A Year in the South

by Stephen V. Ash

  Sam’s personal life is chronicled in those pages, too, of course. It was a life of useful service that brought him deep satisfaction. In 1868, following the death of his friend and mentor the Reverend Young, he accepted a call from the congregation of Bethany Church to become pastor. He served in that capacity for the rest of his days, while continuing to preach frequently at other churches and stations in the vicinity. He devoted his later years not only to his ministry but also to writing works of local history, including an article on the battle of Brice’s Crossroads published in Confederate Veteran magazine.1

  While Sam enjoyed many blessings in the years after 1865, he also endured a succession of tragedies. Nannie died of consumption in the summer of 1868, leaving him to care for three-year-old Buddy and a second son, James, who was barely a year old. Buddy died before he turned five, James before he turned nine. Sam grieved profoundly over these losses and had to struggle to accept them as a Christian should. “I try to be resigned,” he wrote after Buddy’s death, “but it is hard and my heart rebells against this painful affliction.” His faith was strong, however. Always he reminded himself that “God knows better what is good than we do,” and the rebellion in his heart subsided.2

  18. White-bearded Sam Agnew (second from right) with his second wife, Rachel, and their children in 1896. Behind them is the plantation Big House, where Sam had lived since the 1850s.

  Except for a time in 1867–68 when he taught school in Guntown, Sam continued to live on the family plantation, the greater portion of which he eventually inherited. Labor problems continued to plague the estate. Although Enoch managed to secure field hands for the 1866 season and thereafter, doing so required constant wrangling, for the freedmen continued to resist close supervision. Ultimately much of the plantation was parceled out to sharecroppers, over whom the Agnews exercised no day-to-day control. Hiring kitchen help proved to be as frustrating as recruiting field workers, and the family sometimes found themselves without a cook. Sam’s diary in the years after 1865 resounds with complaints. The freed people, he declared, were “unreliable as farm laborers,” “unwilling … to cook,” and had “a predjudice against white people.”3

  The black quest for autonomy in the postwar years disrupted not only Sam’s home but also his church. Before the war, the Bethany congregation had included many slaves. Afterward, most of those who stayed in the community continued their association with the church. As late as 1873 there were fifty-six black members, one-third of the total. But in that year came a great rupture, the result of growing dissatisfaction among the blacks, who resented being denied a say in governing the church while being subject to its authority and discipline. Sam and the Bethany elders wrestled earnestly with this difficulty, treating the blacks with “great forbearance,” in Sam’s view, and “making allowances for their lack of education and want of judgment.” The breach could not be healed, however, and eventually forty-four blacks withdrew from membership, most of them going on to found an African Methodist Episcopal church. The experience perplexed and angered Sam, who saw it as further evidence of irrational hostility on the part of the freedmen toward whites. “Such manifestations,” he fumed, “make me feel like having nothing to do with the children of Ham.”4

  19. Marble grave monument of Sam Agnew

  For all his railing about the freed people, Sam was not a bitter man in the years after 1865. Nor, despite his tragic losses, was he melancholy. He remarried in 1875, to a much younger woman named Rachel Jane Peoples. Although two of the nine children she eventually bore him died in early childhood, the remaining seven survived him and filled his home with joy to the end of his days. The youngest of these four sons and three daughters was born in 1893, when Sam was almost sixty.5

  His end came in the summer of 1902, a few months before his sixty-ninth birthday. He died “in the harness,” as a historian of his denomination has written, for he was stricken while on his way to preach. He was buried in the Bethany Church cemetery near the resting places of his mother and father. A marble monument almost six feet tall stands at the head of his grave. It is carved in the shape of a pulpit with a Bible lying open on it.6

  *

  John Robertson spent two years in exile before returning to east Tennessee. His homecoming did not, however, mark the end of his odyssey. Soon he set forth again, on journeys geographical, spiritual, and personal. When at last he put down roots, he was far from where he began in 1865.

