Nan Ryan (39 page)

By the time summer rolled around again, there were no white and pink cotton blossoms rising majestically to meet the warm sun. Almost all the slaves had left the plantation and Kathleen was powerless to stop them. Stealing off one by one in the night, they left her alone to face an uncertain future and as her money ran lower and lower, her life began to change rapidly. She could no longer go into Natchez and buy half a dozen dresses at the best shops. The huge dining table at Sans Souci was no longer loaded down with an abundance of fine foods. There were no more fancy balls and fish fries and wine suppers. The flush times were fading quickly for Kathleen Alexander and the rest of the South.

Hunter continued to write to Scotty regularly and Kathleen was grateful. It was enough. At least she knew he was well. She also read glowing reports about her husband in the
Natchez Courier
and townspeople congratulated her on the gallantry of her husband. She gracefully accepted their praise and assured them she was very proud.

There had been so much sadness in the past few months; Kathleen no longer selfishly wished Hunter would write, she was just happy he was alive and unharmed. Her friend, Julie Bates, was not so lucky. In February, dear, frail Julie had given birth to a stillborn child and wept heartbrokenly after the tragedy. Hardly had she gained her strength back and begun to feel she could live through the despair than her husband, Caleb, fighting in the bloody March battle of Shiloh, Tennessee, was wounded and almost killed. In a battle where ten thousand southerners gave up there lives, Caleb’s life was spared, but at a great price. He lost both arms at the shoulder and came home in April a broken, pitiful man. Julie cried, but thanked God he was alive and ran to meet him when he came dejectedly up the front walk.

“Oh, my darling,” she said, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “Caleb, it’s so good to have you back.” She threw her arms around his neck and covered his tired, sick cheeks with kisses. Caleb Bates stood against his wife while tears ran down his face. He wanted more than anything in the world to embrace her.

Caleb’s misfortune made fear grow inside Kathleen and night after night she prayed that Hunter would be spared. “Even if he never speaks to me again, it doesn’t matter. Just let him live, please God, keep him safe. In September of 1862, General Robert E. Lee crossed the Potomac into Maryland and the south was confident that at long last the war would be won. Lee had the Yankees on the run after trouncing Pope’s Union army in August at the second battle of Bull Run and throughout Natchez and the rest of the Confederacy, hope ran high. Doctor Hunter Alexander once again was written up grandly in the
Natchez Courier
. Breveted a second time, he was now Colonel Hunter Alexander and Kathleen was proud of him, cutting out the article to press and preserve among her souvenirs.

Victory was still elusive for the south as Lee was forced to retreat across the Potomac and back into Virginia. Lee had a victory in Fredericksburg where five thousand Union soldiers lost their lives charging up the steep slopes of Marye’s Heights. southerners again took heart and Kathleen, like the rest of the ladies in Natchez, assured each other that maybe soon their men would be coming home again.

Life had been made even harder to endure during the last year as the Union army occupied Natchez without a shot being fired. There was no one there to defend the jewel of the south. All the able men were off fighting, leaving only the old men and young boys to look after their womenfolk. Kathleen would never forget the day six Yankee gunboats steamed up the Mississippi and took the city. On that fateful day, she fully realized for the first time that life would never be the same.

Now Union officers had headquarters in some of the finest mansions of Natchez, a fact that brought fear and dread to Kathleen. What if they should decide to take over her beloved Sans Souci. What could she do but step aside and let them have it. Who was there to stop them? This new fear kept her awake at night and she slept with a pistol under her pillow, though she had never fired a gun in her life and wasn’t sure she would be able to pull the trigger no matter how great the danger threatening her.

Kathleen had not seen or heard from Dawson since the day Hunter left for the war. But she did hear about him from her friends. Dawson hadn’t joined the cause. He had become a blockade runner and in his own way did as much for the south as the men fighting on the battlefield. He also became very, very rich. If Kathleen would have let him, he would willingly have helped her. He heard about her through his friend and attorney, Crawford Ashworth.

“How are they, Crawford, I’m worried about them,” Dawson asked his friend as they dined together on one of Dawson’s infrequent visits to Natchez.

“If you had listened to me years ago, you wouldn’t have to be worrying about Kathleen Alexander now,” Crawford looked at him.

“I didn’t heed you and I’ve never regretted it. Now tell me how she is. What about the boy?”

