A Year in the South

by Stephen V. Ash

  Other leading citizens of Lexington seconded the trustees’ appeal to Lee. William Pendleton wrote to his old commander, acknowledging that the town was “a place of no great importance” but assuring him that he would find it congenial and reminding him that, as president of the college, he would perform “an important service to the State and its people.” Former governor John Letcher, back home in Lexington after six weeks in a federal prison, likewise encouraged Lee to come. “You can do a vast amount of good,” he wrote, “in building up this institution, and disseminating the blessings of education among our people.”17

  Lee mulled it over for nearly three weeks. A man of deep religious convictions and a profound sense of duty, he finally concluded that Providence was calling him to Lexington, and he accepted the summons. Packing some clothes in a saddlebag and dispatching his other belongings by canal boat, he set out on his beloved horse, Traveller. He went alone, intending to send for his family when he was settled. After a four-day journey, he arrived in Lexington on September 18. The citizens were anxiously awaiting his arrival, but because he was not expected until the nineteenth, there was no formal welcome of any sort when he got to town. That suited the modest Lee just fine.18

  The McDonalds were among the first to see him, for he rode into town from the north, on the road that became Main Street. Allan spotted him and ran to his mother’s room to tell her, and Cornelia watched reverently from her window as the great man passed, dignified as ever in his bearing, bowing slightly and doffing his hat to acknowledge the greetings from men and women on the sidewalk. He rode on up the street toward the Lexington Hotel, where he intended to stay until the college president’s house was made habitable. Allan followed him and, while Lee was making arrangements for lodging, he plucked some hairs from Traveller’s tail. These he proudly showed to his mother, vowing that when he married he would give them to his wife to wear in a breastpin.19

  On October 2 the college officials held a very simple inaugural ceremony for the new president in a second-floor classroom, Lee having vetoed their plan for a grand ceremony replete with a band and a chorus of girls wearing white robes and flower head-wreaths. He went to work immediately thereafter and soon established a routine. Rising early each workday morning, he would breakfast in the hotel at seven and then walk to the college chapel, where one or another of the town’s ministers was usually on hand, at his invitation, to lead a brief devotional service. From eight until two he would work in his office or attend to duties elsewhere on campus, then return to the hotel for dinner and a short nap. If there was no late-afternoon faculty meeting or other business, he would mount Traveller and go for a ride in the countryside. After a light supper he would read until ten and then retire to bed.20

  He did not seek the adulation of the local folk, but of course he received it. He could go nowhere without being hailed and cheered. Sometimes he was greeted with the rebel yell, there being any number of his former soldiers living in the town and county. This behavior Lee discouraged, for he was sensitive to the scrutiny he was getting from the local military authorities and, indeed, from the whole nation. Southerners were looking to him for guidance; Northerners were watching to see what example he would set. For his own part, Lee genuinely accepted defeat and sincerely pledged his loyalty to the federal government; he was no Pendleton, bitter and prickly and unreconstructed. Publicly and privately, Lee urged his fellow ex-Confederates to put aside their hostility and get on with the business of rebuilding the South. “I think it the duty of every citizen,” he wrote in his letter of acceptance to the college trustees, “in the present condition of the Country, to do all in his power to aid in the restoration of peace and harmony.… It is particularly incumbent on those charged with the instruction of the young to set them an example of submission to authority.”21

  Lexington was by now becoming something of a model for those who, like Lee, were anxious to rebuild the South. Not only did Washington College survive and prosper—it had fifty students by the time Lee took office, a hundred by year’s end—but so also did the Virginia Military Institute. The institute had been even more disrupted by the war than had the college, for General Hunter’s troops had burned much of it to the ground in June 1864, and it had remained closed from that point on. But under the leadership of its longtime superintendent, Francis H. Smith, it was resurrected in October 1865—although by order of the federal occupation authorities the cadets were forbidden to wear uniforms or to drill with muskets.22

