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Last Of
The Piedmont Gray-Jackets; Confederate Veteran And Ex-Red
Shirt; Authority On Church And Civic History
By A. L.
Pickens
(Written especially for The Sentinel by
request)
Born during the Mexican War and
living to see World War II terminated by the use of fantastic
weapons, such would make any life as worthy of note! But
to pass through that period with a keenly observant mind and a
good memory actively aiding in military, civic, educationaland
religious affairs of the community gives us a cross-section of
American history that is of itself an educational treat.
Such has been the long life of Robert Welborn Pickens, not an
unfamiliar figure at patriotic gatherings in the modern
municipality of Pickens.
He was born on August 31,
1847. His father was the late Colonel William Smith
Pickens, and his mother Julian Ann Pickens, was born
Welborn. Part of his early education was obtained in a
school taught by his father who for sometime served as
superintendent of education of Anderson county without
pay. The educational memories of the two taken together
give a striking view of old-time school methods. The
schools of the time were as a rule of logs. A large
fire-place dominated one end; at the other a log would be sawn
out to admit the light on a plank shelf that served as a
writing desk. The pupils studied aloud, and at the
busiest hours such an institution was a babel of sound that
would be appallingto our modern educational experts. The
community owed much to the Oliver and the Rosamond families
for memorable teaching. Alexander Oliver, a veteran of
the Revolution, taught Welborn Pickens' grandfather; one of
Oliver's descendants, Maude Rosamond, taught some of Welborn's
children, and what was probably the best teacher that Colonel
William Pickens had enjoyed was her father, John W.
Rosamond. The two men were life-long friends, and have
left a number of humorous memories of old Hornbuckle
school. Hard-pressed for help, Dr. Rosamond one day
called on an older student to hear a younger one recite.
Things moved on well enough for awhile as the older learner
guided the other in his reading, telling the words that the
latter did not know. Then came an awkward pause. A
word that puzzled the preceptor! Under his breath he
exploded, "D--n it, skip it and go on!" Teacher and pupils
were transfixed to hear a childish treble read as if it were a
part of the lesson, "D--n it, skip it and go on!" In
this educational potpourri of memories is preserved the names
of numerous teachers excellent and otherwise. George
Belcher, one of the succession in the Oliver school, was
remembered as a good teacher. One fellow, however, who
seems to have been a partner in the old Slabtown store,
attempted to teach. At times he grew thoroughly
exasperated with hischarges, and is said to have been seen to
grab a girl by the hair and shake her until she was blue in
the face expostulating angrily, "Before I'd teach another
school I'd crack seed-ticks for a living!" Another
teacher, Leverett, brings back memories of the at times almost
farcical teachers' examinations of a by-gone age. In
spelling, one of the words given was "coffee." The
applicant spelled it "kaughphy," producing a temporary
argument in the examining board, which was settled by one
member demanding, "If that don't spell 'coffee' what does it
spell? Anybody who can spell "coffee" without a single
letter that's used in the word deserves a first grade
certificate." Alexander Oliver's pioneer school in time
gave rise to a double cabin structure with a chimney in the
middle, the primaries on one side of the chimney and advanced
pupils on the other, and another site being desired, it was
erected near the south end of the old Pickens farm, and
evidently did its part in carrying on the tradition of the
area for good schools. Probably the most distinguished
pupil was James Lawrence Orr, speaker of the national house of
representatives, 1860-1861, prominently spoken of as a
candidate for the presidency, and eventually became a
designated place for worship and thus came the name "Chapel
school." It was here that Colonel Pickens, already a
veteran teacher in 1853-54, had been teaching school, about
the time that Welborn became of school age. A half-uncle
of the latter, Andrew Monroe Pickens, resigned as teacher of
the same school in the early sixties to enter the Confederate
service. An uncle, Mason Pickens, succeeded him, but in
time he too entered the army. Another uncle, James
Pickens, was also a teacher. Monroe was mortally wounded
in the Wilderness fighting and never returned home.
Mason, returning during the measles epidemic in camp, was,
according to the medical knowledge of the time, supposed to
have brought the measles home in his clothes. In a
period of less than a week three of his sons, young boys all
less than ten years of age died of the disease. One of
them being James Robert, traditionally the seventh Robert of
his line. Welborn's old grandfather [Robert Pickens,
born 1795 and died 1871] was outspoken against
dis-union. "A fool's caper," he had ejaculated when he
heard of the nullification in the 1830's. "A fool's caper," he
pronounced secession, but he saw six of his sons inducted into
Confederate service and three of another died therein.
In North Carolina, close relatives were more terribly
divided. Captain Sidney Vance Pickens, of the
Confederate service, had a brother John, who, faced with a
hard decision, rode into Tennessee and joined the Federal
forces. The father of the two followed John to the side
he felt was right. Col Samuel Pickens, of Alabama, was
distinguished for hiscoolness and courage in fighting under
Lee and Jackson, but Col. Samuel Pickens, of Tennessee, was
ordered to prison by Judah P. Benjamin because of pro-Union
sympathies and activities. Curiously enough the prison
selected was in Alabama, the home state of the other
Samuel. The plan miscarried and the intended victim saw
active service under General Rosecrans of the Federal
army.
Thus the years wore on. A fight that
was going to be over before breakfast, and the blood-shed of
which a certain type of politician promised to dispose of as a
beverage, dragged out into long nightmares of death and
suffering and into crimson streams of woe.
