From flag to flag

by Eliza Ripley

The next morning, at the first blush of dawn, firing was distinctly heard from the direction of the town. Now, while the town was distant four miles by the road winding with the river, it was not half that far as the crow flies. Baton Rouge was on a sharp point; then the river made a deep bend, and Arlington was on the next point of the scallop; so that, looking toward the town from the windows, we looked partly over water, and the city had somewhat the appearance of being built on an island, the two points were so sharp and well-defined. It is proper to add here, twenty-five years make at least twenty-five changes in that most fickle of rivers. To-day, Arlington Point may have been washed away—I do not know.

My little baby, whose advent was made such a good excuse for asking the soldiers not to alight on our lawn, was now two months old. With care, anxiety, a never-ceasing interest in all that surrounded us, and rather delicate health at the best, I was by no means in good fighting order for what had to be endured on that most memorable day. I sprung from my bed, and flew half dressed to the windows commanding a view of the scene. The roar of cannon was distinctly heard, and the house seemed to tremble and shake with the unusual noise; the rattle of musketry, the flying of bursting bombs from the Federal boats, the incessant smoke and the rumble of nameless battle-sounds, kept us in suspense and excitement, pride and fear, alarm and enthusiasm, that were painful. General Breckinridge’s name had always carried victory with it in civil life, where we knew him best. So, as I watched and prayed, I could not bring my thoughts to the point that our men could be beaten on their own ground under my very eyes! My thoughts turned from these exultant channels, to see what at first seemed to be stampeded sheep, emerging from the foggy mist in the far-away bend of the road, swelling and surging, and rushing in the wildest hurry and flight, through a volume of dust made ten times more stifling by the fierce heat. These were not sheep, but human beings, running pell-mell, under intense excitement, as fast as their legs could carry them. It is a sad commentary on humanity that individuals are swallowed up in masses. When we prayed that our troops might conquer and prevail, no thought of the hearts that might be made desolate forever by the fatalities of war came to us. “Victory! victory!” was the cry of every woman, as she buckled on the sword, and sent husband and son to fight. No thought came of her own or any other woman’s desolation. So, that morning, standing alone at my window, watching through the dim mist what seemed to be the ebb and flow of battle, hearing in the distance the booming, hissing, and rattling sounds of conflict, I never once thought of the homes of that besieged city, of the women and children, the old men and the sick—never once thought of them, so swallowed up the destiny of the day every other consideration. But when that struggling mass was revealed to me—pouring, panting, rushing tumultuously down the hot, dusty road, hatless, bonnetless, some with slippers and no stockings, some with wrappers hastily thrown over night-gowns; now and then a coatless man on a bare-back horse, holding a helpless child in his arms before him, and a terrified woman clinging on behind; men trundling children too young to run, in dirty wheel-barrows, while other little half-clad, barefooted ones ran beside, weary and crying; an old man, who could scarcely totter along, bearing a baby in his trembling arms, while the distracted mother carried an older child with wounded and bleeding feet; occasionally could be descried a battered umbrella held over some delicate woman to temper the rays of what was fast becoming a blazing August sun. Some ran, some stumbled along, others faltered and almost gave out; but, before I could hurry on my clothes, they poured into our gates and invaded the house, a small army of them, about five hundred tired, exhausted, broken-down, sick, frightened, terrified human beings—all roused from their beds by firing and fighting in the very streets; rushing half-clad from houses being riddled with shot and shell; rushing through streets filled with men fighting hand to hand; wildly running they scarce knew whither, being separated from children and wives and mothers in the midst of the roar of battle, and no time to look for them; no turning back; on—on—through yards and over fences and down narrow, dusty lanes—anywhere to get from the clash of steel and the bursting of countless bombs!

Once on the open road and away from the very midst of battle, they ran as though demons pursued them, never turning back or branching off. There was but the one hot, dusty road to run, and that led straight to our ever-open gates and to other gates beyond; but when they gained the first, by common consent they turned in.

The battle roared and surged, but there was a roaring and surging battle for bread in that house which for the moment silenced every other. Our store-closets were thrown wide open; but how the crowd managed that day I never knew. Before noon news came of our defeat. I was sick and heart-sore, too much so to eat my own slender breakfast which Charlotte smuggled up the back stairs under her apron; too sick to care, too overwhelmed with the immensity of the undertaking of feeding a great multitude with five loaves and no fishes, to attempt it.

I lay down beside my half-starved babe, whose nourishment was cut short by the excitements of the morning, and, while I wept the bitterest tears I ever shed, told the little unconscious child it did not matter much whether we lived or died; we were beaten—beaten!

