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REMINISCENCES

OF THE

CIVIL WAR

CORA MITCHEL

PROVIDENCE SNOW & FARNHAM CO., PRINTERS

REMINISCENCES OF THE CIVIL WAR

My father, Thomas Leeds Mitchel, of Groton, Connecticut, was a cotton merchant in Apalachicola, Florida, a small but important city at the mouth of the Chattahoochie River. As there were few railroads, all the cotton raised in the interior was shipped down the river to be compressed and taken down the bay, where steamers and sailing vessels were waiting to carry it to England or the Northern States.

Father was one of the earliest settlers, and held important positions of trust in city and church. His wife, Sophia Brownell, of Providence, Rhode Island, a woman of strong character, was well fitted to stand by his side and help him establish a home in an almost new country.

The society of Apalachicola was unusually good. A number of Northern families who had been drawn there as my father had, and families from Virginia and other Southern States, brought together elements of culture and refinement unusual in so small and primitive a town.

Father, being a Northerner by birth and training, was essentially Northern in his sentiments. He did not believe in slavery. While he employed many negroes, he owned only three, and they had come to him imploring him to buy them, as otherwise they would be sold in the open market. They were faithful, valuable servants, and became real members of our family. One of them, "Uncle Young," as we always called him, was sent as a representative to the State Legislature after the war. But he never forgot the old times, and not long before father died, he received a letter from him which began, "Dear Mast' Tom."

I well remember the excitement when war seemed imminent. Though only a very young girl, I was allowed to go to a mass meeting. I felt the thrill of it all, and though too young to enter into the merits of the question, was carried along by the general excitement and influence.

Father was a good deal of a philosopher, and, always looking on the bright side, was convinced that the war could not be long, and peace would soon be restored. As he had large properties in the South as well as his business, he decided not to go North, for he well knew everything would be confiscated if he did.

Our little city felt the shock of the first gun, fired on Fort Sumter, and almost immediately warlike preparations were started.

Being on the coast, the town was supposed to be in danger. Companies were formed and drilled. Batteries of sandbags, armed with cannon, lined that part of the town exposed to invasion from the bay, and there was much coming and going. Ladies met to embroider banners, and the ceremonies of presentation seemed to me most glorious and exciting events. Companies of young soldiers came down from the interior, and to my childish mind it seemed as though our part of the country was to be the seat of war.

This was in the spring of 1861. My oldest sister, Floride, was to be married early in the autumn, and mother wanted to go North to see her father and get my sister's trousseau. It was a hurried and hazardous trip, and she returned with much difficulty, being almost the last let through the lines. We were indeed glad to have her return safely, bringing the precious outfit. I feel sure no one else could have accomplished it, but she was a woman of indomitable will and courage.

My sister's marriage took place soon after, and as I was one of the bridesmaids, war and all its consequences were naught to me for a while.

My next recollection was that Apalachicola was to be abandoned as an army post. The blockade had shut up the port. All the soldiers were sent to the interior except a company of scouts, which was stationed about twenty miles away, near some "dismal swamps," and used to keep an eye on the coast, and report any unusual occurrence.

Of course, business was at a standstill, and many moved up to Columbus, Georgia, and other towns on the river. My brother-in-law decided to go to Columbus, and I was sent, too, in order that I might go to school.

The steamboat was crowded and, as it was at the time of a great flood, there was much to see and remember. The banks of the river were entirely under water, and sometimes the river was a large and continuous lake. Only those who have traveled on one of the Southern rivers can understand the romance and beauty of it all. The huge, moss-draped trees, the landings at night, with the negro crew singing their weird songs while unloading by the light of pine knots burning in wire cages. The trip was none too long for my excited fancy. My life in Columbus has always been a happy recollection. I loved my school and teacher, and the thrilling and dreadful events that took place touched me very lightly.

The next event of importance was that a brother two years older than I had been taken from the schoolhouse in Apalachicola by a detachment of soldiers, and conscripted into the Southern army. He was not allowed to go home even for a change of clothing. He was below the age limit, which limit had been lengthened at both ends since the beginning of the war.

My parents were greatly distressed and besought the colonel to release him, but without avail, and he was hurried off to the camp.

Fortunately, he had some friends in the company who gave him food and cared for him as well as they could. The colonel said he had "no food for conscripts."

Not many months after this he came up to Columbus on a furlough, his health having broken down under poor food and the malarial air from the swamps. He was much changed from the rugged, healthy boy I had left behind in Apalachicola. We did all we could to repair damages in the short time allowed him, and were very sorry to have him leave us and go back to the privations of the camp.