In a little
one-room country school, Welborn went on with his
studies. Many thought the war would be over before he
became of military age. Time passed; the draft was
reaching far down into the teen-age group. One day,
turning his back on school, with his father, he rode to the
court house and presented himself for service.
Undersized, and suffering at the time from none-too-good
health, he came near to being rejected, but was finally
enlisted.
There was no uniform, no brass buttons, no
military display. A week or ten days were allowed for
making up of clothes and other necessary preparations.
The day came. In giving parting advice, his father
cautioned him against the tobacco which would be rationed out
to each soldier. Clad in mere civilian clothes, he
arrived at the Providence church training camp. Home
habits led him to believe that he ought to have something to
sleep on. For some time he would look up a plank at
night in lieu of a bed. At last he found the ground was
more comfortable.
General Johnson's outnumbered,
badly equipped forces were being hard-pressed. All the
regulars were needed, and so these inexperienced lads were
assigned the duty of guarding a host of Federal prisoners,
many of them experienced veterans and officers contemptuous of
the callow lads placed to keep them in bounds. They were
largely foreign, Irish and German, seeming to predominate, and
were dubbed "galvanized Yankees" in reference to the thin
plating of Americanism figuratively spoken of as being
galvanized onto their foreign nature. Used to better
fare in the Federal lines they were contemptuous of the
rations served to them and their guards, a meager ration of
corn-meal and sorghum syrup, and thus derisively dubbed the
place "Camp Sorghum." That such a diet was hard on the
digestive system cannot be denied, especially when a man had
to do his own cooking without previous experience. Many
suffered terribly, and no doubt such experiences went to swell
the atrocity camp stories that spread in the North.
Little thought would be given to the fact that the Confederacy
had almost nothing for its own fighting men. The
prisoners were allowed axes, and went industriously to work
making log cabins for themselves. The resulting brush
was neatly piled here and there. One day a guard noticed
that one particular brush-pile was the center of suspicious
attention. He kept an eye on it until he found a chance
to walk over with his bayonet. Thrusting it down into
the pile, he shouted, "Come out of there." A muffled
shout rose from the depths of the stack. An eager voice
complied with the request, and sure enough a Federal prisoner
wiggled out of concealment. He had hoped to lie
unnoticed until night and then make his escape.
Armed
with axes, the veterans of battle now guarded by inexperienced
recruits, began disregarding camp rules. There was, of
course, no wire enclosure as in modern days. A general
break was perhaps planned, but the first man to violate the
picket line was promptly shot. For awhile it looked as
if there would be a battle between the axe-armed veterans and
the gun-bearing rookies, but the officers hurried out, there
were more warning shots and the pandemonium was quieted.
Then it was found that in the melee one of the youthful
recruits had been shot by his own companions while holding a
line into which the officers had stupidly drawn a corner or
angle. After it was too late, this dangerous trap for
cross firingwas straightened out. As winter approached,
quarters were found in a brick building, and Christmas was
marked by a certain amount of festivity, including climbing a
peeled pole for a fowl at the top. One after another
failed, than a wiry little Irishman ran up and started.
He was climbing like a monkey when it was noted that he was
reaching into his pockets every time he reached further up the
pole with extended arm. Sand trickled back at each
reach. He was going right up when an officer shouted for
him to come down. Sanding the pole was not
allowed. The fowl must have been a desirable prize, for
the ration issued to each soldier and prisoner had dropped to
three pints of meal and one cup of molasses for every three
days.
Sherman reached Savannah and turned
northward. In January of 1865, measles struck the
company to which Welborn Pickens belonged. By February
1, he was down. A building still standing near the
Carolina library on the campus of the University of South
Carolina was fitted up as a part of a hospital and here he was
housed. He had partially recovered when a relapse
set in. It was cold. There were not enough
attendants to wait on the sick, and he had to rise, wrap his
old coat about him, make his way to the wood pile and bring in
the fuel to keep the fire going. Across the campus one
of the buildings had been fitted up as an operating
station. Here men were held by main strength while the
surgeons removed arms and legs, the patient screaming in agony
until the operation was over. Then the arm or leg would
be tossed out of the window while the medical force, from
which the brutal Federal blockade kept even the simpler
medicines, went on in its mission of bloody mercy. In a
delirium that often attends improperly cared for measles, one
boy fancied himself on a trestle with a train bearing down
upon him. He rose and leaped from the window, and the
impact of his knees broke through the frozen surface of the
ground.
One night the stables in Columbia
burned. A number of the Confederacy's horses were
lost. The bodies were hauled away, it was said, to be
used for making soap. Then some yellow beef showed up at
the hospital, and our recruit ate his share and thought it was
good. Another lad, too sick to eat, gave him his share,
which was likewise disposed of. A third recruit came in
and reported that the alleged beef was the lowerand unburned
part of the horses that had perished in the stables. It
was too much. Private Pickens vomited. One of his
tenderest memories was of a fellow soldier botching up a bit
of pancakes and syrup into what was a fairly palatable mess
for a hungry boy. The sick lads were fighting back to
health.
Then came the terrible news. Sherman, in
spite of Johnson, was bearing down on the city. On
February 16, these boys, who should have been in hospital
cots, left dragging themselves rather than marching. The
next day, as they later learned, Sherman had reached the south
bank of the river and was able to drop shells against the
capitol building. A neighbor of later years, John
Henderson, was still in the city when a missileknocked off a
part of the gleaming new walls. The fractured stone
particles whizzed off from the impact as if exploding,
showering the capitol grounds and vicinity with particles
driven by terrific force.
