On board the Storm were several other men who had been driven from their homes by the Secessionists. There was one gentleman, a slaveholder from the little town of Volney, between Hopkinsville and the Cumberland River. All of his property had been taken, his negroes, if they were not sold or seized, were roaming at will. He had two brothers in the Rebel army. He was a plain, sensible, well-informed farmer. He lived close upon the Tennessee line, and was acquainted with the Southern country.
"Slavery is a doomed institution," said he; "from Kentucky, from Missouri, from Maryland and Virginia the slaves have been pouring southward. There has been a great condensation of slaves at the South where they are not wanted, and where they cannot be supported if the blockade continues. The South never has raised its own provisions. She could do it if she put forth her energies; but she never has and she will not now. The time will come, if the blockade continues, when the master will be compelled to say to the slaves, 'Get your living where you can,' and then the system, being rolled back upon itself, will be broken up. As for myself, I would like to have kept my slaves, because I am getting along in years and I wanted them to take care of me; but as the Secessionists have taken them and driven me out, it won't make any difference to me whether the system is continued or not."
It is utterly impossible to convey to a New-Englander who has never crossed the Hudson a correct idea of a Kentucky country village, like that of Calhoun, as seen from the deck of the steamer Storm, in the light of a beautiful morning, so mild and spring-like that the robins, bluebirds, jays, pewits, and sparrows were filling the air with their songs, having returned from their sojourn in a Southern clime. A sentinel was plashing through the mud along the bank, guarding the ferry to the town of Rumsey, on the opposite side of the river. The bank rises abruptly into the main street of the town. First we have the McLean House, the first-class hotel of the place,—a wooden building two stories high, containing six or eight rooms. There is beyond it one brick building, then a number of smaller buildings containing a couple of rooms each, and forty rods distant a church, respectable in style and proportions. The land is undulating, and on the hillsides there are dwellings, a half-dozen of which you might call comfortable. The original forest oaks are still standing. A creek or bayou runs through the town, the receptacle of all the filth generated by ten thousand men, and thousands of mules, horses, and hogs.
Rumsey, on the opposite side of the river, is of smaller dimensions. Years ago it was a "right smart" town, but business has disappeared. The people have also gone, and now one sees a row of windowless, doorless, deserted houses, soaked in every flood of waters.
Visiting the "first class" hotel of the place, we sat down in the parlor or reception-room, or whatever room it was, while the cook prepared breakfast. It was also the landlord's bed-room, occupied by himself and wife.
Calling upon the landlord for a place for toilet operations, we were invited into the kitchen which was also the dining-room and pantry and Jim's bed-room,—Jim being a tall negro, who just now is washing dishes, with a tin pan of hot water, and without any soap. Dinah is rolling biscuit, and tending the hoe-cake, which is cooking nicely on the stove. There is the flour-barrel close at hand. There is one dinner-pot, with two kettles, a pail of water, a lantern, the pepper-box, a dish of fat, a plate of butter, and a great heap of tin dishes on the table, where Dinah is moulding the biscuit, while Jim occupies the other end. The dining-table stands in the centre of the room. The plates are laid, and the whole is covered with a blue cloth, which at first sight seems to be a soldier's blanket, and which upon close inspection leaves us still in doubt whether it is a table-cloth or a bed-coverlet. There are some chairs, and an old desk which has lost its lid, in which are nails, a hammer, some old papers, and a deal of dust. It evidently "came down from a former generation."
We have time to notice these things while the landlord is preparing for our washing exploit, which is to be performed near Jim, with a basin on a chair.
Then we have breakfast,—beefsteak and porksteak, and buckwheat cakes, all fried in lard, sausages, potatoes, Dinah's hoe-cakes, hot flour biscuit, and a dish of hash, which will not go down at all, and coffee without milk, preferred to the water of Green River, which in its natural state is somewhat the color of yellow snuff, and which is drank by the inhabitants of Calhoun, notwithstanding thousands of horses are stabled on its banks.
There was no movement of the troops, therefore nothing to detain us at Calhoun, and knowing that there was something of interest up the Cumberland and Tennessee rivers, we went on board the Mattie Cook, the downward-bound steamer. While waiting for her departure we gazed at the sights upon the shore. There was a great deal of life,—wagons, soldiers, citizens floundering through the mud to the landing, transporting goods. There were ludicrous scenes of men and teams stuck in the mortar-bed; but in the midst of life there was death. A squad of soldiers came down from camp to the hospital with a bier, and with the slow funeral dirge brought two of their comrades to the boat,—two who had just passed from the scenes of strife on earth to the eternal peace beyond. Those who bore them were by no means unaffected by the part they were called upon to perform. There were sad countenances, too, on board the boat,—two ladies, both strangers to the dead, but not indifferent to the scene. They had woman's tender sensibilities, and could not keep back the tears from their eyes, for they thought of their own sons whom they had just left, and who now stood upon the bank to say perhaps a last good-by.
But how transitory are all the most solemn impressions of death! Ten minutes later a company of soldiers appeared for a trip down the river to Stevensport to bag, if possible, the squad of Rebels which had been prowling about the town of Stevensport. They came on board with a hurrah, and made the welkin ring with the "Red, White, and Blue." It was a pleasure to them to leave the hateful place even for a night, and be in active service.