Billiken Man

   I am often asked by my own children and others the question: "When the war was going on did not persons in the same community, some loyal and some secessionists, feel very bitter toward each other?" Didn't you just 'spize each other"
   I think it right that these of a succeeding generation should understand the social as well as the warlike conditions of those troubled times.  The cause, conduct, and results of the late unpleasantness have been recorded by numerous historians, but the social life of that period has seldom been touched upon.
   That there was some bitterness of feeling, some things said and done that had better been left unsaid and undone, cannot be denied; but there was less of this than one would imagine, considering the intense excitement of the times. Communities did not often, if ever, divide into cliques, secessionists on the one side and the loyalists on the other; friendly and kindred ties were too strong for that. Social pastimes, marrying and giving in marriage, and other forms of neighborly intercourse continued among people of different political proclivities as much as the exigencies of the times would admit of.
   During the war I lived in a town on the extreme Northern border of a Southern State. There were secessionists on both sides of the line dividing my State from the free State, and numbers from our families--fathers, sons and husbands--joined the army of their choice, Union or Confederate. Singular as it may seem, I know of some instances when persons truly loyal to their government assisted in equipping a soldier friend for the Confederate army, and quite as often, secessionists lending aid to the relative or friend preparing to join the Union Forces. Each believed the other honest at heart, but misguided.
   About July 1, 1862, a proclamation was issued by the officer in command of the Union forces then in possession of our section, announcing that a grand Fourth of July celebration would take place in a gove adjoining our town, at which time it was expected that every one able to leave home would be present. Noted orators would speak, and a feast of good things to eat would be provided, the proclamation stated.
   Excitement and party spirit at that time was at fever heat, and when it was rumored that the Federal authorities intended to take that time and occasion to administer the oath of allegiance to the Union, there was consternation among us, for this oath was an ironclad compact, binding one not only not to take up arms against the government, but exacting as well that he aid not, in any way, disloyal persons.
   Now there was scarcely a man in our community, even the most loyal, who had not either kindred or friends on the other side, from whom he felt he could never turn in their hour of need. They felt that if they took this oath they must sometime perjure themselves, or act against nature and humanity. Later on we understood that a terrible conflict was upon us, and , realizing that extreme measures were necessary, looked at this thing in a different way.
   On the morning of the memorable Fourth, an uncle of mine, at whose country home I was then visiting said to us:
   "I will not go into town and subscribe to an oath which I think unjust and which I cannot keep. I know, however, that soldiers will be sent to scour the country in search of delinquents, so I and the other here of the genus homo must hide. Let us all go down to Minnehaha and have a celebration of our own."
   Minnehaha, named for Longfellow's dusky heroine, was a beautiful spring which gushed from a rock on the side of the bluff in a sequestered sport among the trees, about a hundred yards from the house. The place was so sheltered from observation that one might pass within twenty feet of it and never know of the existence unless the sound of its waters rushing over the rocks should reveal it.
   My uncle's scheme was agreeable to us, for while we never expected to commit any flagrant acts against the government, we all had some near and dear to us in the Southern army, and if one of these had asked us for bread we could never given him a stone.


