The Decatur women’s struggle for bread—Sweet singing in hard places—Pleasant visitors—I make a trip to Alabama—The news of my brother’s death.

The tug of war was upon us from the mountains to the sea-board, and ingenious was the woman who devised means to keep the wolf, hungry and ravenous, from the door. The depreciation of our currency, and its constant diminution in value, had rendered it an unreliable purchasing commodity, and we had nothing to give in exchange for food. I, therefore, felt that I had literally rubbed against Aladdin’s lamp when I saw much needed food, good and palatable, given in exchange for minie balls, and for any kind of metal convertible into destructive missiles, and I was anxious that others should share the benefit accruing from the lead mines mentioned in a former sketch. In pursuance of this humane desire, I proclaimed its discovery and results from house to house; for, mark you, we had no “Daily Courier,” nor messenger boy to convey the glad tidings to the half-famished women and children in and around Decatur. And if my words could have been changed into diamonds by the magic wand of a fairy, not one of those starving people would have accepted the change of diamonds for bread.

It required only a short time to raise a large company of women, girls and little boys, who were ready to do service for themselves and their country by digging lead with case-knives from mines providentially furnished them. And was it not serving the cause of the Confederacy? I thought so; and never walked with more independent step than when acting as generalissimo of that band of devoted, patriotic women, en route to the “lead mines” around Atlanta. Telitha, too, evidently felt that she was an important adjunct in the mining enterprise, and a conspicuous personage in the scenes being enacted, and emphasized her opinion by strong and suggestive gesticulation. On this occasion she playfully wrenched from my hand the small vessel with which I had supplied myself and which I carried on the former trip, and substituted a larger one, while for herself she got at least a half-bushel measure.

All who remember the month of December, 1864, know that it abounded in clouds and rain and sleet, and was intensely cold in the Confederate States of America; and in the latitude embracing Atlanta, such severity of weather had never been known to the oldest inhabitant. But what mattered it? Each one in that little band of women was connected by a bright link to the illustrious armies that were enduring greater privation and hardship than those to which she was exposed, and counted it a willing oblation upon his country’s altar, and why should she not prove faithful to the end, and suffer the pangs of hunger and privation too?

The work of picking up minie balls began as soon as we reached the battle-field, and, consequently, we carried several pounds some distance unnecessarily. The “mine” proper, I doubt not, could have filled several wagons. As “a little fun now and then is relished by the wisest men,” I found a grim smile asserting itself at the quaint and ready wit of those estimable girls, the Misses Morton, whose Christian names I have forgotten and who, alas! have long since joined the silent majority. One of them assumed the character of a Confederate soldier and the other that of a Federal, and the conversation carried on between them, as they “exchanged coffee and tobacco,” was rich, rare and racy. The exchange having been effected, the signal of combat was given. “Look out, Billy Yank!” “Look out, Johnnie Reb!” were simultaneous warnings from opposing forces, and minie balls whizzed through the air, much to the merriment of the little boys who wished themselves men, that they might be with their fathers, whizzing minie balls from musket mouths.

The sham battle over, the work of digging lead was resumed, and in an amazingly short time our vessels were filled to overflowing. I watched Telitha with interest. She was eager to fill her basket, and more than once she said, “Me full!” and added a little gutteral laugh that always indicated pleasure. Her attempt to raise the basket from the ground, and her utter failure to do so surprised her amazingly, and her disappointment was pathetic. With great reluctance she saw her treasure reduced to her capacity of handling. Each member of the party experienced similar disappointment on attempting to raise her burden, and we left more exhumed lead and other valuables than we carried away.We took up our line of march, and as there were no obstructions in the way (for, be it remembered, Sherman had been there, and with torch and explosive removed all obstructions save the standing chimneys and carcasses of horses and cattle shot by his order to prevent the possibility of use to the rebels), we struck a bee-line to the commissary. As the first to take advantage of this industry, I took the lead, and the vigor of young womanhood, and “a heart for every fate,” gave elasticity to my steps, and I soon outdistanced even the girls. In due time we reached the commissary, and in a short while a most satisfactory exchange was made, thanks to one whose great heart beat in unison with ours, and in lieu of the heavy burden which we laid down, we picked up food for the nourishment of our tired bodies and those of our loved ones at home. Oh, how light, comparatively, it seemed! I verily believe if it had weighed the same number of pounds, it would have seemed lighter, and the change would have seemed restful. “Good-bye, noble ladies and sisters in a righteous cause,” was the parting salutation of our no less noble benefactor.

