Life in Dixie during the War Part 24

Rev. Dr. John S. Wilson performs the funeral service

In sympathy with a disappointed people who had staked all and lost all in the vain effort to defend the inherited rights of freemen, and had not yet rallied from the depression occasioned by defeat, the spring of 1866 had withheld her charms, and, instead of donning a mantle of green, decorated with pansies, violets and primroses, hyacinths, bluebells and daffodils, verbenas, phlox and geraniums, and bloom of vine and briar in endless variety, the first day of April found her wounded, bleeding bosom wrapped in the habiliments of sorrow and despondency. A few brave old apple trees, as if to encourage the more timid, had budded and blossomed and sent forth sweet fragrance as of yore, and a few daring sprigs of gra.s.s suggested spring-time and sunny skies. Loneliness, oppressive and melancholy, and a spirit of unrest, prompted me to go to the depot in quest of something that never came, and my sister had stepped over to our neighbor, Mrs.

Williams'.

Our mother loved the spring-time. It had always been her favorite season of the year. Fifty-nine vernal suns had brought inspiration and hope to her sensitive, tender heart, and given impulse to a checkered life; but now no day-star of hope shed its effulgence for her. As I mentioned in a former sketch, her only son had fallen mortally wounded upon the sanguinary battle-field of Franklin, and she had never recovered from the shock.

After a few months of patient endurance, an attack of paralysis had occurred, and during many days life and death contended for the victory.

But the skill of good physicians, among them Dr. Joseph P. Logan, and faithful, efficient nursing, aided in giving her a comfortable state of health lasting through several months. But the fiat had gone forth, and now after a pathetic survey of earth, mingled with thankfulness even then to the G.o.d of the spring-time, she succ.u.mbed to the inevitable.

Returning from the depot, I espied in the distance the approaching figure of Telitha. As she came up to me she was the very picture of despair. With one hand clasped to her head, she fell on the ground and lay as if dead for a moment. My worst apprehensions were more than realized. I found my mother speechless, and never more heard her voice--never more heard any sound emanating from her lips except labored, heavy breathing. It was all so sudden and strange and sad, I cannot describe it. Neighbors and friends came in by the score, and did all they could to mitigate our great sorrow.

"Johnnie" Hardeman stayed until all was over, and mother never received from loving son kinder care or more unremitting attention. Paul Winn also remained and manifested deep sympathy, and so did other neighbors. Oh, the sorrow, the poignant sorrow, to see a mother in the embrace of death, and to have no power over the monster! About thirty hours of unconsciousness, and without a struggle, "life's fitful dream was over," about 9 o'clock p.

m., April 1st, 1866. The silent hush that ensued was sacred, and scarcely broken by the sobs of those most deeply afflicted.

Loving hands fashioned a shroud, and a beautiful casket was obtained from Atlanta. When all was done, and our mother arrayed for the tomb, she looked like the bride of Heaven. I gazed long and earnestly upon her face and figure, and went away and came back, and gazed again admiringly. For every lineament was formed into a mold that compelled admiration.

During the two days that she lay there, I often lingered by her side; and I recalled the many scenes, ofttimes perilous and sad, and ofttimes joyous and gay, through which we had gone together. Although a wee bit girl, scarcely turned in my fifth year at the time of my mother's second marriage, I remembered her as a bride. I remembered our journey by gig and wagon to Ca.s.sville, then, paradoxical as it may sound now, situated in the heart of a wilderness of beauty and savagery. The war-whoop of an uncivilized race of Indians, justly angry and resentful, reverberated though the impenetrable forest that belted the little settlement of white people that had the hardihood and bravery to make their homes among them.

I remembered how she soon became a favorite, and was beloved by every one in that spa.r.s.ely-settled locality, and won even the hearts of the Indians, by kindness towards them. She taught them how to make frocks and shirts, and clothes for their children, for the Cherokees were an ambitious people, and aspired to a.s.similation with the white race; and, to please them, she learned to bead moccasins, and other articles, ornamental and useful, just as they did. She also learned their alphabet, and became able to instruct them in their own language.

I remembered how she had always worked for the poor; not so much in societies (where the good that is accomplished in one way is often more than counterbalanced by the harm that is done in others), as in the quiet of her home, and in the humble habitations of G.o.d's poor. I remembered, with a melancholy thrill, how she had worked for our soldiers, and had not withheld good deeds from an invading alien army. Reverently I took in mine her little, symmetrical hand as it lay peacefully over the heart that had ever beat in unison with all that was good. It was weather-beaten, and I could feel the rough places on the palm through the pretty white silk glove in which it was encased. Cold and stark in death, it gave no responsive pressure to my own. I thought of its past service to me in which it never tired. It had trained my own from the rudimentary "straight lines" and "pot hooks," through all the intricacies of skilled penmanship, and from the picturesque letters on a sampler to the complete st.i.tches of advanced embroidery. The little motionless hand that I now held in my own had picked corn from cracks and crevices in bureau drawers, which served as troughs for Garrard's cavalry horses, to make bread with which to appease her hunger and mine. I gazed upon the pallid face and finely-chiseled features. The nose never seemed so perfect, or the brow so fair, or the snow-white hair so beautiful. The daintiest of mull caps heightened the effect of the perfect combination of feature, placidity and intellectual expression. I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful, and felt that it was meet that we should lay her away in a tomb where she could rest undisturbed until the resurrection morn, not doubting that the verdict of a great and good G.o.d would a.s.sign her a place among His chosen ones.

