Nothing of particular interest transpired on the way. My country was prostrate and bleeding from many lacerations, and my tears flowed so freely that by the time I reached my railroad destination I had a very sick headache. That “there is a providence that shapes our ends” was again illustrated. Some of my aunt’s neighbors, who knew me at least by name, were at the station, and kindly offered to carry me to her residence, a distance of ten miles. I found my aunt in feeble health, and all alone save her usual dusky attendant. Her only child, Mrs. Mary E. Seaman, had gone to Tuskeegee to see her little daughter, who was there going to school in care of a friend and relative, Col. Smith Graham. My closest scrutiny failed to detect any change in my aunt’s mode of living. The same retinue of servants came into the house to see and shake hands with mistress’ niece, and after many questions about “our white folks in Georgia,” retired from my presence with the same courtesy that had marked their demeanor towards me in ante-bellum days.
My aunt manifested her joy at seeing me in many ways, and wept and smiled alternately, as I related my adventures with the Yankees. “And my sister, what was their treatment of her?” My evasive answer, “It could have been worse,” heightened her desire to learn particulars, and I told them to her. She was grateful for all leniency shown by them, and affected to tears by unkindness. As the day waned, and the middle of the afternoon came on, my aunt proposed walking “to meet Mary.” I supported her fragile form, and guided her footsteps in the best part of the road. How like her beloved sister in Georgia she seemed! Accustomed to this little diversion, for she always went to meet Mary, she had reckoned accurately regarding the time of her daughter’s coming, and we had not gone far when we saw the carriage descending a declivity in the distance. Nelson, the coachman, had also recognized “Mistress and Miss Mary,” and announced his discovery to my cousin. Increased speed in the gait of the horses soon brought us together, and she opened the door and stepped to the ground. After kissing her dear mother, she encircled me in her arms, and kissed me time and again, and then assisted me into the carriage, and she and her mother followed. I greeted the coachman in a cordial manner, because of past service and present fidelity to “mistress and my white folks” generally.
With my rapidity in conversation, I could scarcely keep up with my cousin’s questions. Happy woman! She had never seen any “Blue-coats,” or, in the parlance of the times, “Yankees,” and she enjoyed my description of them, especially when in answer to the question, “Do they look like our men?” I attempted to define the difference. It was amusing to me to hear her describe the preparations she made for the coming of Wilson and his raiders.
After reaching home, she left her mother and myself only a few minutes. I scarcely perceived her absence, and yet when she returned the disparity in our dress was not so apparent. The elegant traveling suit had been exchanged for her plainest home attire, and every article of jewelry had disappeared. The brief period spent with these dear relatives was spent in mutual efforts to entertain and amuse each other. My aunt’s conversation was like sweet music in which minor chords abounded. Her love for her sister, and apprehension of evil, gave a pathetic turn to every conversation she attempted, and it was evident to me that she had given up all hope of my brother’s safety, and her resignation under similar circumstances was a great support to me.
Much as I enjoyed this luxurious home, and its refined appointments, there was a controlling motive—a nearer tie—that made me willing to again take up the hardships and perils of warfare, and battle for life with that relentless enemy left by Sherman to complete his cruel work, the aforesaid General Starvation.
After many farewell words were spoken, I left my aunt, accompanied by her daughter, who went with me to the station for the purpose of seeing me on the train bound for Fairburn, then the terminus of the railroad. It was past noon when the train left the station, and in those days of slow railroad locomotion, it was all the afternoon reaching West Point. I learned before reaching there that I would have to remain over until the next morning, and, therefore, as soon as I stepped from the cars, started to hunt a place at which to spend the night. Wending my way, solitary and alone, through the twilight, I saw Mr. John Pate, the depot agent at Decatur, coming towards me.
“Oh, Mr. Pate, have you heard anything from ma in the last week?”
“Yes; it went very hard with her, but she was some better this morning.”
I did not have to ask another question. I knew it all, and was dumb with grief. The thought that I would never see my darling brother again paralyzed me. I saw him in the mirror of my soul, in all the periods of his existence. The beautiful little baby boy, looking at me the first time out of his heavenly blue eyes, and his second look, as if not satisfied with the first, followed by the suggestion of a smile. Ah, that smile! It had never failed me through successive years and varying scenes. The boyhood and youth—honest, truthful and generous to a fault—and the noble, genial boyhood, had all developed within my recollection, and I loved him with an intensity bordering on idolatry. These scenes and many others rushed through my mind with kaleidoscopic rapidity and made me so dizzy that I had no knowledge of how I reached the “hotel.” My heart cried and refused to be comforted. From the consolation of religion and patriotism it recoiled and cried all the more. A great tie of nature had been sundered, and the heart, bruised and crushed and bleeding, pulsated still with vitality that would have flickered out but for the hope of giving comfort to the poor bereaved mother and sister in our great sorrow. Good ladies bathed my throbbing temples and kissed my cheeks and spoke comforting words, for they were all drinking the bitter waters of Marah, and knew how to reach the heart and speak of the balm of Gilead.
“Killed on the battle-field, thirty steps from the breastworks at Franklin, Tennessee, November 30th, 1864,” was the definite information regarding my brother’s death, left for me by Mr. Pate.