Harper's Ferry & Charles Town: A Post-War Ruin, 1865
By
John Townsend Trowbridge (1827-1916)
John Trowbridge was born the son of a farmer in 1827. Besides starting as editor of “The Nation” in 1850 in Boston, he became widely known writing under the nom de plume of “Paul Creyton” about tales and life of New England. Also an original contributor to “Atlantic Monthly,” he wrote several books and John Burroughs said of him: “He knows the heart of a boy and the heart of a man, and has laid them both open in his books.”
The
following self-explanatory account is taken from Trowbridge’s “The South: A
Tour of its Battlefields and Ruined Cities: A Journey Through the Desolated
States and Talks With the People, Being a Description of the Present State of
the Country, Its Agriculture, Its Railroads, Business, and Finance,” Hartford,
CT, L. Stebbins, 1866.
(Arriving
from Boonsborough, MD, Trowbridge takes a room at Harper’s Ferry, WV. - ED)
(p.
62) “. . . There was no paper on the walls, no carpet on the rough board floor,
and not so much as a nail to hang a hat on.
The bed was furnished with sheets which came down just below a man's
knees and a mattress which had the appearance of being stiffed with shingles. Finding it impossible by dint of shouting
and pounding, for there was no bell or even by visiting the office to bring a
servant to my assistance . . . luckily, I had a shawl with me. Never, - let me caution thee, O fellow
traveler, - never set out on a long journey without a good stout shawl . . .”
“Yet
no device availed to render the Shenandoah House a place favorable to sleep . .
. How often during the night the train passed I cannot compute; each
approaching and departing with clatter and clang, and shouts of men and bell
ringing and sudden glares of light, and the voices of the steam-whistle
projecting its shrill shriek into the ear of horrified night, setting the giant
mountains to tossing and re-tossing the echo like a ball . . .”
“The
next morning I was up at dawn refreshing my eyesight with the natural beauties
of the place. It was hard to believe that those beauties had been lying around
me during all the long, wearisome night . . .”
(p.
66) “I count that lonely walk (under Loudon Heights) amid the cool, dewy scents
stealing out of the undergrowth and the colors of the evening sky gilding the
cliffs, as one of the pleasantest of my life.
What is there as you look at those soaring summits and the low clouds
sailing silently over them that fills the heart so full? But the town is reverse of agreeable. It is said to have been a pleasant and
picturesque place formerly. The war has
changed all. Freshets tear down the
center of streets and the dreary hillsides present only ragged growths of
weeds. The town itself lies half in
ruins. Of the bridge across the
Shenandoah only the ruined piers are left, still less remains of the old bridge
over the Potomac. And all about the
town are rubbish, and filth and stench.
Almost alone of the government buildings John Brown’s engine house has
escaped destruction . . .”
(p.
67) “. . . a genial old gentleman
accosted me. ‘So they took the old man and hung him and all the time the men
that did it were plotting treason and murder by the wholesale. They did it in a hurry because if they
delayed they wouldn’t have been able to hang at all. A strong current of public feeling was turning in his favor. Such a sacrifice of himself set many to
thinking on the subject who never thought before; many who had acknowledged in
their hearts that slavery was wrong and that old John Brown was right. I speak what I know, for I was here at the
time. I have lived in Harper’s Ferry
fifteen years. I was born and bred in a
slave State but I never let my love of the institution blind me to everything
else. Slavery has been the curse of
this country and she is now beginning to bless the days she was delivered from
it. ”
“I
was interested in the conversation of an intelligent colored man waiter at the
hotel. He had formerly been held (p. 68) as a slave in Staunton. ‘There wasn't much chance for me up
there.(“up there” refers to coming from “up the Valley”- ED) Beside I came near losin’ my life before I
got away. You see, the masters soon as
they found out they couldn't keep their slaves, began to treat them about as
bad as could be. Then, because I made
use of this remark that I didn't think we colored folk might to be blamed for
what wasn't our fault for we didn’t make the war, and neither did we make
ourselves free - just because I said that, not in a saucy way, but as I say it
to you now - one man put a pistol to my head and was going to shoot me. I got away from him and left. A great many
came away at the same time, for it wasn’t possible for us to stay there.’
“‘Now
tell me candidly,’ said I, ‘how the colored people themselves behaved.’
‘Well,
just tolerable. They were like a bird let out of a cage. You know how a bird
that has been long in a cage will act when the door is opened; he makes a
curious fluttering for a little while.
It was just so with the colored people. They didn’t know at first what
to do with themselves. But they got
sobered pretty soon, and they are behaving very decent now. . . ’ ”
(p.
69) “One morning I took the train up the Valley to Charles Town, distant from
Harper's Ferry eight miles.