The measles-infected group made
their way northward toward Winnsboro. One boy, the
sickest of that sickly lot finally gave out completely and
sank along the tracks pleading, "Don't leave me boys, for
God's sake, don't leave me." Others were in almost as
bad condition. For the prisoners and some of the men the
service of a train was secured. The prisoners were
jubilant. "Corporal Sherman's a-comin' " they jibed
happily. The feeble little engine coming to steep grade
failed to make it. It backedup and rushed the slope,
failing again. At last it managed to "swing it belly
over the top" as one witness put it. Numbers of the
Federal prisoners were almost playfully jumping from the side
doors, with now and then some ill-cared-for soldier firing
ineffectually after the fleeing forms.
"Corporal
Sherman's a-comin'."
For Private Pickens, a resting
place for the night was found in the home of a kindly lady in
Winnsboro. Regret was expressed at the necessity of the
travel-spattered men using her nice quarters, but she gladly
shared her meager comforts. They rose early next morning
and continued, longing to say some word of appreciation before
leaving, but forbearing to disturb their kind hostess.
Sherman was not far behind and Winnsboro was seen to forget
the execrated actions of Cornwallis' visit in the deeds of a
foe that almost swallowed the memory of Cornwallis. The
weaker members were given leave, and our soldier slowly and
painfully made his way homeward. With another recruit,
he one night lodged in the home of an old Negro man, and
swapped hard tack for spindly little potatoes that he was
roasting.
At last he reached home, but when his
furlough expired he was still far from well and succeeded in
getting a thirty days extension. The able-bodied members
of his group during his illness marched on northward with
their convoy of prisoners to Virginia. Here an effort
was made to put them into the dwindling regular forces in
Virginia. This had failed, and back they came to the
south, and in April our subject was ordered to report for duty
at once. The activities of Federal in the mountain areas
demanded countermeasures and our group was busy for sometime
now at one place now at another. The outstanding
memories of our boy observer have to do largely with an
interesting group of Cherokee Indians with which they came
into peaceful contact, and how he had been saved from the
temptation to take a bite off his assigned plug of tobaccoby a
fellow speaking up at the proper moment and saying, "Pickens,
I'll give you a dollar for that." His father's advice
and the chance at a dollar helped him win. An able
wood-carver, he amassed quite a roll of Confederate money be
carving tobacco pipes. They had again been called in
from the field and were camping in town. Some of the
boys were amusing themselves with the alleged powers of a
fortune teller and from this professed dealer in the occult
got the first report of Abraham Lincoln's death. It
proved to be true, but the youthful soldier who heard the
strange story came to seek an explanation in some underground
communications system rather than through the alleged
sources. The Confederacy was rapidly
disintegrating. President Davis was in rapid motion in
an effort to connect with western Confederate forces. He
was supposed to have with him a huge sum of Confederate funds
in real metal. Duties near home were found for the young
soldier. One day at Anderson while off duty, several of
the number wandered along the freight tracks, when somebody
looked beneath a car. A huge hole was burned in the
bottom. Came the first thought of a group of
none-too-well-fed boys. "There might be food in the
car," and under and in they crawled. Only some poorly
placed planking had to be moved from over the burned
hole. Once inside the boys were due for one of the
surprises of their life spans. By accident, they were in
the presence of the money-making machinery of the Confederate
States. "Boys, don't you wish you could pick this up?"
one lad asked as he hungrily eyed a bill of a large nominal
sum neatly done on a lithograph slab. Another hefted an
inordinately weighted keg, saying, "I bet there's money
in this." Others must have believed the same thing for
soon after Federal raiders fell upon what was evidently the
same cars and failing to find anything of value, in something
of a fit of rage, smashed the lithographic stones to
bits. Strangely enough, no one thought of the historic
value of these pieces. They were carted out of the city
and dumped. Years later, a farmer riding to Anderson,
got off the wagon near where the stones had been thrown and
expressed a desire to get one of the pieces. Did he love
history, or want a souvenir? No! He said that he
understood such a piece of stone would make a good whetstone
for his knife! And was there really money in the heavy
kegs? What became of it ranks along with the mystery of
what became of the money supposed to have been with Jefferson
Davis' group. We may never know.
The
company was resting on Sunday, late in April of 1865.
Came the electrifying news. "The Yankees are
coming!" Officers issued orders! Take the twelve
government wagons and the ambulance and fly in the direction
of Augusta, Ga. Perhaps the idea was to overtake and
join Jefferson Davis in his westward trek. Lumbering and
clattering away they sped. At a point only a few miles
from the Pickens' home but separated by the Saluda river from
that place, they dared to pause and rest. But not for
long. Up rode a courier and announced the Yankees were
really pursuing and not far behind. Teams to the wagon
and away again. At last an officer got a stretch of
country where he could use his glass. It was true!
Along a stretch of road to the rear, the blue-uniformed hordes
were bearing down on the poorly equipped little band.
"Take the brakes off when going down hill!" were the desperate
orders given by the officers and they were obeyed.
Turning off from the road, they now attempted to escape by
fording the river that lay westward on their right.
Scarcely had they gotten across when up dashed another courier
and announced that the Federals were already over, had arrived
at Williamston and were burning the railway station.
