was very great. But for his wanton shooting of the Union
officer, he would probably not have met his death as he did.
UNION SOLDIERS PASS THE PANOLA HOME
One winter night, while I was at old Master Jack's,
I was awakened by a rumbling noise like that of heavy wagons,
which continued steadily and so long a time that I finally concluded
it must be an army passing, and such I found to be the case, upon
getting up and venturing out, the rumbling which had awakened
me being caused by the passing artillery.
I was afraid to go out straight to the soldiers,
but would take a few steps at a time, then stop and listen behind
a tree or the shrubbery. All seemed quiet—there was no talking.
I had listened about twenty minutes when there seemed to be a
halt at the creek, some distance from the house. Soon afterwards
I heard the command given: "Forward!" I at once made
up my mind that they were Yankee soldiers. I got on my knees and
crawled to the fence, not daring to go openly, fearing that they
might hear or see me and shoot, supposing me to be a spy. I went
back into the house and told my wife that they were Yankees who
had just passed. "Uncle George," said I, "this
would be a good time for us to go." "Oh, no," said
he, "we are not quiet ready." Uncle George's cabin was
where my wife and I stayed while at old Master Jack's. In the
morning I was to carry a parcel to Como, a place not far from
home, to Mr. James McGee, who was in the rebel army. It was not
quite daylight when I made ready to go on my trip, for I was anxious
to find out more about the soldiers. Going to the stable and saddling
my horse, I mounted and rode out to the big gate leading to the
main road, just as day was dawning. As I dismounted to open the
gate, some soldiers were passing and an officer sung out to me,
"Hello!, which way are you going." I said "To Como,
to carry this parcel of clothing to my young master in the war."
"You have a fine horse," said the officer, "I guess
I will exchange horses with you." He took my package of clothing
and some letters which I had to mail and my horse, leaving me
his, which was a very poor animal. I was badly scared at this
performance, fearing that I would be severely whipped for the
loss of the horse and package. Yet how could I help it? We knew
nothing but to serve a white man, no matter what he asked or commanded.
As a matter of course, I did not go to Como, as I had nothing
to take—the officer had everything, but went back to the
cabin. I supposed that the soldiers had all passed; but in about
half an hour Aunt Kitty, on looking out of her cabin window, exclaimed:
"My God! just look at the soldiers!" The yard was covered
with the blue coats. Another venerable slave said: "My Lord!
de year of jubilee am come." During the excitement I ran
to the big house, and told the madam that the Yankees were there,
and had taken my horse and every thing I had. Old Master Jack
had heard the news, but was not able to come out. He had arisen,
but, when he knew of the presence of the Yankees, he went back
to bed, calling for Kitty to get him a mush poultice. "Tell
Kitty-ity-ity to get me a mush poultice-oltice." It was customary,
after the beginning of the war, for him to take sick, and call
for a poultice to be put upon his stomach whenever he heard of
the Yankees being near. He and many like him were especially valorous
only when the blue coats were far away. The soldiers went into
the dairy and drank all the milk, helped themselves to butter,
cheese, meat, bread and everything in sight which they wanted.
Nothing was said to them by the white folks, but the slaves were
glad, and whispered to each other: "Ah! we's goin' to be
free." Old Master Jack, lying on his couch would ask every
little while: "Where are they? Are they gone?" After
they had all left the premises, he said: My God! I can't stand
it. Them devils-evils are just goin' through the country destroyin'
everything." I was sent down to get Uncle Peter for old master,
and when Peter came up the old man asked: "Well, did any
of the servants go away? And, sir, them devils took Louis' horse
and the clothes he had for his young master."
HIDING VALUABLES FROM THE YANKEES
Right after this the McGees commenced planning
to put away their valuables, to keep them from the Union soldiers.
All the servants had to fill up their bed-ticks with fine gin
cotton — the lint part — for safe keeping. Great boxes
and barrels were packed full of their best things, and put into
the cellar, under the house. It was not exactly a cellar, but
a large shallow excavation, which held a great deal. We put all
the solid silver ware, such as cake baskets, trays, spoons, forks,
dishes, etc., in boxes, and buried them under the hen house. Great
packages of the finest clothing I had to make up, and these were
given in charge of certain servants whose duty it was to run into
the big house and get them, whenever they heard that the Yankees
were coming, and take them to their cabins. This was a shrewd
arrangement, for the soldiers never went into the cabins to get
anything. When the soldiers had passed, these packages were taken
back to the house. It speaks well for the honesty and faithfulness
of the slaves that such trusts could be devolved upon them, notwithstanding
all the cruelties inflicted upon them by their masters.
DEATH TO RUNAWAY SLAVES
It was about this time, that the law or regulation
of the rebel government was promulgated, authorizing or directing
the shooting or hanging of any slave caught trying to get away
to the Union army. This barbarous law was carried out in many
cases, for every little while we would hear of some slave who
was caught running away, and hung or shot. A slave belonging to
Boss, ran away, and got safely within the Union lines; but he
returned to get his sister. They both got away from the house,
but had gone only a few minutes, when William McGee overtook them,
and shot the man dead. William boasted of this, but told Uncle
Peter, the foreman, that he never wanted it mentioned.
