By the autumn of 1864 the Southern States found themselves ravaged of everything either edible or wearable. Food was enormously high in cities and in locations which proved tempting to foragers. Delicately bred women were grateful when they were able to secure a pair of rough brogan shoes at one hundred dollars a pair, and coarse cotton cloth from the Macon Mills served to make our gowns. For nearly three years the blockade of our ports and frontier had made the purchase of anything really needful, impracticable. Nor could we utilise the stores in Southern cities once these had fallen into the enemies’ clutches. A correspondent, Mrs. Captain du Barry,^[34] who in December, 1863, was permitted to visit Memphis, now in the enemy’s possession, wrote, “I deeply regretted not being able to fill your commissions. I put them on my list that I sent in to General Hurlburt, when I requested a passport, but they were refused. All the principal stores were closed and their contents confiscated. There is a perfect reign of terror in Memphis. Not even a spool of cotton can be purchased without registering your name and address, and “swearing it is for personal or family use,” and no number of articles can be taken from the store without, after selection, going with a list of them in your hand, to the “Board of Trade,” accompanied by the clerk of the store, and there swearing on the Bible that the articles mentioned are for family use and not to be taken out of the United States. So many necessary articles are pronounced contraband by the United States authorities, that one is in momentary chance of being arrested, by ignorantly inquiring for them. The place is swarming with detectives who make a trade of arresting unfortunate people. They are paid by the United States Government two hundred and fifty dollars for detecting and arresting a person, and that person pays the Provost Marshal fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars to get off, that being the way matters are conducted in Memphis!”

All over the South old spinning wheels and handlooms were brought out from dusty corners, and the whirr of the wheel became a very real song to us. Every scrap of old leather from furniture, trunk, belt or saddle was saved for the manufacture of rough shoes, often made by the mother who had been fortunate enough to have hoarded them, for herself and children. I, myself, saw my aunt, Eloisa, wife of General Jones M. Withers, putting soles on the tops of once cast-off shoes of her children’s, and she, who had known so well the luxuries of life, was compelled to perform her task by the meagre light of a precious tallow candle. Complaints, however, were few, from our Spartan-spirited women. Writing to my husband, in November, 1864, I said, “A lady told me yesterday that she fattened daily on Confederate fare—for, since she could obtain no useless luxuries, her health, heretofore poor, has become perfect.”

The country was stripped not alone of the simpler refinements of life, but of even so necessary a commodity as salt. Scarcely a smoke-house in the South having an earthen floor, which had received the drippings from the hams or bacon sides of earlier days, but underwent a scraping and sifting in an effort to secure the precious grains deposited there. It happened that my host at “Redcliffe,” just previous to the breaking out of hostilities, had ordered a boat-load of salt, to use upon certain unsatisfactory land, and realising that a blockaded coast would result in a salt famine, he hoarded his supply until the time of need should come. When it became known that Senator Hammond’s salt supply was available, every one from far and near came asking for it. It was like going down into Egypt for corn, and the precious crystals were distributed to all who came, according to the number in each family.

Compared with those of many of my friends in other parts of the South, our surroundings and fare at Beech Island were sumptuous. Save at my Uncle Williams’s home, I had nowhere seen such an abundance of good things as “Redcliffe” yielded. Meats and vegetables were plenty; the river nearby was full of shad which were caught readily in seines; and canvas-backs and teal, English ducks and game birds, especially partridges, abounded. “Indian summer is here in all its glory,” I wrote to my husband late in ’4. “The hues of the forests are gorgeous, the roses wonderful! Millions of violets scent the air, and everything is so peaceful and lovely on this island it is hard to realise War is in the land. Splendid crops prevail, and the spirit of the people is undaunted!”