The war progressed, but being so far from the scene of conflict, I was affected mainly by the troubles of my friends who had members of their families in the active army. Occasionally a father or son would be home for a while, and often the news of friends being killed in battle would shock the community, so there was little rest or happiness. I remember a feast gotten up for some Southern soldiers going through Columbus to join the army, and enjoyed waiting on the table. Though food was scarce and costly, every one gave of their best, and there was much cheering and enthusiasm. Quite a contrast to this, was our going down to the station to see a load of prisoners being taken to Andersonville. I saw no food or drink given them. They were huddled as close together as was possible, and all I could do was to pity their forlorn condition. It seemed only one of the natural conditions of war.

One day, coming home from school, I was met with the astounding news that my father had gone down to the blockading vessel in the harbor, taking my brother with him, and both were on their way North! The world seemed upside down for a while, and I was conscious that my eyes grew big with wonder and amazement. At last more tidings came, and we realized the whole situation.

My brother had had a very severe relapse of the fever, and his life had been in much danger, but the kindness of his fellow soldiers and his strong constitution had pulled him through; and when able to be helped to his saddle, he was told he could have a few days' furlough, to go to his family in Apalachicola. When he arrived after two days' riding and resting, he looked so very ill that it was evident he could not go back to camp, for the boy's life would be the penalty. Father's decision was quickly made. "How long can you stay here?" he asked. "Two nights." "We will see about that," was the answer.

Father knew that it would never do to let him return, and the only alternative was to take him North by the way of the blockade. Everything had to be done with the utmost secrecy, for the lives of all concerned in the transaction were at stake. If any small detail miscarried, the consequences were fatal. The most difficult item was getting some one to row them down the bay. Once on board the blockade, they were safe unless the ship should be captured.

Father was so loved and respected in the town that he was able to overcome even this difficulty, and two men promised to be ready at the wharf at a certain time. These men had been in the habit of going down for oysters and fish, so their movements were not noticed. They had been suspected of helping others off, but it could not be proved.

The next day was devoted to preparations. The trunk was wrapped in many folds of bagging and taken down in a wheelbarrow after dark. Later on my father and brother strolled down separately, each having nervous shocks.

Father met an old friend just as he arrived at the wharf. As father had been ill for some time, Mr. Ormand was much surprised at seeing him out at that time, and asked why he was there. Father said, "Yes, indeed! It is entirely too late. I must go home immediately." And walked back up the street, returning later, and reaching the boat unobserved.

Colby, when halfway down, heard some one running behind him. He was too feeble to run, so turned, to face his younger brother bringing something that had been forgotten.

They were finally off, and met with no other adventure during the five miles' ride.

The next morning mother stood at the back gate, and the man who had rowed them down the bay passed by. Neither appeared to greet the other, but he whispered "All is well." That was a great relief, but she did not hear of their safe arrival at the North for several months. The captain of the blockader treated them very kindly, and sent them to Key West by the fortnightly transport, and from there they went North to our summer home in Rhode Island.

Mother then had to face a very serious situation. Naturally, the people were much incensed over my brother's desertion, and no one could tell what the authorities might do. Left with four small children and another in Georgia, with very little money, and food scarce, there were many perplexities to meet, both immediate and in the future. She knew that the only thing for her to do was to follow father as soon as possible. But first, she must get me down from Columbus, for she could not think of my being left behind. It would seem a simple thing for her to go up the river after me, but the war had brought about many unexpected conditions.

Fearing the blockaders would go up the river and burn the towns and factories, the Confederates had obstructed the passage with trees, rafts and other materials, which, in time, had accumulated still further d?bris of all sorts, so that the river was practically useless above this obstruction, which extended northward for miles. The problem was how to get around this obstruction. Beyond that, she could get a steamer. But the hardest trouble of all was leaving her little children behind. Dear old "Aunt Ann," a faithful colored nurse, could be entirely trusted for service and devotion, and a relative promised to protect them. Though mother was brave, it was a hard trial to leave the young family and start off alone on the unknown but certainly dangerous journey.

She was rowed as far as the obstruction, around which she was carried in an ox cart, stopping for the night's rest whenever she could find a decent log house. She must have suffered many privations and much fatigue. Rowing against the current was slow and tedious work, and jolting over rough roads through the deep forests must have been lonely and fatiguing. Realizing that I could never endure such an experience, and hearing that the river had made a way for itself around the obstruction, though a narrow, swift and dangerous one, she resolved to brave it, and engaged a man to build a strong boat for the return trip, and take us down himself. He was an Italian who had lived in Apalachicola, and was a man to be trusted.