  The reopening of the two institutions made Cornelia more melancholy yet, for it reminded her anew of the depths to which her family had sunk. Many of her friends were enrolling their sons in the schools; Harry should be among the students, Cornelia thought, but she had no money to pay his tuition or buy him decent clothes. Not one of her children was getting any education now, in fact, and none had gotten much for a long time. No public school was operating in Lexington, and it would be humiliating for a McDonald to go to one anyway. Private academies were open, but they were expensive. Cornelia had tried all through the war to give lessons to the children when they could not go to school, but she had little time for that now, what with her private drawing instruction and the housework; and, in any event, the children were now occupied with helping around the house or working for wages.23

  Contemplating the family’s plight, which seemed to her “more and more hopeless every day,” brought Cornelia to the verge of another emotional breakdown like that she had suffered in August. There was not enough money for food now, let alone firewood and rent. She and the children were hungry much of the time, the weather was turning cool, and the landlord was running out of patience. Angus’s estate was still in legal limbo and would probably remain so for years; Cornelia had written to a lawyer about it, but had gotten no encouragement. Moreover, her closest friends had moved away, and she now had no confidante, no one to whom she could pour out her heart and confess her nightmarish visions of the future, visions of a life of penury and homelessness and degradation. Again she sank into despondency, a gloom that even the autumn beauty of the Shenandoah Valley could not dispel. “I could scarcely lift my heavy eyes to the blue hills, or endure the light of the lovely sunsets. The sight of the smooth, peaceful river gave me no joy of heart.”24

  One evening in October she left the house, hoping that a stroll up Main Street would lift her spirits. It did not. As she passed along, she glanced in the windows of homes and saw contented families sitting around cheery fires. “[I]t made me feel all the more desolate.”25

  She walked on, past the courthouse and the Presbyterian church and the hotel, past the stores and artisans’ shops, until she reached the south edge of town. On her left was Lexington’s cemetery, and she turned and entered it through the open gate. It was as serene and beautiful as ever, although the rose bushes that bordered it and lined its walkways were bare of blossoms now. White marble headstones and monuments crowded the grounds. These marked the older graves; the newer ones, including the many that held the remains of Confederate soldiers, had temporary wooden markers. Near the center of the cemetery was the resting place of Stonewall Jackson, a clover-covered mound of earth no different from any of the other soldiers’ graves except for the tall pine pole that rose next to it, on which a Confederate flag had once waved.26

  Cornelia sought out the grave of Sandie Pendleton, the rector’s beloved son, Stonewall Jackson’s trusted adjutant, and one of the most popular and capable young officers in the Army of Northern Virginia. When he died of a battle wound in the fall of 1864, a few days before his twenty-fourth birthday, the army had grieved, as had the town of Lexington. Cornelia had done her best to comfort his mother and sisters during that sad time. They had done the same for her several weeks later, when Angus died.27

  She sat down next to Sandie Pendleton’s grave, feeling “wretched and forlorn.” The headboard—mutilated back in July by Yankee soldiers, to the shock and disgust of the Pendleton family—cast a longer and longer shadow as the min
utes passed. Silently she sat, “trying to regain courage and hope,” until it grew cold and nearly dark. Then she rose, went out through the gate, and headed home.28

  She had not gone far when she met Ann Pendleton, on her way to visit her son’s grave. Even in the dim light, Ann could see the distress on Cornelia’s face. “What can be the matter,” she asked Cornelia. “Come home with me now, I will go back.”29

  Touched by Ann’s concern and unable to contain her misery any longer, Cornelia burst into tears. Ann took her hands and insisted she tell her what was wrong. The pride that for so long had kept Cornelia from speaking frankly to her friend now collapsed. “We are starving,” she sobbed, “I and my children.”30

  Ann’s reply left Cornelia astonished. “Comfort yourself,” she said. “I meant to have come and told you that help is coming for you. You are to receive a sum of money in a few days.” As Cornelia stifled her weeping, Ann explained that there existed a certain fund for the benefit of needy and deserving people, and, through the influence of her husband, one hundred dollars had been secured for Cornelia and another hundred for Sandie Pendleton’s widow. More than this, Ann refused to reveal. “You must not ask where it comes from,” she said.31

  17. Lexington Cemetery, resting place of Stonewall Jackson and Sandie Pendleton. The large stone cross marks Pendleton’s grave, where Cornelia McDonald sat despondently on an October evening in 1865. Erected sometime after that year, it replaced the wooden marker defiled by U.S. soldiers.

