“I think I have heard that name before,” tinkle, tinkle. “What Smith?”
“Gen. E. Kirby Smith, young man!”
No tinkle followed that reply. The young aide almost swooned away. Gen. Magruder surrounded himself with Virginia gentlemen aides, who gave him infinite trouble, he said.
In the early fifties “we met by chance, the usual way,” Major F. Ducayet. A party driving down the old Bayou road one Sunday heard that at Ducayet’s there would be found a rare collection of wonderful fowls and poultry, and the owner was very gracious about showing his assortment to visitors. After a bit of hesitation we ventured to introduce ourselves. Mr. Ducayet received us most hospitably, showed us through his lovely grounds and gave us the history of his rarest feathered pets, presented the two ladies with choice bouquets and insisted upon our partaking of refreshments. During the conversation that ensued Mr. Ducayet said he would not be able to increase his fancy flock, all of which had been brought him from foreign parts by captains and sailors, as a change in the administration would remove him from the position in the Custom House he had held for years. One of the party at once asked him to call on him at the St. Charles Hotel the following day, that he, being a Democrat and a politician of influence, might exert himself in his behalf. Mr. Ducayet retained his position. From that chance acquaintance sprung a strong friendship. We saw much of Major Ducayet in war times, hence the little carte de visite which ornaments my war album.
By the side of Major Ducayet’s is the face of ex-Governor Moore of Louisiana. He was an inmate of our modest little home in Texas during the expiring days of the Confederacy.
I have also similar small photos of Major Tom Lee, General Preston, General Breckinridge, Commodore John N. Maffit, General and Mrs. Robert Toombs, General Early, Dr. Howard Smith and a host of lesser lights, all of which were taken in Havana after the war.
Dr. Howard Smith of New Orleans was surgeon on somebody’s (perhaps Gen. Kirby Smith’s) staff, and was our frequent guest in Texas, a very valuable guest, too, for his skill carried some members of my family out of the “valley of the shadow” into the sunshine. One trip we made together from the Rio Grande into the interior of Texas, quite a caravan of us in the party.
The first day out from Laredo there was a terrible sandstorm, cold almost to freezing point, and never was a more disgusted party of travelers. In a fit of despair Dr. Smith exclaimed: “I would give a thousand dollars for a drink of brandy.” Now brandy was a luxury a thousand dollars could not always supply, but I promptly replied: “I will give you a whole bottle of brandy, the cork of which has not been drawn, if you will divide it with the rest of the crowd.” Of course, the proposition was accepted. From my carpetbag I produced a tiny toy bottle, holding perhaps a half wine glass of the coveted liquor. It was not easy to divide the contents liberally, but the genial doctor appreciated the joke and did his utmost to carry out its provisions.
Years after, walking uptown in New Orleans, my escort said: “Look at the man on that gallery. See if you know him.” I met the man’s eyes full in my face, and passed on. It was Dr. Howard Smith, neither of us recognizing the other. He was in ill-health, old and haggard, and I guess I showed some of time’s footprints, too.