Mine host was one of those old-fashioned gentlemen, who was able to entertain a visitor handsomely without asking questions; it was understood that he was or, at least, had been a Union man. On this important question, at that time, he was the most agreeably non-committal man in his own house of any person I have ever met. The wife and mother, like the father, was all attention and kindness to the needs of the poor soldiers, never stopping a moment to inquire whether they were of the North or the South.
There was a daughter, Mary, who was decidedly and emphatically a warm-hearted "Female Rebel." An elder sister, Miss Maggie, whom I will only attempt to describe as a most amiable, sweet girl, with dark, wavy, auburn hair, was the Union girl of the family; though not as outspoken or decided in her way of expressing herself, she was, nevertheless, settled in her conviction that the Government was right and that slavery was wrong; and she put it, at the time, in a way that was comforting to me:
"It's not right; slavery is a sin and an evil, and it will not be permitted to exist."
Of course, Miss Maggie became a favorite with me during the week or two that I remained confined to the house by the bruises which had been so aggravated by the cold and neglect into something that threatened serious results. She was the good angel of the family, and attended to my every need as if I were an only brother returned from the war to receive her nursing and tender care.
There was also a younger sister, Laura, perhaps about twelve or fourteen years old, the little beauty of the family, with dark eyes and long, curling hair, whose political sentiments, sweetly and disdainfully expressed, agreed with those of the Rebel sister. All of the family were, however, kind and good, and, in the almost constant discussion of the merits of the two sides, not an unkind or harsh word was spoken of either.
At every meal-time the old gentleman reverently asked a blessing over the table, and usually lengthened it into prayers for both sides.
Around the corner from Mr. Craig's house, on a lot that almost joined the Craig property, in the rear, was the house of Parson Brownlow. At the time of which I am writing Mr. Brownlow was achieving national reputation by his bold and defiant stand against the Southern leaders, and his outspoken, belligerent Union sentiments had gotten him into all sorts of trouble with Jeff Davis' Government.
I had heard of Parson Brownlow all my life, having been raised in a Methodist family. Before the war I had been much interested in his denominational discussions with the Baptists of Tennessee, the accounts of which were printed at the time.
The Craig family were, I think, Baptists, and probably on this account they were, as Miss Craig politely put it, "Neighborly, but not intimate," with the Brownlow family.
It seemed as if the family had always been in hot water. There was a son, who had either killed somebody or been killed himself. Another boy was around stirring things up in a way that made the old town lively. The old gentleman owned and edited a paper—the Knoxville Whig—that circulated pretty much everywhere, and served to stir people and things up, not only in East Tennessee, but all over the country.