in april my husband exultantly announced that he had "eight little cases" on the calendar; on may 14 he wrote:—
"i am over head and ears with work, preparing mrs. —'s case for trial. it is infinitely troublesome; but if i win, my fee will be $2000—otherwise nothing."
he did win! in july he received his fee! within two weeks i had wound up all my small affairs in petersburg, kissed "good-by" to my tearful little band of music scholars, sent my aunt mary with my gordon and little mary to "the oaks" in charlotte county to spend the rest of the summer, persuaded my sable laundress, hannah, that new york was an earthly paradise, and taken passage thither with her and five of my little brood.
a hot morning in july found us at city point before sunrise, waiting for the saratoga, one of a bi-weekly line of two steam-boats, now coming from richmond on its way to new york. the saratoga and her consort, the niagara, had the right of way at that time with no competitors, and could take their own time without let or hindrance. they travelled the path now traversed by the many fine ships of the old dominion line, and travelled it alone except for an occasional clyde boat or two.
as we waited, our noisy little engine puffed away 304impatiently. the conductor hoped for a possible passenger for his return trip to petersburg, and had arrived at the terminus of his short road too soon.
city point—lately a place of strategic importance, where the great ships of the federal army had anchored, where mr. lincoln had been entertained by general grant, where general butler had long made his headquarters—was now silent and deserted. two years before the last of general butler's gunboats had steamed away. not a shade tree, not a "shanty," remained to mark the occupation of the federal troops. an unsheltered platform afforded the only place for a traveller to rest while waiting for the boat, unless he could content himself with the dust-covered seats in the forlorn little car and the limited view from the narrow, dirty car window. out on the platform, seated on his own boxes, the traveller could see the sweep of the noble james river, broadened here into a sea as it took into its bosom the muddy waters of the appomattox. landward there was little to be seen except an unbroken waste of dusty road and untilled field.
at a little distance a thin line of smoke indicated a small log cabin and the presence of inhabitants. outside the hut there was a "patch" of corn and cabbages, and a watermelon vine sprawled about, searching for the sweet waters wherewithal to fill the plump green melons it had brought forth. a suspicious hen was leading her brood as far from the engine as possible, and a pig in an odoriferous pen was leaping on the sides of his stye and clamoring for his breakfast. presently a languid negro woman 305emerged from the cabin, and stooping over the cabbages, selected a large leaf, which she proceeded to bind with a strip of cloth around her forehead. she sauntered toward us and remarked that it was "gwine to be a mighty hot day." she had risen early, she said, to see the boat pass. her son jim was kitchen boy on the saratoga, and not allowed to leave the boat, but she could see him and "tell 'im howdy." she "cert'nly thought sis hannah lucky to git to go nawth" (hannah was rather rueful and teary, having just parted from a jim of her own). "she would cert'nly go nawth" herself if she wasn't "'bleeged to stay at the pint on account of the pig an' chickens an' things." she was like the two old maids in dickens's funny story, who lived in the greatest discomfort in a crowded quarter on the thames, but could not even consider the possibility of moving—which they could well afford to do—because of the trouble of moving "the library," a small collection of books which any able-bodied market-woman could easily have carried in her basket.
my own movables were really of less importance than those of my new acquaintance. hers represented the entire furnishing of a home—a home sufficient for her needs. mine were the melancholy wreckage of a home which had been enriched with such treasures as are collected in a prosperous and happy life: only what had been saved by a good neighbor and a faithful servant from the sacking of our house at cottage farm—a few damaged books, a box of sacred silver, and one trunk, which sufficed for my 306own garments and for the slender wardrobes of my children. i was on my way to keep house in new york with a service of silver and a few rain-and-mud-stained books which had been picked up on the farm by our good john.
my heart was heavier than my boxes, as i waited for the boat. all the sad foreboding letters my general had written me rose up to fill me with doubt and alarm. he had rented a furnished house and had paid the first quarter of the $1800 it was to cost us. that sum seemed to me simply enormous, but he had spent weeks in hunting throughout the length and breadth of new york for the humble little home of his imagination. this house was far out on an avenue in brooklyn. i was afraid of it! i was apprehensive that a very large hole indeed had been made in the $2000. moreover, my heart was sick in leaving virginia—dear old virginia, for which i cherished the inordinate affection so sternly forbidden by the apostle. six years of sorrow and disaster had borne fruit. "truly," i thought:—
"all backward as i cast my e'e
seems dark and drear:
and forward though i canna' see
i doubt and fear."
and then i had just parted with my dear aunt and my scarcely dearer daughters, with old friends and neighbors, with affectionate servants. and i was tired—tired unto death!
but the boat, churning with its great paddle-wheels the muddy waters of the james, was approaching, the captain and an early riser or two leaning 307over the deck railing. my little boys ran gayly over the gang-plank as soon as it was lowered. hannah clung tearfully to her acquaintance of an hour. the gang-plank was hauled in, the great paddle-wheels turned, and we were off, on our way to our new home.
"good-by, dixie," called out my boys.