  He remained in Springfield for close to a year, surviving the Iowa winter and getting sufficient schooling to earn a teaching certificate. In the spring of 1866 he began teaching in the village and at the same time helped organize a Sunday school at the Methodist church, as he had done at Blue Springs the year before. When the school term ended in the summer, he decided to leave Iowa. He wanted to pursue his religious calling and do so in the Southern Methodist church. By wagon and train he traveled to Owen County, Kentucky, where he had some relatives, and there he took a teaching job and resumed studying for the ministry. In 1867 he was licensed to preach in the Southern Methodist church.7

  Soon after arriving in Kentucky, he went to a drugstore, paid a dollar for a blank account book, and started writing a memoir of his experiences beginning with his enlistment in the Confederate army in 1862. “I have seen many days of sorrow and danger and many of joy and gladness,” he wrote on page one, and he intended to recount those days as a record of his moral and spiritual development. By the late summer of 1867 he had filled three volumes.8

  At that point he was ready to go home. Although Governor Brownlow’s unionist regime still ruled Tennessee, the violence against rebels in the eastern section of the state had declined enough that John felt it was safe to return. Other refugees from that region were now going home, too, thankful that the bitter conflict that had set neighbor against neighbor for more than six years was at last subsiding.9

  Throughout his exile John remained passionately devoted to Tennie, and he headed back to east Tennessee in August 1867 eager to redeem his promise to marry her. He had never wavered in his certainty that “it was our fate to share together the joys and sorrows of this life.” Both had affirmed their love in the letters they had exchanged regularly after he left.10

  What happened between them when he returned to Roane County can never be known. His memoir ends as he is leaving Kentucky, and the records of his life after that are few. It is known that he and Tennie did not marry, and in November 1867 she wed another man, an east Tennessee unionist who had served in the federal army during the war.11

  John then settled for a time in Greene County, where his parents still lived. He continued to read, think, and argue about theology and doctrine, and before long he abandoned the Methodist church for the Presbyterian, and then the Presbyterian for the Baptist. Around 1868 he enrolled in Shurtleff College, a Baptist school in Illinois. He studied there for several years and then began a long career as a Baptist preacher.12

  Before leaving Greene County for college, he married a woman four years his senior named Louisa Kitzmiller, from nearby Sullivan County. They had a child in 1869. What became of Louisa and the baby is unknown, for they disappear from the historical record after 1870. It is likely that both died around the time John finished college.13

  John’s first pastorate after graduating from Shurtleff was in Beauregard, Mississippi, where he stayed for a year. While there, he met and married Sazine Tillman, the daughter of a dry goods merchant. He then moved to a church in Kansas, where he spent three years, followed by three years at a church in Missouri. Around 1879 he was called to northwestern Arkansas, where he settled for good, as pastor of Wager’s Mill Church in Benton County and, later, of Elm Springs Church, a few miles away in Washington County.14

  He developed a reputation in his Arkansas community as an avid debater of religion and a skilled defender of the Baptist faith. He was also noted for his extensive collection of books, said to be “the largest library of theological and historical works in the county.�
� Sadly, the whole collection was destroyed, along with his house, when a tornado struck in 1898. Miraculously, he and his family escaped with no injuries worse than bruises.15

  By that time, ironically enough, Tennie was living less than 150 miles from John, in a small town in western Missouri. Whether they were aware of their proximity is unknown. Surely they at least thought of one another now and then; perhaps she still had the silver dollar he had given her in the summer of 1865 as a token of his love. Her life at this point could not have been easy, for her husband was by then an invalid, suffering from chronic liver and stomach ailments and depression.16

  John made no mention of Tennie, understandably enough, when he provided information in the late 1880s for a biographical sketch of himself to be published in a local history. What is curious is that he also said not a word about his Confederate military service, his deep engagement with Methodism, his brush with death at the hands of unionists, his exile from east Tennessee, or his first wife and child. The year 1865, and those immediately before and after it, constitute a glaring blank space in the story he told others of himself. He never published his memoir of those years.17

