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    Chapter 35

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    Chapter 35
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    Chapter 35
    Vicksburg During the Trouble

    WE used to plow past the lofty hill-city, Vicksburg, down-stream;
    but we cannot do that now. A cut-off has made a country town of it,
    like Osceola, St. Genevieve, and several others. There is
    currentless water--also a big island--in front of Vicksburg now.
    You come down the river the other side of the island,
    then turn and come up to the town; that is, in high water:
    in low water you can't come up, but must land some distance below it.

    Signs and scars still remain, as reminders of Vicksburg's
    tremendous war experiences; earthworks, trees crippled by
    the cannon balls, cave-refuges in the clay precipices, etc.
    The caves did good service during the six weeks'
    bombardment of the city--May 8 to July 4, 1863. They were
    used by the non-combatants--mainly by the women and children;
    not to live in constantly, but to fly to for safety on occasion.
    They were mere holes, tunnels, driven into the perpendicular
    clay bank, then branched Y shape, within the hill.
    Life in Vicksburg, during the six weeks was perhaps--but wait;
    here are some materials out of which to reproduce it:--

    Population, twenty-seven thousand soldiers and three
    thousand non-combatants; the city utterly cut off from the world--
    walled solidly in, the frontage by gunboats, the rear by soldiers
    and batteries; hence, no buying and selling with the outside;
    no passing to and fro; no God-speeding a parting guest,
    no welcoming a coming one; no printed acres of world-wide news
    to be read at breakfast, mornings--a tedious dull absence of
    such matter, instead; hence, also, no running to see steamboats
    smoking into view in the distance up or down, and plowing toward
    the town--for none came, the river lay vacant and undisturbed;
    no rush and turmoil around the railway station, no struggling
    over bewildered swarms of passengers by noisy mobs of hackmen--
    all quiet there; flour two hundred dollars a barrel, sugar thirty,
    corn ten dollars a bushel, bacon five dollars a pound,
    rum a hundred dollars a gallon; other things in proportion:
    consequently, no roar and racket of drays and carriages tearing
    along the streets; nothing for them to do, among that handful
    of non-combatants of exhausted means; at three o'clock in
    the morning, silence; silence so dead that the measured tramp
    of a sentinel can be heard a seemingly impossible distance; out of
    hearing of this lonely sound, perhaps the stillness is absolute:
    all in a moment come ground-shaking thunder-crashes of artillery,
    the sky is cobwebbed with the crisscrossing red lines streaming
    from soaring bomb-shells, and a rain of iron fragments
    descends upon the city; descends upon the empty streets:
    streets which are not empty a moment later, but mottled with dim
    figures of frantic women and children scurrying from home and bed
    toward the cave dungeons--encouraged by the humorous grim soldiery,
    who shout 'Rats, to your holes!' and laugh.

    The cannon-thunder rages, shells scream and crash overhead, the iron
    rain pours down, one hour, two hours, three, possibly six, then stops;
    silence follows, but the streets are still empty; the silence continues;
    by-and-bye a head projects from a cave here and there and yonder,
    and reconnoitres, cautiously; the silence still continuing,
    bodies follow heads, and jaded, half smothered creatures group
    themselves about, stretch their cramped limbs, draw in deep draughts
    of the grateful fresh air, gossip with the neighbors from the next cave;
    maybe straggle off home presently, or take a lounge through the town,
    if the stillness continues; and will scurry to the holes again,
    by-and-bye, when the war-tempest breaks forth once more.

    There being but three thousand of these cave-dwellers--
    merely the population of a village--would they not come
    to know each other, after a week or two, and familiarly;
    insomuch that the fortunate or unfortunate experiences of one
    would be of interest to all?

    Those are the materials furnished by history. From them might not almost
    anybody reproduce for himself the life of that time in Vicksburg?
    Could you, who did not experience it, come nearer to reproducing it
    to the imagination of another non-participant than could a Vicksburger
    who did experience it? It seems impossible; and yet there are reasons
    why it might not really be. When one makes his first voyage in a ship,
    it is an experience which multitudinously bristles with striking novelties;
    novelties which are in such sharp contrast with all this person's former
    experiences that they take a seemingly deathless grip upon his imagination
    and memory. By tongue or pen he can make a landsman live that strange
    and stirring voyage over with him; make him see it all and feel it all.
    But if he wait? If he make ten voyages in succession--what then?
    Why, the thing has lost color, snap, surprise; and has become commonplace.
    The man would have nothing to tell that would quicken a landsman's pulse.