  That night Cornelia went to bed “with a happy heart and a thankful one.” The next morning came further proof that, as she put it, “God was … good, [and] that with the trial he provided the needful help.” She had been too depressed lately to do much visiting, but now, buoyed by the news from Ann, she decided to pay a call on her friend Mrs. McElwee. As it happened, Mrs. McElwee had just bought a quarter of beef, and she insisted that Cornelia take a roast. Cornelia was overjoyed. Wrapping it in paper and holding it tightly under her shawl, she hurried home. She and the children had it for dinner that very day. Less than a week later, Mrs. McElwee returned Cornelia’s call and brought more welcome news. She had received an inheritance from her brother, who had been killed two years earlier at the battle of Chickamauga, and she offered Cornelia $300 as a loan. “I accepted it,” Cornelia wrote, “and with a light and happy heart set about making provision for the winter.”32

  The weeks that followed brought her more good fortune. Her stepson Edward, his terrible facial wound now healed and covered by a beard, came to town bringing word that he had discovered an old bond owned by Angus and had cashed it in. He gave Cornelia a portion of the money, enabling her to pay the house rent. Edward’s generosity did not end there. He, his brother William, and their sisters Susan and Flora had recently moved in together on a rented farm in Clarke County, in northern Virginia. Edward was working the farm, William was teaching school, and Susan and Flora were keeping house. They offered to take in one of Cornelia’s older boys and see to it that he got an education. Before fall ended, Allan packed his clothes and headed off to Clarke County. By then Cornelia’s little girl was back in the classroom, too. Mary Pendleton, Ann’s daughter, started a school in town and offered to take Nelly as a pupil.33

  Despite the signs that she was under the protection of a caring Providence, Cornelia continued to have moments of doubt and despondency, for her financial plight was by no means resolved. As December approached, she again grew depressed and began avoiding company. When the other ladies in town enthusiastically volunteered to help get the college president’s house in shape for the impending arrival of Robert E. Lee’s wife and daughters, Cornelia declined. “[H]ow could I go among them with my sad face and sorrowful heart,” she thought. Once again, she became “wholly occupied with my own trouble and distresses.”34

  While Cornelia struggled with her worries, the town was disturbed by more conflicts. In early December, the Reverend Pendleton at last received permission to resume services at Grace Episcopal. Major Redmond had no hand in this, however; permission was granted by Captain Henry Robinson who now commanded the post. Pendleton made no promise to use the prescribed prayer for the president, but had merely persuaded Robinson that the time had come to relax the proscription. Services did not resume for long. When Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Clay, commander of the military subdistrict, got wind of Robinson’s action he immediately overruled it. Two days later, on December 17, Clay dispatched a letter directly to Pendleton. The church would stay closed, he told the rector firmly, until the proper prayer was given.35

  Even as the citizens of Lexington fumed over this news, they were provoked by what they regarded as yet another instance of Yankee interference. Since the war ended, they had seen their town “invaded” by Northern merchants, a federal army garrison, a U.S. Treasury agent, and a Freedmen’s Bureau agent. Now, in December, more interlopers arrived: Yankee teachers who intended to set up a school for blacks.