Beyond the obstruction she found the rest of the journey easy, and she could rest a little before meeting us. That meeting was joyful, but full of conflicting emotions.

She was so worn from the journey that she hesitated about taking me back with her, and said she would have to leave me behind after all, but I had something to say about that, and exclaimed vehemently, "Mother, if you do not take me with you, you will never see me again!" So after resting a couple of weeks, the eventful return journey was begun.

I was sad at leaving my sister behind, but her husband and home were there, and as a family we had traveled so much, both on this continent and Europe, that we were used to partings, and I set out on this unusual journey without forebodings.

The distance from Columbus to Apalachicola was about three hundred miles. We took a steamboat to Fort Gaines, where there was a military station, and where we would have to get a passport which we must present at a small station quite a distance below the obstruction. This was to stop, if possible, the constant escape of deserters.

Immediately on our arrival at Fort Gaines mother went to the arsenal for the passport. She was met by a very agreeable young adjutant, who said he had not the power to give us one, but he was expecting the major back at any moment and he would give it.

The next day she went out again, only to have the same experience. The third day with the same result. On the fourth day I said, "Let me go; perhaps he will give it to me." Taking an attendant, I trudged along the two miles with great confidence, and was rewarded by being able to bring the promise of the precious document. My youth probably appealed to the young man, and he could not help feeling that I ought not to be detained. We did not know it then, but found out afterwards that he had orders to detain us till the major came, as we were not to be allowed to go on. He said for us to make our arrangements for departure the next day, and he would bring the passport himself to the steamboat which would take us down to the obstruction. I was triumphant, but mother had her doubts as to his keeping his word.

The next morning we went on board, hoping for the best. The bell rang for starting, but still no adjutant appeared. At last, just when our hearts were sinking with disappointment and the gang plank was being drawn in, he came galloping down the road with the passport in his hand. He probably had hoped the major would come at the last moment and relieve him of the responsibility. I never heard if he suffered from his disobedience of orders, but have always been grateful to him for his kindness. I still have the paper and treasure it very highly.

The distance to the obstruction was not great, and there we found "Bernardo" waiting for us with the new strong boat. My trunk and a few packages of food comprised the cargo, for we had to travel as light as possible. The other boatman, whom Bernardo had engaged, turned out to be a refugee like ourselves, and he was glad to give his services under the circumstances.

The river had utilized one of those bayous with which the Southern rivers are so well provided, as a means of escape around the obstruction. It had been widened and deepened by the force of the strong current, but as the stream carried off the banks the trees would fall in, making it much more dangerous, and the utmost care and skill were necessary to bring us through in safety. Mother and I lay in the bottom of the boat with strict orders not to move, while the little boat was tossed about by the swift current. If we had hit one of the projecting trees, we would have sunk immediately. Mother thought of her four helpless little children left in Apalachicola, and must have made many and earnest appeals for help and protection. I do not remember how long this lasted, but our progress was very swift, and finally the tension was relaxed and we glided out into the smooth waters of the river. How lovely it looked after the mad turmoil and anxiety of the bayou.

The men rested a while, letting the boat float down the peaceful river, and we all gave thanks for our deliverance from the dangers we had encountered.

About eleven o'clock that night we found a good landing, where we went ashore, and lighting a fire to keep the wild beasts away, we lay down on the ground for a little rest from our cramped positions.

Mother, worn out by the anxieties of the day, dozed off, but I was too excited by the novelty and beauty of the scene. The moon was full, and though just before Christmas, the weather was mild. The air was heavy with the scents of the forest behind us, from which could be heard, from time to time, the calls of owls, panthers and wildcats. We saw none, but there was always the expectation that one would appear.

We roasted peanuts in the coals and toasted bacon and corn pones. These were our only food during the entire journey. The river water, muddy though it was, satisfied our thirst. Supplies of all kinds had long been very scarce, and we had learned to be very thankful for little, and that of the simplest.

About four in the morning we resumed our way down the now placidly flowing stream. The banks were sometimes high bluffs, then low stretches of sand or clay, but more often tangled masses of trees and thick undergrowth coming right down to the water. No one could possibly penetrate it, and we were as alone as though we were the only inhabitants of the earth.

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