  Sazine bore John at least seven children. Four were living, as was she, when he died of a stroke in 1909, at the age of sixty-three.18

  *

  Cornelia McDonald ultimately overcame despair and poverty, thanks to her inner strength and the help of family and friends. Her struggle continued for years after 1865 however. A photograph from 1870 shows her still thin-faced and hollow-eyed, while the census of that year lists the value of her worldly possessions as a mere $150.19

  She never got much from her husband’s estate—a good deal of his property had to be sold for taxes—and so she continued to work to support herself and her family. After 1865 she began taking in Washington College students as boarders and also taught at a girls’ school in Lexington. These labors were exhausting, but they brought in enough money to pay for necessities and to enable Harry to enroll in the college. He graduated in 1869 with a degree in civil engineering, quickly secured a good job with a railroad, and thereafter was able to contribute substantially to the family’s support. Later Allan was able to finish his education, too, and he in turn helped the family. Eventually all six of her boys earned degrees or at least attended college, and all embarked on careers, most of them in engineering. Nelly was educated at a private academy.20

  The friends who came to Cornelia’s rescue in 1865 continued to lend assistance from time to time. Eventually she learned the source of the mysterious hundred dollars that Ann Pendleton had given her. It was part of a large fund sent to rebel agents in Canada by the Confederate government to finance secret operations against the North. When the war ended, the agents decided to distribute the remaining money to needy widows and orphans of Confederate soldiers. One of the agents was a son-in-law of the Reverend William Pendleton, and at Pendleton’s urging he arranged for Cornelia to get a share. The existence of the fund had to be kept secret after the war, lest the U.S. government confiscate it.21

  As her financial situation slowly improved, Cornelia resumed an active social life. Among those whose company she enjoyed in the years after 1865 were Robert E. Lee and his family. Cornelia called often on Mrs. Lee, who was confined to a wheelchair, and General Lee returned her calls. A great lover of children, Lee especially enjoyed the company of Nelly and her younger brothers. He helped out the McDonalds on occasion, including writing a letter of recommendation for Harry, whom he called “a very promising young man, of great energy and integrity of character.” Lee and the McDonalds also saw each other on Sundays at Grace Episcopal Church, which reopened in 1866 after the federal garrison was withdrawn from Lexington. Ever the dignified gentleman, Lee always pretended not to notice on those occasions when Kenneth or Roy or Donald fell noisily to the floor during the church service, having fallen asleep in the pew. When Lee died in 1870, Cornelia was deeply saddened.22

  In 1873 Cornelia and her children who were still at home moved to Louisville, Kentucky, where Harry and Allan were pursuing their careers. By then the family was getting along well enough that Cornelia did not have to work and could indulge in her old pastimes, including reading and drawing. She also found a new hobby, china-painting, and became active in church and charity work. In 1875 she compiled a record of her wartime experiences, part diary and part memoir, as a gift to her children. A vivid and frank account of her travails in Winchester and Lexington, it was published in 1934 by her youngest child, Hunter.23

  Cornelia never remarried. In her later years she lived with Nelly and her husband, a merchant in Henderson, Kentucky. When she died in 1909, at the age of nearly eighty-seven, six of her children were living (Harry had succumbed to pneumonia in 1904), as were twenty-two grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. She was buried next to her husband in Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia. Her memory was revered by her surviving sons and daughter, who never forgot how she had suffered and sacrificed for them. “A rare soul was hers,” said Nelly, “and one that had few equals.”24

  *

  After arriving in Windsor, Ontario, on Christmas day 1865, Louis Hughes found work as a hotel porter. But the pay was poor and he grew restless again. Canada was not the land of opportunity he had envisioned. In the spring of 1866 he took a job as a waiter in Detroit. In 1867, still dissatisfied, he shipped out on a Great Lakes steamer. When the sailing season ended, the ship tied up for the winter in Chicago and Lou found work there in a hotel. One of the businessmen who regularly stayed there, Mr. Plankinton of Milwaukee, took a liking to Lou and offered him a job in the hotel he was opening. In September 1868 Lou moved to Milwaukee and took charge of the coatroom at the new Plankinton House.25

