Slavery is not only tyrannical, but it is corrupting to morals. The Secessionists of St. Joseph, Missouri, in their eagerness to precipitate a Kansas regiment to destruction, burned a bridge on the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad, a few miles east of St. Joseph. The train left the city at three o'clock in the morning, and reached the bridge before daybreak. The regiment was not on board, and instead of destroying a thousand Union soldiers, a large number of the citizens of St. Joseph,-with women and children, friends and neighbors of the Secessionists,-were plunged into the abyss!

The action of these Missouri barbarians was applauded by the Secessionists of Washington. A friend came into my room late one evening in great excitement.

"What is the matter?"

"I am sick at heart," said he, "at what I have heard. I called upon some of my female acquaintances to-night. I knew that they were Secessionists, but did not think that they were so utterly corrupt as I find them to be. They are refined, intelligent, and have moved in the first society of Washington. They boldly declared that it was justifiable to destroy that railroad train in Missouri; that it is right to poison wells, or violate oaths of allegiance, to help on the cause of the South!"

The bitterness of the women of the South during the Rebellion is a strange phenomenon, without a parallel in history. For the women of Ireland, who in the rebellion of '98 cut off the heads of English residents, and chopped up their victims by piecemeal, were from the bogs and fens,-one remove only from the beasts; but these women of the South lay claims to a superior culture. It is one thing to be devoted heart and soul to a cause, but it is quite another to advance it at the cost of civilization, Christianity, and the womanly virtues.

The a.s.sertion that all women of the South thus gave themselves over to do wickedly, would be altogether too sweeping; a large portion may be included. Mrs. Greenhow and Belle Boyd have written out some of their exploits and machinations for the overthrow of the Union. With them, a false oath or any measure of deceit, was praiseworthy, if it would but aid the Secession cause. They are fair representatives of the females of the South.

Forwarded free.

CHAPTER III.

THE FALL OF 1861.

Oct., 1861.

The months of August and September pa.s.sed away without any action on the part of General McClellan, who had been appointed commander of the Army of the Potomac.

The disaster at Ball's Bluff occurred on the 21st of October, just three months after the battle of Bull Run. On the afternoon of the 22d the news was whispered in Washington. Riding at once with a fellow-correspondent, Mr. H. M. Smith of the Chicago Tribune, to General McClellan's head-quarters, and entering the anteroom, we found President Lincoln there. I had met him on several occasions, and he was well acquainted with my friend. He greeted us cordially, but sat down quickly, rested his head upon his hand, and seemed to be unusually agitated. His eyes were sunken, his countenance haggard, his whole demeanor that of one who was in trouble.

"Will you please step in here, Mr. President," said an orderly from an adjoining room, from whence came the click of the telegraph. He soon came out, with his hands clasped upon his breast, his head bowed, his body bent as if he were carrying a great burden. He took no notice of any one, but with downcast eyes and faltering steps pa.s.sed into the street and towards the Executive mansion.

"We have met with a sad disaster. Fifteen hundred men lost, and Colonel Baker killed," said General Marcy.

It was that which had overwhelmed the President. Colonel Baker was his personal friend. They had long been intimately acquainted. In speaking of that event afterwards, Mr. Lincoln said that it smote him like a whirlwind in a desert. Few men have been appointed of G.o.d to bear such burdens as were laid upon President Lincoln. A distracted country, a people at war, all the foundations of society broken up; the cares, trials, and perplexities which came every day without cessation, disaster upon disaster, the loss of those he loved,-Ellsworth, Baker, and his own darling Willie. A visitor at the White House the day of Ellsworth's death found him in tears.

"I will make no apology, gentlemen," said he, "for my weakness; but I knew poor Ellsworth well, and held him in great regard. Just as you entered the room, Captain Fox left me, after giving me the painful details of Ellsworth's unfortunate death. The event was so unexpected, and the recital so touching, that it quite unmanned me. Poor fellow," he added, "it was undoubtedly a rash act, but it only shows the heroic spirit that animates our soldiers, from high to low, in this righteous cause of ours. Yet who can restrain grief to see them fall in such a way as this,-not by the fortunes of war, but by the hand of an a.s.sa.s.sin?"

