Letter from Memphis, Tenn.
A Trip to Fort Pillow—Musings on the
Mississippi River—A Picture of the War— Camp Life—Our Victories on the
Mississippi, &c., &c.
Memphis, Tenn., July 16th, 1863.
DEAR MESSENGER:
Nothing new. This unfortunately, is the
only thing I have at present to write you. Everything is as quiet as when the dove of
peace hovered over the hosts of McClellan, and when the tide of the Potomac was "all
quiet"; and no one would for a moment suspect that an enemy lingered near us awaiting
an opportunity to strike, if it were not for the quiet preparations in progress to thwart
such schemes. As I have before informed you, nothing is more monotonous than military
life, especially in a garrison, and you therefore cannot be surprised to hear of an effort
on my part to kill the ennui attendant to the same, particularly when desirous to
procure the wherewithal to amuse the readers of the Messenger—even at the risk
of liberty or inconvenience.
With these objects in view, I resolved to
take a short tour outside of Memphis, up the Mississippi River. After several days of
anxious inquiry and resolute perseverance, I arranged a plan for carrying out my object
into practical effect. Accordingly last Tuesday morning I left the levee of this city on
board of the elegant Ohio River steamer Belle of Memphis. The trip and scenery along the
Mississippi have been so often and able described that it is useless and uninstructive for
one with less experience and education than an Etonian in his first year, and with the
data only of the one first trip on which to predicate a description, to assume to write
on such a theme and with anything like "edification" to your readers; yet I can
never, never forget the impressions made upon my mind in this my first advent amid
the sublime scenery of the "sunny, sunny south."
Up the stream we gently glide. The
zephyr's balmy breath scarcely moves the smooth, expensive bosom of the placid fiver. The
golden orb of day tinges with his western brilliance the tall trees along the bank of the
river—the cloudless sky's etherial dome discloses her clustering brilliants to the
eye, and silver Cynthia shedding her pale effulgence upon the emerald earth, glistening
the barren branches with her azure kiss and mellowing the foliage of the fragrant groves,
hallows the hour and ushers in the glorious evening. The feathered warblers have paid
great nature's god their evening homage, their songs are hushed on the ear, and silence
reigns around as we land at Fort Pillow. The rush of waters 'neath the "painted thing
of life" drowns to nothing the angry croak of quadrupeds building earth houses close
by the shore. Away in the dim and shadowy distance are country villas nestled, modestly in
some peaceful valley on the cave clad shores of the "Great Father o'Waters." The
"gay enameled mead" is covered with blooming grass and flowers, emitting a
thousand aromas sweeter than the spicy odors of Arabia Felix. The "soft summer
air" sings sweetly through the grass, and gently lifts its leafy branches.
Here is a picture of the sunny South, that
generous clime lying next the sun—here is a broad and glorious land—the summer
land—the land we love. It is here amid these wild flowers, these magnolias and
crystal streams, these once happy hones of this southern clime, that one can drink in that
love of country, inspired by those thrilling words, "My own, my dear native
land!" Born and reared in the chilly regions of the North, yet I must acknowledge
that association with the genial temperature of this clime has thrown a charm around it.
Her lines of beauty, her sunny face, the illimitable scenery of her vine-clad forests, the
glow of her brilliant skies, have over my whole being a most plastic charm. There is
something about her that I love yet cannot describe—an Elysian attraction, a
fascination, whose secret we may seek in vain to eliminate by the use of words. 'Tis a
something which wakes the minstrel's lyre, breathes life into the poet's numbers, and
would nerve the most craven breast to defend it; 'tis a something half revealed in the
sweet song of misguided Simms:
"O, the sweet South! the sunny South!
Land of true feeling, land forever mine!
I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth,
And my heart swells as with a draught of wine!
O, by her lovely pines, that wave and
sigh!
O, by her myriad flowers that bloom and fade!
By all the thousand beauties of her sky,
And the sweet solace of her forest shade,
She's mine—she's ever mine—
Nor will I aught resign
Of what she gives me, mortal or divine;
Will sooner part
With life, hope, heart—
Will die—before I fly
Oh love is hers—such love as ever glows
In souls where leapt affection's living tide!"
And Armstrong when he wrote in his softest
strains:
"The South for me!—its bright
eyed maids,
Its clime, its stars, its silver skies,
Its streamlets with their lovely naiads,
Its vales where varying beauties rise."
