"HURRAH FOR JEFF DAVIS!"
Had I done so, I would have been torn to pieces by crowds surging through the streets. All business was suspended, the streets were jammed. I bought a paper and got out of the crowd as quickly as possible. I hardly stirred out of the office of my friend all day, so fearful was he that my mouth would get me into trouble. The next day I attended Dr. Scott's church (Presbyterian) where I frequently went because he was from New Orleans. His and the Methodist Church, South, were the only churches which did not have flag staffs on them. A mob gathered on Saturday night and burned the old doctor in effigy and wrapped the lamp posts and the front of the church in American flags. In the streets Sunday morning was a wild mob of several thousand. The house was packed with an immense audience of men—only two ladies present, one the wife of the preacher. The sermon was a plain gospel sermon, with no reference whatever to the surroundings. After the service a large company of police fought their way through the crowd at the head of the carriage which conveyed the preacher and his family. On the next steamer, the good man sailed for New York, where I afterwards learned, he was pastor of a Presbyterian church during the four years of the war. It is impossible for one who was not there, to conceive of the excitement. Dr. Scott had said nothing to provoke this outbreak, except at the meeting of his Presbytery, he protested against the custom then prevailing of putting flag staffs on the church buildings. Though I was a Baptist, I did not affiliate much with the people of my faith because they had gone into politics—the preacher's prayers and sermons being leveled against the South. O. P. Fitzgerald, now a Bishop in Nashville, was pastor of the little Methodist Church, South, in the city. He had regular appointments at Oakland in the afternoons. I became very fond of him and he knew me right well. When the Southern Baptist Convention met in Nashville some years ago, the aged Bishop was introduced to the body. After the close of the session I approached him with the remarks: "You never saw me before?" Instantly he replied: "Yes, sir, this is Crumpton. I knew you by your voice." It had been thirty years since we had met. In such an atmosphere as we breathed in California in those days, it is not strange that Southern sympathizers began laying plans and schemes for getting back South.
[Chapter Three]
A firm resolve broken; A layover at Pittsburg; At Beloit, Wis.; The fall of Fort Donelson.
COMPANIES were secretly organized and meeting places agreed upon far out on the eastern border. Some of these companies were butchered by the Indians; others overtaken and captured by the Federal cavalry. My brother, suspecting my state of mind, came out and we held a conference. He had large interests there and some in Alabama. He proposed to leave me there to look after his affairs while he came through the lines; but that was not my mind at all. I announced my purpose to go. He was opposed to my attempting the trip across the plains no matter how strong the company that accompanied me. He wanted me to run no risks. He planned the trip—back over the same route to New York, thence to Wisconsin to the home of an old friend, to remain until spring—meantime, corresponding with Col. U. S. Grant, the military commander at Cairo, Ill., to get a pass, if possible, on some pretext or other, through the lines.