   We went to work and filled hampers with cakes, ham, pickles, and other picnic accompaniments, then clambered down the steep hillside to the"boundless contiguity of shade" in whose depths Minnehaha's sparkling waters gushed, gurgled, and rushed over the precipice below. We sat down in the cool shade and after we had discussed matters and things in general, and inconvenient oaths in particular, we began to spread our lunch. In the midst of our preparations our attention was arrested by the sound of stealthy footsteps about us.  Presently a low voice called: "Mr. S-----!"
   My uncle in reply advanced cautiously in the direction of the sound to reconnoitre, and directly laughingly greeted some one, saying:
   "Come down and join us in celebrating the glorious Fourth!"
   Immediately a well-known citizen of our town and his wife joined our party. "I am no rebel," said this man, "but I cannot take the oath, so wife and I slipped away with our lunch, and knowing of this retired spot, concluded to celebrate in a quiet way here."
   Before very long footsteps were again heard, and almost instantly a merry party rushed down upon us, thinking they had the field to themselves.
   "Well, well! What means this gathering of the clan among the trees?" asked one.
   "It is a new species of treason, " replied a ready-witted one, "we are dodging the oath."
   We spent the day very pleasantly, notwithstanding our uneasiness for fear of detection and a slight feeling that we were not acting exactly fair and square, certainly, at least, not open and above board.
   Toward nightfall we crept cautiously back to the open ground, found all serene, and returned in peace to our homes.  The strange part of this unique affair was the fact that of that Fourth of July party, so averse to taking the oath of allegiance, two-thirds were natives of free States--Ohio, Illinois, and New Hampshire; the others, Southerners by birth. Perhaps some who were members of that party may read this sketch far away from the brink of limpid Minnehaha; others of us are still near this scene, and often recall the events of that day and those times, and feel, with Franklin, that "there never was a good war nor a bad peace." The big celebration in town went off to the satisfaction of the originators of it, and the oath was administered to hundreds loyal and disloyal. Our little party was not missed and for the time being enjoyed immunity from a compact so distasteful, but their time came later on when they understood better the exigencies of war, and the pill was not so bitter to swallow. After 1862 the Fourth of July was scarcely celebrated at all with us until the cruel war was over. Then kindred and friends, Union and Confederate alike, a reunited band, celebrated a glorious Fourth not far from Minnehaha's sparkling fountain. Some heart would ache, some tears would flow for missing ones who "slept the sleep that knows no waking," but all tried to be cheerful and content; no resentment was felt, or, if felt, was not manifested. Our flag, the banner that " Waves o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave," unfurled its folds in the summer breeze, over those lately foes, now friends, with a common interest---"the Union, one and inseparable."


   One instance illustrative of the conditon of affairs social during the war was in some respects peculiar. This was the marriage of a young lady, a ward of a loyal citizen and a member of his household, to a Confederate soldier. The groom slipped within the Union lines to be married. The loyal guardian of the young bride gave a sumptuous wedding feast, to which he invited friends of both parties, Union and Confederate alike.
   Another instance of the better feeling that prevailed at that time was an affair most touching. A young man, indeed a mere boy, belonging to one of the best families, enlisted in the Confederate army. He was killed, poor boy, soon after his enlistment. When his father heard of his death he procured a metallic coffin and traveled two hundred miles in a wagon to bring home for burial the body of his son. He supposed, of course, that the remains had been thrown into a ditch, with no covering but his army blanket, as the stern necessities of war often rendered necessary. He found, however, that of the sixteen killed in the company, his son alone was buried in a coffin, and his grave was marked by a wooden slab bearing his name--"Spencer McCoy."


   The father was deeply moved. He inquired of some one standing near by whom this act of kindness was performed , and was told that Captain T---, then in command of the Union forces in possession of the place, had bought the doffin, had the young Confederate decently buried and his grave marked. The father sought Captain T---- and thanked him warmly, at the same time asking him why he had selected his dear boy, from the many who fell that dreadful day, for this mark of kindness.
   "My wife wrote me," replied the captain, "that during the severe weather of the past winter she was at one time entirely without fuel or money to buy it, and that a neighbor across the street, hearing of her condition, took a wagon and team, drove to the country, procured and brought her a load of wood. She said the man's name was M----; that he was a Confederate, and had a son in General S---'s command in the Confederate army.  When this battle occurred between General S----'s corps and our forces, the Confederates were defeated and driven from the field, I noticed in the reports of the slain who were left within our lines, one named M----. Upon inquiry I found he was the son of the benefactor of my family. I was gratified that I was here to do what I could for your son."  This was in the fiercest of the conflict.
    War is a dreaful thing, and while it often furnishes opportunity and excuse for lawlessness, and develops vicious natures, yet it calls forth the noblest traits in humanity--unselfishness, forbearance, and the greatest of all, charity. When "Withered was the garland of war, The soldier's pole was fallen," when hearts were sore, when triumph dwelt in the hearts of some and defeat humiliated others, that so little was said or done to offend or distress, is to me a wonderful thing. It was the victory of the better nature.
Peace hath her victories, No less renowned than war.