But I am lingering only upon the sunny
side of the picture—look upon that, and then upon this: Turn your eyes from
the beautiful handiwork of God to the dark splotch made upon the canvas by the hand of
scheming, intriguing man. Turn your eyes from the "sunny south" to the
"bloodstained" south, where the wind through the canebrakes sighs a requiem for
the departed spirits who have offered up their lives in a country's service to
bring this section to a sense of their duty to God and to man; where the cotton fields
echo to the voice of suffering humanity; where the atmosphere is tainted with the foulest
crimes that even shocked high heaven; and where the loftiest principles of the human heart
are obliterated by the influence of earthly ambition. Such is the contrast! O!
America, how thou hast degenerated!
But the gang-plank is shoved out, the
revenue guards board the boat, and my pass is demanded; this interrupts my soliloquy. I
gaze upwards and discover the parapets of the bluff works bristling with the "dogs of
war" in the shape of "Thirty-twos" and "Sixty-fours." My pass is
correct and I am allowed to proceed by a strong force of Union troops. Since these troops
have been within its walls, the work of repairing the ghastly breaches which we made
during its bombardment in last year, has reached its completion, and no traces of the
damage which our fearful shells inflicted now remain save a few deep scars upon the
easterly face. It would not be discreet in me to note the changes and improvements
effected since then. Suffice, that they are such as to render this stronghold stronger
than any other in our possession, and to remove all apprehensions of any hostile
"ram" which might venture within the range of its guns. The appearance of Fort
Pillow is now in happy contrast to that presented when the "Stars and Bars" were
lowered from its flagstaff, and our troops marched in triumph through its sallyports.
Instead of the loose lumber and crumbling earthworks which we found are now leveled
parapets and properly angled casements, and the furrowed tereplein, wherein the
Confederates sought shelter from out shells, is now like a housewife's floor.
The usual dress parade of the troops at
sunset demonstrate the fact that the men are as proficient in drill as their officers are
in hospitality. Their movements were executed with absolute precision, and their
appearance generally was highly creditable to their officers, who more than sustained
their reputation for steadiness and efficiency. The country around Fort Pillow is a
beautiful region at this season, but there are marks of desolation everywhere, and few of
civilization, except such as accompany the army. There are few inhabitants left and within
the fort there has not been the slightest attempt at planting or sowing though the soil is
favorable to cultivation. In this branch of industry, however, the residents outside our
lines are wise, as they do not wish to sow for the "Yankees" to reap. A fence is
anomalous there. The able bodied white men are mostly in the Southern army, while the
negroes have either been run off south of have seceded to the Yankees.
I thought our camp at Corinth, and here,
(when we first came), could not be excelled in beauty and variety, but summer has given
the Pillowites brighter materials wherewith to rear their cities; and royal arches of
cedar boughs, festooned with flowers and wreathed with the glistening leaves of oak and
maple, adorn the entrance to shady bowers, and rural retreats, beneath the verdant palaces
of our soldiers. The headquarters of the Commander of the Fort are delightful, a model of
rustic elegance wonderfully suggestive of the visions that are dreamed in the bowers and
gardens of the Gothamites. The murmur of fountains and a more extensive display of
crinoline is all that is needed to make the similitude complete. Many of the officers
there have their families with them, and the presence of women and children add not a
little to the peaceful enchantment of military life as at present displayed at Fort
Pillow.
This morning found me back in Memphis, and
Othello was himself again. During my absence nothing particular had transpired except the
receipt of the news of the capture of Port Hudson. Of course the loyal population here are
much elates at the final opening of the great Mississippi. The event is of the most
momentous consequence to Memphis. It enfranchises the city and returns to them commerce
and prosperity, and the Memphians are not slow to exhibit their joy on the occasion.
To-night a grand illumination takes place in the honor of the event. It promises to be a
fine spectacle.
The troops here are also highly pleased
with the operations of Grant and Banks on the Mississippi and the doings of the eastern
army under its new commander. The great subject of discourse though now with the boys is
"Home." When will they be mustered out? How soon is the war to end now? Some
predict an early termination and some are of the opinion that we have just commenced.
Their arguments, however, generally end as they begin, in every man retaining his own
views and opinions.
I must now close. My "dip" has
burned down to the socket of the candlestick. I have not another in my tent, so I must
retire to my cot as soon as I have placed this in the post office, so gentlemen, until my
next, au revoir.
J.C.C.
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