As times grew more and more stringent, tea and coffee proved to be our greatest lack, and here, as we had done in the last days at Warrenton, we were glad to drink potato coffee and peanut chocolate. The skin of the raw potato was scraped off—to pare it might have been to waste it—and the potato cut into slices or discs as thin as paper. It was then carefully dried, toasted and ground, and made into what proved to be a really delicious beverage.^[35] Our chocolate was made in this wise: Peanuts, or pinders, or goobers, as they were variously called, were roasted and the skin slipped off. They were next pounded in a mortar; when, blended with boiled milk and a little sugar (a sparing use of this most costly luxury was also necessary), the drink was ready for serving, and we found it delightful to our palates.

There were spinners and weavers on Beech Island, too, and unceasing industry was necessary to prepare and weave cloth, both cotton and wool, sufficient for the clothing of the army of slaves and the family on the great plantation. One of the island residents, Mrs. Redd, was a wonderful worker, and wove me a cotton gown of many colours which had all the beauty of a fine Scotch plaid. She spun her own cotton and made her own dyes, gathering her colours from the mysterious laboratories of the woods, and great was the fame her handiwork attained wherever it was seen. Calico of the commonest in those days was sold at twenty-five dollars a yard; and we women of the Confederacy cultivated such an outward indifference to Paris fashions as would have astonished our former competitors in the Federal capital. Nor did our appearance, I am constrained to think, suffer appreciably more than our spirits; for the glories of an unbleached Macon Mills muslin gown, trimmed with gourd-seed buttons, dyed crimson, in which I appeared at Richmond in the spring of ’4, so impressed the mind of an English newspaper correspondent there, that he straightway wrote and forwarded an account of it to London, whence our friends who had taken refuge there sent it back to us, cut from a morning journal.

Not that our love for pretty things was dead; a letter preserved by Mr. Clay is fine testimony to the fact that mine was “scotched, and not killed.” It was dated Beech Island, November 18, 1864, and was addressed to Mr. Clay, now on the eve of departure from Canada.

“Bring me at least two silk dresses of black and purple. I prefer the purple to be moire antique, if it is fashionable. If French importations are to be had, bring me a spring bonnet and a walking hat, for the benefit of all my lady friends as well as myself, and do bring some books of fashions—September, October, and November numbers (Ruling passion strong in war), and bring——.” The list grew unconscionably. In after years I found a copy of it carefully made out in my husband’s handwriting, and showing marks of having been carried in his pocket until each article I had indicated for myself or others had been selected, Here it is:

1.

At least, 2 silk dresses, black and purple (for ’Ginie).

2.

French spring bonnet.

3.

Walking hat.

4.

Some books of fashion.

5.

Corsets—4—6, 22 inches in waist.

6.

Slippers with heels, No. 3 1–2.

7.

Gloves—1 doz. light coloured, 1 doz. dark.

8.

Handkerchiefs, extra fine.

9.

Two handsome black silk dresses for Lestia.

10.

Flannel, white and red.

11.

A set of fine, dark furs, not exceeding $25.

12.

Set of Hudson Bay Sables, at any price, for Victoria, large cape, cuffs and muff.

13.

Two Black Hernanis or Tissue dresses, one tissue dress to be brochetted for ’Ginie.

14.

3 or 4 pieces of black velvet ribbon, different widths.

15.

Bolt of white bonnet ribbon; ditto pink, green and magenta.

16.

French flowers for bonnet.

17.

Shell Tuck comb for ’Ginie.

18.

Present for little Jeff Davis, Claude and J. Winter.

19.

Needles, pins, hairpins, tooth-brushes, coarse combs, cosmetics, hair oil, cologne.

20.

Domestic, linen, muslin, nainsook, swiss, jaconet, mull muslin, each a full piece.

21.

Dresses of brilliantine.

22.

Black silk spring wrapping.

23.

Chlorine tooth wash and Rowland’s Kalydor.

24.

A cut coral necklace.

25.

Lace collars, large and pointed now worn.

