A Year in the South (22 page)

The case of Lou and George was typical of Walker's frustrations. He could do basically nothing for them. For one thing, Panola County, Mississippi, was beyond his jurisdiction. And even if he had had the authority to intervene, he lacked the power: the army was demobilizing and was now spread quite thin. It would be impossible, as he explained to Lou and George, to dispatch a military force to every plantation in the South where blacks were being abused. Nevertheless, he could offer a bit of encouragement. There were unofficial ways to accomplish what could not be done officially. “I will tell you what you can do,” he said. “There are hundreds of just such men as you want, who would be glad of such a scout.” Lou and George understood. They thanked Walker and left the office.
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Outside, the two men talked the matter over. The best thing to do now, they decided, was to return to Senatobia and seek out the officer in charge of the detachment there. Perhaps he could help.
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The next day, Friday, they rented a wagon and a two-horse team and made their final preparations for departure. Among the provisions they packed were two bottles of whiskey.
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Early Saturday morning, July 1, they were off, southward bound. The day was hot, but mercifully there was no rain. The two men undoubtedly preferred a dusty road to a wet one under the circumstances, for they knew how Mississippi mud could slow a wagon to a crawl.
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By sunset they had reached a place called Big Springs, in the prewar days a favorite site for religious camp meetings. There they halted, built a fire, and settled in for the night. They were preparing to cook supper when a pair of Yankee cavalrymen rode up. The two greeted Lou and George, asked them what direction they were heading, and then got down to business. “Have you any whisky?” they asked. Lou and George pulled out a bottle and offered them a drink.
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As the bottle was being passed around, Lou asked the men where they were stationed. Senatobia, they replied. Lou and George then explained their situation, recounted their meeting with Captain Walker, and announced their intention to go to Senatobia the next day to ask the commanding officer for help. The soldiers listened with interest, and then one asked: “How much whisky have you?” Two bottles, George told him.
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“Now my friend,” said one of the Yankees, “I am afraid if you go to the captain you will be defeated. But I'll tell you what I'll do. Give my comrade and me one of your bottles of whisky, and we will put you on a straight track. The reason why I say this is that our captain has been sweetened by the rebel farmers. He is invited out to tea by them every evening. I know he will put you off. But I will write a note to some comrades of mine who, I know, will bring you out safe.”
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Lou and George consented at once to the deal, and handed over the bottle. The cavalryman scribbled a note, gave it to them, and told them how to find the two men it was addressed to. “They are brave,” he added, “and the only two I know of that can help you.” The soldiers then mounted up and rode off.
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It was about eleven o'clock the next morning, Sunday, when Lou and George pulled up outside the village of Senatobia. They left the wagon there, went on foot to the cavalry camp, and found the men they had been instructed to see. The soldiers read the note and questioned Lou and George a bit, then told them to return to their wagon and wait. They did so, and a little while later the soldiers joined them. They wanted to know more about the proposed expedition, including the distance to Master Jack's. After Lou and George had answered all their questions, the soldiers agreed to go. Lou gave them ten dollars each, with the promise of ten more if the rescue mission was successful. The soldiers then headed back to camp to bring out their horses—surreptitiously, so as not to be spotted by their captain, who was unaware of what they were up to. When they left, Lou and George climbed back into the wagon and set out. The soldiers caught up with them a couple of miles down the road.
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As the little rescue party entered the Como district, Lou and George grew nervous. They were now back in the land of slavery, and they were attracting a lot of ugly stares from the white people they passed. But they pressed on, comforted by the company of the two tough cavalry troopers with their revolvers and carbines.
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Just after sundown they reached the lane that led to Master Jack's. The soldiers spurred their mounts and rode ahead, through the grove and into the front yard of the Big House. The only person to be seen was a black man working at the woodpile. “Go in and tell your master, Mr. McG[eh]ee, to come out,” one of the soldiers ordered, “we want to see him.” The man obeyed. A moment later William McGehee emerged from the house and confronted the soldiers.
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Lou and George had by now reached the yard in their wagon. Lou saw that the critical moment was at hand. He was frightened. The soldiers were stout fellows, but there were only two of them, and William McGehee was just the sort of man who might challenge them. He was a twenty-nine-year-old hothead who had served four years in the Confederate army, ending his service in an elite combat unit, General Nathan Bedford Forrest's cavalry escort. And he had proved himself willing to use deadly force to keep his family's black people enslaved.
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The two soldiers, however, had been warned by Lou of the possibility of violent resistance by the McGehees and they had devised a plan. Their first words to William were: “We want feed for seventy-five head of horses.”
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Lou heard William protest that he could not provide so much feed and heard the soldiers repeat their demand. He and George did not slow the wagon, but steered directly for the slave quarters. The soldiers followed them.
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William ran into the Big House in a fury and aroused the family. “It is Louis and George,” he said, “and I'll kill one of them to-night.” But when he told the other McGehees of the soldiers' demand, they were persuaded that the two troopers were but the advance scouts of a large force of Yankee cavalry. They convinced William to settle down and not do anything stupid.
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Lou and George pulled up to their cabin and got down from the wagon. Kitty was at the door. “I am all ready,” she told them. She had been preparing for their return: the few belongings that the two families intended to take were ready to load, and there was food stockpiled for the journey to freedom. Lou and George immediately began loading the wagon.