The first time I ever saw Mr. Lincoln was the day after his nomination by the Chicago Convention. I accompanied the committee appointed to inform him of the action of the Convention to Springfield. It was sunset when we reached the plain, unpretentious two-story dwelling,-his Springfield home. Turning to the left as we entered the hall, and pa.s.sing into the library, we stood in the presence of a tall man, with large features, great, earnest eyes, a countenance which, once looked upon, forever remembered. He received the committee with dignity and yet with evident constraint of manner. The address of Mr. Ashmun, chairman of the committee, was brief, and so was Mr. Lincoln's reply. Then followed a general introduction of the party.

There was a pitcher of ice-water and goblets on a stand, but there were no liquors. The next morning a citizen narrated the following incident.

When the telegraph informed Mr. Lincoln's neighbors that the committee were on their way, a few of his friends called upon him to make arrangements for their reception.

"You must have some refreshments prepared," said they.

"O certainly, certainly. What shall I get?"

"You will want some brandy, whiskey, wines, &c."

"I can't do that, gentlemen. I never have kept liquors, and I can't get them now."

"Well, we will supply them."

"No, gentlemen, I can't permit you to do what I would not do myself. I will furnish good water and enough of it, but no liquors."

He adhered to his decision; and thus at the beginning of the contest gave an exhibition of that resoluteness of character, that determination of will to adhere to what he felt was right, which was of such inestimable value to the nation, in carrying the cause of the Union triumphantly through all the dark days of the Rebellion.

It was sunset when Mr. Smith and myself reached Poolsville, after a rapid horseback ride from Washington. The quartermasters were issuing clothing to those who had cast away their garments while swimming the river. The night was cold. There had been a heavy fall of rain, and the ground was miry. It was a sad spectacle, those half-naked, shivering soldiers, who had lost everything,-clothes, equipments, and arms. They were almost heart-broken at the disaster.

"I enlisted to fight," said one, "but I don't want to be slaughtered. O my G.o.d! shall I ever forget that sight, when the boat went down?" He covered his face with his hands, as if to shut out the horrid spectacle.

Colonel Baker was sent across the river with the Fifteenth and Twentieth Ma.s.sachusetts, a portion of the Tammany Regiment of New York, and the California regiment, Colonel Baker's own, in all about fifteen hundred men. His means of communication were only an old scow and two small boats. He was left to fight una.s.sisted four thousand Rebels. Soon after he fell, there was a sudden rush to the boats, which, being overloaded, were instantly swamped. The Rebels had it all their own way, standing upon the bank and shooting the drowning men. Colonel Baker's body had been brought off, and was lying at Poolsville. The soldiers of his own regiment were inconsolable.

Poolsville is an insignificant village, situated in one of the richest agricultural districts of Maryland, surrounded by gentle swells of land, wooded vales, verdant slopes, broad fields, with the far-off mountain ranges and sweeping Potomac,-that combination which would be the delight of a painter who loves quiet rural scenery. The soil is fertile, and needs only good culture to yield an hundred-fold. Amid such native richness stands the village,-a small collection of nondescript houses, with overhanging roofs, wide porticos, or sheds which answer for piazzas, mammoth chimneys, built outside the edifice, as if they were afterthoughts when the houses were constructed. The streets are narrow, and the dwellings are huddled together as if there were but one corner lot, and all were trying to get as close to it as possible, reminding one of a crowd of boys round the old-fashioned fireplace of a country school-house on a winter's morning. There is not a new house in the place. The newest one was built many years ago. You look in vain for neat white cottages, with well-kept grounds. You are astonished at the immense number of old wagons and carriages, with rickety tops, torn canvas, broken wheels, shafts, and battered bodies,-of old lumber-carts and other weather-beaten vehicles under skeleton sheds. Look where you will, you come to the conclusion that time has sucked out the juice of everything. There is no freshness, no sign of a renewal of life or of present vitality. There are a small church, and two seedy, needy taverns,-mean-looking, uninviting places, each with its crowd of idle men, canva.s.sing the state of public affairs.