Alas! my husband’s zeal in fulfilling my commissions all went for naught, for the boxes containing them (save two, which were deposited with Mrs. Chestnut, at Columbia, and later fell prey to the Federals or to the flames, we never knew which) were swallowed by the sea, and only he himself came home with the Government papers he had guarded, as the sole baggage he was able to save from the wreck of the Rattlesnake of all he had carried. And yet not all, for a long-lost pet which he had been enabled to reclaim for General Lee^[36] was also brought safely to shore.

“Tell him,” wrote my sister, from Richmond, that “General Lee’s dog arrived safely. Poor dog! I’m sorry for him, for he will find the Confederacy a poor place to come to to get anything to eat! I trust for the country’s sake, he knows how to live without eating!”

For the making of our toilette we discovered the value of certain gourds, when used as wash cloths. Their wearing qualities were wonderful; the more one used them the softer they became. Needles were becoming precious as heirlooms; pins were the rarest of luxuries; for the greater part of the time locust thorns served us instead. Writing paper was scarcely to be had, and the letters of that period which were sent out by private persons were often unique testimony to the ingenuity of the senders. Wall-paper, perhaps, was most frequently resorted to, and we made our crude envelopes of anything we could find. We made our own writing fluids, our commonest resource being the oak ball, a parasite, which, next to the walnut burr, is the blackest thing in the vegetable world. Or, this failing us, soot was scooped from the chimney, and, after a careful sifting, was mixed with water and “fixed” with a few drops of vinegar. Sometimes we used pokeberries, manufacturing a kind of red ink, or, made thin with water, some bit of miraculously saved shoe polish provided us with an adhesive black fluid.

Our difficulties were as great in the matter of transmitting our letters, when once they were written. We might intrust them to the mails, but these particularly were prey to our invaders; or we might charge with the care of them some traveller who was known to be making his way to the city for which the letters were addressed. Stray newspapers reached us at “Redcliffe” occasionally, from even so distant a point as our capital, and efforts were made by local editors to purvey the news of battles and the movements of the armies, but the supply of paper necessary for the issuing of a daily journal and even a weekly edition was difficult to obtain. What at first had appeared as morning papers were changed to evening editions, as the cost of candles, by which the compositors must work, had risen in ’3 to three and one-half dollars a pound. Our brother, J. Withers Clay, who owned and edited the Confederate, turned peripatetic, and issued his paper where he could, being obliged to keep shifting, printing paraphernalia and all, with the movements of the army in the Tennessee region. Writing us from Chattanooga, on August 16, 1863, he thus described his life: “I am living in camp style. I mess with my office boys and our fare is frugal. My bed is a piece of carpet, laid on a door, with one end elevated on two bricks and the other resting on the floor. I lay my blue blanket on this, and my bones on that, with my head supported by my overcoat and carpet sack, and cover myself with a Mexican scarf when it is cool!”

On the whole, our condition was almost like that of the ancients who depended on passing travellers for gossip or news of the welfare or whereabouts of friends or kin. Thus my sister (by every tie of affection), writing from Richmond in the spring of ’4, said: “Have no idea where you are, but send this letter by General Sparrow to Macon, care of Mrs. Whittle. The last intelligence I had of you was through Colonel Phillips. He told me he saw you between Augusta and Macon somewhere.”

Nor dared we avail ourselves of our telegraph wires, so costly had the sending of a few lines become. For the briefest message sent C. O. D. from Macon to Richmond, my sister paid sixteen dollars and implored me to send no more! The chief resource of the people was the arrival of the local train, at which time the railway stations swarmed with inquirers on foot, hedged in by others as eager, who had driven long distances in such vehicles as were at their command.