They were cut off. A strange thing then occurred.
The supply of whiskey was rolled out. The head of the
barrel was knocked in. The men were told to fill their
canteens, turn the wagons around and recross the river.
Here a lieutenant hotly countered. The war, he said, was
over. Any further resistance was useless. He was
quitting, and invited any others who cared to do so, to join
him. His arguments appealed to Private Pickens strongly
but fate intervened. The head wagons were already
turning about.
He had thrown his clothes into
the fourth wagon, and it was already rolling into the
stream. He rushed forward and caught the last wagon, and
huddled among a bunch of guns that had been thrown in with the
bayonets attached. A mule in one of the teams grew
obstinate and began pressing against its mate so that the
latter was pushed entirely out of the line of travel and
against one of the projecting bayonets which entered its neck
with such force as to require some effort towithdraw it.
The alarmed victim, no longer passive, exerted itself, jerked
away from the offending mule, helped start a righting
movement. All were soon going forwardagain, but the old
major, incensed at the offending animal, hurried up to whack
the offending animal across the head. Then suddenly the
major and his horse sank from sight. For a moment
nothing was seen except the major's hat floating down
stream. He had ridden into a washout or a pothole!
But his beast served him nobly, and breasting up and forward
soon bore the dripping officer into safer waters. Thus
was regained the other side.
The end was near.
The superior officer was already jealous over the greater
devotion that the men had shown for a subordinate officer, and
at last exploded, "If they think so much more of you than they
do of me, just take them and go!" and climbing into the
ambulance, drove off in high dudgeon. Private Pickens
never saw him again, nor has he been able to learn what became
of him.
Quite naturally, all this interfered with
feeding time. Seeing a little cabin across the field,
the young soldier made his way to the door. He saw a
skillet with bread in it and gave the woman at the house a
dollar for one piece. Making his way back to the company
eating, he was begged by a companion for a piece, and after
breaking off half of what remained, the two stayed as much as
possible their all-too-keen appetites. They wandered on
under their new commander and at night put up in an old
deserted building, it may have been an abandoned church or
perhaps a store building. Some of the more faithful
Negroes were inclined to warn them and they found they were
still being pursued. When they rose next morning and
began their duties, blue-coated figures were soon perceived
reconnoiteringin the near vicinity, trying to ascertain the
number and strength of the group in the old building.
The Confederate leader improvised a flag of truce and stepped
outside. He waved it back and forth. Soon a
messenger came, asking what was wished. The officer said
they wished to surrender. So all guns were stacked on
the grounds. They were permitted to keep a few
cartridges which might be of value at home. Making his
way back to the river at a point further down, Cox's Ferry,
Private Pickens gave the ferryman another dollar to take him
over, this being the last Confederate money he remembers
spending.
The great illusion was over. He turned
in the direction of home, and was soon approachingWilliamston
again. A kindly woman asked, "Are you one of the boy
soldiers?" Only by his canteen and knapsack was he
recognizable as such. He answered in the
affirmative. "Well, the Yankees are at Williamston and
you had better not go on. Do you know Berry
Moore?" He did. They had been in the same
company. "That's his home over there. You might go
over there and get a good dinner." And also miss the
Yankees, she evidently intended to imply.
After
dinner, he set forward again. Up the road he saw a
mulatto ride out on a mule and continue on past the field
where he had evidently been plowing that morning; he
kept in front of the youthful plodder, who shortly after saw a
Federal soldier on a horse squarely in front of him. It
was too late to seek safety in the woods and the boy continued
ahead. In answer to questions he explained his
situation, and was detained to be carried before the Federal
commander. The old canteen he wore at his side was
demanded. Had he thrown it away with the old knapsack,
he might have avoided this. Now he explained that the
battered thing had belonged to an uncle and he wished to keep
it as a relic. "Well, anyway it belongs to the United
States" his captorcountered, but permitted him to keep
it. The galvanized Irish Germans who lyingly took the
oath of allegiance to the Confederacy in order to change their
status from that of prisoners, would as easily switch back to
the Union again. Yet the Confederate officers would
issue such turn-coats uniforms of gray while their own boys
were togged out in a widely assorted variety of civilian
clothes recognizable as soldiers only by their sorry
equipment. The captor proved to be fairly courteous and
gentle and conducted his youthful captive into the presence of
his commanding officer, a General Dibbler. The captive
was kept waiting while the general conferred with someone on
"military matters," and glancing in the general's direction,
he found him hobnobbing faceto face with the previously
mentioned mulatto who had evidently ridden in on a stolen
animal to offer his service. But when the audience was
over, and the commander was buckling and buttoning as if to
set forth, the kindly captor asked, "General, what are you
going to do with this little fellow?" The answercame in
the third person, "Ask him what he wants." General
Dibbler was standing on military form though a few minutes
before had not been above conversation with a possible mule
thief. Private Pickens did not know it at the time of
his capture, but there had been a little encounter near the
present town of Piedmont between a marauding band of Federals
and a group of Confederatecadets on the way home. The
Federals had been repulsed, leaving one of their number
behind, a victim of the trained marksmanship of the
gray-jackets. These cadets were referred to
contemptuously as "bush-whackers" and the captive, though
unarmed, was suspected as being one of the number. The
general was obviously in a hurry. The captorasked about
a parole for his captive and was answered, "Damn him, he ain't
worth a parole!" and out the speaker went with his mulatto
friend. The captor turned kindly, though somewhat
condescendingly to the boyish figure and said, "Well, little
man, you are at liberty to go!" He went and made such
good time that he was soon well beyond the camp of the
foes. Then from behind he heard the sound of hundreds of
horses' feet. No one called to him, but the weary youth
turned out to the side of the road and sat down on a stump as
hundred of mounted Federal rode past. At their head
moved the rather pompous General Dibbler side by side with the
mulatto who had evidently been engaged as a guide. The
watcher amused himself by counting them. Four hundred
rows four abreast rodepast. Sixteen hundred mounted
men! Then a long-drawn out van, burdened with the more
slowly moving equipment. When they had passed, he
resumed his homeward journey.
