Through Some Eventful Years by Susan Bradford Eppes

June 18th, 1865.-1 went to town today, arranged the business for which I went and also saw something that made my blood boil. As Sister Mart and I sat in the carriage in front of Uncle Arvah’s store, Church Croom came to speak to us. From his uniform every button had been cut and replaced by large orange thorns. Being a private soldier, there was nothing else our conquerors found objectionable. I was perilously near tears when cousin Henry came, wearing the splendid new uniform of the day before. Over the Major’s star on his collar, the thinnest of crape had been sewed; the chevrons on the sleeves were covered with the same material; the buttons, too, were wearing mourning.

Lieutenant Eppes came next. The gold lace had been ripped from collar and sleeves; the buttons were covered with black bombazine, but where the braid had been removed, the unfaded gray showed his rank as plainly as ever.

We saw many others during the day who had obeyed this order from headquarters, an order which has reflected no credit on the powers that be but has only served to make them ridiculous. This striking a man when he is down is despicable in my mind. Sister Mart is at home for a few days, she dined at Goodwood to meet General Scammon. He is the brother of our Miss Scammon whom we loved so dearly when she was our governess. He told Sister Mart that his sister would never allow a word to be said in her presence derogatory to the South.

“She is a Copper-head, regardless of the color of her hair,” he said. “It is universally admitted that red hair denotes temper, and you should see her blaze whenever the Southern people were scored, as of course, they often were.”

Aunt Sue had invited all the family to meet him but Father was not well enough to leave home and Mother positively refused to go. I am still hiding behind my youth, for the entire household looks upon me as a child, in spite of my nineteen years; in accordance with that belief I am excused from some things and, I am afraid, terribly spoiled in others. The advantages of being the youngest of nine sisters far out-weighs the disadvantages of the situation.

June 17th, 1865.—We had our first riding lesson yesterday and we had quite a respectable company, fifteen young ladies and as many gentlemen. Best of all, they, the gentlemen, came dressed in our beloved gray. We are so proud of the Confederate Army and we love the gray uniform. We love and reverence our captive President; we place the name of Jefferson Davis at the head of all martyred heroes. Our hearts throb with pride when we think of General Robert E. Lee and we love every officer and every man who served under him. We love, and we admire the courage of the Army of the West, which so stubbornly and so hopelessly, fought Sherman, inch by inch, in his hateful “March to the Sea”—and now, an insult has been offered these “heroes of the gray.”

These men have given their parole and a Southerner’s word of honor means everything to him and yet, afraid of men they have conquered; afraid of the men whose sworn promise they hold, an order comes from headquarters, that Confederate soldiers, both officers and privates, must remove from their uniforms all brass buttons and every insignia of rank.

At first, I have been told, it was the intention of the military to order the gray uniform to be discarded, but realizing that many of these men had nothing else to wear, this present order was issued. The cowards! They ought to be ashamed of themselves!

This piece of news quite spoiled the riding for me. I wonder if the time will ever come when I can take insults coolly?

Cousin Henry’s uniform, which he wore this afternoon, is right new, uncle Tom having ordered it by a blockade-runner, when Cousin Henry was in prison at Johnson’s Island. It is a magnificent suit of French broadcloth and he is so handsome in it; now he must “remove or cover all buttons and all insignia of rank.” Isn’t it a pity?

I have to go to town tomorrow. Father does not feel well enough to go and he has some business which needs attention. Of course Mother could do all that, but she insists that she will never go again to Tallahassee until the last Yankee soldier is gone.

June 15th, 1865.—Once more the family are every one well and this is a truly delightful state of affairs. Ever “sence freedom drapped,” as the negroes say, we have not been permitted to ride horseback without a gentleman with us. Sometimes it was not convenient to find one and often we could not go but we young folks have determined to turn over a new leaf. We have made up our minds to drown our troubles in a sea of gaiety and with that end in view, we have organized a Riding Company, a Shakespeare Club, a Bezique Club and once a month a regular Dancing Party. This party to be held at whichever home in the neighborhood wanted us most.

The Riding Company will be commanded by Major Henry Bradford, late of the Confederate States Army. Being a cavalryman, he will be able to give us lessons in the cavalry drill.

The Bezique Club is a very informal affair. We have a handsome imported set of Bezique and any number can play it, but we also play any other game, which my be desired. Sad to relate, cards are looked upon with great disfavor in the neighborhood. Only at Pine Hill can the Bezique Club meet. It meets just any time the members please, the only proviso being that the cards must be put aside before eleven o’clock.

