Part 6

After many years Pike came back to Columbia, a celebrated man. He was an ardent Whig, and made a big speech in support of his principles. To offset his influence some ardent Democrat composed a doggerel called “The Old Canoe,” in which it was plainly intimated that Pike had left here years before between two suns, and had not been too particular about taking some one else’s canoe to get away in. This doggerel was sung around the streets until General Pike and his friends were exasperated beyond measure, ending in the sensitive poet’s leaving the town. Of course, it was all a lie, and the old canoe was probably the property of no man, but it seems that then, as now, nothing was too mean for one political party to say of another. This beautiful poem, “The Old Canoe,” coming out about that time, was attributed to General Pike, and its authorship has never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected. It is found in the schoolbooks, and in books on elocution, as being by General Pike, but Senator Carmack is our authority that General Pike himself told him he did not write it.

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, And the waters below look dark and deep, Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, Leans gloomily over the murky tide, Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the moss grows thick on the winding bank, Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped, Like a seabird’s wings that the storm has lopped, And crossed on the railing one o’er one Like the folded hands when the work is done. While busily back and forth between The spider stretches his silvery sheen And the solemn owl, with his dull “too-hoo” Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern half-sunk in the slimy wave Rots slowly away in its living grave, And the green moss creeps o’er its dull decay, Hiding its moldering dust away. Like the hand that plants o’er the tomb a flower Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; While many a blossom of loveliest hue Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe.

The current-less waters are dead and still, But the light wind plays with the boat at will; And lazily in and out again It floats the length of the rusty chain. Like the weary march of the hands of time, That meet and part at the noontide chime; And the shore is kissed at each turning anew, By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, And laughed as I leaned o’er the rocking side, And looked below in the broken tide, To see that the faces and boats were two, That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o’er the crumbling side, And look below in the sluggish tide, The face that I see there is graver grown, And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings Have grown familiar with sterner things. But I love to think of the hours that sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew O’er the moldering stern of the old canoe.

* * * * *

The mule is such an ungainly animal that very few ladies are given over to admiring him. As for me, I’d rather see an old mule coming my way when I have the blues, than to see a long absent friend.

[Sidenote: A Mule and a Proposal.]

I know that is a broad assertion, but when you hear the why, I know you will agree with me, and say as did a little negro, that “one end of him was good.”

When a little girl, I lived with my people on a handsome farm three miles distant to the church we attended.

Charley, my dear lord and master, lived only a mile from the church. You see, Charley was the most bashful man around the neighborhood, and while everyone knew ages before he proposed, that he loved me, it begun to look as though he would never gather courage enough to say so.

Night after night he would call, and invariably told me “I was looking kind of pretty,” and after a dreadful silence, he would break out suddenly, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” giving me such a start that I would nearly jump out of my chair.

Beyond that “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” it seemed he would never get, and at last, growing desperate, one night I determined to use a little strategy and screw his courage to the sticking point. So when he came, and discoursed a short time on the weather, the brightness of the moon, our sick neighbors and such like, I knew my time was near, and awaited nervously for the never-failing sentence, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” when I expected to say, “Oh, Charles, this is so sudden. I only thought you liked me as a friend.” This I felt sure would do the work.

At last, clearing his throat, Charles made ready. Looking lovingly at me, he said, “May, I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” and before the blush had fairly mantled my cheeks, aye, before I had a chance to utter a sound, the mean thing went on, “Oh, May, I forgot to tell you, we have a new colt.”

Never in my life did I feel more like strangling a man than I did that night. I had to turn aside to hide my tears of disappointment, for you must know that I really loved the dear fellow. He was not the least bit bashful with men, or even in the presence of old women. But when it came to girls, his conversation above speaks volumes.

One Sunday Charley had asked me if I would allow him to drive me home from church the following Sabbath. I was only too willing to say yes, hoping that something would happen to make him utter the much-desired words. Oh, girls, you can better imagine my disappointment than I can describe it, when late Saturday afternoon my mother’s maiden sister arrived, bag and baggage. I did not need to be told that I should be left at home next morning, as the carriage would not accommodate all.

I could not eat any supper and later brother Tom found me lying in my favorite nook in the summer house, sobbing as though my heart would break.

Little by little he coaxed me into telling him the reason for my grief, and at last I told him of my promise to Charley.

He sat and thought for a long time, and then breaking out into a happy laugh, he cried: “I have it, little Sis. When the others are gone, I’ll saddle old Bob, and you can ride behind me until we get near the church, when we can get down and tie Bob in the woods and walk the rest of the way.”