With our respective packages of food we again turned our faces homeward, solemn as a funeral march, for, strive against them as we would, we all had forebodings of ill, and the swaying of our bodies and our footsteps kept time with the pulsations of our sad hearts. I fancied as I approached standing chimneys and other evidences of destroyed homes, that the spirit of Sherman, in the guise of an evil spirit, was laughing over the destruction his diabolism had wrought. In the midst of these reflections a song, which for sweetness and tranquilizing melody I have seldom heard equalled and never surpassed, broke the stillness of the scene and added to the melancholy interest of the occasion. It was the well known ballad, then familiar to every child in the Confederacy, “When this Cruel War is Over,” and sung by those gifted sisters mentioned as a part of the lead digging company. The pure, sweet soprano voice of one of the girls put to flight the spirit of Sherman, and when it was joined by the flute-like alto of the others, every evil spirit within and without was exorcised, and the spirit of submission took its place. And yet as the words rang out and found an echo in my own heart, I had to walk very straight, and turn my head neither to the right nor to the left, lest I betray the copious tears trickling down my cheeks. At length pent-up feelings burst the fetters, and an audible sob removed restraint, and we cried as women burdened with great sorrow. Precious tears! Nature’s kind alleviator in time of trouble.

“The day was cold and dark and dreary,
And it rained and the winds were never weary,”

and yet I was nerved for its duties and toil by the consciousness of having met, uncomplainingly, the work which the preservation of my own principles made me willing to endure. Several days subsequent to this trip to Atlanta, the Morton girls came running in and told me that we had some delightful friends at the “Swanton place,” who requested to see us. My mother was too much exhausted by anxiety and waiting for that which never came, to go, but approved my doing so. I, therefore, donned my sun-bonnet and went; and whom should I meet but Mrs. Trenholm and her sweet young daughters, Essie and Lila? I was delighted to see them, and invited them to go home with me. Ma received them in a spirit of cordial hospitality, and they were invited to remain at her house. Without hesitation, Mrs. Trenholm accepted the proffered kindness, and returned to her wayside rendezvous only to send her trunks, bedding and other household goods. And truly the coming of that saintly woman and those lovely girls was a rare benediction, especially at that time. Day by day ma looked in vain for tidings from “the front”—wherever that might be—and day by day her health and strength was perceptibly weakened by disappointment. Mrs. Trenholm’s sympathy with her in her suspense regarding the operations of Hood’s army, and the fate of her beloved son, was both touching and consoling. Seeing that my mother and myself were hoping almost against hope, she endeavored to bring us to a realization of that fact, and a complete submission to the will of God, even though that will deprived us of our loved one. All of her Christian arguments and consolations had been pondered over and over by mother and daughter, but they never seemed so sweet and potent as when coming in the chaste and simple language of a precious saintly woman.

With the tact peculiar to the refined of every clime and locality, Mrs. Trenholm assumed management of the culinary department, and her dinner-pot hung upon our crane several weeks, and daily sent forth appetizing odors of bacon and peas. How we enjoyed those peas and that bacon, and the soup seasoned with the only condiments at our command—salt and red pepper—and the good hoe cakes! Mrs. Trenholm had a large sack of cow peas, and a sack of dried fruit, and other articles of food which she had provided for herself and her family before she left Southwest Georgia en route to her home in Marietta, which she left in obedience to the order of William Tecumseh Sherman, and which she learned, before reaching Decatur, had shared the fate of nearly all other homes which had to be thus abandoned. Although magnanimously proffered, we were averse to sharing Mrs. Trenholm’s well-prepared and ofttimes tempting cuisine, unless our proportion of food equaled hers; and fearing even the appearance of scanty supplies, I set about to gather up “the miners,” so that we might appoint a day to again go lead digging, if that which we left in as many little heaps as there were members of the company had been, in the interim, gathered up by others.