Soothing to our bruised hearts was the sweet singing of those who watched at night beside her lifeless form. With grat.i.tude we remember them still: Laura and Mary Williams, Emma and John Kirkpatrick, Josiah Willard and John McKoy. One of the hymns they sang was "Jerusalem, My Happy Home."

The hour for the funeral service came. Friends and neighbors and fellow-citizens had been a.s.sembling for several hours, and now the house was full, and the yard was thronged. Where did this concourse of people come from--old men, war-stricken veterans, and a few young men who had survived the b.l.o.o.d.y conflict that had decimated the youth of the South, and boys and women and girls! All alike came to pay respect to the deceased friend, and to show sympathy for the bereaved and lonely sisters.

That sainted man and friend of ours, Rev. John S. Wilson, took his stand near the casket, and we sat near him, and those who loved us best got very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued, broken by the man of G.o.d uttering in hopeful intonation and animated manner, "She is not dead, but sleepeth," and a sermon followed upon the resurrection of G.o.d's people, never surpa.s.sed in interest and pathos. All felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an un.o.btrusive manner, and who practically ill.u.s.trated the divine command: "Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you." This beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn--

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

which was sung with an unction which none but Christians can feel.

The last earthly look, solemn and earnest, was taken of our long-suffering, patient, loving mother, and everybody in the house followed our example and gazed reverently upon the pretty face, cold in death. And then the pall-bearers, "Johnnie" Kirkpatrick, "Johnnie"

Hardeman, Virgil Wilson and Mr. G. W. Houston, bore her to the grave.

With uncovered head and grey locks fluttering in the vernal breeze, Dr.

Wilson repeated the beautiful burial service of the Presbyterian Church. I can never describe the utter desolation of feeling I experienced as I stood clasped in the arms of my sister, and heard the first spadeful of earth fall over the remains of our loved one.

But we had heard above all the glorious words, "This mortal shall put on immortality," and "O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy victory?"

CHAPTER XXVII.

A REMINISCENCE.

"Sister, you are not paying any attention whatever to my reading, and you are losing the most beautiful thoughts in this delightful book."

"Yes, and I am sorry to do so; but I think I see one of Rachel's children--Madaline or Frances."

My sister closed her book, and, looking in the direction indicated, agreed with me that the negro woman, clothed in the habiliments of widowhood, who was coming up the avenue with a little boy by her side and one in her arms, was one of Rachel's children; and, although she was scarcely in her teens when she went away, she was a mother now, and traces of care were visible in every lineament of her face. I recognized her, however, as Rachel's youngest daughter, Frances, and went to meet her.

"Is that you, Frances?" I asked.

"Yes, Miss Mary, this is me; your same n.i.g.g.e.r Frances, and these are my children."

"I am glad to see you and your children;" and I extended my hand in genuine cordiality to her who had once been a slave in my mother's family, and I bade her welcome to her old home. Frances was too demonstrative to be satisfied with simply hand-clasping, and putting her boy on the ground, she threw her arms around me and literally overwhelmed me with kisses. My hands, neck and face were covered with them, and she picked me up and carried me in her arms to the house, her children following in amazed astonishment. She now turned her attention to them, and, after deliberately shaking the wrinkles out of their clothes, she as deliberately introduced them to me. The older of the two she introduced as "King by name," and the younger as "Lewis by name."

"You see, Miss Mary, I named my children King and Lewis 'cause my white folks named my brothers King and Lewis."

The ceremony of introducing her sons to _her_ old _white folks_ being performed to her satisfaction, she again turned her attention to me, and again literally overwhelmed me with caresses.

Entering the house, I asked Frances and her children to come in too.

"Miss Mary, whar's Miss Polly?"

"Have you not heard, Frances, that ma is dead?"

"Seem to me I has heard somethin' about it, but some how I didn't believe it. And my poor Miss Polly is dead! Well, she ain't dead, but she's gone to heaven."

And Frances became quite hysterical in demonstrations of grief.

"And Ma.r.s.e Thomie, what about him, Miss Mary?"

"He was killed by the enemy at Franklin, Tenn., the 30th of November, 1864."

"Miss Mary, did them old Yankees kill him?"

"Yes, he was killed in battle."

And again, whether sincere or affected, Frances became hysterical in demonstrations of grief.

"Miss Mary, whar's Miss Missouri? Is she dead too?"

"No; that was she who was sitting in the portico with me as you were coming up the avenue. She always has to go off and compose herself before meeting any of you--ma was that way, too--I suppose you remind her of happier days, and the contrast is so sad that she is overcome by grief and has to get relief in tears."

"Yes'm, I have to cry, too, and it does me a monstous heap of good. I know it's mighty childish, but I jest can't help it. Jest to think all my white folks is done dead but Miss Mary and Miss Missouri!"

"Our brother left a dear little boy in Texas, and I am going after him next winter. He and his mother are going to live with us, and then we will not be so lonely."

"That's so, Miss Mary."

Frances and her children having partaken of a bountiful supper, she resumed, with renewed vigor, her erratic conversation, which consisted, chiefly, of innumerable questions, interspersed with much miraculous information regarding herself since she left her white folks and became a wife, a mother, and a widow.

"Miss Mary, whar's my children going to sleep tonight?"

"With your help I will provide a comfortable place for them, and, also, for you."