    Years ago, I talked with a couple of the Vicksburg non-combatants--
    a man and his wife. Left to tell their story in their own way,
    those people told it without fire, almost without interest.

    A week of their wonderful life there would have made their tongues eloquent
    for ever perhaps; but they had six weeks of it, and that wore the novelty
    all out; they got used to being bomb-shelled out of home and into the ground;
    the matter became commonplace. After that, the possibility of their
    ever being startlingly interesting in their talks about it was gone.
    What the man said was to this effect:--

    'It got to be Sunday all the time. Seven Sundays in the week--to us, anyway.
    We hadn't anything to do, and time hung heavy. Seven Sundays, and all
    of them broken up at one time or another, in the day or in the night,
    by a few hours of the awful storm of fire and thunder and iron. At first
    we used to shin for the holes a good deal faster than we did afterwards.
    The first time, I forgot the children, and Maria fetched them both along.
    When she was all safe in the cave she fainted. Two or three weeks afterwards,
    when she was running for the holes, one morning, through a shell-shower, a big
    shell burst near her, and covered her all over with dirt, and a piece of
    the iron carried away her game-bag of false hair from the back of her head.
    Well, she stopped to get that game-bag before she shoved along again!
    Was getting used to things already, you see. We all got so that we could
    tell a good deal about shells; and after that we didn't always go under
    shelter if it was a light shower. Us men would loaf around and talk;
    and a man would say, 'There she goes!' and name the kind of shell it was from
    the sound of it, and go on talking--if there wasn't any danger from it.
    If a shell was bursting close over us, we stopped talking and stood still;--
    uncomfortable, yes, but it wasn't safe to move. When it let go, we went
    on talking again, if nobody hurt--maybe saying, 'That was a ripper!'
    or some such commonplace comment before we resumed; or, maybe, we would
    see a shell poising itself away high in the air overhead. In that case,
    every fellow just whipped out a sudden, 'See you again, gents!' and shoved.
    Often and often I saw gangs of ladies promenading the streets, looking as
    cheerful as you please, and keeping an eye canted up watching the shells;
    and I've seen them stop still when they were uncertain about what a
    shell was going to do, and wait and make certain; and after that they
    sa'ntered along again, or lit out for shelter, according to the verdict.
    Streets in some towns have a litter of pieces of paper, and odds and ends
    of one sort or another lying around. Ours hadn't; they had IRON litter.
    Sometimes a man would gather up all the iron fragments and unbursted
    shells in his neighborhood, and pile them into a kind of monument
    in his front yard--a ton of it, sometimes. No glass left;
    glass couldn't stand such a bombardment; it was all shivered out.
    Windows of the houses vacant--looked like eye-holes in a skull.
    WHOLE panes were as scarce as news.

    'We had church Sundays. Not many there, along at first; but by-and-bye
    pretty good turnouts. I've seen service stop a minute, and everybody
    sit quiet--no voice heard, pretty funeral-like then--and all the more
    so on account of the awful boom and crash going on outside and overhead;
    and pretty soon, when a body could be heard, service would go on again.
    Organs and church-music mixed up with a bombardment is a powerful
    queer combination--along at first. Coming out of church, one morning,
    we had an accident--the only one that happened around me on a Sunday.
    I was just having a hearty handshake with a friend I hadn't seen for
    a while, and saying, 'Drop into our cave to-night, after bombardment;
    we've got hold of a pint of prime wh--.' Whiskey, I was going to say,
    you know, but a shell interrupted. A chunk of it cut the man's arm off,
    and left it dangling in my hand. And do you know the thing that is
    going to stick the longest in my memory, and outlast everything else,
    little and big, I reckon, is the mean thought I had then? It was 'the
    whiskey IS SAVED.' And yet, don't you know, it was kind of excusable;
    because it was as scarce as diamonds, and we had only just that little;
    never had another taste during the siege.

    'Sometimes the caves were desperately crowded, and always hot and close.
    Sometimes a cave had twenty or twenty-five people packed into it;
    no turning-room for anybody; air so foul, sometimes, you couldn't have made
    a candle burn in it. A child was born in one of those caves one night,
    Think of that; why, it was like having it born in a trunk.

    'Twice we had sixteen people in our cave; and a number of times we
    had a dozen. Pretty suffocating in there. We always had eight;
    eight belonged there. Hunger and misery and sickness and fright
    and sorrow, and I don't know what all, got so loaded into them that
    none of them were ever rightly their old selves after the siege.
    They all died but three of us within a couple of years.
    One night a shell burst in front of the hole and caved it in and
    stopped it up. It was lively times, for a while, digging out.
    Some of us came near smothering. After that we made two openings--
    ought to have thought of it at first.