On former occasions I had led my company to victory over that malignant general left by Sherman to complete his work, and styled by him “General Starvation,” and they were willing to go wherever I led. Now, I had two recruits of whom I was very proud. Telitha, too, had gathered from observation that the sweet young Trenholm girls were going with us, and she set about to provide very small baskets for their use, which, with gestures amusing and appropriate, she made us understand were large enough to contain all the lead that girls so pretty and so ladylike ought to carry. To their credit, however, they repudiated that idea, and carried larger vessels. By appointment the “lead diggers” were to meet at the tan-yard, those arriving first to wait until the entire number came. “Man proposes and God disposes.” Just as my last glove was drawn on, Telitha, ever on the alert, said “Morton, Morton,” and I looked and saw the girls coming. “We needn’t go—the commissary has folded its tents, and silently stolen away,” was the voluntary announcement. Imagine my consternation and disappointment—the last hope of supply cut off! Ma saw the effect upon me, and said in a more hopeful voice than was her wont, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” And good Mrs. Trenholm said her sack of peas was like the cruse of oil that never seemed to diminish in quantity, however much was taken out of it. An examination, too, of our own resources was quite gratifying; but I knew I ought to be “providing for a rainy day.”

I pass now over an interval which brings me to the latter part of January, 1865. My sister returned home from Madison and spent several weeks with us, but had accepted an offer to teach at Grantville, on the LaGrange and West Point Railroad. I had a precious aunt, my mother’s sister, Mrs. Annie Watson, whom I loved dearly, and of whom I had not heard a word since the interruption of the mail communication by the siege of Atlanta, and my mother’s frequent mention of her determined me to go and see if this beloved aunt was living, and, if so, in what condition. I knew she was one of the favored ones of earth, viewed from a worldly standpoint, but I knew not what changes had come over her or her worldly possessions. Rumor conveyed startling accounts of the atrocious deeds of Wilson’s raiders, and I knew that they were operating in that rich cotton belt of Alabama which embraced my aunt’s plantation and beautiful home. I could scarcely hope that that home and its valuable appointments had escaped the cupidity of an organized band of robbers protected by the United States Government.

When I think of my mother’s fond affection for her children, and her tender solicitude for their welfare, I am constrained to think that she thought I was endowed with a sort of charmed existence not subject to the perils which beset the pathway of ordinary mortals, and hence her ready acquiescence to my proposition to undertake a journey of many miles, under circumstances of imminent danger, inspired with confidence amounting to certainty that I would be preserved by an All-wise Providence for future usefulness. I had very little preparation to make for the contemplated trip. A pretty, small-checked dress, which had done service through many a changing scene, and was good for as many more, and a hat—well, I beg to be excused from describing it—and gloves upon which I had expended skill in darning until it was difficult to perceive where the darning ceased and the glove began, completed my toilet, and I bade to all appearance a cheerful good-bye to my mother and kind friends, and went by private conveyance to Fairburn. There I took the train for Cowles’ Station, Alabama.Nothing of particular interest transpired on the way. My country was prostrate and bleeding from many lacerations, and my tears flowed so freely that by the time I reached my railroad destination I had a very sick headache. That “there is a providence that shapes our ends” was again illustrated. Some of my aunt’s neighbors, who knew me at least by name, were at the station, and kindly offered to carry me to her residence, a distance of ten miles. I found my aunt in feeble health, and all alone save her usual dusky attendant. Her only child, Mrs. Mary E. Seaman, had gone to Tuskeegee to see her little daughter, who was there going to school in care of a friend and relative, Col. Smith Graham. My closest scrutiny failed to detect any change in my aunt’s mode of living. The same retinue of servants came into the house to see and shake hands with mistress’ niece, and after many questions about “our white folks in Georgia,” retired from my presence with the same courtesy that had marked their demeanor towards me in ante-bellum days.

My aunt manifested her joy at seeing me in many ways, and wept and smiled alternately, as I related my adventures with the Yankees. “And my sister, what was their treatment of her?” My evasive answer, “It could have been worse,” heightened her desire to learn particulars, and I told them to her. She was grateful for all leniency shown by them, and affected to tears by unkindness. As the day waned, and the middle of the afternoon came on, my aunt proposed walking “to meet Mary.” I supported her fragile form, and guided her footsteps in the best part of the road. How like her beloved sister in Georgia she seemed! Accustomed to this little diversion, for she always went to meet Mary, she had reckoned accurately regarding the time of her daughter’s coming, and we had not gone far when we saw the carriage descending a declivity in the distance. Nelson, the coachman, had also recognized “Mistress and Miss Mary,” and announced his discovery to my cousin. Increased speed in the gait of the horses soon brought us together, and she opened the door and stepped to the ground. After kissing her dear mother, she encircled me in her arms, and kissed me time and again, and then assisted me into the carriage, and she and her mother followed. I greeted the coachman in a cordial manner, because of past service and present fidelity to “mistress and my white folks” generally.

