And then I had just parted with my dear aunt and my scarcely dearer daughters, with old friends and neighbors, with affectionate servants. And I was tired—tired unto death!
But the boat, churning with its great paddle-wheels the muddy waters of the James, was approaching, the captain and an early riser or two leaning over the deck railing. My little boys ran gayly over the gang-plank as soon as it was lowered. Hannah clung tearfully to her acquaintance of an hour. The gang-plank was hauled in, the great paddle-wheels turned, and we were off, on our way to our new home.
"Good-by, Dixie," called out my boys.
"Not yet, young gentlemen," said the captain; "we are still in Dixie waters, and will be until we reach the sea."
As we sat on deck, steaming down the river, the passengers eagerly scanned the shores and recounted the events of the late war. The last time I had sailed down this river each point was interesting from Colonial and Revolutionary associations. Now all these were forgotten in its later history. Every spot was marked as the scene of some triumph or occupation of the Northern army—of some disaster or humiliation of the South.
There were few passengers—three charming young ladies with their mother, returning home after a visit to the Cullen family of Richmond; a group of teachers going home to New England for their vacation; a comfortable negro mammy with her basket, very proud to repeat again and again that she was "just from Mobile, Alabama," to whom Hannah looked up with deference and respect; and half a dozen or more tourists from New York returning from an inspection of the historic places in and around Richmond. Among these last was an old acquaintance, a Southern man, who at once sought conversation with me. He had lived in New York before and during the war. He could not conceal his amazement at the desperate venture my general was making. "Of all places," he said, "why, why are you choosing a home in New York?"
"Ask the withered leaf," I answered, "why it is driven by a winter wind to one place rather than another."
"But practically," he replied somewhat testily, "as a matter of prudence and common sense—"
"You think, then," I interrupted, "there is small hope for my poor general in New York."
"New York—" he said slowly and with emphasis, "New York, you will find, has no use for the unsuccessful man."