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Meanwhile Master Jack and the circuit minister who boarded with him had come down to the quarters. The soldiers spotted them and rode up to them. “[W]hat are you doing here?” one of the troopers snarled. “Why have you not told these two men, Louis and George, that they are free men—that they can go and come as they like?”
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By now the quarters were in an uproar. The other blacks had come out of their cabins and were gathering around the wagon to find out what was going on. Lou and George finished loading; in their frantic haste it took only twenty minutes. They hurried their wives and the baby into the wagon and headed for the lane, escorted by the soldiers. The packed vehicle could not hold them all, so Lou walked alongside while George drove. Kitty sat at her husband's side; Matilda and the baby perched atop a mattress in the bed of the wagon. The five were followed by nine others, who had made an instant decision to join the escape.
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They halted at the Big House and waited a moment for Matilda's sister, Mary Ellen, to join them. She was Mary McGehee Farrington's maidservant. As she exited the house with her two children, Mary Ellen spoke some parting words to her mistress: “Good-bye; I wish you good luck.” Mrs. Farrington replied angrily: “I wish you all the bad luck.” Mary Ellen ignored the remark and joined Lou while her children scrambled into the wagon beside Matilda.
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The moon was only six days shy of full, so there was plenty of light for a night journey. The little band—now numbering nineteen, including the soldiers—followed the lane to the gate, turned onto the road, and moved off in the direction of Senatobia. In the rush to get away, few of the blacks had given a thought to clothing or provisions. Most were hatless and some, including Matilda and Mary Ellen, were barefoot. Only Kitty brought food, and fortunately she had enough for all.
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Until they were out of the Como district, the fugitives could not rest easy. It was possible that the McGehees would sound the alarm, organize a posse, and try to overtake or ambush them. So they trudged along warily, the soldiers occasionally riding ahead to scout. They stopped just one time during the night, and then only because of an accident. As the wagon descended the steep bank of a stream, the mattress slid off into the water, taking Matilda, the baby, and Mary Ellen's children with it. The four were unhurt, but the horses got spooked and grew balky. It was an hour before they could get the wagon moving again.
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By the time the sun began to creep above the horizon, they had gone far enough to feel fairly safe. At that point, the soldiers said they must leave them; they had to hurry back to camp for morning roll call. But they assured the blacks that if the party had not arrived in Senatobia by the time roll call was finished, they would come back to see about them. Lou gave the two men the rest of their fee, and they trotted off.
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The blacks arrived at the cavalry camp about nine in the morning. There they halted, contacted their soldier friends, made breakfast, and rested. Later that day they resumed the journey, having decided to make Memphis their destination. That night they camped along the road and on Tuesday plodded into the city. They were “a pitiful crowd to look at,” Lou recalled—filthy, exhausted, and hot, fanning themselves with palm leaves. An old black man who saw them was so moved that he ran into the road to greet them, exclaiming “Oh! here dey come, God bless 'em! Poor chil'en! they come fannin.”
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As they neared the heart of the city, they realized it was the Fourth of July. People thronged the streets, blacks and whites, soldiers and civilians. Flags were everywhere—not the rebel banner that Lou had seen so often in the last four years, but the Stars and Stripes—and there were parades and bands playing. To the new arrivals from Panola, it was an unforgettable sight. It seemed almost as if the city had turned out to celebrate their escape from bondage.
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Freedom: it was an inexpressibly exhilarating feeling. But at the same time, Lou and the others were apprehensive. What would they do now? As the festivities swirled around them, they talked things over and began to disperse, each to seek his or her own path.
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Lou scouted around and found a room to rent. It would be crowded, for Mary Ellen had chosen to stay with him and Matilda. The next day he went job-hunting. Perhaps he remembered how busy the hacks had been on election day; in any event, he quickly found work as a hack driver. His employer was certainly glad to have him, for Lou was an expert at the reins of a carriage and he knew his way around the city.
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14. Memphis river front at the time of the Civil War

In the days that followed, as he carried passengers here and there, Lou had a chance to visit every part of the city and talk to people and get a sense of what was going on. It was an exciting place to be, there was no doubt of that. He surely spent much of his time going up and down the busy street that led to the wharf. It was graded but still steep, a challenge to even the best driver. The scene down along the river was what really captivated visitors to Memphis. The city was the chief port between St. Louis and New Orleans, and rare was the steamboat that did not pay a visit on its way up or down. On any given day that summer one could see boats of all shapes and sizes moored along the wharf, rocking gently in the muddy water. Overshadowing the others were the great “floating palaces,” multitiered and gaily painted, with enormous paddle wheels and towering smokestacks. One could also see along the wharf dozens or even hundreds of cotton bales, stacked and awaiting shipment—last year's crop, only now able to be shipped to market.
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Something was doing at the wharf all the time, but the arrival of a boat triggered a particularly colorful flurry of activity. As the vessel put in, hucksters and hackmen would crowd around to proposition the debarking passengers, their voices competing with the calls of the deck hands and the shouted orders of the captain. Newsboys would jump aboard even before the gangplanks descended, then scurry among the passengers hawking the latest issue of the
Memphis Bulletin
or the
Argus.
Once the boat was secured, stevedores would lug 400-pound bales to the dockside and push them up one plank while passengers and luggage and freight descended on another. Sunset brought no cessation of activity: illumination was provided by lanterns hung on poles all along the wharf, and the bells and whistles of arriving and departing boats could be heard through the night.
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