    'Mule meat. No, we only got down to that the last day or two.
    Of course it was good; anything is good when you are starving.

    This man had kept a diary during--six weeks? No, only the first six days.
    The first day, eight close pages; the second, five; the third, one--
    loosely written; the fourth, three or four lines; a line or two the fifth
    and sixth days; seventh day, diary abandoned; life in terrific Vicksburg
    having now become commonplace and matter of course.

    The war history of Vicksburg has more about it to interest the general
    reader than that of any other of the river-towns. It is full of variety,
    full of incident, full of the picturesque. Vicksburg held out longer
    than any other important river-town, and saw warfare in all its phases,
    both land and water--the siege, the mine, the assault, the repulse,
    the bombardment, sickness, captivity, famine.

    The most beautiful of all the national cemeteries is here.
    Over the great gateway is this inscription:--

    COUNTRY IN THE YEARS 1861 TO 1865"

    The grounds are nobly situated; being very high and commanding a wide
    prospect of land and river. They are tastefully laid out in broad terraces,
    with winding roads and paths; and there is profuse adornment in the way
    of semi-tropical shrubs and flowers,' and in one part is a piece of native
    wild-wood, left just as it grew, and, therefore, perfect in its charm.
    Everything about this cemetery suggests the hand of the national Government.
    The Government's work is always conspicuous for excellence, solidity,
    thoroughness, neatness. The Government does its work well in the first place,
    and then takes care of it.

    By winding-roads--which were often cut to so great a depth between
    perpendicular walls that they were mere roofless tunnels--we drove
    out a mile or two and visited the monument which stands upon the scene
    of the surrender of Vicksburg to General Grant by General Pemberton.
    Its metal will preserve it from the hackings and chippings which
    so defaced its predecessor, which was of marble; but the brick
    foundations are crumbling, and it will tumble down by-and-bye. It
    overlooks a picturesque region of wooded hills and ravines; and is
    not unpicturesque itself, being well smothered in flowering weeds.
    The battered remnant of the marble monument has been removed to
    the National Cemetery.

    On the road, a quarter of a mile townward, an aged colored man showed us,
    with pride, an unexploded bomb-shell which has lain in his yard since the day
    it fell there during the siege.

    'I was a-stannin' heah, an' de dog was a-stannin' heah; de dog
    he went for de shell, gwine to pick a fuss wid it; but I didn't;
    I says, "Jes' make you'seff at home heah; lay still whah you is,
    or bust up de place, jes' as you's a mind to, but I's got business
    out in de woods, I has!"'

    Vicksburg is a town of substantial business streets and pleasant residences;
    it commands the commerce of the Yazoo and Sunflower Rivers; is pushing
    railways in several directions, through rich agricultural regions,
    and has a promising future of prosperity and importance.

    Apparently, nearly all the river towns, big and little, have made
    up their minds that they must look mainly to railroads for wealth
    and upbuilding, henceforth. They are acting upon this idea.
    The signs are, that the next twenty years will bring about some
    noteworthy changes in the Valley, in the direction of increased
    population and wealth, and in the intellectual advancement
    and the liberalizing of opinion which go naturally with these.
    And yet, if one may judge by the past, the river towns will manage to find
    and use a chance, here and there, to cripple and retard their progress.
    They kept themselves back in the days of steamboating supremacy,
    by a system of wharfage-dues so stupidly graded as to prohibit
    what may be called small RETAIL traffic in freights and passengers.
    Boats were charged such heavy wharfage that they could not afford
    to land for one or two passengers or a light lot of freight.
    Instead of encouraging the bringing of trade to their doors, the towns
    diligently and effectively discouraged it. They could have had many
    boats and low rates; but their policy rendered few boats and high
    rates compulsory. It was a policy which extended--and extends--
    from New Orleans to St. Paul.

    We had a strong desire to make a trip up the Yazoo and the Sunflower--
    an interesting region at any time, but additionally interesting at this time,
    because up there the great inundation was still to be seen in force--
    but we were nearly sure to have to wait a day or more for a New Orleans boat
    on our return; so we were obliged to give up the project.

    Here is a story which I picked up on board the boat that night.
    I insert it in this place merely because it is a good story,
    not because it belongs here--for it doesn't. It was told by a passenger--
    a college professor--and was called to the surface in the course
    of a general conversation which began with talk about horses,
    drifted into talk about astronomy, then into talk about the lynching
    of the gamblers in Vicksburg half a century ago, then into talk
    about dreams and superstitions; and ended, after midnight,
    in a dispute over free trade and protection.
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