At last he came to his
father's house. The enemy had been there too. A
government supply house that stood in the yard had been
burned. Along with it several wagons were fed to the
flames, though these were private property. Their
looting instincts up, the foe proceeded to the stables for
additional cavalry material presumably, though horse-thieving
would be the better term, for the raiders were picking up and
carrying along with them renegade whites and Negroes from the
neighborhood. Such made their way into the houses, and
stealing clothes, might leave their cast-off rags on the floor
while they walked out in a cherished suit of the
proprietor. Some silver that Private Pickens had left at
home in a pocketbook was appropriated, as was the money from
the pocketbook of the mother of the home. When she asked
that the plunderer take the money and leave the container,
since it was a cherished possession, she was assured that it
was too nice a pocketbook to leave behind. The father,
also back home, attempted a journey to the court house,
fortunately clad in civilian clothes. On the way a
raider rode up by the buggy, reached over and with some
deftness lifted a gold watch chain from around his neck as
they were sometimes worn at the time, carrying with it the
watch. The wearer protested, "You aren't taking private
property, are you?" He and his companion were taken into
custody, and the horse and buggy were also taken along with
the watch. When they reached the court house, they were
imprisoned. Noticing that friends in civilian clothes
were permitted to visit the captives, Private Pickens' father
got an idea. Asking another captive to help him work a
ruse, they took a stand near the door in presence of the guard
and played the part of prisoner and visitingfriend.
"Well, I hope it comes out all right," was one of the natural
sounding remarks that was dropped by the escaping captive, who
managed to carry another with him, his companion of the
morning, also posing as a visitor. They had lost their
means of conveyance. In addition, the older Pickens saw
among the stolen horses "Old Blaze" from his own
stables. He knew what had happened and made a desperate
resolve which he put to his companion. They had escaped,
now unarmed, they would make their way into the Federal camp
and refurnish their stables. His companion somewhat
warily agreed, but notwithstanding warning when he saw the
audacity of his companion, "William, you are going to get
shot!" "As well be shot as starve," was the laconic
answer. Each secured a mount and in addition led another
animal apiece. With their counter-raid entirely
successful, the two found the main road and made their way
home in the darkness. With such animals it was possible
to go on with the spring farming so rudely interrupted by the
raiders. A few days later, what was the surprise of the
family to see a group of the raiders returning along the road
on the way north with a group of "captured" horses.
Among the group was "Old Blaze" who, with true horse instinct
sought earnestly to turn into her home grounds, but was forced
to travel on. Vengeance, however, was close
behind. A group of daring veterans, some of whom it has
been said broke through the lines at Appomattoxto avoid
surrendering, gathered and gave chase. Not far from the
Southern Railway and near what was called Smith's Chapel, they
circumvented the raiders, and hid behind a rail fence on a
high bank overlooking the road. Soon the northern riders
approached with their booty and were met with a brisk fire
that threw them into utter confusion. They fled
pell-mell, leaving one of their number dead. The victors
took the horses, and riding into a bog wood near where Zion
church creek joins the creek from Fairview or Corinth, they
divided their booty, and put to death a Negro who had been in
attendance on the horse-raiders, helping them get away with
the horses. Among the number was "Old Blaze" who fell to
one of the southern guerillas. Sometime after this, he
rode her to Williamstonwhere she got out of the stable, and
recognizing the road to her old home, made joyful tracks in
that direction to voluntarily re-enter her old stable!
"Old Blaze" had recaptured herself!
Of these daring
guerillas, perhaps the most noted was Manse Jolly. Early
in December, 1865, the railroads, having been left in terrible
disrepair because of the war, a wagon expedition was organized
to go to Augustato sell cotton and buy supplies. It was
in charge of Wesley Pickens, an uncle of Private Pickens, who
also went along. With Newton Harper, they started on
Thursday. On a Friday in December, they found themselves
in old Pendleton. Already the Federal government had
placed a huge reward on Jolly's head, and the noted guerilla
asked if he might not attend the party; things were getting
too warm, and he wanted "a little freedom and liberty."
Jolly was something of a combined hero and desperado.
Into one of the old bar rooms in Pendleton, run by Henry
Kanaugh, came a Captain Barton of the Federal occupation
forces. He boasted that if he should meet Manse Jolly he
would be a rich man for a while. In fact, he would like
to meet the noted character with the high reward on his
head. Following his cue, old Henry Kanaugh asked, "So
you say you would like to meet Manse Jolly?" Again
the captain said he would. "Turn aroun," said
Kanaugh. "There he is just behid you!" The
startled captain obeyed and found himself faced by six feet
two of coollycoordinated brain and muscle set off by a thatch
of dark red hair and whiskers. The apparition was
speaking, "You say you would like to kill Manse Jolly?