Such was the village in 1861. The streets were alive with "little images of G.o.d cut in ebony," as Mrs. Stowe calls a negro child. Many of the "images," however, by contact with the Anglo-Saxon race, through Slavery, had become almost white. There were three or four hundred inhabitants, a few wealthy, with many poor.

We found accommodations at the best private residence in the place. The owner had a number of outlying farms, and was reported to be very wealthy. He was courteous, and professed to be a Union man. He was disposing of his hay and grain to the United States government, receiving the highest prices at his own door. Yet when conversing with him, he said, "your army," "your troops," as if he were a foreigner. A funeral procession pa.s.sed the house,-a company of the Ma.s.sachusetts Fifteenth, bearing to the village graveyard a comrade, who had laid down his life for his country at Ball's Bluff. Said the wife of my host to a friend as they pa.s.sed: "Their government has got money enough, and ought to take the bodies away; we don't want them buried here; it will make the place unhealthy." These expressions revealed one thing: that between them and the Federal Union and the Const.i.tution there was no bond of unity. There was no nationality binding us together. Once they would not have spoken of the army of the United States as "your army." What had caused this alienation? Slavery. An ebony-hued chattel kindled my fire in the morning and blacked my boots. A yellow chattel stood behind my chair at breakfast. A stout chattel, worth twelve hundred dollars, groomed my horse. There were a dozen young chattels at play upon the piazza. My host was an owner of human flesh and blood. That made him at heart a Secessionist. The army had not interfered with Slavery. Slaves found their way into the camp daily, and were promptly returned to their professedly loyal masters. Yet the presence of the troops was odious to the slaveholders.

In the quiet of affairs around Washington I visited Eastern Maryland, accompanied by two members of the press. The Rebels had closed the navigation of the Potomac by erecting batteries at c.o.c.kpit Point. General Hooker's division was at Budd's Ferry, Port Tobacco, and other places down the river. It was the last day of October,-one of the loveliest of the year,-when we started upon our excursion.

No description can convey an idea of the incomparable loveliness of the scenery,-the broad river, with the slow-moving sail-boats, the gla.s.sy, unruffled surface, reflecting canvas, masts, and cordage, the many-colored hills, rich with autumnal tints, the marble piles of the city, the broad streets, the more distant Georgetown, the thousands of white tents near and far away, with all the nice shading and blending of varied hue in the mellow light. On every hilltop we lingered to enjoy the richness of nature, and to fix in memory the picture which, under the relentless hand of war, would soon be robbed of its peculiar charms.

Ten miles out and all was changed. The neat, tasteful, comfortable residences were succeeded by the most dilapidated dwellings. The fields, green with verdure, gave place to sandy barrens. To say that everybody and everything were out at the elbows and down at the heels is not sufficient. One must see the old buildings,-the crazy roofs, the unglazed windows, the hingeless doors, the rotting stoops, the reeling barns and sheds, leaning in every direction, as if all were in drunken carousal,-the broken fences, the surrounding lumber,-of carts, wagons, and used-up carriages, to obtain a correct idea of this picture, so strongly and painfully in contrast to that from the hill-tops overlooking the capital of the country.

The first stopping-place for travellers is the "White Horse." We had heard much of the White Horse, and somehow had great expectations, or rather an undefined notion that Clark Mills or some other artist had sculptured from white marble a steed balanced on his hind legs and leaping toward the moon, like that in front of the Presidential mansion; but our great expectations dwindled like Pip's, when we descended a hill and came upon a whitewashed, one-story building,-a log-house, uninviting to man or beast. A poplar in front of the domicile supported a swinging sign, on which the country artist had displayed his marvellous skill in painting a white horse standing on two legs. It was time for dinner, and the landlady spread the table for her guests. There was no gold-tinted bill of fare, with unp.r.o.nounceable French phrases, no long line of sable waiters in white ap.r.o.ns. My memory serves me as to the fare.

