THREE VETERANS OF COMPANY “G”
Left to Right: John Cathey, W. E. Bevens, John R. Loftin, Sr.
Reminiscences Of A Private.
When our children come from other states and from foreign lands to visit Jacksonport, the old home of their parents, they find the pitiful remnant of a village. Streets overgrown with weeds, dilapidated wooden cottages, a tumbled down brick court house, meet their eyes. One or two well-kept homes and a prosperous general store only emphasize the prevailing air of decay. The visitors may walk a mile down the road to the old town Elizabeth, and find no trace of habitation. The persimmon, the paw paw and the muscadine flourish in spaces that were once busy streets. When they remember that this place lacked only one vote of being made the capital of the state they may ponder on the uncertainty of human destiny.
But in 1861 Jacksonport was an important town. It was the county seat when Jackson county was much larger than it is now. Woodruff was a part of it and the whole formed a wealthy section of the state, the rich “bottoms” producing the finest cotton. Jacksonport was situated where Black River flows into White River, and was the center of distribution for many counties. At low water, which was the greater part of the year, it was at the head of navigation and people came from fifty miles to trade there, hauling overland all freight for Batesville and upper points.
It was then one of the great river towns, and one of the most fascinating occupations of my boyhood was watching the steamboats. We had two mail steamers, side-wheelers, up-to-date, with all kinds of accommodations for passengers and freight, and I have seen nine steamers loading and unloading at once. One packet from Louisville, one from St. Louis, two from Memphis, two from Upper Black River, and two from New Orleans. I have seen one of the last, “The Seminole,” with a load of fifteen hundred bales of cotton.
At that time Jacksonport had a population of twenty-five hundred. The surrounding farms and plantations, cultivated by negro slaves, were owned by the Tunstalls, Waddells, Robinsons, Gardners and others. Old fashioned Southern hospitality prevailed in town and country, and we who were fortunate enough to live there “Befo de wah” think no other can ever equal it, no other town can ever boast of such beautiful girls, such handsome boys, such noble women, such brilliant men.
When the war cry sounded, Captain A. C. Pickett, a fine lawyer and an old Mexican War veteran, made up our company, and called it the “Jackson Guards.” This company to the number of one hundred and twenty was formed of the best boys of the county. Sons of plantation-owners, lawyers, doctors, druggists, merchants,—the whole South rose as one man, to defend its rights. The young men, many of us barely twenty years of age, knew nothing of war. We thought we could take our trunks and dress suits. We besieged Capt. Pickett and nearly drove him to distraction with questions as to how many suits we should take. He nearly paralyzed us by telling us to leave behind all fancy clothes, and to take only one suit, a woolen top shirt and two suits of underwear.