SLAVES HUNG AND LEFT TO ROT AS A WARNING
Two slaves belonging to one Wallace, one of our
nearest neighbors, had tried to escape to the Union soldiers,
but were caught, brought back and hung. All of our servants were
called up, told every detail of the runaway and capture of the
poor creatures and their shocking murder, and then compelled to
go and see them where they hung. I never shall forget the horror
of the scene — it was sickening.
The bodies hung at the roadside, where the execution
took place, until the blue flies literally swarmed around them,
and the stench was fearful. This barbarous spectacle was for the
purpose of showing the passing slaves what would be the fate of
those caught in the attempt to escape, and to secure the circulation
of the details of the awful affair among them, throughout all
the neighborhood. It is difficult at this day for those not familiar
with the atrocities of the institution of slavery to believe that
such scenes could ever have been witnessed in this or any other
civilized land, as a result simply of a human being's effort to
reach a portion of the country, where the freedom of which it
was said to be the home, could be enjoyed without molestation.
Yet such was the horrible truth in not one case alone, but in
many, as I know only too well.
RUNAWAY SLAVE CAUGHT AND WHIPPED
One day while I was waiting at dinner, some of
the children from the slave quarters came running into the house,
and said to old Master Jack: "Uncle John is going away —
he is down to the creek." He had been put in the carpenter
shop, fastened in the stocks, but by some means he had gotten
the stocks off his feet, and got lose. All in the house immediately
got up and ran out. Old master told me to run and catch the runaway.
I did not like to do it, but had to obey. Old master and I ran
in pursuit, and soon overtook him. He could not run, as the stocks
were still on his arms and neck. We brought him back, and he was
"staked out"—that is, four stakes were driven
into the ground, the arms tied to two and the legs to the other
two. He was then paddled with the whipping paddle upon the bottom
of his feet, by old Master Jack, until blood blisters arose, when
he took his knife and opened them. I was then sent for salt and
water, and the bruises of the suffering chattel were washed as
usual in the stinging brine.
A HOME GUARD ACCIDENTALLY SHOOTS HIMSELF
After the capture of Memphis by the Union force,
the soldiers were in the habit of making raids into the surrounding
country. These were a source of alarm and anxiety among the people,
and they were constantly on the watch to defend their property
and themselves, as best they could. One day Dr. Charles Dandridge
went over to one of our neighbors, Mr. Bobor's, to practice shooting,
and to see if he had heard anything new about the war. It was
the custom of the home-guards to meet weekly, and practice with
their fire-arms, in order to be the better prepared, as they pretended,
for any sudden incursion of the now dreaded Yankee. Mr. Bobor
had gotten a Yankee pistol from some friend, who was in the army,
and Dr. Charles wanted to see and try it. It was shown him, and
its workings explained. He took it and began shooting, and in
showing the other men how quickly he could shoot a Yankee, and
mount his horse, he accidentally shot himself under the short
rib near his heart, and fell to the ground. All the men came running
to him, picked him up and carried him into the house, immediately
sending word to Mrs. Dandridge and Master Jack McGee, his father-in-law.
The boys came hurrying in, and told us what had happened. I hitched
up and drove Boss over to Mr. Bobor's. We found the wounded man
rapidly sinking; and when, a little later, his wife came, he could
not speak—only clasped her hand. He died that night, and
we carried his body to the home, which so short a time before,
he had left in health and high spirits.
No casket was to be had — everything of
that kind had been consumed or shut out by the war. Accordingly
two slaves were ordered to make a coffin, which they did, using
plain boards. It was then covered with black alapaca from a dress
of the madam, and lined with the cloth from Mrs. Dandridge's opera
cloak. The regular material used for these purposes was not to
be had. By the time the coffin was ready, the body was so bloated,
that it could not be got into it. Resort was then had to a plain
box, and in this the body of another of the stricken family group
was laid away. At the suggestion of old Master Jack, the coffin
was put up in the carriage house, for safe keeping, he saying
it would do for him to be burried in. Sorrow had come to this
family with such crushing force, that their former pride and boastful
spirit had given place to utter dejection.
SUBSTITUTES FOR COFFEE
During the war everything was scarce and dear,
and substitutes were devised for many of those things which had
formerly been regarded as the necessaries of life. Sweet potatoes
were peeled, then cut in small pieces and put out in the sun to
dry. They were then used as a substitute for coffee, when that
article became so scarce, toward the close of the war. Great quantities
of this preparation were used. Okra was another substitute for
coffee. It was dried in the pod, then the seeds shelled out, and
these were dried again and prepared something as the coffee is.
This made a delicious drink when served with cream, being very
rich and pleasant to the taste. Quinine was a medicine that had
been of almost universal use in the south; yet it became so scarce
that it was sold at seven dollars a bottle, and could not often
be had at that price. Lemon leaves were used as a substitute in
cases of chills and fever. The leaves were made into a tea, and
give to the patient hot, to produce prespiration. During an attack
of chills, I was treated in this manner to some advantage. At
any rate I got well, which can not always be said of all methods
of treatment.
Chapter
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