“They’re doing as well as any of the aristocratic families who have lost all their slaves and money. They manage, Dawson. Kathleen’s turned out to be a pretty spirited, tough young lady. I see her at church now and then and, though she is not turned out in the latest fashion anymore, she isn’t starving and she’s still as pretty as ever. The boy’s growing like a weed and he’s a handsome and bright child.”

Dawson’s dark eyes clouded, “Look here, Crawford, isn’t there some way I could give them some money, help them out? I can’t stand to think about them having to do without the things they’re used to. I’ve got more money than I’ve ever had in my life, you know I’m making around 90,000 pounds British sterling with each trip I make through the blockade. I want them to have some of my money.”

“Forget it, son, she’s much too proud. She wouldn’t dream of taking money from you and you know it. Dawson, I do wish you’d find some lady and get married. It’s time you quit carrying a torch for a married woman. It’s hopeless and it’s time for you to have a son of your own.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Scott’s my son and you know it,” Dawson answered.

Twenty-Eight

In early May, 1863, Colonel Hunter Alexander, twice breveted for “gallant and meritorious conduct,” was with General Joseph Johnston outside Jackson, Mississippi. Hunter had heard rumors that General John C. Pemberton had refused to leave Vicksburg, Mississippi, in spite of orders from Johnston to desert the city. They had to maneuver to avoid General Grant’s Union troops until the Confederate troops could be concentrated and beat Grant. Colonel Alexander, knowing the Union army would soon be moving in on Vicksburg, sought permission from General Johnston to go to the besieged city.

At twilight on May 14, Hunter approached the fifty-six year old General Johnston in his headquarters just outside the captured city of Jackson. The small, well-built general looked up at Hunter and rose. A dandy in his dress, he was immaculate, his coat ablaze with every star and embellishment, a bright new sash, big gauntlets, and gleaming silver spurs. His hat lay on the table, decorated with a star and feather. He was every inch the southern general.

“Yes, Colonel?” General Johnston looked at Hunter with steely eyes.

“By your leave, sir, may I request to be allowed to take a volunteer brigade and work my way around the enemy lines to Vicksburg? You see, Vicksburg is my home and I know this part of the country like the back of my hand. I’m sure I could make it and I would be more than honored to take any personal message you might wish to convey to General Pemberton.”

“You’re a fool, son. The entire countryside is crawling with Union troops from here to Vicksburg. Sherman and Grant are surrounding the city. Their objective will be accomplished any day now. It’s suicide, I’m afraid, Colonel.”

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take, sir.”

“Then I won’t stop you. And if you make it, tell General Pemberton it’s too late now for our armies to combine, but I’ll do my best to come to his aid as soon as I’m sent reinforcements.”

“Yes, sir, General Johnston. And thanks.”

“Good luck, son.”

On Sunday, May 17, Colonel Alexander and his brigade of native Mississippians successfully made it through the enemy lines just before the menacing blue ring sealed the city off from the rest of the Confederacy. Hunter’s heart saddened as he and his men rode past wan, hollow-cheeked, dirty, tired, footsore men limping back into the city, defeat plainly written in their eyes. The pitiful state of his countrymen shocked Hunter, though he tried to hide it from the weary men.

At sundown, as Colonel Alexander and his men rode past Courthouse Hill, a band played “Dixie” and “Bonnie Blue Flag” and pride in his homeland swelled painfully in Hunter’s chest. He knew he had done the right thing by coming home. If he were to die in this senseless, cruel war, what better place to die than his own beloved hometown of Vicksburg.

At dark, fresh Confederate troops from Warrenton joined Hunter’s brigade while the ladies of the town waved and cheered them. The lively, fresh troops doffed their hats and promised to die gladly for the ladies, laughing in the face of danger and swearing never to run from the enemy. The contrast between them and the poor, dejected souls resting on the ground, looking on in silence, ashamed of their defeats, was heartbreaking. Pemberton’s tired troops continued to stream back into Vicksburg and tumble into the trenches and breastworks, beaten back by the advancing blue tide.

While most of the ladies smiled and called to the joking, happy, fresh troops marching by, Hunter noticed one kindly lady passing among the tired, weary soldiers, offering them cooling drinks and stopping to pat their hands or give a word of encouragement. Her kindness brought a hint of a smile to the sad faces and murmured words of thanks. Hunter pulled his horse up at the sight of the familiar back stooping over a young shoeless soldier. A smile came to Hunter’s lips as he dismounted and happily called her name.

