The whole plantation field-work was done with mules, and I really believe Willy was the only person on the place, capable of driving, who had never managed a team of four. He moved slowly up toward the town, as directed. I think Dave felt a little reassured so long as he faced the Federal flag; but at Gartness Lane the wagon turned in, leaving the starry emblem to the left; then Dave stopped to remark that he believed he “had gone ’bout far enough—p’raps Sabe could drive, but he wouldn’t.” Here was the supreme moment for me. There was a small pistol-case on the seat behind me. I do not know to this day whether that pistol was loaded or not, but there was no time to waste, and I was in no frame of mind for hesitation. I pulled it out like a professional highwayman, held it close to Dave’s woolly head, and ordered him to follow the wagon, or I’d blow his brains out! Even now, when I think of that moment, my lips quiver and my hands tremble. Not a word did Dave utter, but, with one scared look that made his old black face ashy, he drove through the gate and closely followed the wagon.
By evening we reached the end of Gartness Lane, and a black head popped out of the bushes. “Don’t go dat road, pickets down dar!” so we turned up the road we wanted to go down. When it was quite dark, we reached a house, where we asked to remain all night, and there to my intense astonishment I met our overseer, who, instead of remaining on the plantation attending to his duties, had taken flight on the first appearance of the Federals. He had departed without the slightest notification, leaving me to do the best I could, without the help of a living soul but little Willy; seeking a place of safety for his worthless self, and in that place of safety I found him at night—waiting for me!
I was too dejected, helpless, and cowed, to say anything more than that I was pleased to see him, and would he be good enough to help Willy feed the mules; and be sure to put Dave in a safe place, as he was my only dependence for a driver until I could join my husband?
The next morning, the first thing I heard was, that Dave had stolen Henry’s pony and absconded! Words fail to express my indignation, but I controlled sufficient vocabulary to give the overseer my opinion of him in terms that must have made him think he was a very contemptible piece of humanity. He was given to understand that he must tie his horse to the tail of the wagon, and take the reins of the four mules, while Willy would drive the ambulance.
I never saw before the people who so hospitably entertained us that night, and have forgotten their names, but I presume they thought I was equal to any emergency, and did not wonder I had been left to “paddle my own canoe.”
The rest comes to my mind in vague confusion. Recollections of woolly heads popping out of bushes at every cross-road, and sending us the roundabout way, with the whisper, “Pickets down dat road!” temporary bridges over impassable places, felled trees shoved aside, fences taken down for us to pass through woods and fields to come to an open road, and the oft-repeated warning, “Pickets down dar!”—it is all now like a dim, troubled dream. On the third day we emerged on a broad highway, where were wagons loaded with furniture, beds, bundles, cooking-utensils, articles of clothing, old trunks and barrels overflowing with hastily collected household effects, being laboriously drawn by broken-down, emaciated horses, whose days of active service had long since departed. A few decrepit, bedraggled, dejected women, with whole families of shivering children, walked the dusty road-side.
These were the “rear-guard,” as it were, of a little army of wretched citizens fleeing from their broken homes. On the afternoon of that (my third) day’s travel, now quite voiceless from severe cold, and very nearly exhausted, we arrived in front of a comfortable-looking plantation-house. I gave out completely when I saw its wide-open veranda doors and all the surroundings of a luxurious resting-place. Willy was sent in to ask if we could stop there, and returned with a beaming face to say it was Mr. Pierce’s house, and that my husband had been there looking for me, and had gone to make further search, promising to return at night. His anxiety for my safety had been greatly increased through numerous reports circulated by the refugees from Baton Rouge, to the effect that a Federal gunboat had landed at Arlington subsequent to his hurried departure, and, failing to capture him, had taken his wife and children on board, and then proceeded to New Orleans. The rumor, reasserted in various forms, had so great a resemblance to truth that he was nearly distracted, and not till late in the evening, when he found us safe at Mr. Pierce’s, did he know the facts. My heart burst with its burden of anxieties when I saw my husband again and was infolded in his strong arms, only thirteen miles from our own home, and I had been three days making it! Arlington with all its attractions was nothing. I said then, as I say now, “I never desire to see it again.” The brightest hours of my early life were spent there, but the remembrance is blotted out by the painful incidents of the last days at the dear old home.
In consequence of the contagious nature of the illness in Mr. Pierce’s house, we took a hasty departure the following morning. He gave us a small army-tent that was found on his place after the battle; it was thankfully stored in the wagon. Thirty miles farther brought us to my brother’s home, where we tarried several days. Willy was reluctant to go on with us, and we needed him no longer, so he returned to Arlington with the buggy, which was also useless. The boy, months afterward, while engaged in guarding a neighbor’s cotton from roving bands of self-styled guerrillas, who were as much to be feared as the enemy, was found stark and stiff with a bullet in his heart and a gun clutched in his cold hands, his face turned heavenward, whither his brave spirit had flown. Sad fate for the noble, faithful boy!
One word about Charlotte, a type of a class of slaves, one specimen at least of which was to be found in every well-governed establishment. “Aunt” Charlotte was a trusted member of my husband’s family when “old miss,” as she with affectionate reverence always called his mother, was at the head of the household. Her zeal in our service never flagged; she had no higher ambition than the faithful discharge of her daily duties. She superintended the details of our house with systematic precision, “achieved,” as she expressed it, from “old miss.” The day after our abrupt departure, the Federals took possession of all that remained on the plantation. Our old home was quickly stripped. Charlotte—I think in the vain hope of our return—claimed certain valuable articles of furniture and my portrait, and, with William and their baby, secured a vacant house in town, and there they received Willy upon his return. This much we knew before we left Louisiana.
To a relative who saw her two years later in her own room, the poor creature with sobs told of the death of her baby, repeating again and again, “If Miss ’Liza had been here, my baby wouldn’t have died.” She opened the trunk I had left in the house, and with careful hands took out the faded finery and bit of silk patchwork to show how she was keeping it for “Miss ’Liza.” A short while after this the poor soul became hopelessly insane. Now she rests!