  Matilda, who had remained in Windsor all this time, now joined Lou. The two established a private laundry service for the Plankinton’s guests, with Lou collecting the clothes in the course of his hotel duties and Matilda doing the washing. This was such a success that in 1874 Lou quit the Plankinton and went into the laundry business full time with Matilda.26

  Though never really satisfied with any of his jobs in these years, Lou felt blessed in other ways. In 1867 Matilda presented him with twin babies, “two bright little girls” who brought him great joy and helped ease the painful memory of his first twins. Not long after that, he enrolled in a night school for freedmen in Chicago and began to learn to read and write. During this time, too, he had a spiritual awakening and committed his life to Jesus Christ. He was a founding member and steward of St. Mark’s African Methodist Episcopal Church in Milwaukee.27

  The most remarkable of Lou’s post-1865 experiences was finding his long-lost brother, Billy Hughes. It came about through the same kind of chance encounter that had led Matilda to her mother and sister. At the Plankinton one day, a salesman who was one of the regular guests approached Lou and said, “Say, Hughes, have you a brother?” Lou replied that he had two, but had not seen them since he was sold away from his family in Virginia as a boy, some thirty years ago; he had no idea if they were still alive. The man then told Lou that there was a hotel cook in Cleveland who looked just like him. His name was Billy, but that was all the man knew about him. Lou related what little he remembered about his brother Billy—mainly the missing forefinger that Lou had accidentally chopped off one day when the two were playing—and the salesman promised to talk to the cook on his next trip to Cleveland. Lou waited impatiently to see the salesman again. Then one day at work he heard the words, “Hello, Hughes! I have good news for you.” The man had been to Cleveland and confirmed that the cook was Lou’s brother, missing finger and all. Lou immediately arranged for some time off from work, caught an express train to Cleveland, and had an emotional reunion with the brother he had never expected to see again. There was one sad note: Billy, who also had been separated at a young age from their mother, had returned to the Virginia homeplace after the war seeking her and their other brother, but could discover no trace of either.28

 
In the late 1870s, when he was past the age of forty-five, Lou found his true calling. It happened that a prominent Milwaukee man, Dr. Douglas, was ill and needed private nursing. A friend of Lou’s recommended him, and for three months Lou served as Dr. Douglas’s night nurse. He also accompanied his patient to a health spa. The experience gave Lou a deep sense of fulfillment and set him on a new path. He realized that this was what he had yearned to do ever since the days when he stood at Boss’s side learning the healing potions and visiting sick slaves in their cabins. Now he would become a nurse.29

  Armed with a letter of recommendation and some newly printed business cards, both courtesy of Dr. Douglas, Lou hung out his shingle and soon gained a reputation in Milwaukee as an excellent private-duty nurse. He pursued this calling for more than two decades. During those years he had the opportunity to travel with many of his patients, going to places as far away as Florida and California.30

  In 1897, “in compliance with the suggestion of friends,” Lou published a memoir of his life as a slave. He probably could not have afforded to do this on his own, and the book is written in a polished style that is clearly not his. It is likely that one of his wealthy patients, captivated by Lou’s bedside stories of his years in bondage and his harrowing escape, paid to have those stories transcribed, edited, and published.31

  To the end of his life, Lou remained bitter about slavery. His memoir is a defiant reply to the romantic legend of plantation life in the Old South that had captured the popular mind of America by the late nineteenth century. In it, he graphically recounts the horrors he witnessed and speaks of “the scars which I still bear upon my person, and … the wounds of spirit which will never wholly heal.” Nor had he any patience with the popular image of the Confederate States of America as a noble Lost Cause. Fighting to preserve an inhuman institution, he insisted, was hardly noble. Readers of his memoir are reminded that if the Confederacy had won its war for independence, Lou and his loved ones, along with millions of other men and women, would have spent the rest of their lives in harsh servitude.32