Reached the
"City of the Falls" in the night. Left the boat about six this
morning, took a hasty breakfast at the “National,” then a hack for the depot,
calling at the office of Provost Marshal to secure passes on train to
Nashville. Am pleasantly impressed with Louisville. A pretty green plot in
front of private residences, even if quite small, with linden, ailanthus and
magnolia trees, are peculiarities of the city. It is too early for the foliage
of the trees to be seen, but the deep green, thick grass and the blossoms of
the daffodil are in striking contrast to the snow I saw in the latitude of
Chicago and Buffalo only day before yesterday.
The cars are now so
crowded with soldiers en route for "the front," that it is quite
difficult for citizens to find passage. Some have to wait several days before
they can find an opportunity. Only one car is appropriated for this use, and
ladies with their escort always have the preference. Thus gentlemen who are
alone are liable to be left, As we were leaving the "National" this
morning a gentleman rushed out and inquired if we were going to take the
Southern train, and if there was only one gentleman to the two ladies. He
"begged pardon—knew he was a stranger—wished to go to Bowling Green his
wife was sick and he had written her he would be home to-day. If the ladies
would be so kind as to pass him along, and if the gentleman would step with him
into the office he could convince him, through the keeper of the
"National," that he was a man of honor,” Mr. R. referred the matter
to the ladies. They decided to take under their protecting wing the lone
gentleman and see him safe home if the interview with the landlord, with whom
Mr. R. was fortunately acquainted, should prove satisfactory. It was so, and
Mr. Moseby—not the guerilla as himself informed us—entered the hack. He had
"taken the oath of allegiance," he said, and "lived up to it,
but had a right to his own thoughts."
Upon arriving at the
depot found the ladies' car locked, and we were left standing by it while the
two gentleman looked after the baggage. Mr. R. was not to accompany us farther.
Soon an elderly, pale-looking man, with a white neck-tie, came up, who asked if
we each had a gentleman travelling with us. We hesitated and evaded the
question. This was being in too great demand altogether. It was not even
included in Mr. R.'s list of our duties. He "was really hoping we had not,
and that one of us would take pity on an old man and pass him along."
His fatherly look
and manner banished selfishness, and he was told to wait until the gentlemen
returned, and we would see about it. As they did so Mr. Moseby stepped up and
cordially shook hands with the old man, calling him “Judge." But all
Southerners are styled judges, captains, colonels or generals, thought I, and
this one is an honest old farmer nevertheless. As Mr. M. assured us that he was
"all right," and a "man of honor," I told him he might
occupy half of my seat in the car. But it was not long before I found that my
poor old farmer was no less a personage than Judge Joseph R. Underwood, one of
the most noted men and pioneers of Kentucky. He has been Judge of the Supreme
Court of that State six years, a United States Representative for ten years and
a Senator for six.
A spruce little
Captain came through to examine military passes before the cars started. Quite
a number of citizens were left as usual, and as we were moving off I heard one
young man exclaim in desperation that he would "go right back to the city
and marry." The gentlemen congratulated themselves upon their good fortune,
and the subject elicited the following incidents:
A gentleman of Mr.
M.'s acquaintance could get no admission to the cars, no lady would take him
under her care, and he asked the baggage agent if he might get in the baggage
car. That functionary said he had orders to admit no one. "Then you'll not
give me permission, but if I get in will you put me out?"
No answer was made,
but the agent walked away, and the man, thinking like children, that
"silence gives consent," entered the baggage car and remained.
Another gentleman, a
merchant of Bowling Green, by name F—— C——, could get no chance to ride. But
fortunately having on a blue coat, in desperation he stepped up to a man with
the two bars on his shoulder who was putting his soldiers aboard, and said with
a pleading look and tone:
"Captain, can't
you lengthen out my furlough just two days longer?"
"No," said
the Captain, in a quick authoritative tone, "you've been loafing 'round
these streets long enough, in with you," and he made a motion as if he
would materially assist his entrance if he didn't hurry.
“Well, if I must I
must, but its hard, Captain."
"No more
words," was the short reply, "in with you.” Another was related by an
eye witness. A lady who was travelling alone was about stepping into the car,
when a gentleman, who was trembling with anxiety lest he should be left,
stepped up and offered to take her box. He did so, and stepping in behind was
allowed a seat by her side, cautiously retaining the box. He had two comrades
equally desirous of securing a passage, who had seen his success. One of them
stepped to the car window and whispered him to pass out the box. It was slyly
done, and the gentleman marched solemnly in with the weighty responsibility.
The box went through the window again, and again walked in at the door, until
it must have been thoroughly "taken in" as well as the guard.
Just out of the city
we passed a camp and saw soldiers lying under the little low "dog
tents" as they are called, and in the deep,
clay mud, while only a few rods distant was a plenty of green sward. Any
officer who would compel his men to pitch tents where those were ought to be
levelled to the ranks.