I felt many misgivings, I can tell you, about riding that mule, but as this was the only chance of getting to church, I reluctantly assented. Accordingly, when the carriage drove down the driveway the next morning, I flew to my room to dress, while Tom went out to saddle Bob. We were soon ready, and with Tom’s assistance I mounted behind him. The first two miles were soon covered, and feeling uncomfortable from the jolting I was getting, I begged Tom to get off and walk the rest of the way.

All at once Tom uttered a yell like a Comanche Indian, and never in the history of the world did a mule make better time than Bob did, getting nearer and nearer to church at each leap.

How I begged Tom to stop him and let me get off. But never a whit did Bob slacken his speed, and I thought I would faint with horror as the church appeared through the woods.

Faster and faster we came right up to the church door, and that mule brayed longer and louder than he ever did before.

Down I slid, and back on the home track I started as hard as I could run. I had not gone far when a horse and buggy came up behind me and a moment later I was sobbing on Charley’s breast.

He asked me to be his wife that day, and I have long since forgiven the mule, as he certainly brayed some courage into my Charles. Can you blame me for being an ardent admirer now of a mule?

MAMIE TAYLOR GEISSON.

* * * * *

_Some men are natural born pall-bearers._

Ole Cotton-Tail

De white man bil’d de big rock fence, He’s boss of all de lan’, He’s lord of all de fiel’s an’ woods, He wuck me all he can. He stays up in de big white house, Long wid his cake an’ ale, He nurver kno’s whut joy it am To hunt ole cotton-tail.

Whut keer I if dat fence am ruint, Whut keer I fer de cost? Ef I don’t make a hole down dar Dat cotton-tail am lost. Den I go sneakin’ home ter night An’ ketch it, widout fail: “Ole man, huccum you sneak in heah Widout dat cotton-tail?”

So watch dar, boy, upon dat fence, (You, Juno, watch dat crack!) An’ ef you see Marse John come out Jes’ drap down in yo’ track. I’ll git a stick an’ twist in dar— You’ll heah dat rabbit’s wail— Whut’s rock an’ stone—dey can’t be e’t, Lak good ole cotton-tail.

OLE WASH.

Historic Highways of the South. THIRD PAPER—NASHVILLE

BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

No road is so typical of the Middle Basin as that lying between Franklin and Nashville. For ten miles it winds around in the lowland basins or over the intervening ridges, amid fields as fertile as ever yielded their increase to the husbandman’s plow. On each side the low hill ranges lie, blue or brown, as the sun happens to fall on them. Fertile to their very tops are these hills, green in grain or grasses, or darker green in richer foliage. In this the Middle Basin, through which for nearly a hundred miles from Nashville to Pulaski, this historic road runs, the country is different from any in the South. Sea shells lie on the tops of the hills—sea shells rich in lime and phosphorus. Every foot of this road is rich in history and tradition. Down it rode Jackson, time and again, from his home at The Hermitage, not many miles away. Here, also, rode Polk and Grundy and Sam Houston and Crockett. An old man told me a story about James K. Polk which I have never seen in print. He said that in the memorable campaign for the governorship of Tennessee between James K. Polk and Lean Jimmie Jones, in 1840 (in which campaign it is said that Jones, who was the greatest stump orator of his day, and the father of that style of oratory, almost drove the statesman Polk from the hustings), there was a mutual agreement between the candidates that Polk should speak at Franklin and Jones at Columbia, in the wind-up, the day before the election. Columbia was Polk’s home, and not very solid for him at that. The friends of Polk devised a scheme to give him the advantage by making two speeches in a day. So he made his speech early in Franklin and had saddled and ready a thoroughbred horse, which he mounted after his speech, and galloped to Spring Hill. There he took a fresh horse and rode furiously to Columbia, arriving in time to reply to Jones’ speech. But my informant, who was an old line Whig, informed me that though the future President made record-breaking time in his race down the pike, he lost in votes when it became known that he had broken his agreement and played a trick on Lean Jimmie. Jones defeated him for governor.

But the greatest of all the history made on this pike was made by the two armies of Hood and Schofield, as they swept over it in the early days of December, 1864, and then swept back again. The situations were exactly reversed, making a wave of war which ebbed and flowed, carrying on its crest the foam of wounds and death and woe. Continuing the story from Hood’s invasion from our last issue, Schofield’s army reached Nashville after the battle of Franklin, early in the morning of December 1, 1864, and there united with Thomas. Other detachments had been called in, including Gen. A. J. Smith, aggregating nearly 12,000 men, and later Steedman, with 5,200 more. Milroy and Granger, with 8,000 troops, were ordered to Murfreesboro, and placed under the command of General Rousseau. According to General Cox (The March to the Sea—Franklin and Nashville. Jacob D. Cox, page 100), General Thomas had in Nashville on the morning of November 30, 26,200 men. To these add Schofield’s army of 34,000 men, and it will be seen at a glance what Hood’s disheartened and stricken army had to fight, and Thomas, a Virginian, in command, with the bulldog tenacity of Grant and the courage of Hood.

