“General Logan!” repeated her mother, contemptuously. “I tell you he’s nothing of the kind! He’s black!”
It was already early summer when we left the troubled capital, where everyone was keyed to a high pitch of excitement by the manœuvrings of the enemy, now so near that the reverberating sound of distant cannon was plainly audible. Our way was southward. Though withdrawing, as I supposed, for a change of scene during the Congressional recess only, in reality my refugee days had now begun; for, notwithstanding I made several later stays of varying duration at Richmond, the greater part of the two succeeding years was spent at the homes of hospitable kin far away from that centre of anxiety and deprivation. Upon leaving Richmond, in May of ’2, Senator Clay and I, stopping en route at the home of my uncle, Buxton Williams, in Warrenton, North Carolina, proceeded by easy stages to Augusta, Macon and Columbus, where many of our kinfolks and friends resided, and to which cities I often returned, when, from time to time, the exigencies of the war compelled my husband and me to separate. Georgia, save when Sherman’s men marched through it, two years later, was the safest and most affluent State in the Confederacy; but in the summer of ’2 there were few localities which did not retain, here and there at least, an affluent estate or two. Until almost the end of hostilities the home of my uncle Williams in Warrenton continued to be with us in Richmond the synonym for plenty. When I had starved in the capital, I dropped down to “Buxton Place,” whence I was sure to return laden with hampers of sweets and meats and bread made of the finest “Number One” flour, which proved a fine relief to the “seconds” to which the bread-eaters of the Confederate capital were now reduced. In the course of a year molasses and “seconds” (brown flour with the bran still in it) came to be regarded as luxuries by many who but a short time ago had feasted capriciously upon the dainties of a limitless market.
My uncle Williams was an astute man, and when he was assured that war had become a settled fact, instead of hoarding his means for the benefit of invading soldiers, he retired to his country home, bought out the contents of a local store, which he transferred to his own cupboards and pantry, and made “Buxton Place” to “kith and kin” the most generous and hospitable of asylums. It was a peaceful, happy place, set among ample grounds, with noble trees rising about, in which birds carolled as they coquetted among the foliage and squirrels gambolled at their will through the long, lazy days. No chicory and sugar, adopting the alias of coffee, found place on that sumptuous board in those first years, but only the bona fide stuff! We had sugar in abundance, and pyramids of the richest butter, bowls of thick cream, and a marvellous plenitude of incomparable “clabber.”
Once, during our wandering that autumn, we slipped over to “Millbrook,” the home of my cousins the Hilliards, and thence to Shocco Springs, long a famous North Carolina resort, where, to the music of a negro band, the feet of a merry little company went flying over the polished floor as if the world were still a happy place, despite its wars and wounds and graves and weeping women.
Life at dear old “Millbrook,” rich with a thousand associations of my childhood and family, still ran serenely on. The loudest sound one heard was the hum of the bee on the wing as it rushed to riot in the amber honey sacs of the flowers. But whether at “Millbrook” or “Buxton Place,” whether we outwardly smiled or joined in the mirth about us, inwardly my husband and I were tortured with fears born of an intimate knowledge of our national situation. We watched eagerly for our despatches, and, when they came, trembled as we opened them. Some of our communications rang with triumph, others with an overwhelming sadness.
A thrilling letter from Richmond reached us after the terrible “Battle of Seven Pines.” A mere mention of that deadly conflict for years was enough to start the tears in Southern eyes, and sons and daughters, as they grew up, were taken back to look upon the bloody field as to a sacred mausoleum. The letter was written by Robert Brown, our erstwhile Sir Lucius, of Mrs. Ives’s famous performance, and now serving as aide-de-camp to General Winder.
“I have been beholding scenes of carnage,” he wrote on the 10th of June. “On the afternoon of the 31st ult. Winder and myself rode down to the battle-field. The reports of the cannon were distinctly heard here, and as we approached the field, the firing became terrific! We met wounded and dying men, borne upon litters and supported by solicitous friends. The scene was revolting to me, but, singular to say, in a very short time I became accustomed to this sight of horror, and the nearer we approached the line of battle, the nearer we wished to get; but we were quite satisfied to get so near the line (proper) as the headquarters of General Longstreet, which was under a fine old oak tree on a slight elevation. The General was there, sitting most complacently upon a fine horse, surrounded by his staff, who were riding away at intervals bearing his orders to the line and returning. We were about a quarter of a mile from the engagement, and we could distinctly hear the shouts of victory of our gallant troops, literally driving the enemy before them. Entrenchment and battery after battery were wrested from the Yankees by our splendid troops, old North Carolina leading them!
“Imagine the powder burnt! I tell you, the firing was awful, but glorious! Near the headquarters of Longstreet were regiments of splendid, eager troops drawn up in line as a reserve. Amid the heavy firing, the glorious cheering of our troops, squad after squad of Yankee prisoners were brought up to Longstreet under guards buoyant with victory; and, as each reached headquarters, I tell you that the reserve force would send up a yell of delight that split the air and made old earth tremble! One little brave band of fifty-five South Carolinians brought in one hundred and sixty-six live Yankees and a Captain whom they had taken! The excitement was intense! The firing ceased at seven o’clock. I remained in the field until the last gun was fired. Our troops occupied the enemy’s camp that night and all the next day; and Monday our military talent thought it prudent and best to fall back and give the enemy the vantage ground we had gained!
“General Johnston was wounded, but not seriously, it is said. Smith’s horse was shot in two places, on the shoulder and just back of the saddle; the General’s coat-tail, they say, was seriously injured. Lieutenant-Colonel Sydenham Moore was wounded; the ball struck his watch, literally shattering it! General Pettigrew was not killed, but seriously wounded, and fell into the hands of the enemy. They, thank God, lost two brigadier generals and one seriously wounded. Our total loss, killed and wounded, was thirty-five hundred. The enemy acknowledge eight hundred killed and four thousand wounded. It was a fearful fight!
“We have good news every day from Jackson! To-day brings us the news of his having ‘completely routed the enemy, taking six pieces of artillery!’ Old Stonewall is certainly the Hero of the War, and unless our Generals Beauregard and Johnston look sharp, he will entirely take the wind out of their sails and leave them in the Lee-ward!”