It was sad to think of the departed days. Our reflections were of what the place had been, what it was, and what it might have been, had Maryland in the beginning of her history accepted Freedom instead of Slavery.
Taverns are not frequent in the vicinity of Pomunkey, and it was necessary that we should seek private hospitality for the night. A first attempt for accommodations brought us to a house, but the owner had no oats, hay, or corn; a second ride in from the highway, brought us to a whitewashed farm-house, with immense outside chimneys, piazza, adjoining mud-chinked negro-quarters, with chimneys of sticks and clay, and a dozen surrounding buildings,—as usual, all tumbling to pieces. Explanations as to who we were secured kind hospitality from the host, a gray-headed man, with a family consisting of his wife, three grown-up sons, and nine adult daughters.
"Such as I have is at your service, gentlemen," said our host. But he had no hay, no oats, no corn, nothing but shucks for our horses. Our supper consisted of fried pork, fried salt shad, pone, wheat-cakes, pea-coffee, strawberry-leaf tea, sweetened with damp brown sugar!
"We don't raise butter in this section of the State," said our host, in apology.
The supper was relished after an afternoon ride of thirty miles. The evening being chilly, a roaring fire was kept up in the old-fashioned fireplace. The daughters put on their most attractive attire, and left nothing untried to entertain their three visitors. Could we dance? Unfortunately we could not. It was a serious disappointment. They evidently had anticipated having "a good time." One of the ladies could play a violin, and treated us to jigs, reels, and hornpipes.
"You must sing the gentlemen a song, Jane," said one.
Jane turned scarlet at the suggestion, but finally, after polite requests and a little urging, turned her back to the company, faced the corner of the room, and sang a love-song. She could sing "Dixie," but knew nothing of the "Star-Spangled Banner" or "Hail Columbia." The young ladies were in sympathy with the Rebellion.
"It must be expected that Southern people should sympathize with the South," said our host.
"You own some slaves?" I said.
"I have three servants, sir. I think," he added, "that the people of Eastern Maryland would be more favorable towards the Union if they could be assured that the war would not finally become one of emancipation. My neighbor over there had a servant who ran away into the camp of one of the New York regiments. He went after him. The Colonel told the master to take him, but the servant wouldn't leave till the Colonel drew his pistol and threatened to shoot him. But notwithstanding that, I reckon that the war will make them restless." It was spoken frankly and unreservedly.