Well here's the pistol to kill him with." He extended
the butt of a pistol to the astounded officer with the barrel
toward himself. At the same time it was noted his other
hand was ready on the butt of another weapon. Terror
gripped the captain; his color changed; he dared not
raise a hand. Jolly tongue lashed him soundly and then
added, "Now you get out of here!" The command was obeyed
with alacrity. Jolly followed the fleeting figure to the
door and continued, "Don't you look back until you get to that
corner." This order too was gingerly complied with and
Jolly had an opportunity to disappear in another
direction.
Such was the character that had wished
himself on the little expedition. We may be sure that he
did not make himself obvious as the group departed to the
south. That night they reached Neal's Creek below
Anderson and camped for the night. A Dr. Whitner drove
up in a buggy and said Jolly would show up later. Newton
Harper protested that Manse had gone. "It'll be all
right; you'll see him tomorrow," said Dr. Whitner. Sure
enough, on Saturday, a lone figure appeared riding across a
field. It paused to let down some bars forthe horse and
rode up to the group. Manse Jolly was back with the
group. That night they camped in Abbeville county.
On Sunday they did not rest. They were passing through
Edgefield and it was literally swarming with troops from a
Federal garrison. Then, too, as they rode along the road
they had passed a strange man with a Negro. He turned to
look back and whispered something to the Negro. Henry
Kenaugh was jittery again. "That was the Yankee captain
at Abbeville," he was sure. To Jolly he explained, "You
damn fool, get away from here; you'll have us all
killed." Good naturedly, Jolly agreed to temporarily
part from the group for the trip through the town. To
young Pickens, he turned over his horse with a caution as to
the bridle. It had a "U. S." stamp on it plainly
visible. This should be kept out of sight in view of the
swarming Federals all too eager to confiscate anything so
marked. Then Jolly was gone again. Proudly the new rider
guided the horse along the street when almost magically the
old stone steps of the court house came into view, stuck with
Yankee soldiers as thick as buzzards on a dead limb.
Cold chills ran over the boy! Would they see that "U.
S." mark? The lumbering wagons were too slow for such an
environment. Affecting not to be a part of this
slow caravan, he cantered swiftly ahead without attracting
attention to Manse's bridle. The train overtook him
later, and there was Jolly again, coolly walking behind one of
the wagons! Kanaugh's fervent appeal now induced him to
mount his horse and ride ahead again. Further on they
found him, nonchalantly sitting his horse which stood crossway
of the road. That night they camped six miles from
Augusta.
Monday they sold their cotton. The
wagons were put up in a yard at a price of fifty cents.
The young traveler had a chance to see some of the historic
old city and rather cannily protected his money from the
thieving and defrauding sharper element active in the struggle
of the post-war city. Jolly struck out on his own,
Kanaugh once again cautioned him, "They'll put you up if
you're out after nine." "I know the rules," Jolly
answered and was gone again.
Next morning the town was
seething. A colored man who had enlisted in the Federal
army had been and had been placed on sentinel duty was found
dead. He had been knocked in the temple at his
post. And Manse Jolly was in town. Tuesday when
the return trip began he joined the train; they camped
probably somewhere in Edgefield that night. Their tent
was a good camp meeting affair, but during the night the wind
was up and a gust lifted it up and it fell. Flattened
among its folds, the alert Jolly's first question was,
"Where's my pistols?" Around the camp fire and in the
wagon train, opportunity was afforded for a more intimate
study of this daring and yet pathetic figure, one of those who
find it hard to distinguish between bloodshed in battle and
bloodshed in the farce that conquerors sometimes call
peace. Even in 1865, Jolly was already becoming a
legend, and a story grew of a younger brother who arrived home
dead in a wagon where he had been shot by some of the party in
power, thus touching off a horrible complex in Jolly's brain,
a vow to kill a Federal for every hair of his brother's
head. As young Pickens heard it on this trip, he vowed
to get a Federal soldier for every one of several brothers who
had been killed in the conflict and ten more for
himself. A contributing factor no doubt was a theft by a
Negro who worked with Newton Harper. The Harpers
appealed to Jolly and Jolly taking the matter up with vigor
obtained both a confession and the return of the loot, but the
thief reported the incident to the Federal garrison and a
guard was immediately dispatched for Jolly. They reached
his home, and not finding him, were told by his sister that
they could look for themselves. With a stupid ignorance
of all diplomacy, two colored recruits were sent to the field
to arrest him. It was, of course, like a match to
powder. The unfortunate men were never seen again, but
Jolly was in possession of a horse which one of the men had
ridden. That night in Augusta,he had really killed the
colored guard in a Federal uniform. At the challenge,
"Advance, and give the countersign," he appeared to
comply. The key word had to be spoken into the guard's
ear in a whisper, while the speaker bent over an advanced
bayonet that could have been thrust immediately into his
vitals. Jolly was quick with a gun, but he could not
afford to shoot. Bending over the bayonet as if to
whisper, he whipped his heavy pistol out. In a swinging
arc, the heavy butt smashed against the guard's templeand he
went down. No moral justification can be found for such
ruthlessness, but all the evil was not on one side. Some
day a great author, perhaps yet unborn will write a
scathing comedy about the Federal government of the 1860's and
1870's. . .Jolly was never captured. In 1866, with
Newton Harper, he moved to Texas, and finally met death by
drowning in a stream across which he at times swam his
horse.