"not yet, young gentlemen," said the captain; "we are still in dixie waters, and will be until we reach the sea."
as we sat on deck, steaming down the river, the passengers eagerly scanned the shores and recounted the events of the late war. the last time i had sailed down this river each point was interesting from colonial and revolutionary associations. now all these were forgotten in its later history. every spot was marked as the scene of some triumph or occupation of the northern army—of some disaster or humiliation of the south.
there were few passengers—three charming young ladies with their mother, returning home after a visit to the cullen family of richmond; a group of teachers going home to new england for their vacation; a comfortable negro mammy with her basket, very proud to repeat again and again that she was "just from mobile, alabama," to whom hannah looked up with deference and respect; and half a dozen or more tourists from new york returning from an inspection of the historic places in and around richmond. among these last was an old acquaintance, a southern man, who at once sought conversation with me. he had lived in 308new york before and during the war. he could not conceal his amazement at the desperate venture my general was making. "of all places," he said, "why, why are you choosing a home in new york?"
"ask the withered leaf," i answered, "why it is driven by a winter wind to one place rather than another."
"but practically," he replied somewhat testily, "as a matter of prudence and common sense—"
"you think, then," i interrupted, "there is small hope for my poor general in new york."
"new york—" he said slowly and with emphasis, "new york, you will find, has no use for the unsuccessful man."
this was an anxious thought for me to take to my state-room. once there, and my restless young ones asleep, i realized the desperate venture we were making. nothing had ever been as i wished. with the war, its causes, its ends and objects, i had nothing to do. my part was solely with the poverty, the heartbreak, the losses, the exile from home.
an unbidden vision, many a time thrust from me, now arose, insistent. my early home—all flowers and music and beauty, my opulent life; the devotion of honored friends—this was my heritage! of this i had been unjustly defrauded. ah, well! it was an old story—the story of another paradise, another yielding to sinful ambition, another sword, another parting with happiness and home to encounter difficulty, poverty, danger! then, "the world was all before them where to choose a place 309of rest—and providence their guide." aye! providence their guide! this, this was the anchor of their hope, and must be mine.
we were awakened before dawn by a confusion on deck—the dragging of heavy ropes, hurried feet, loud shouts. throwing on my wrapper, i ascended, to find my little boys already on deck, eager for adventure. it appeared we had met our consort, the niagara, in a crippled condition, had thrown her a cable, and were now "put about" to lead her into port at norfolk. the rising sun found us slowly returning with the niagara in tow; but a few miles from norfolk she signified her ability to go on without us, and we resumed our onward journey to new york.
late in the evening all eyes were turned toward land—and presently the sky-line of new york emerged from the mists. very different was it from the sky-line of to-day. then we saw only the uneven line of moderate dwellings of unequal height, broken here and there by the upward-pointing fingers of the churches. there was no "brooklyn bridge" spanning the east river, no babel-like towers of the modern sky-scraper, no great statue—like a bronze figure on a newel-post—of liberty with her torch and coronal of stars. (i never did admire miss liberty. i always sympathized with the afflicted sculptor who exclaimed, as his vision was smitten by the giantess, "if this be liberty, give me death.")
we were, after much delay, "warped" into our own berth, and the "dear old muggy atmosphere" of new york stormed my unwilling senses: atmosphere 310thickened and flavored, after a sweltering summer day, with coal smoke, street-filth, and refuse of decaying fruit and many cabbages.
but all things were forgotten when we descried the slight figure of my general on the pier! very thin and wan did he look, sadly in need of us. he took us, a party of eight, to a neighboring restaurant for dinner; and then we crossed the ferry and in the horse-cars, through miles and miles of lighted streets, we reached our little home, far away on the outer edge of brooklyn.
the morning after our arrival we rose early to look about us. we were in an unsubstantial new house, narrow as a ladder and filled with unattractive furniture. hannah agreed to take care of the children, and i set forth to find a market. after walking several blocks in different directions i concluded there was no market within reach, and i began to doubt my ability to provide a dinner. a fat, stolid-looking policeman strolled near me as i ventured:—
"can you tell me, mr. officer, where i can find an honest butcher?"
"i'll be hanged if i know one," he replied.
i considered. we had brought biscuit and crackers. i must find some milk.
"can you tell me, then, where i can get pure milk?"
my policeman whistled! i don't know what there was in my appearance that tempted him to "guy" me, but with a droll twinkle in his eye he said:—
"now look 'ere, lady! if you was to go on a 311little further, you'd get to flatbush; and then you'd see the mizzable critters standing up to their knees in stagnant water, with their hoofs rotting off. sure and you wouldn't want any of their milk!"
the neighborhood was sparsely settled; a number of vacant lots surrounded our house, which was one of a row all alike. i reflected that the people living in those houses must occasionally eat! and so i walked on and on until i reached a cross street on which cars were running. there i found a stand of cakes and apples, before which a woman sat knitting. "my good woman," i said amiably, "are your cakes plain?"
she dropped her work and glared at me. "clane, is it! you think i put dirt in 'em?" her manner was so threatening that i turned and fled. her voice pursued me—"an' the blarney of her;" (mimicking), "'me good ooman'! 'me good ooman,' indade!—the loikes of her!"