“The
railroad was still in the hands of the government. There were military guards on the platforms, and about an equal
mixture of Loyalists and Rebels within the cars. Furloughed soldiers, returning to their regiments at Winchester
or Staunton, occupied seats with Confederate officers just out of their
uniforms. The strong, dark, defiant
self-satisfied face typical of the second-rate ‘chivalry’ and the good-natured,
shrewd inquisitive physiognomy of the Yankee speculator going to look at
Southern lands, were to be seen side-by-side in curious contrast. There also rode the well-dressed wealthy
planter, who had been to Washington to solicit pardon for his treasonable acts,
and the humble freedman returning to the home from which he had been driven by
violence, when the war closed and left him free. Mothers and daughters of the first families of Virginia sat
serene and uncomplaining in the atmosphere of mothers and daughters of the
despised races late their slaves or their neighbors, but now citizens like
themselves, free to go and come and as clearly entitled to places in the
government train as the proudest dames of the land.
“We
passed through a region of country stamped all over by the devastating heel of
war. For miles not a fence or
cultivated field was visible. ‘It is
just like this all the way up the Shenandoah Valley,’ said a gentleman at my
side, a Union man from Winchester. ‘The wealthiest people with us are now the
poorest. With hundreds of acres they
can't raise a dollar. Their slaves have (p. 70) left them and they have no
money, even if they have the disposition to hire the freed people.’
“I
suggested that farms, under such circumstances should be for sale at low
rates. ‘They should be, but your
Southern aristocrat is a monomaniac on the subject of owning land. He will part with his acres about as
willingly as he will part with his life. If the Valley had not been the best
part of Virginia, it would long ago have been spoiled by the ruinous system of
agriculture in use here. Instead of
tilling thoroughly a small farm, a man fancies he is doing a wise thing by
half-tilling a large one. Slave labor
is always slovenly and unproductive.
But everything is being revolutionized now. Northern men and northern methods are coming into this Valley as
sure as water runs downhill. It is the
greatest corn, wheat and grass country in the world. The only objection is that in spots the limestone crops out a
good deal. There was scarcely anything
raised this season except grass; you could see hundreds of acres of that,
waving breast-high without a fence.’
“At
the end of a long hour's ride, we arrived at Charles Town, chiefly of interest
to me as the place of John Brown's martyrdom.
We alighted from the train on the edge of boundless unfenced fields,
into whose melancholy solitudes the desolate streets emptied themselves -
rivers to that ocean of weeds. The town resembled to my eye some unprotected
female sitting, sorrowful on the wayside, in tattered and faded apparel, with
unkempt tresses fallen negligently about features which might once have been
attractive.”
“On
the steps of a boarding house I found an acquaintance whose countenance gleamed
with pleasure ‘at sight,’ as he said, ‘of a single loyal face in that nest of
secession.’ He had been two or three days in the place waiting for luggage
which had been miscarried.
“‘They
are all Rebels here - all rebels!’ he exclaimed as he took his cane and walked
with me. ‘They are a pitiable
poverty-stricken set, there is no money in the place, and scarcely anything to
eat. We have for breakfast salt-fish,
(p.71) fried potatoes and treason.
Fried potatoes, treason, and salt-fish for dinner. At supper, the fare
is slightly varied, and we have treason, salt-fish potatoes, and a little more
treason. My landlady' s daughter is
Southern fire incarnate; and she illustrates Southern politeness by abusing
Northern people and the government from morning ‘till night, for my especial
edification. Sometimes I venture to
answer her, when she flies at me, figuratively speaking, like a cat. The women are not the only out-spoken
Rebels, although they are the worst.
The men don’t hesitate to declare their sentiments, in season and out of
season.’
“My
friend concluded with this figure: ‘The war feeling here is like a burning bush
with a wet blanket wrapped around it.
Looked at from the outside, the fire seems quenched. But just peep under the blanket and there it
is, all alive and eating, eating in.
The wet blanket is the present government policy; and every act of
conciliation shown the Rebels is just letting in so much air to feed the
fire.’
“A
short walk up into the centre of the town took us to the scene of John Brown's
trial. It was a consolation to see that
the jail had been laid in ashes, and that the court-house, where the mockery of
justice was performed, was a ruin abandoned to rats and toads. Four mossy white brick pillars, still
standing, supported a riddled roof, through which God’s blue sky and gracious
sunshine smiled. The main portion of
the building had been literally torn to pieces. In the floorless hall of justice, rank weeds were growing. Names of Union soldiers were scrawled along
the wall. No torch had been applied to
the wood-work, but the work of destruction had been performed by the hands of
hilarious soldier-boys ripping up floors and pulling down laths and joists to
the tune of ‘John Brown’ - the swelling melody of the song and the
accompaniment of crashing partitions, reminding the citizens who thought to
have destroyed the old hero, that his soul was marching on.”
