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electronic edition is a part of the UNC-CH digitization project, Documenting
the American South. Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH. University
of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1998. © This work is the property of
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Edition
Virginia Clay-Clopton
A Belle of the Fifties: Memoirs of
Mrs. Clay, of Alabama, Covering Social and Political Life in Washington and the
South, 1853-66
PREFACE. THE memoirs of "Mrs. Clay, of
Alabama," by which title Mrs. Clement C. Clay, now Mrs. Clay-Clopton (1825-1915), was known during the period comprised
by 1850-87, begin in the middle of the second decade of the nineteenth century,
the scenes being laid among the affluent plantations of North Carolina and
Alabama, and, continuing through two brilliant administrations at the national
capital, close, as she emerges from the distresses which overtook her and her
husband after the never-to-be-forgotten tragedy that plunged a nation into
mourning - the death of Mr. Lincoln. […] ADA STERLING.
NEW YORK CITY, September 15, 1904.
CHAPTER XIII
GLIMPSES OF OUR
BELEAGUERED SOUTH LAND
|
Richmond
in '62 - John A. Campbell Gives an Opinion on Confederate Money - An Exodus
from the Capital - Mrs. Roger A. Pryor Rebukes a Contemptuous Lady - Our Mail
a Pandora's Box - News of New Orleans - William L. Yancey Returns from a
Fruitless Trip to England - And Mr. Lamar from Russia - An Astronomer Turns
Martinet - A Careful Search Is Made for General Pope Walker - Our Pastor's
Prayers Curtailed - The Federals Are Worried by General Roddy
- Miss Mitchell "Confiscates" Some of My Property - "Hey! Git off 'Ginie Clay's
Mare!" - General Logan, a Case of Mistaken Identity – [Excerpt starts
here] My Refugee Days Begin
- A Glimpse of North Carolinian Hospitality - And of the Battle of Seven
Pines - The Seed-corn of Our Race Is Taken - Return to Huntsville . . . [page 178] |
[My
Refugee Days Begin] It was already early summer when we left the troubled
capital, where everyone was keyed to a high pitch of excitement by the maneuverings
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 '62, 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 '62 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 caroled as they coquetted among
the foliage and squirrels gamboled 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 marvelous 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 dispatches, 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!"
"The
city is filled with the wounded and dead," echoed our cousin John Withers.
"It is fortunate you are away and saved the necessity of beholding the
horrible sights which are now so common here! Great numbers of Alabamians are
killed and wounded. . . ." And he added in a letter, written in an
interval of the awful Seven Days Battles: "For four days I have been
awaiting some decisive move on the part of our forces, but nothing has been
done yet to settle affairs. McClellan has not been routed, but his army is, no
doubt, demoralized to such an extent as to render any other demonstration
against Richmond out of the question for many weeks. . . .The President has
come up from the battle-field, and I hear that a courier from the French and
British Consuls is to leave here for Washington to-night or in the morning. We
will secure between thirty and forty thousand small arms by our late
operations; many of them much injured by being bent. The enemy has a position
now which we cannot well assail successfully. They are under their gunboats and
have gotten reinforcements. . . . There is a report to-night that Magruder has captured eight hundred Yankees to-day, but I
place no reliance upon any rumor until it is confirmed as truth. General
Beauregard has made a most successful retreat to Baldwin, thirty-five miles
south of Corinth, on the Mobile and Ohio Railroad. The move was necessary, and
I have no doubt will be a great blow to the enemy. He carried all his heavy
guns, tents, and so on. General Lee is in command of the army hereabouts, and I
am sure we will whip McClellan's army when the grand contest shall take place.
The rain of last night will forbid any movement for two or three days. When the
fight opens again, we will have thousands upon thousands of wounded here!"
Such
were the accruing records of woe and of personal and national loss which
followed Senator Clay and me throughout those autumn months of '62. The inroad made upon the gallant regiments of our own State were
frightful. The ranks of the splendid Fourth Alabama Regiment, picked men of our
finest blood, the flower of our hopes, as handsome a body as a State might
muster, were terribly thinned. Wherever a call came our Alabamians were found
in the front, the envy and admiration of the army, quickening the courage and
firing the imaginations of every company that beheld them. But oh! our men had need of a mighty courage, for soon the very seed
corn of our race became a sacrifice. The picture rises before me of a youthful
cousin * who
fell at Malvern Hill, shot down as he bore aloft the banner which he fondly
hoped would lead to victory. His blood-stained cap, marked by a bullet hole,
was all that returned of our fair young soldier boy. Another youth, ** on whom the
love and hope of a dear circle was settled, fell with his heart pierced, and so
swift was the passing of his soul that he felt no pain nor
sorrow. They say an eager smile was on his face when they found him. For years
his loved ones, gazing upon it with weeping eyes, treasured the blood-stained,
bullet-torn handkerchief that had lain over the wounded heart of the boy!
The
tears start afresh when, looking into my memory, there
passes before me that army of the dead and gone. Oh! the sorrow that overcame
all who knew him (and the circle was wide as half the South itself) when the
news came of the death of Colonel Sydenham Moore, who
fell at Seven Pines; and even the enemy spoke solemnly at the passing of our
beloved General Tracy, who died so courageously fighting in the battle of Port
Gibson, within three-quarters of a year! "I have little active service at
this post," he complained from Vicksburg, in March of '63, "and the
very fact incapacitates me for the discharge of duties of other kinds. In fact,
I am ennuied past description!" So, chafing
impatiently to write his name in brave deeds across some page of the
Confederate States' history, he sprang to meet the call when it came, and fell,
crowned with immortal glory in the hearts of a loving people.
General
Tracy's young wife was awaiting him, an infant at her bosom, when we returned
late in November of '62 for a brief stay at Huntsville, from which, for a time,
the Union soldiers had been beaten back. By this time our valley seemed so safe
that families from other threatened districts came to take refuge in it.
Colonel Basil Duke, among others, brought his wife to Huntsville. Numerous
absentee householders came back; and interest in local enterprises was resumed.
* Harry, son of Buxton Williams.
** James Camp Turner, of Alabama, died at Manassas.
CHAPTER XIV. REFUGEE DAYS IN GEORGIA. . . . 193
Online
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