My life was one of continual suspense, notwithstanding the arrival of special couriers who came from time to time from Richmond bearing tidings of my absent husband. All lives that lie in close parallels to governments carry heavy anxieties. Mine, in those days of strife and terror, was no exception to this general rule. As negotiator at Niagara Falls with Professor Holcombe and others, the eyes of the North as well as those of the South for months had been fixed upon Mr. Clay, his interviews with Horace Greeley and the messengers sent to him by Mr. Lincoln having excited varying comments and criticisms that were anything but reassuring. Our friends in Richmond, however, wrote cheeringly:

“... I hear occasionally of Mr. Clay,” ran a letter from the Executive Mansion, dated August 31st, ’4, “but for some time past nothing has been received from him. The company he keeps^[37] as reported by the newspapers cannot render you apprehensive of his being too happy to wish to return, though your desire to be with him may have increased his probable want of more congenial communion when the day’s work is done. I am assured that his health has improved by Canadian air, and we may hope that he will bring back increased ability to labour in the cause of the Confederacy, if it should not be his portion to relieve us of the need for further toil such as now is imposed. The carping spirit which prompted the criticism^[38] on his course would have found sufficient cause whatever he might have done; or, if nothing had been done, that would have served equally. No one can hope to please everybody. You would not wish your husband to escape the reviling of those who envy such as they cannot rival, and strive to drag others down from the heights to which they cannot rise?”

Messages were numerous, urging my return to Richmond, which our President and the Mallorys assured me was the safest of places.

“Now that Sherman’s barbarians are in unpleasant proximity to you,” wrote Secretary Mallory, “why not come to the front where security, sympathy, mint juleps, an admiring audience, the freshest gossip and the most unselfish regard, all combine with the boom and flash of guns to welcome your coming? The correspondence between your lord and master and Holcombe on one side, and Greeley on the other, is doing good service. The parties, fragments, cliques and individuals in the United States who desire peace, but differ upon the modus operandi of getting it, will now learn that with Lincoln at the head of affairs, no peace is possible; while our weak brothers in North Carolina and Georgia who have clamoured so loudly that peace propositions should be made to us, cannot fail to see that, at present, peace with Lincoln means degradation. I am very glad Mr. Clay went, for I see that his presence must be beneficial to our cause.”

These, and other letters as urgent and as desirous of quieting my apprehensions, came frequently. Nevertheless, my husband’s stay in the severe climate of Canada caused me constant apprehension. For months my only direct news of him was through “personals,” variously disguised, in the Richmond papers, which Colonel Clay was prompt to forward to me. Occasionally, however, one of the numerous letters each endeavoured to send to the other successfully reached its destination. “It gives me great pain,” I wrote on November 18, ’4, “to learn from yours just received that none of my numerous letters have reached you since the 30th June! I have sent you dozens, my dearest, filled with all the news of the day, of every character, and more love than ever filled my heart before!... My last intelligence of you was sent me from Richmond through the bearer of despatches, I presume, and bore the date of September fifteenth, more than two months ago!”

In this letter, which was dated from Beech Island, I conveyed intelligence to Mr. Clay of Senator Hammond’s death, he being, at the time, a few days less than fifty-seven years of age. It occurred while all the affluent colourings of the autumn were tingeing his world at “Redcliffe.” The circumstances attending his decease and burial were unique, and to be likened only to those which, in mediÆval days, surrounded the passing away of some Gothic baron or feudal lord. Mr. Hammond had been failing in health for some time, when, feeling his end drawing near, he asked for a carriage that he might drive out and select his last resting-place. He chose, at last, a high knoll, from which a fine view was to be had of Augusta and the Sand Hills; and, having done this, being opposed to private burial grounds, he bequeathed the surrounding acres to the town in the precincts of which his estate lay, on consideration that they turn the plot into a public cemetery. First, however, he laid an injunction upon his wife and sons, that if the Yankee army penetrated there (the end of the war was not yet, nor came for six months thereafter), they should have his grave ploughed over that none of the hated enemy should see it.

Again and again in the remaining days he reiterated his wish. Fears were spreading of the approach of Sherman’s devastating army, and the destruction of “Redcliffe,” conspicuous as it was to all the surrounding country, seemed inevitable. Marvellous to relate, however, when at last the spoiler came, his legions marched in a straight line to the sea, some fourteen miles away from the Hammond plantation, leaving it untouched by shell or the irreverent hand of the invader.