“It
was also a consolation to know that the court-house and the jail would probably
never be rebuilt, the county seat having been removed from Charles Town to
Shepherdstown" - (p. 72) ‘forever'
say the resolute loyal citizens of Jefferson County, who refuse to vote it back
again.
“As
we were taking comfort, reflecting how unexpectedly at last justice had been
done at that court-house, the townspeople passed on the sidewalk, ‘daughters
and sons of beauty,’ for they were mostly a fine-looking, spirited class; one
of whom, at a question which I put to him, stopped quite willingly and talked
with us. I have seldom seen a handsome
young face, a steadier eye, or more decided pose and aplomb, neither have I
ever seen the outward garment of courtesy so plumply filled out with the spirit
of arrogance. His brief replies spoken
with a pleasant countenance, yet with short, sharp downward inflections, were
like pistol shots. Very evidently the death of John Brown, and the war that
came swooping down the old man's path to avenge him, and to accomplish the work
wherein he failed, were not pleasing subjects to this young southern blood. And
no wonder. His coat had an empty sleeve. The arm which should have been there had
been lost fighting against his country.
His almost savage answers did not move me; but all the while I looked
with compassion at his fine young face, and that pendant idle sleeve. He had fought against his country; his
country had won; and he was of those who had lost, not arms and legs only, but
all they had been madly fighting for, and more, - prosperity, prestige and
power. His beautiful South was
devastated, and her soil drenched with the best blood of her young men. Whether regarded as a crime or a virtue, the
folly of making war upon the mighty North was now demonstrated, and the
despised Yankees had proved conquerors of the chivalry of the South. ‘Well may your thoughts be bitter,’ my heart
said, as I thanked him for his information.
“To
my surprise he seemed mollified, his answers losing their explosive quality and
sharp downward inflection. He even
seemed inclined to continue the conversation and as we passed we left him on
the sidewalk looking after us wistfully, as if the spirit working within him
had still no word to say different from any he had yet spoken. What his (p. 73)
secret thoughts were, standing there with his dangling sleeve, it would be
interesting to know.
“Walking
through town we came to other barren and open fields on the further side. Here we engaged a bright young colored girl
to guide us to the spot where John Brown's gallows stood. She led us into the wilderness of weeds
waist-high to her as she tramped on, parting them before her with her hands. The country all around us lay utterly
desolate without enclosures, and without cultivation. We seemed to be striking out into the rolling prairies of the
West, except that these fields of ripening and fading weeds had not the summer
freshness of the prairie-grass. A few
scattering groves skirted them; and here and there a fenceless road drew its
winding, dusty line away over the arid hills.
‘This is about where it was, ’ said the girl, after searching some time
among the tall weeds. ‘Nobody knows now
just where the gallows stood. There was
a tree here, but that has been cut down and carried away, stump and roots and
all, by folks that wanted something to remember John Brown by. Every soldier took a piece of it, if it was
only a little chip.’ So widely and
deeply had the dying old hero impressed his spirit upon his countrymen;
affording the last great illustration of the power of Truth to render even the
gallows venerable, and to glorify an ignominious death.
“I
stood on the spot the girl pointed out to us, amid the gracefully drooping
golden rods, and looked at the same sky old John Brown looked his last upon,
and the same groves and the distant Blue Ridge, the sight of whose cerulean
summits, clad in Sabbath tranquility and softest heavenly light, must have
conveyed a sweet assurance to his soul.
“Then
I turned and looked at the town, out of which flocked the curious crowds to
witness his death. Over the heads of
the spectators, over the heads of soldiery surrounding him, his eye ranged
until arrested by one strangely prominent object. There it still stands on the outskirts of the town, between it
and the fields - a church (Zion Episcopal Church - ED) pointing its silent
finger to heaven and recalling to the earnest heart those texts of Scripture
from (p. 74) which John Brown drew his inspiration and for the truth of which
he willingly gave his life.
“I
had the curiosity to stop at this church on our way back to the town. The hand of ruin had smitten it. Only the brick walls and zinc-covered spire
remained uninjured. The belfry had been
broken open, the windows demolished.
The doors were gone. Within, you
saw a hollow thing, symbolical. Two
huge naked beams extended from end-to-end of the empty walls which were
scribbled over with soldiers' names, and with patriotic mottoes interesting for
proud Virginians to read. The floors
had been torn up and consumed in cooking soldiers’ rations, and the foul and
trampled interior showed plainly what use it had served. The church, which overlooked John's Brown's
martyrdom, and under whose roof his executioners assembled afterwards to
worship, not the God of the poor and the oppressed, but the god of the
slaveholder and the aristocrat had been converted into a stable.”