  When the school opened on December 12, the freedmen flocked to it eagerly, young and old alike. By year’s end, 115 were attending day classes and 226 were attending night classes. The teachers, one of whom was a woman, were sponsored by the American Missionary Association, a Northern humanitarian agency. Freedmen’s Bureau agent Tubbs, whose duties included assisting the teachers and monitoring the progress of black education, wrote enthusiastically in his December report: “We have a large and flourishing school conducted by able and efficient teachers with the cooperation of some highly intelligent freedmen.”36

  The reactions of Lexington’s whites to this new intrusion ranged from disgust to outrage. Few believed that educating blacks would accomplish anything useful. It would merely give them big ideas, the whites insisted; there was no surer way to ruin a good servant or field hand. No sooner did the school start than some citizens claimed to see a change in the blacks. Mary Pendleton wrote her sister that it was now harder to get and keep servants. “They are all so busy getting an education they cannot work for white folks. I wish we could get two strong efficient Irish girls.”37

  Few condemned the blacks, however, for wanting an education; white hostility was directed mostly at the meddling Yankee teachers. A good number of whites went out of their way to snub or harass them, hoping thereby to send them packing back to the North. Lieutenant Tubbs was convinced that only the presence of the army garrison prevented outright physical assaults. The female teacher, Julia Shearman from Brooklyn, New York, was subjected to torments of all sorts beginning the day she arrived in town. “Never did I walk the streets of Lexington without rudeness, in one form or another,” she recalled bitterly. “Ladies glorified in compelling the Yankee woman … to step into the mud for their accommodation; the boys of the aristocratic school of the place hooted every time I passed them.… I have been awakened from my sleep, in the dead of night, by horrible serenades, performed under my window, by these same gentlemanly young men. I have taught an evening school while brickbats were being thrown by them at the windows.” Epithets of the lowest sort were hurled at her. One she heard over and over was “Damn Yankee bitch of a nigger teacher.”38

  Cornelia was too preoccupied with her family’s survival to be much concerned with this new controversy that erupted in the waning days of the year. The cold darkness that descended on the town early each evening was as nothing compared to that which enveloped her heart. Her faith in God’s goodness was strong, but it could not altogether silence the cruel mockery of the Tempter who told her she had been abandoned and there was no hope. And so she entered upon another winter of uncertainty, wondering if it would ever give way to spring.39

  LOUIS HUGHES

  The reunion of Matilda and Mary Ellen with their mother in Cincinnati at summer’s end was little short of miraculous. Many former slaves were trying to trace their lost loved ones in the postwar months, but few families that had been separated for as long as Matilda’s would ever meet again. To the further astonishment and joy of the two women, they found that their older
sister was living with their mother. They had last seen her in the Memphis slave market ten years ago, when they said their good-byes. They now learned that she and their mother had been sold to different masters and taken from Memphis, but had managed to escape after the Yankee invasion in 1862 and had made their way back to the city. By coincidence, both had gotten jobs as nurses in one of the Union army hospitals in the city, and there they found each other. Later during the war they moved together to Cincinnati. Matilda saw the hand of God at work in this reunion of her family against all odds, and she gave thanks.1

  Lou, Matilda, their baby, and Mary Ellen and her two children now crowded into the one-room apartment rented by Matilda’s mother and eldest sister. With so many people moving into Cincinnati that fall, the city’s residential buildings were teeming. Jobs were scarce, too, and it must have been apparent to Lou that getting along in Cincinnati was not going to be easy.2

  Newcomers like Lou and his family found the size and strangeness of this place overwhelming. The Queen City of the West, as the inhabitants proudly called it, now had a population of about 200,000, three or four times that of Memphis. The narrow streets—which were all either cobblestone or paved, unlike those in the Southern towns Lou had known—were filled with vehicles and noisy with the ringing of streetcar bells and the clopping of hooves. In the heart of the city, around Fourth and Vine, traffic jams routinely blocked the thoroughfares, forcing pedestrians to walk a block out of their way to cross. The sidewalks were as congested as the streets. On many corners, vendors had set up little wooden stands where they sold peanuts, candy, fruit, and newspapers. Shoppers and tradesmen had to step around these and other obstructions as they made their way about the city. They also had to pass by knots of idle men who hung out on the corners ogling women and had to make way for the ragged street preachers and other eccentrics who wandered the streets.3