With my rapidity in conversation, I could scarcely keep up with my cousin’s questions. Happy woman! She had never seen any “Blue-coats,” or, in the parlance of the times, “Yankees,” and she enjoyed my description of them, especially when in answer to the question, “Do they look like our men?” I attempted to define the difference. It was amusing to me to hear her describe the preparations she made for the coming of Wilson and his raiders.

After reaching home, she left her mother and myself only a few minutes. I scarcely perceived her absence, and yet when she returned the disparity in our dress was not so apparent. The elegant traveling suit had been exchanged for her plainest home attire, and every article of jewelry had disappeared. The brief period spent with these dear relatives was spent in mutual efforts to entertain and amuse each other. My aunt’s conversation was like sweet music in which minor chords abounded. Her love for her sister, and apprehension of evil, gave a pathetic turn to every conversation she attempted, and it was evident to me that she had given up all hope of my brother’s safety, and her resignation under similar circumstances was a great support to me.

Much as I enjoyed this luxurious home, and its refined appointments, there was a controlling motive—a nearer tie—that made me willing to again take up the hardships and perils of warfare, and battle for life with that relentless enemy left by Sherman to complete his cruel work, the aforesaid General Starvation.

After many farewell words were spoken, I left my aunt, accompanied by her daughter, who went with me to the station for the purpose of seeing me on the train bound for Fairburn, then the terminus of the railroad. It was past noon when the train left the station, and in those days of slow railroad locomotion, it was all the afternoon reaching West Point. I learned before reaching there that I would have to remain over until the next morning, and, therefore, as soon as I stepped from the cars, started to hunt a place at which to spend the night. Wending my way, solitary and alone, through the twilight, I saw Mr. John Pate, the depot agent at Decatur, coming towards me.

“Oh, Mr. Pate, have you heard anything from ma in the last week?”“Yes; it went very hard with her, but she was some better this morning.”

I did not have to ask another question. I knew it all, and was dumb with grief. The thought that I would never see my darling brother again paralyzed me. I saw him in the mirror of my soul, in all the periods of his existence. The beautiful little baby boy, looking at me the first time out of his heavenly blue eyes, and his second look, as if not satisfied with the first, followed by the suggestion of a smile. Ah, that smile! It had never failed me through successive years and varying scenes. The boyhood and youth—honest, truthful and generous to a fault—and the noble, genial boyhood, had all developed within my recollection, and I loved him with an intensity bordering on idolatry. These scenes and many others rushed through my mind with kaleidoscopic rapidity and made me so dizzy that I had no knowledge of how I reached the “hotel.” My heart cried and refused to be comforted. From the consolation of religion and patriotism it recoiled and cried all the more. A great tie of nature had been sundered, and the heart, bruised and crushed and bleeding, pulsated still with vitality that would have flickered out but for the hope of giving comfort to the poor bereaved mother and sister in our great sorrow. Good ladies bathed my throbbing temples and kissed my cheeks and spoke comforting words, for they were all drinking the bitter waters of Marah, and knew how to reach the heart and speak of the balm of Gilead.

“Killed on the battle-field, thirty steps from the breastworks at Franklin, Tennessee, November 30th, 1864,” was the definite information regarding my brother’s death, left for me by Mr. Pate.

Interminable as the darkness of night appeared, it at length gave way to the light of day, and I was ready with its dawn to take the train. But, oh, the weight of this grief that was crushing me! Had the serpents which attacked Laocoon, and crushed him to death by their dreadful strength, reached out and embraced me in their complicated folds, I could not have writhed in greater agony. I did not believe it was God’s will that my brother should die, and I could not say to that Holy Being, “Thy will be done.” In some way I felt a complicity in his death—a sort of personal responsibility. When my brother wrote to me from his adopted home in Texas that, having voted for secession, he believed it to be his duty to face the danger involved by that step, and fight for the principles of self-government vouchsafed by the Constitution of the United States, I said nothing in reply to discourage him, but rather I indicated that if I were eligible I should enter the contest. These, and such as these were the harrowing reflections which accused me of personal responsibility for the demon of war entering our household and carrying off the hope and prop of a widowed mother.

I found my poor stricken mother almost prostrate. The tidings of her son’s tragic death did the work apprehended by all who knew her nervous temperament. Outwardly calm and resigned, yet almost paralyzed by the blow, she was being tenderly cared for by our saintly neighbor, Mrs. Ammi Williams and her family, who will always be held in grateful remembrance by her daughters.