“Mrs. Bost,” he called and walked to her.

She rose and looked at him and happiness flooded over her broad, mobile features. “My stars above,” she shouted and ran to him, still carrying the jug of water. “Hunter, darling’.” She dropped the jug to the ground with a thud and threw her arms around the slender, blond man. “I can’t believe it, it’s really you,” she laughed and tightened her arms around him, crushing him to her heavy frame.

“It’s me, Mrs. Bost,” Hunter grinned, “and I’m delighted to see you.”

“Hunter, Hunter,” she said over and over, pounding him on the back, laughing and crying at the same time. Hunter let himself be embraced, gladly clinging to the woman he had loved since childhood.

At last, she pulled back a little, saying, “Let me look at you, Hunter,” and she took his face in her hands and patted the dear cheeks. “Oh, son, you are the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. How are you? You’re so thin, Hunter. Have you been eating right? What are you doing in Vicksburg? Why, honey, it’s not safe here, you shouldn’t have come. The Yankees are on the way, don’t you know that?”

Hunter laughed and kissed her hand. “Yes, I know. It’s you who shouldn’t be here. Why didn’t you leave, Mrs. Bost? Now it’s too late, you should have gone while there was still time.”

“Shoot, Hunter, you think I’m going to let a few Yankees drive me out of my own home?” she smiled, wiping tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron. “No, sir. They aren’t getting my home. I’ve lived in that house all my married life and no bluecoat’s going to sleep in my feather bed! Honey, why don’t you come home with me, I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll bet you’re starving.

“I wish I could, but I must report to General Pemberton. Mrs. Bost, what about my home, is it …”

“Oh, darling, it’s all boarded up. The family who bought it left the city months ago. But, don’t worry, I take care of your parents’ graves myself. I won’t let their resting place grow up in weeds, so just don’t you be troubling yourself about that.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s so kind of you. I wish I could visit the graves, maybe I’ll get the time while I’m here. Now, I must go. God bless you.”

Mrs. Bost grabbed him again and hugged him tightly, “Honey, you take care of yourself, don’t go getting shot! You come see me if you get a chance, promise.”

“I will,” he smiled and kissed her cheek. Hunter mounted and waved goodbye and Rachel Bost stood watching until he was out of sight.

Hunter reported to General John C. Pemberton at 8:30
P.M.
on that warm Sunday evening. General Pemberton, forty-eight years old, a northerner who had chosen the southern side, an Eastern aristocrat, tall and slim, had dark brown eyes, hair, and beard. He, too, wore a crisp, tailored uniform. He looked up at Colonel Alexander standing at attention before him and the expression in his tired brown eyes never changed.

“Colonel?”

“Sir, I’m Colonel Hunter Alexander, newly arrived from General Joe Johnston’s battalion outside Jackson.”

“I see. Well, what is it, Colonel?”

“Sir, General Johnston asked me to give you a message.”

“If he wants me to rendezvous with him he’s insane. As you can see, I’ve got my hands full here. Or didn’t you know we are being surrounded by enemy forces?”

“Yes, sir, I know. General Johnston wants you to know he will come to your aid as soon as his army is reinforced. I have come in with a brigade and we are here to offer you our services.”

“Colonel, I can use all the men I can get. You will take command of the 3rd Mississippi. The first thing I want you to do is get a detail of men together and burn houses along the lines.”

“Sir?” Hunter was horrified.

“Colonel, our line of fire on the enemy cannot be obscured by anything. I want the houses razed immediately.”

“Yes, sir, General Pemberton.”

Hunter and his men set mansions afire all along the lines, lighting the night sky with the awful spectacle. A great sadness filled their hearts as they obediently destroyed the handsome country residences, many of which had been built in the last few years. Such were the horrors of war.

On May 18, the circle had completely closed around Vicksburg, Mississippi. The little city was successfully cut off from the rest of the world, the siege had begun. Dawn broke with pandemonium as huge Union ironclads approached on the Mississippi river from below the town and immediately commenced bombardment of the city. The heavy batteries on the bluffs guarding the little community quickly responded. The still May morning air was filled with the sharp report of the rifled artillery and the scream of a variety of deadly weapons. Minie balls whizzed, cannons boomed from the rear, mortars replied in rapid succession from the front. The terrible battle had begun and how long it would last was anyone’s guess.