If Franklin had been desperate, what could Hood do now, with the heart of them dead in his brave men, with sorrow in their hearts for comrades who slept in trenches under the sod of Franklin, and beloved commanders who, now being dust, were but a week before pictured forever between the sky and the bastions of steel as they rode over the breastworks to death? Even in the heart of the starved and the hardened lives memory—and what memory must have been theirs in the sleet and cold of those bitter December nights, while waiting for Thomas to come forth from his warmth and food to give battle. If Franklin had been a desperate case, was not this worse—the combined forces of Thomas and Schofield, Smith and Steedman? Anyone but Hood would have stopped and thought, but Hood never thought.

“In truth,” says Cox, in the history already quoted, “Hood’s situation was a very difficult one, and to go forward or to go back was almost equally unpromising. He followed his natural bent, therefore, which always favored the appearance, at least, of aggression, and he marched after Schofield to Nashville.” Hood put Lee’s corps in the center across the Franklin turnpike; Cheatham took the right, and Stewart the left of the line, while Forrest, with his cavalry, occupied the country between Stewart and the river below Nashville.”

Here, from the first days of December until the 15th, much of the time in sleet and rain, Hood’s half starved veterans awaited the oncoming of Thomas’ well fed and well seasoned troops. Such a meeting could scarcely be termed a battle, however bravely the long, thin lines might hold out, and however desperately they might fight. Hood grimly made two stands, but his gray lines, outflanked and outfought, melted away into a disorganized rush, back through mud and slush and freezing rain to the Tennessee. And now, back again, over the same highway, rush the two armies. Truly this historic highway was baptized in blood. The weather was cold now, sleeting. When it thawed there was slush, and when it froze, needles of ice for bare and bloody feet. No army since Valley Forge suffered as did Hood’s brave men. Truly, the men who could follow Hood back to the Tennessee, in the biting cold and hunger of those days, in the numbness which knows that all was lost, and the sorrow for those who marched no more, truly, the stock of that kind who fought it to a finish, might well survive that their heroic tribe might be given as a future pledge for the perpetuity of the Republic.

Two things alone saved Hood from annihilation: The lack of real generalship in his pursuers, who failed to push their advantage to a finish, and the intrepid genius of Forrest, who covered Hood’s retreat. Had Johnston got Sherman, had Lee got McClellan in the fix Hood was now in, the map of the Union would be painted to-day in two colors.

Of Forrest’s skill in saving Hood’s army, General Cox pays tribute in the following paragraph, when he says: “At Columbia, Forrest rejoined Hood, and his cavalry, with an infantry rear guard, under command of General Walthall, covered the retreat to the Tennessee.... This force was able to present so strong a front that ... our advance guard was not able to break through.” But the freezing, pitiless retreat of a brave, broken army, who had gone into this Pike of Battles fit to fight for a kingdom, who had done more than any similar body of men had ever done before, in facing snow and sleet and hunger and bastions of steel and the entrenched thousands of a well-fed city’s troops, and now went out under the fatal inefficiency of him who led them, is one of the great tragic stories of the Lost Cause.

Forever will this historic highway run between sloping hills and sinking valleys, from the Basin’s Rim to the Tennessee; forever will it girdle with protecting arms the swelling glories of its maiden hills. The sentinel rows of corn land, the massed squadrons of wheat, forever will follow the line of its march, helmeted in tassle-caps, sheathed in scabbard sheafs, with meshes of gold and gilt, while from the forts of its over-towering hills orchards of apples will drop their balls of gold where once contending cannon hurled theirs of steel. Forever and forever, a tribute and a lesson to all time that brother no more shall kill brother in the dawning glory of a new age and a new Union. But never again will it see the equal of that desperate courage, that sacrifice for conscience, that valor for home and country as each saw it, as shown by these two armies which swept north and south in glory and in gloom.

Trotwood does not like to end anything in gloom and sorrow, and so will end this sketch of this historical highway with some cavalry yarns he has picked up from the old survivors of this and other battles.