Next day, despite swollen waters in Big Turkey
creed and the danger of losing their precious salt, the group
felt they had to press on, and on Thursday, they reached
home.
One of the noted teachers of the day was Rev.
John Leland Kennedy, who for more than a generation was pastor
of noted old Carmel Presbyterian church in southern Pickens
county. Supplementing his religious activities with
educational, he had founded Thalian Academy near the
church. He must have had a sense of humor. Thalia
was the muse of comedy and bucolic poetry and the word Thalian
rather implies a comic, country academy. As described by
its students, the building and equipment were indeed lacking
in magnificence, but ah, the curriculum! You could learn
things in old Thalian that you might have to miss, even if you
wanted them, in some of the farcical little so-called colleges
that mushroomed on the map after World War I. Dr.
Kennedy had a valuable assistant in Hampton Russell, fresh
from the old University of Virginia, and a cousin of young
Pickens. In later years Russell founded the "Peoples
Advocate" in Anderson and real spice and scholarship marked
his editorials. He was a cousin of young Pickens, who
after the war turned his face Thalianward.
After
leaving the academy, he himself elected to teach, and did so
acceptably for some time, but already a legend had grown up
about his grandfather's old farm that was hard to
ignore. He had been named Robert Welborn.
Tradition makes the first Robert to have served under Henry IV
of France in the troubled times when Protestantism was
fighting for its very existence. After generations,
another Robert landed in America, and eventually found his way
into what later became Abbeville county. Here he took
out a farm, and a son serving in the campaign of 1776, was so
attracted by the wildness of the Indian country that he
resolvedto make his home there. He too was named Robert,
and after the war, brought his aged father up the country, and
built, on what became known as Pickens creek. Another
Robert, and then another had succeededas dwellers on the old
plantation. Then as we have seen Robert Number Four
returned from the Confederate camp supposedly with the measles
in his garments that killed little Robert Number Five.
It was arranged to transfer the farm for a consideration to
the incumbent Robert's nephew, Robert Welborn Pickens.
On March 31, 1871, the latter married his school-days
sweetheart, Mary Kate Wigington, and brought her to the old
home that his uncle had built. It was a hard and
difficult time. In the farce of reconstruction the
Radicals went on from bad to worse. Graft and greed were
rampant. The young farmer and teacher joined the Red
Shirts and entered heartily into the problems of the
day. In 1868 he had reached his majority. His
father was disfranchised at the time as were hundreds of the
best leaders in the South, but he urged the son to go to the
polls and do his duty. He did, and Robert Welborn
Pickens has voted in every presidential election since, a
total of twenty times.
Keenly interested, not only in
political and governmental history but also in military and
certain cultural phases of the subject his is locally
recognized as an authority on many such matters. In his
boyhood he lived as a contemporary with a number of
Revolutionary veterans and distinctly recalls meeting with a
man who had seen service in the War for Independence.
They were then closer to Yorktown in time thanwe today are to
Appomattox. A list of local Revolutionary soldiers
prepared by him and his father has been published more than
once and widely used. Some years ago the War Department,
failing to find a record of the service of a Confederate
soldier, whose family wished his grave marked, accepted the
affidavit of Mr. Pickens that he knew this soldier had been in
service, and supplied a marker. Recently, when it was
discovered that the state historian's office lacked a copy of
the roll of his old company, he was able to supply the name of
every member from his files.
In local church history he
is perhaps even better, and is justly proud of thefact that
each of the great denominations of the area got an early if
not a primary start in a church established on lands that had
belonged to the pioneer who settled his farm. Old Carmel
was established on this farm about 1785. Printed
historical record refer to it as early as 1787. In the
family can be found a record of the pastors and supplies from
the 1780's and '90's down to recent years. An early
supply was a great favorite of the French Huguenotsof
Abbeville, some of whom, presumably, walked as much as twenty
miles to hear him. The first record call was extended to
William Cummin Davis, the bravest of the emancipators.
In 1795, while it was still dangerous to speak too boldly
against slavery, even in New England, this courageous man
bravely called on his contemporaries "to put away from
among you the evil thing." The rich planters were
evidently alarmed. Dr. Reece was called on to answer
him, and we have the strange paradox of a Carolina
emancipationist being opposed by a Pennsylvanian born
pro-slavery man. Dr. Reece died the next year and Old
Stone church, as it later became, united with old Carmel to
secure the services of one of Davis' pupils, James Gilliland,
as outspoken against slavery as his trainer. Davis had
one of the finest minds the Piedmont has ever produced.
He has been compared with Edwards of New England and Chalmers
of Scotland, and was author of a number of commentaries and
religious works. His grave is easily found, even yet,
where he sleeps in York county.
Four generations have
added names to the list of Methodist preachers that served the
local church that had its start on the same farm. It is
possible that the slavery and anti-slavery spat had something
to do with a part of the family leaving for that
denomination. According to tradition, a great aunt,
Annie, let the hegira into the Methodist fold against much
initial opposition. Mr. Pickens laughs tolerantly when
younger members suggest that Aunt Annie wasn't really that
religious. Old Carmel was too close home. She had
looked over all the eligible young men and decided that by
riding to a distant Methodist church she would have better
opportunities for a homemaker's career. It was one of
those things that a man just wouldn't understand, and her
dear, stupid old father gave some more ground for a Methodist
church site a quarter of a mile up the road and she didn't get
anywhere away into new fields after all. Then the
Baptists had a split at Holly Springs and that church
disappeared, one branch becoming Liberty and the other Mt.