Pork, Pone, Potatoes.

The pork was cold, pone ditto, potatoes also. Pone is unraised corn-cake baked in the ashes, and said to be good for indigestion. It is a favorite cake in the South.

A saffron-hued young man, tall and lean, with a sharp nose and thin face, sat on the steps of the White Horse.

"The ager got hold of me yesterday and shook me right smart," he said. "It is a bad place for the ager. The people that used to live here have all moved away. The land is run out. They have terbakkered it to death. We can't raise nothing, and it ain't no use to try." He pointed to a deserted farm-house standing on a hill, and said, "There's a place the owner has left to grow up to weeds. He can't get n.o.body to carry it on."

A stately brick mansion, standing back from the highway once the residence of a man of wealth and taste, with blinds, portico, and carriage-house, elaborate in design and finish, was in the last stages of ruin. The portico had settled away from the house. The roof was hollowed like a weak-backed horse, the chimneys were tumbling, blinds swinging by a hinge, windows smashed, outhouses tottering with age and neglect, all presenting a most repulsive appearance. How changed from former years, when the courteous, hospitable proprietor of the estate received his guests at the magnificent portico, ushered them to his s.p.a.cious halls, opened the sideboard and drank to their health, while attendant slaves took the horses to the stables! It is easy to fill up the picture,-the grand dinner, the walk over the estate, the stroll by the river, the duck-shooting on the marshes, the gang of slaves in the tobacco-patch, the army of black and yellow servants in the kitchens, chambers, and parlors. When this old house was in its glory, this section of Maryland was in its prime; but how great the change!

It was sad to think of the departed days. Our reflections were of what the place had been, what it was, and what it might have been, had Maryland in the beginning of her history accepted Freedom instead of Slavery.

Taverns are not frequent in the vicinity of Pomunkey, and it was necessary that we should seek private hospitality for the night. A first attempt for accommodations brought us to a house, but the owner had no oats, hay, or corn; a second ride in from the highway, brought us to a whitewashed farm-house, with immense outside chimneys, piazza, adjoining mud-c.h.i.n.ked negro-quarters, with chimneys of sticks and clay, and a dozen surrounding buildings,-as usual, all tumbling to pieces. Explanations as to who we were secured kind hospitality from the host, a gray-headed man, with a family consisting of his wife, three grown-up sons, and nine adult daughters.

"Such as I have is at your service, gentlemen," said our host. But he had no hay, no oats, no corn, nothing but shucks for our horses. Our supper consisted of fried pork, fried salt shad, pone, wheat-cakes, pea-coffee, strawberry-leaf tea, sweetened with damp brown sugar!

"We don't raise b.u.t.ter in this section of the State," said our host, in apology.

The supper was relished after an afternoon ride of thirty miles. The evening being chilly, a roaring fire was kept up in the old-fashioned fireplace. The daughters put on their most attractive attire, and left nothing untried to entertain their three visitors. Could we dance? Unfortunately we could not. It was a serious disappointment. They evidently had antic.i.p.ated having "a good time." One of the ladies could play a violin, and treated us to jigs, reels, and hornpipes.

"You must sing the gentlemen a song, Jane," said one.

Jane turned scarlet at the suggestion, but finally, after polite requests and a little urging, turned her back to the company, faced the corner of the room, and sang a love-song. She could sing "Dixie," but knew nothing of the "Star-Spangled Banner" or "Hail Columbia." The young ladies were in sympathy with the Rebellion.

"It must be expected that Southern people should sympathize with the South," said our host.

"You own some slaves?" I said.

"I have three servants, sir. I think," he added, "that the people of Eastern Maryland would be more favorable towards the Union if they could be a.s.sured that the war would not finally become one of emanc.i.p.ation. My neighbor over there had a servant who ran away into the camp of one of the New York regiments. He went after him. The Colonel told the master to take him, but the servant wouldn't leave till the Colonel drew his pistol and threatened to shoot him. But notwithstanding that, I reckon that the war will make them restless." It was spoken frankly and unreservedly.