I do not mention these ladies’ names, but it is not because I have forgotten them. I remember their names and faces distinctly, and should they ever see this word picture they will readily recognize themselves and their part in it. It is needless to say that I came in for my share of the “stolen sweets.”
THE THREATENED BATTLE
IN my visits to the City Hotel and other places it was my delight to scale the “breast works” that barred the way, built of huge bales of cotton belonging to northern speculators. Cotton, which had long reigned king in the South, was now “Uncle Sam’s” servant and was made to do his bidding.
Vast quantities were stored away in warehouses and depots, awaiting shipment, when one night the cry went around, “The rebels are coming, the rebels are coming.” The cotton was seized by the military authorities, piled up in the form of a wall around the most exposed parts of the town and earth thrown over it. The soldiers worked all night in constructing these fortifications. Ah! how well I remember the night. We were awakened near the hour of midnight and told to prepare to fly at a moment’s warning, as the rebels were rapidly advancing on Jackson. We packed our few belongings, and after listening a while with bated breath, lay down again with our clothes on and slept securely till morning. With the morning’s dawn preparations were made for a mighty battle. Artillery was planted in different parts of the town, three lines of battle were formed, one of them being drawn up in front of the hotel, and there the soldiers stood all day, their bayonets flashing and glittering in the sunlight. The greatest excitement and enthusiasm prevailed; officers and orderlies on horseback went dashing by, here, there and everywhere, but the battle was never fought, for the rebels never came. Four days later, on the 20th of December, the same troops, headed by Earl Van Dorn, a dashing young cavalry officer, entered Holly Springs, Miss., surprised and captured the Federal forces, which they at once released on parole, fired the Union stores, blew up the arsenal and paymaster’s quarters, and gained such a victory withal, as to set all their hearts adancing, and all their flags aflutter. It was a great day for the people of Holly Springs, and they yet speak of it as the “glorious, glorious twentieth.”
CHRISTMAS IN JACKSON
FOR a time we “fared sumptuously every day,” but there came a time when, owing to burned bridges and blockades, communication was entirely cut off with Cairo, Ill., which was our base of supplies, and the fare became very scant. For several days we had no coffee, but in some manner the landlord managed to secure 50 pounds, for which he paid $50.00.
On Christmas Day, 1862, our breakfast consisted of tea, bread, and pickled pigs’ feet; dinner the same with the addition of dried apple pie. In the afternoon we went, by invitation of Major Winn, to Bolivar, twenty-eight miles south of Jackson. I shall never forget the pleasure of that little war-time excursion. We stayed two hours and watched the boys in camp getting supper. One little fellow was making hash in a camp kettle near the railroad track where our train stood. He stirred it with a bayonet; it was very thin, and he said he didn’t know whether to call it hash or soup, but that he could thicken it with cotton, which was stacked up in great walls all about him. I can hear his merry, ringing laugh yet. My father’s regiment was in camp here, and we met his Colonel. That Colonel is now Brigadier General Wager Swayne, of New York city, and I often wonder if Gen. Swayne remembers that Christmas afternoon of 1862 as well as I do.
If the ride down to Bolivar was memorable, the return trip was even more so. There was supposed to be some danger of our train being fired into, and no lights were allowed. Part of the way lay through the woods, and our phantom train glided along in darkness and silence, for neither whistle was blown nor bell rung as we made the perilous little run through the enemy’s country. With a child’s confidence I knew and felt no fear. We arrived safely at the hotel at 8 p. m. and went immediately to the dining room, where we had some more pigs’ feet and dried apple pie. We didn’t hang up our stockings that Christmas Eve. There was nothing to put in them, unless it were minnie balls, and they were needed far worse in the muskets at that time.
THE DINING ROOM
IN the large dining room of the hotel were eight tables, and there was a black waiter for each table. We ate at what was known as the Colonel’s table, and Tom was our waiter. He was as black as the “ace of spades,” but the very pink of politeness. I became so familiar with his “formula” or bill of fare, that I can repeat it now. In times of plenty it was, “Roast beef, roast pork, co’n beef, or meat pie.” Also, “beef-steak or po’k-steak.” If one chose the former, Tom would ask, “Well done or rare?”