The Club, par excellence, is the Shakespeare Club; nobody objects to this as classical knowledge never comes amiss. To be a student of the Bard of Avon is a hall mark in the literary world. We have arranged to meet every two weeks, first at one house in the Bradford neighborhood and next and next, until the round has been made. The various housekeepers have volunteered to provide a fine supper for the Shakespeare Club at all their meetings.

Here is a secret, to be told to none, just yet; the Bezique Club will have suppers provided, too; not only on stated nights, but whenever they chance to meet. Father and Mother are the very most indulgent parents in the world.

June 9th, 1865.—Nellie went away today and the parting between her and Sister Mag was pitiful. She has nursed Eddie all his life and for three weeks now, the three weeks Sister Mag has been so ill, she has been almost constantly at her side, while I took care of Eddie. He is sorely distressed but it is as nothing compared to his mother’s grief at giving her up.

Nellie knelt on the floor and put her arms about sister, both were sobbing and both faces were wet with tears.

“I wouldn’t leave you Miss Mag,” she gasped out, “but my husband says I got ter go. He says if I don’t go with him now I shant never come and he says I b’longs ter him now an’ so I’ll have ter go.”

“Can’t you persuade him to stay here with you, Nellie?” pleaded the almost heart-broken mistress, but no, he did not like country life, he had work in the iron foundry and would not give it up.

From the porch, just outside, Emperor Dulan’s loud voice was heard, “Come on, Nellie—I shore is tired waiting.”

He was evidently impatient and she could stay no longer.

“God bless you, Miss Mag, God bless Marse Amos an’ de sweet chillun an’, over everything else, may the Lord bless Marse Ned an’ Mis’ Patsey.”

Another link broken and it is only the beginning of the end. I hope Emperor will be kinder than he sounds. I love Nellie, myself. She has been Sister Mag’s maid for years, they grew up together, she has nursed the children and has been friend as well as servant.

I wonder what Aunt Harriet Beecher Stowe would think of the farewell of this morning? We were afraid the excitement would be too much for our dear invalid, but she is sleeping quietly; has been ever since she ate her very light luncheon at twelve o’clock. Adeline does not give us dinner until three o’clock, sometimes later, but she is such a good cook that nobody feels like finding fault with the hour.

May __, 1865.—Mother has been sick with fever for three days past and I have paid no attention to my diary. Last night such a mysterious stranger came to us. I, who have the reputation of having no curiosity, am fairly eaten up with it. Father knows but does not tell. He says I must not write down what happened as it might endanger our visitor. He says I must not even put a date.

Mother’s illness was severe, she does not often have fever and we felt alarmed but she is much better this morning, even to the extent of eating a nice little squab, Adeline had broiled for her breakfast.

Something dreadful has happened dear Diary, I hardly know how to tell it, my dear black mammy has left us. I did not expect her to be the first to leave but it was not exactly her fault. Mother did not want Hannah to go out to Centreville where all those soldiers are encamped and when she found Lulu was dressing her in her prettiest clothes to take her there to spend the day, Mother told her Hannah must not go.

Lulu reminded her that they were now free and if she saw fit to take her daughter into that crowd it was nobody’s business.

Of course that angered Mother so she said, “If you disobey me in this matter you and your family must leave the place.”

Lulu did not believe she was in earnest and came in as usual to attend to her duties but Mother was firm and Lulu had to go and I am inconsolable, though I would not have Mother to know it for the world.

I feel lost, I feel as if someone is dead in the house. Whatever will I do without my Mammy? When she was going she stopped on the doorstep and, shaking her fist at Mother, she said:

“I’ll miss you—the Lord knows I’ll miss you—but you’ll miss me, too—you see if you don’t.”

Well, she is gone—I will try to wait on Mother so she will not miss her too much. I do not think Mother realizes they are free.

May 21st, 1865.—We have found out about the gathering of negroes at Centreville yesterday. More than a week ago a notice was sent to all the negroes in this and adjoining counties to come and bring well-filled picnic baskets. Lieutenant Zachendorf and the soldiers under his command had a message to them from the President of the United States.

When a large crowd had assembled Lieutenant Zachendorf proceeded to announce, in the name of President Johnson, the freedom of the entire negro race. They were told that they must show their appreciation of the great boon bestowed upon them by refusing to work any longer for those who had formerly held them in slavery. He proclaimed to these poor ignorant creatures the perfect equality of the races. He told them they were at liberty to help themselves to any property belonging to their former owners.

“You made it,” he said. “It is all yours.” This is outrageous. What the outcome may be none can know. Already we see a change in the demeanor of those around the house; a sullen air they have not had before. If this goes on, and we have no way to stop it, what will the end be? The terrors of San Domingo rise before our eyes.