I saw for the first
time to-day, fortifications, stockades, riflepits, and mounted cannon at the
bridges. We passed over the battle-ground of Mumfordsville, and saw the burnt
fences and the levelled trees which were to obstruct the march of our troops,
and the building which was used by them as a hospital. In the deep cut passes
one sees suddenly the picturesque figure of a negro soldier, far above upon the
heights, who with shining uniform and glittering bayonet stands like a statue,
guarding the portals of liberty. At the fortifications are sign-boards upon
which are printed in large letters, "Please a drop a paper," while perhaps
half a dozen hands point to it as the train whirls past. Some papers were
thrown out. There were other things which had for our Northern eyes the charm
of novelty. A half respectable or squalid farm-house, with a huge chimney upon
the outside, and with a huddle of negro quarters. Also negro women with turbans
upon their heads, working out of doors, and driving teams—in one case on a load
of tobacco, while driving a yoke of oxen. The total absence of country
school-houses, and the squalid and shiftless appearance of the buildings and
people at the depots, are in striking contrast to the neat little towns of the
Northern and Eastern States. The scenery is fine, much of the soil good, and
the water-power extensive. Nature has dealt bountifully with Tennessee and
Kentucky, but the accursed system of slavery has blasted and desolated the
land, and both races, black and white, are reaping the mildewed harvest.
I find my honorable
companion very entertaining and instructive. I am indebted to him for many
items of interest, both concerning the early settlers, and also the modern
history of the places we pass. His personal history is full of interest, and is
one more proof that early poverty is not necessarily a barrier to honor and
position. The Judge was given away by his parents to an uncle, who educated
him, gave him five dollars and told him he must then make his own way in the
world. Another uncle lent him a horse, and he set out to seek his fortune as
lawyer and politician. He has in trust the fortune of an eccentric old
bachelor, which is known in Warren County as the Craddock fund. Three-fourths
of this is used to educate charity children, while the other fourth pays the
Judge for his care of the fund. His friend Captain C., while upon his
death-bed, sent for the drummer and fifer to play tunes in the yard, and from
those selected such as he wished played at his funeral. He was buried with military
honors.
“Muldroughs-Hill"
which we saw, is a long ridge extending about one hundred miles from the mouth
of Salt-River to the head of Rolling-Fork. It was named from an early settler
who lived twenty miles from the others, and was farthest west. Rolling-Fork is
a tributary of Salt-River. The origin of the term "going up
Salt-River" originated at a little place we passed, now called
Shepherdsville. It has only four or five hundred inhabitants. But in its early
days its salt licks supplied all the Western country with salt, and was a
growing aspirant for popularity, as it invited so much trade. It was a rival of
Louisville, but unlike that, made no provision for its future well-being, but
depended on its present worth alone. "Thus," moralized the Judge, “do we often see two young
men start out with equal advantages, and find afterward that one became a
Shepherdsville, and the other a Louisville." Now there is a bridge at
Shepherdsville guarded by cannon, then there was no bridge and ferry-boats were
used. It was not a smooth stream, and to cross, one must row up the river some
one hundred rods before heading the boat to the opposite shore. Owing to the
rapidity of the current, it was hard rowing, and great strength was needed.
There were those engaged in the making of salt who were called kettle-tenders,
and who for the most part were a low, rough set, being often intoxicated and
quarrelsome. Two of these having a fight, the victor finished with the
triumphant exclamation of There, I've rowed you up Salt River!"
Lincoln's
birth-place is near this, in the adjoining County of Larue—although this was
not the name at the time of his birth. And how little did the mother of Lincoln
think, as she taught him the little she knew of books, that the people in the
vicinity would ever have cause to exclaim of him, in relation to his rival for
the Presidency, as they do of the successful politician—" he has rowed him
up Salt River !"
There is a little
river called "Nolin," which waters his birth-place. It was so named
from the fact that in the early settlement upon its banks a man named Linn was
lost in the woods, and never found. He was probably killed by the Indians. But
the neighbors searched for several days, and at night met at a place upon its
banks, calling to each other as they came in, "No Linn"—" No
Linn, yet."
The Judge has
carried lead in his body for over fifty years, received in the war of 1812. He
was in the battle on the Maumee river called Dudley's defeat. The regiment,
under Dudley, had crossed the river to take cannon of the enemy, which they
succeeded in doing, but instead of returning they pursued them two or three
miles, leaving a few behind to protect the captures. But a detachment of the
enemy passed around in their rear, retook the cannon, and when the regiment
returned, their retreat was cut off, and all were taken prisoners and obliged
to run the gauntlet. About forty were killed in running the gauntlet. The Judge
saw that the line of men which had formed at a little distance from, and
parallel with the river, had a bend in it, and that if he ran close to the guns
they would not dare fire for fear of hitting their own men. The Indians were
armed with guns, tomahawks, and war clubs. In that day the gun was accompanied
with what was called the "wiping-stick," which was a rod made of hickory
notched, and wound with tow, and used to clean the gun. He escaped by receiving
a whipping with some of those sticks. It was the last gauntlet ever run in the
United States. During the trip I had quite a spirited but good-natured
discussion upon the condition of the country, with Mr. M., who I found is
really a strong rebel sympathizer. He worships Morgan since his late raid into
Ohio, and secretly cherishes his picture in his vest pocket. Just before
reaching Bowling Green, where we were to separate, the fatherly old Judge took
a hand of each in his own, and with moisture in his eyes and a tremor in his
voice, said:
"My children,
you represent the two antagonistic positions of the country, and like those, do
not rightly understand each other, on account of sectional prejudices. And now
let an old man who has watched the growth of both sections, who has, as he
trusts, fought for their good in the field, the desk, and senate, join your
hands in the grasp of good fellowship, and oh, how sincerely I wish that I
could bring also together the North and South in one lasting peace!"
Soon after, he
pointed out his residence—the cars stopped, and we parted with our pleasant
friends.
Reached the
"City of the Rocks" about five, this P. M. Shall wait to see more of
it, before making note of impressions.
SOURCE: Elvira J.
Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a
Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at
Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 5-12
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