what my mistake had been i could not then imagine. i now know that i had, unconsciously, a manner unwarranted by my appearance. turning up a new thoroughfare, i encountered a grocery store, with vegetables and fruit at the door. there i learned with terror the cost of provisions in this part of the world. at home i could buy a chicken for 25 cents—here i must give 30 cents for a pound of him! whortleberries (the grocer called them "blueberries") could be bought at home for a few pennies a quart. here 20 cents was demanded for a shallow box of withered specimens. fifty cents in petersburg would buy a large beefsteak. i purchased an 312infant steak for $1.50, and with this i turned my steps homeward.
a small shanty, a squatter's hut, was in the corner of the vacant lot behind our house. two or three children were playing in the dirt at the door, and a goat eating paper beside them. ah! there was a cow tethered to a tree not far away!
a kindly-faced irish woman answered my knock. i frankly told her my dilemma and she sympathized at once. her name was mrs. foley, and she would milk her cow in my sight morning and evening, just behind my house, so i could be sure of the purity of the milk. "an' sure in a wake ye'll see the darlint fatten," she assured me. and a great comfort was old mrs. foley all the time i lived near her.
i must confess the days passed wearily enough through july and into august. the heat was extreme and of a depressing quality. we were so far away from my general's office that his long journey morning and evening, accompanied by theo, was exhausting to both of them. i taught mary and roger, but the children were very listless and unhappy. they found no pleasure in walking up and down the uninteresting sidewalk of a hot, dreary street. loneliness, enhanced by the far-off hum of the city, the mournful fog-horns and whistles on the river, and the not less depressing sounds from the incessant pianos around us, oppressed us all. we seemed to find nothing to take hold of, nothing to live for.
i one day found hannah raining tears into her tubs as she washed our linen, and having no mind 313to have my handkerchiefs anointed with other tears than my own, i essayed to comfort her. finally she confessed she had never seen new york. she didn't know if it was "thar"—for she'd "never seen sight of it." moreover, jim was writing to ask her what she thought of central park and she "cert'nly was 'shamed to tell jim she had heerd tell of it but never set foot in it."
i had an inspiration. "hannah," i said, "we have a steak for dinner. you can broil a steak and boil some potatoes and rice in a few minutes. come, leave the tubs, run up and dress, and help me with the children. we will all go to central park, spend a pleasant afternoon, and get back in time for dinner."
we were a large party, and could not get off, having taken a hasty luncheon, until nearly two o'clock. but the summer afternoons were long and we had no misgivings. i had no idea of the distance, nor did i know of any route to the park, save the horse-car and ferry on our side, a walk up wall street to broadway, and the lumbering broadway omnibus with two horses for the rest of the way. at four o'clock we arrived in sight of central park! a black thunder-cloud came up, and we alighted from our stage in a drenching rain. of course we must return without seeing the park, but to our joy we found a line of horse-cars waiting at the gate for return passengers, and dripping wet, we took shelter in one of these and were soon on our way homeward. at the end of our journey there was theo, with umbrellas—now useless, for more thoroughly drenched we could not well have been,—and his 314father!—well, his father was almost in a state of nervous prostration! hannah's spirits thereafter were worse than ever. she lost all interest in work, and spent much of her time leaning over her area gate and gazing into the street. once i asked her what she was looking at.
"dat po-white-folks creeter hollerin' 'soap fat,'" she answered. "lawd! i wonder if dat ole creeter got wife!"
we were both mystified by the street cries. one man we found was not crying: "frank potter," "frank potter," but "rags, bottles." but another cry, "pi-ap,—pi-ap," much perplexed us. finally hannah brought in a very hard, knotty, green apple, the "pi-ap" man had given her as a sample of his wares. "dar is his 'pi-aps,'" she explained. light broke upon my benighted intelligence. "why, hannah," i said, "he means pie-apples!" "good gawd a'mighty!" she exclaimed. "is dat de bes' dey can do!"
in august she entreated to be sent home. in vain i too entreated. i felt that this was the last straw! what could i do in this strange city with no faithful person to leave occasionally with the children? i offered anything—everything—larger liberty, more wages.
hannah said solemnly, "you knows i likes you and de chillern—but i can't stay. i'se feared to stay! i can't live in no place where folks plays de piano all day sunday. i'se boun' to git out. somp'n gwine to happen in dis gawd-forsaken place." then after a thoughtful pause she added 315pensively: "de watermillions is ripe at home! i done wrote to jim to git me one—a big one—and put it in a tub o' cole water erginst i come."
with hannah i lost the last link that bound me to the old virginia of my childhood, my last acquaintance with the kindly old-time negro and the dialect so expressive, so characteristic.
i filled her place with an irish woman who served me faithfully for many years, and was wont to commiserate me for all i had suffered "with that nayger in the house." her scorn of the negro knew no bounds. she never knew how deeply i mourned my loss.
the pain of parting from friends, the doubt of the future, the dreams of my early home, filled my heart with anguish; but i had but one consuming desire—to sustain and strengthen the dear one who had fought so many battles, and was now confronted with the stern struggle for existence. to be cheerful for his sake, to press strong hands over my own breaking heart—this was the task i set for myself.