Pisgah, the latter erected on land that old Captain Robert
Pickens had let a Baptist neighbor have. The history of
Pisgah is also available in Mr. Pickens' files. About
1850 another church split occurred that was as amusing as any
of them. The Rev. Miles Puckett was sleeping late at a
good Methodist brother's during harvest time. Uncle
Johnny Burdine arrived to help the host in the wheat fields
during the day. In a spirit of broad humor he called
into the window where the pastor was sleeping and bantered him
about being lazy. Brother Puckett took the matter
seriously and demanded that Brother Burdine come to church and
apologize publicly. Burdine took his medicine like a man
and did so. Then he asked for his letter of
dismissal. He wished to unite with the Methodist
Protestant church in which the layman had more part in the
government. He became one of their ministers and helped
found Fairview church almost on the Anderson-Pickens line near
the highest hill in Anderson county, now not far from Senator
Thomas Nalley's. He eventually became president of the
state conference. An attractive daughter of Burdine's
won the heart of the Robert who preceded the presentRobert
Welborn Pickens. They were married and that Robert, as
Robert Mason, joined the Protestant fold and became one of
their ministers. In such an atmosphere one cannot take
narrow denominationalism too seriously. Mrs. Mary Kate
Pickens retained the Baptist faith of her father after
marriage. Attendance at more than one church was easy in
the country, and while no prejudicialinfluence was brought to
bear, Mr. Pickens was positively gleeful when he saw one by
one of his living children of four boys and four girls divide
without premeditated arrangement group themselves in a primary
choice of churches into two boys and two girls for mother's
church and two boys and two girls for father's. To add
spice, genial old Cousin Miles Pickens could sit in this host
of mixed Baptists and Methodists and smilingly assert that he
was praying for the family to come back to the Presbyterian
fold where they belonged. This might continue until some
younger member out in the kitchen would exclaim, "I'd like to
dig Aunt Annie up and kick her pelvic bone all around over the
cemetery for starting all this!" In such an atmosphere
one could not take the little man-made isms too
seriously. They were overshadowed by the great
realities. In the little church on his farm aided by a
neighbor, John Theodore Smith, Mr. Pickens helped establish
and run a magnificentlittle Sunday school.
On
the last Sunday in December Mr. Smith could name the subject
of every lesson they had studied during the year, and what was
more he expected the pupils to followeach subject with the
golden texts recited from memory. One such student
laughingly asserted his Bible teacher in college would have
flunked him if he had known how easy the college course was to
pass after sitting under such a Sunday school teacher.
What was more, the pupils really enjoyed it. Funds were
limited, yet a small Sunday school library, sponsored by Mr.
Pickens, carried such classics as "Beside the Bonnie Brier
Bush" from far away Scotland, as well as "Ruby, or a Heart of
Gold," written by A. Lila Riley, a daughter of Dr. Riley of
old Carmel church. It is probable that Miss Riley was
the pioneer fiction writer of Pickens county. Her book
had quite a run about 1900. One pupil says, "Many years
later, in the world's largest university, I met an
internationally known scientist who had written one of the
books in that old library series. I could hardly have a
better introduction to a man who helped me greatly and whose
friendship I cherished to his death-day and beyond." In
helping selectmusic books for different churches in the
community, Mr. Pickens pursued a policy that might well be
commended for all our churches. The old classics were
not used exclusively nor yet excluded. Rousing
Moody-Sankey material figured strongly, and yet modern
American and Southern talent were only encouraged. A
woman who is a strong helper in a church of another
denomination once stated that Mr. Pickens' influence had been
responsible for the very best selections they had in
music.
Absorbed with his farm duties, Mr. Pickens gave
up teaching for a number of years until his neighborsforced
him back into service. Together they build a community
school building at the north side of his farm, and he led off
as teacher, and when he again withdrew served for years as
trustee.
But while his community interests have been
varied, his farm home has been his great interest. For
well over eighty years he plowed some every summer without
missing a single year, and sometime since was denominated as
"the oldest farmer in the world" and asked to appear on the
same platform with Secretary of Agriculture Anderson of
Washington, D. C.
His orchard and garden were among
the best if not the standards of the community. It is a
matter of pride with him that there has never been a mortgage
over his ancestral farm which perhaps has the longest recorded
continuous history of any in the old Washington District
area. Here he and his wife reared their children of
nine, only one died before reaching forty years of age, and
eight married and established families of their own. The
old church cemetery on his farm holds the body of his
great-great grandfather who was a native of the Old World, and
those of his descendants right down to Mr. Pickens' own
father. He has lived to see great-great grandchildren of
his own. He is modest about rules for attaining old
age. Since the late 1600's none of his ancestors have
died under seventy-six years of age and all together have an
average age of eighty-five. A digestive disturbance
early in life taught him self-control in eating and
drinking. After returning from the army in middle years
he took up the use of tobacco but not for long. After
all, long life seems to be connected with heredity.
His
wife, Mrs. Kate Pickens, died in March, 1936. To her
perhaps we owe one of the best insights into her husband's
life. As reported from one of their conversations he
observed somewhat philosophically that after all the greatest
satisfaction that life afforded had been rearing the
children. |