The few men in the army that invaded Arlington foraged as better-disciplined ones do, and brought in some sheep and an ox; killed, skinned, and cut them up with such knives as they could find, and in lieu of better, used their own pocket-knives. Bits of meat distributed around hastily cooked, smoked, and singed, they devoured like savages; the famished babies had pieces given them to suck. Long before noon the twelve pounds of tea from the store-closets had entirely disappeared. We had immense iron kettles “set” in the laundry where soap had been made by the barrel for plantation use, fires were kindled under them and tea made ad libitum, but, to use Charlotte’s forcible language, “it was drunk faster than it was made”; it could not be furnished fast enough to meet the demands of the parched and thirsty crowd. In the tumult of finding something to eat and drink, as in all such cases, the strongest and hardiest being the enterprising ones, fared the best, and the weak and ailing were in a measure overlooked and neglected by the general crowd. By and by individual cases attracted attention. One frail woman came down that road, carrying a child five years old, wrapped in the blanket in which it had lain at death’s door for days and nights. At first the distracted parents thought they would stand by the suffering bedside amid all the sounds of battle; it would be certain death to remove the patient. They remained until a bomb exploded in their yard, carrying off part of the house-top; then the mother, in a light night wrapper, snatched the child up, enveloped in its blanket, and ran after the terrified crowd down the road, the father by her panting side, with a younger child in his arms whose weight was more than that of the invalid. That distressed family was provided with the luxury of a bed, and the entire room was almost yielded to them by the crowd at Arlington, who still had wit enough to know that malignant scarlet fever was almost as bad as bullets.

Time and again Charlotte, who was the Lady Bountiful of the occasion, came to tell me that first one, then another, and still another poor woman was in peril, and little garments went from my scanty store to the innocent babes who opened their eyes on that eventful day, and nothing but the supreme terror of their mothers prevented them from first seeing light amid scenes of carnage and desolation.

So the day wore on—such a long day and such a short one it was; so much crowded into it—and night found us all more tired and anxious than ever.

The brief conflict was over. We knew we were beaten; the bad news followed swiftly after the defeat; but the news of our dear ones, the anxiety to know particulars, the surmises, hopes, and fears, but, above all, the overwhelming news that we were beaten, wore us all out. About sunset a sergeant and a few men from the victorious enemy came down to Arlington and demanded to see my husband. Of course, he was not at home, and I received them, bewitched to know what to say, for I could not tell them that he was with General Breckinridge’s wounded. I made the most plausible excuse possible for his temporary absence, and the sergeant handed me a permit for him to enter their lines and visit General Clark, of Mississippi, a most dear friend, who had been grievously wounded and was their prisoner. My husband returned before bedtime, and hurriedly availed himself of the permit. In his absence word came to me, from a man who said he was just from town, that the Federal officer in command said, if we did not send that rebel crowd away from Arlington, a gunboat should be dispatched to shell them out. I was desperate then, and simply replied that I could not send that homeless multitude adrift. Many became alarmed, however, and took up their weary march, some going down to neighboring plantations on the river-bank, and others going back into the woods and swamps; enough remained, however, to overflow the house—every stair-step had its reclining form, every inch of sofa, bed, and floor was occupied by tired, sleepy humanity. There was the usual rain that follows heavy cannonading; it was damp and miserable everywhere. There were two very large oak-trees in front of the house, with wide-spreading branches and luxuriant foliage, a favorite resort for mocking-birds, whose songs (how I should delight in them now!) were often an intolerable nuisance. In those sturdy trees a whole colony of boys roosted, congratulating themselves that nobody could turn them out, the thick leaves sheltering them from falling drops of rain. So wearied nature gradually sought repose; the last noises were the occasional twitterings of the wingless occupants of the oak-trees. A hissing noise rent the air, and a bomb exploded in front of the house; then another, and another; and a fourth went whizzing over our heads, exploding with loud reports back of the house, and on this side and on that. A gunboat anchored in the river was sending its deadly missives far and wide. Far and wide they were meant to be; for surely, if they intended to strike the house, they could have done so, such a shining, big white mark as it was. The first bomb that burst on the lawn roused our poor wingless birds, and the boys tumbled out of those trees like overripe fruit in a gale, like something that falls faster than that; like a great shake to a tree of ripe persimmons, all fell at once. Each bomb called forth wails and shrieks of terror from the thoroughly alarmed and nervously excited people. After having accomplished their purpose, the boat moved off; but there was no more roosting that night, nor sleeping either. A feeling that something more was to happen pervaded the air, and we sat about in anxious groups and desperately waited for it.

The first slanting rays of the rising sun saw a good many tired fathers and mothers march off with their little half-clad families in various directions. Others wandered back to their demolished and desecrated homes, or to the homes of friends in the country; and by noon none were left to our hospitable care, except the mothers with the new babies.