The funeral of Mr. Hammond was solemn and made especially impressive by the procession of two hundred of the older slaves, who marched, two by two, into the baronial parlors, to look for the last time upon their master’s face. Save for this retinue, “Redcliffe” was now practically without a defender, Mr. Paul Hammond being absent much of the time, detailed upon home guard duty. In his absence, my maid, Emily, and I kept the armory of the household, now grown more and more fearful of invasion with its train of insult and the destruction of property. There were many nights when, all the rest in slumber and a dead hush without, I waited, breathless, until I caught the sound of Paul Hammond’s returning steps.

Just before the close of my refugee days on Beach Island, a young kinsman, George Tunstall, who filled the sublime post of corporal in Wheeler’s Brigade in camp a few hundred miles away, learning of my presence there, obtained leave of absence and made his way, accompanied by another youth, to Mrs. Hammond’s to see me. The two soldiers were full of tales of thrilling interest, of hairbreadth escapes and camp happenings, both grave and gay; and, rumours of Sherman’s advance being rife, our young heroes urged my cousin to take time by the forelock and bury the family silver. “Redcliffe” being almost in direct line of the Yankee general’s march, the advice seemed good, and preparations at once began to put it into operation. Though there was little doubt of the loyalty of the majority of the Hammond slaves, yet it seemed but prudent to surround our operations with all possible secrecy. We therefore collected the silver, piece by piece, secreting it in “crocus” bags, which, when all was ready, we deposited in a capacious carryall, into which we crowded. It was at early dusk when lurking figures easily might be descried in corn-field or behind a wayside tree by our alert eyes. Declaring to those of the servants who stood about as we entered the carriage, that we were taking some provisions to Mrs. Redd, much to Lot’s^[39] surprise, we dispensed with a coachman, and drove off. We had many a laugh as we proceeded through the woods, at our absurdity in concealing our errand from the family servants and in confiding our precious secret to two of Wheeler’s men. They had a terrible reputation for chicken stealing.^[40]

When we had driven a mile or more, Mr. Tunstall produced a hatchet and began to blaze the trees. “There!” he said, after instructing us as to the signs he had made, “when you come to where the blaze stops, you’ll find your valuables!” and under his directions the silver was silently sunk in the ground and the earth replaced.^[41]

Apropos of General Sherman, when a month or two later I was in Macon, I heard a very excellent story. A party of his men one day dashed up to the house of a Mrs. Whitehead, a fine old lady (a sister of my informant), and demanded dinner at once. The lady long since had learned that resistance to such imperative demands would be in vain, and preparations were at once begun for the meal. Notwithstanding her obliging and prompt compliance, the men immediately started a forage in the poultry yard and the outhouses beyond. One of the officers penetrated the servants’ quarters, and entered a cabin in which a young black woman lay sick.

“What’s the matter, Sis?” he asked, in a tone that was meant to convey sympathy.

“Ain’t no Sis of yourn!” was the sullen reply. “God knows I ain’t no kin to no Yankee!” At that moment an infant’s cry was heard.

“Hello!” said the officer. “Got a little pickaninny, hey? Boy or girl?”

“Boy chile! What’s that ter you?” snapped the woman.

“What’s his name?” persisted the soldier.

“Name’s Wheeler, dat’s what ’tis!” answered the invalid triumphantly, and the colloquy ended abruptly.

As the soldiers sat down to the table, some one, going to the door, saw Wheeler’s men come tearing down the road flat on their horses. Instantly he shouted back to his companions, “Wheeler!” but they, believing the cry to be a ruse, continued to eat. The sounds of the galloping steeds soon became audible, however, and a stampede that was highly amusing to the now relieved household took place through doors and windows. When General Wheeler arrived, he found a steaming repast already prepared, and a cordial welcome from Mrs. Whitehead and her family, including “Sis.”