Several years ago, at a Confederate reunion, he found himself among a group of interesting talkers—men who had been makers of history in this great struggle. All of them have now joined their comrades who had gone before—and right worthily they went, as their life’s record will show. Among that number was Gen. W. H. Jackson, the owner of Belle Meade, then the most famous thoroughbred nursery in America. [Sidenote: Some Cavalry Yarns.] On his left was the State’s chief executive, Governor Turney, or “Old Pete,” as the big brained and big framed fellow under the slouch hat was familiarly called by every schoolboy in the State. Other congenial spirits were around, high in social and political circles, drawn by the annual reunion of Confederate veterans. Some war yarns had passed around and General Jackson, who was a brilliant cavalry leader himself, was explaining how efficient the cavalry service was. The General himself fought through the war and thought that the best horses in the world for cavalry purposes were those with a good dash of thoroughbred in them. Jackson himself rode thoroughbreds all through the war. So did Fitz-Hugh Lee, of Virginia; John H. Morgan, the famous raider, and many others.

“I remember the time I longed for one mighty bad,” quietly remarked an Alabama colonel present, as he knocked the ashes off his cigar and smiled at the turn the story was taking. “It was around Vicksburg, in the trenches, and Grant was crowding us day and night. We lived on raw beef and such dogs as happened to stray out of the city, and were begrimed, dirty, half starved and homesick. Right next to us in the trenches was a Tennessee company, whose captain always managed to ride around on a black thoroughbred horse, as handsome a creature as you ever saw, and which he kept slick and fat and curried always—though the Lord only knows where he got his rations from. I watched that fellow and soon caught onto his game. Every time the Yankees would crowd us pretty close, and it looked as if we would have to surrender anyhow in the teeth of such overwhelming numbers, this fellow’s horse would get frightened and, in spite of all his owner’s endeavors, would break away with him to the rear. One day the fight got terribly hot, our lines were cut nearly in two, they swarmed over the breastworks, it was a hand-to-hand fight. To add to the demoralization, here came this captain on his black horse, going to the rear by the lines like wild, pulling like Hercules on his horse’s mouth to stop him, and shouting back as he flew along:

“‘Gentlemen, I can’t stop him—he is running away!’

“‘Hould on, Captain,’ shouted an Irishman in our line, as he jumped up and waved his cap at the horse and rider, ‘Hould on! I’ll give you a thousan’ dollars to tell me where I can get another one of that breed of horses that you can’t hould when he starts to the rear.’

“The Yankees took the shout of laughter that followed Pat’s exclamation for the Rebel yell and we got a breathing spell at our end of the line for a couple of hours.”

“That reminds me of Sam Watkins,” said a gentleman present. “The same Sam that wrote that inimitable book on the war called “Company H”—the best book I ever read on the war, for it came nearer to painting it in its true, horrible colors than any of them. Sam tells the story as he went through it, from the standpoint of a common soldier, and the motto of his volume seems to have been General Sherman’s laconic remark that “War is hell.” If the young idiots ever get up a notion to fight again, Sam Watkins’ ‘Company H’ will do more to stop them than anything I know of. Anyway, just before the Battle of Shiloh Sam found himself mounted on the stubbornest mule that ever went to war. He would charge Grant’s whole army when the bugle sounded retreat, and would proceed to fall precipitately back when there wasn’t an enemy in a hundred miles. On the first day at Shiloh, when Johnston’s army was rushing over everything before night, and Buell came, Sam’s mule suddenly decided to retreat—and retreat he did, much to Sam’s mortification and disgust. As he went back full tilt he ran over a gun with four horses attached and before he recovered from the shock of the collision to know which way his rear end was, Sam tied a rope to his neck and the other end of the rope to the caisson’s axle, and having mounted again he got the artilleryman to literally haul his muleship into battle. The fight was nearly over when they finally got to the front, and, General Johnston being killed, Beauregard had ordered a cessation of hostilities till morning. But it suddenly dawned on Sam’s mule that he was expected to charge, and no sooner was he released than he straightened his neck, and before his rider could dismount, straightened his tail, brayed once and charged Grant’s whole army, penned up on the banks of the Tennessee River, and madder than a gored bull in a fence corner. Sam’s captain didn’t understand the mule’s maneuvers, and as he went by shouted to his men:

“‘Look at brave Sam Watkins, boys, charging right in the cannon’s mouth.’

“‘It ain’t me chargin’, Captain,’ shouted poor Sam, as he pulled away with all his might to keep out of certain death—‘it ain’t me. I ain’t such a fool as that. It’s this damned old mule! Whoa, Baalam, whoa!’