May 20th, 1865.—It is late at night and this has been a perfectly horrible day. For three days Sister Mag has been very ill; last night death seemed very near and this morning her dead baby was laid in a little white casket and buried in God’s Acre. She does not know. She has known nothing for hours and the doctors give us little hope. Nellie and Fannie are nursing her. She may never be conscious again. Mother and Father do not leave her and poor Brother Amos is wretched.

Jane left this morning without bathing and dressing Rebecca, so that job fell to my share. I usually dress Eddie myself anyway but Rebecca is badly spoiled and it is difficult. I coaxed them out in the flower garden and then Mother sent me with some directions to the cook. Now, this cook is my own Emeline, who has always professed to love me dearly. I went to the kitchen, but she was not there. I looked around but could not see a single one of the servants who were generally, at that hour, busily employed, each one, in his or her portion of the day’s work. I went on to Emeline’s house and she was standing in the middle of the floor, tying on a sash of blue ribbon, which would complete quite a stunning toilet. “Emeline,” I said, “Sister Mag is so sick and Mother sends the key-basket to you and she says have a good dinner, for Dr. Betton and Dr. Gamble will be here and she is leaving everything to you.” Imagine how I felt when she answered thus:

“Take dat basket back ter your mother an’ tell her if she want any dinner she kin cook it herself.”

I was hurt and dazed. I had not slept all night and I pleaded weakly, “Don’t say that Emeline, Sister Mag is so sick, the doctors think she will die.”

“Dey do? Well, what is dat ter me? I ain’t make her sick, is I?”

Silently I left her house. They are free, I thought; free to do as they please. Never before had I had a word of impudence from any of our black folks but they are not ours any longer.

Retracing my steps I stopped at the laundry door; Melissa stood beside the table ironing a snowy cloth.

“Melissa,” I asked, “what has become of the other servants?”

Slowly she raised her big brown eyes to my face, “I thought you knowed dey wus all gone ter de meetin’ out ter Centreville, dem black soldiers, an’ de white man wid ’em is sont messages ter all de folks cum terday an denounce our freedom. He kin save heself de trubble; I ain’t no bond an’ pressed slave. I ain’t nuvver knowed no mother but Miss Patsy, an’ she ben mighty good ter me.”

Mother did not have to cook the dinner, Adeline saved the day and though dinner was late, it was excellent and, by the time it was served, Sister Mag was conscious and the doctors say the danger is over. We are so thankful.

I have learned a lesson today: we must not expect too much of “free negroes.” Nellie and Fannie could not have acted better than they did but of all the others on the plantation, only Melissa remained at her post and Adeline showed so much good feeling, such true sympathy, that I love her more than ever.

May 11th, 1865.—I went to the picnic and if I was not entertaining nobody was so ill-mannered as to tell me so and I can assure you I was entertained. So many gray-coated soldiers; so much to listen to; so many questions to be asked and answered. A delicious dinner, boat rides in the cool of the evening and then the pleasant ride home “in the gloaming.” Cousin Henry was there and he told us of life in the prison on Johnson’s Island. He was captured in the battle of Missionary Ridge and was exchanged just in time to meet the returning soldiers from Virginia. He had a terrible stay in prison. In the midst of plenty, they were given only barely enough to sustain life; this in retaliation for Andersonville. But they ought to remember we would gladly have given those poor prisoners all they could want if we could have gotten it. Little food; no medicines, almost no clothing, we could not help ourselves and we should not be arraigned for that.

Cousin Henry said sometimes they got so hungry they caught the prison rats and ate them. The prisoners vied with each other in catching the rats, just as they had in shooting deer or quail in the days of yore. There was a dead line, just an imaginary line, but it must not be crossed under penalty of death. One morning a large rat ran out into the open space and several Confederates gave chase. In the excitement one of the men accidentally went over the “dead line.” Quick the guard raised his gun, flash, there was one prisoner the less on Johnson’s Island that night. War is cruel; men grow callous. Is the spirit of Christ dying out of the world?

May 10th, 1865.—I felt bad over giving up the girls but they were so happy in going. I hope we will hear from them often. There is to be a picnic on Lake McBride tomorrow. At first I thought I could not go but Brother Amos says it is my duty to make things pleasant for the dear boys, who, now that they are at home, must be entertained, for they are, perforce, idle for a time. Some are fortunate enough to find employment but most of them will have to wait for an opening. So, I am going to that picnic and do my best to be amusing and entertaining; if I fail, the blame will rest on Brother Amos.