reminiscenses-war

Many years have come and gone since the war closed. My mind wanders back
tonight to the commencement of the so-called Civil war, but to me it was a
most cruel and unjust war, a war in which innocent women and children
suffered most. Our homes were invaded and ransacked by the Federal soldiers
and women and children were dragged off to prison. Not content with all of
this, Tom Ewing issued that terrible Order No. 11. I try to forgive, but I
cannot-no, cannot-forget. If Tom Ewing is in heaven today his inner life must
have been greatly changed. Never can I forget the many scenes of misery and
distress I saw on the road when people were ordered to leave their homes on a
few days' notice. The road from Independence to Lexington was crowded with
women and children, women walking with their babies in their arms, packs on
their back, and four or five children following after them-some crying for bread,
some crying to be taken back to their homes. Alas! They knew not that their
once happy homes were gone. The torch had been applied-nothing left to tell
the tale of carnage but the chimneys. O, how sad! I saw one woman driving an
ox team (the soldiers had taken nearly all the horses); there were three or four
small children in the wagon. We came to a bridge that was almost
perpendicular (the teams had to be taken out and the wagons taken down by
hand); the oxen scented water, and she lost control of them; so here they went
helter-skelter down the bridge. It looked like the wagon would turn a
somersault over the oxen. We all thought the children would be killed, but a
kind Providence watched over them. I will never forget how the mother looked,
as she stood there helpless, crying and wringing her hands as she gave vent to
her feelings by saying, "I wish all the Federals were in ____."

Another woman had two cows hitched to a wagon; a little boy was leading
them. There were some boughs on the wagon, and old-time coverlid stretched
over them; inside the wagon was a very sick child. The wagon halted, the
mother got out with her sick babe in her arms and seated herself under the
friendly shade of a tree. It was apparent to all that the child was dying. There
sat the mother with her child dying in her lap; her husband had been killed, she
was forced to leave her home, driven out into the cold world with her little
children. O, the anguish of that broken-hearted mother as she sat there, with
tears streaming down her pale cheeks, knowing she was powerless to save her
child. Some kind-hearted people of the neighborhood came to her assistance.
The crowd surged on, women and children dragging their weary limbs through
the dust and heat. In our company was a man whose gray hairs had protected
him so far; he was a very dignified, intelligent man, one who had always
commanded the love and respect of all who know him. A company of soldiers
passed us. One of them said to this old man, "Hello, old uncle; where are you
going?" O, how humiliating to this southern man. He turned to his wife and
said, "My God, Kitty, what am I coming to?" His wife and I had a hearty
laugh at his expense. Some of the people who lived on the road we were
traveling, seeing such a dusty, dirty, woebegone crowd approaching would say,
"There come the refugees, take in your clothes," as though we would steal; too
much southern blood in us for that. We could fight but not steal. They say
they whipped us, but did they conquer us? No, never; for we will love Jefferson
Davis and the southern cause forever. Some of our crowd stopped in Lafayette
and Saline counties. We went to Howard county, where we met with many
good and warm-hearted people who were very kind and helpful to us.

In November we concluded to go to Missouri City, in Clay county, just
across the river from our home. We went up on the north side of the river
through Saline, Ray and Carroll counties. We had many sad and hard trials
on the way. My mother, 72 years old, was with us, besides the doctor, myself
and six children, and we had one two-horse wagon and buggy; the children
were sick, my mother was old and feeble and we traveled on through snow and
sleet; our one incentive was to get as near home as we could. No one was
willing to give us shelter at night.

I will never forget one day’s travel; it was cold and sleeting, the doctor had
been trying all afternoon to get some place to stop in out of the cold. I told the
doctor that it would be death to my mother and our children to camp out such a
night; that we must find shelter and some place where we could have a fire, for
we were all nearly frozen. We tried to rent a room or some outhouse; the
answer was invariably the same—"No, we can’t keep you;" so we traveled on
until it was getting dark when we stopped in front of a farm house, In response
to "hello" from the doctor, a man came out and down to the fence; another man
was just visible on horseback. The doctor asked the man at the fence if we
could rent a room or get shelter in some outhouse. The answer was
emphatically "No." The doctor then said, "I see a schoolhouse ahead, do you
think we could stay in that?" Again came that heartless word, "No." "I am one
of the trustees, but you can’t stop there." By this time I was getting desperate.
I said, "Well, sir, I don not know what you are, neither do I care; I am a rebel of
the deepest dye, and I do not intend to camp out tonight with my sick family."
The doctor said, "Hush, Fannie." I said I will not keep silent any longer; if he
wants to kill me he can do so; I had rather be shot as other rebels have been
than to be tortured to death. The man at the fence came up to the wagon and
said, "Lady, let me help you out; you and yours will find a welcome in my
house, the best we have; we will share with you and your family." The man on
horseback rode up and said to the doctor, "That crib of corn you see there is
mine; help yourself to all the corn you want, it will not cost you a cent."

We learned from the man of the house that all emigration westward was
supposed to be Yankees, coming to take possession of the home that the
southern people had been driven from. After many trials we succeeded in
reaching Missouri City. Our negro women stayed at home until a short time
before we reached Missouri City. I was arrested several times and came near
being shot twice; our horses were taken from us. But alas! Our worst troubles
were yet to come. Our daughter, just budding into womanhood, was taken sick
and died. She was as lovely as the morning, beautiful as the evening, fair as
the silver queen of night. Sixteen summers had kissed her cheeks and fanned
her brow; she was a good as beautiful, kind and affectionate, beloved by all
who knew her. I looked upon her face in my young motherhood. O, it was
happiness for me to know and feel that she was my own, my first-born darling.
None ever had a lovelier child.

The hardships we had to endure under Order No. 11 were too much for one of
her delicate nature. She was my only daughter. She was too pure for this earth.
God took my darling Julia to dwell with Him. I shall meet her some sweet day.

The home of my mother, 70 years old, was burned. She had neither husband or
son; she was and invalid, confined to her bed. She was accused of sending a
ham of meat to Quantrill’s camp. It was a false accusation, but she owned
slaves and had to suffer for it although innocent of the charge against her.

One case or horror that occurred just before Order No. 11 come vividly before
my mind today. Mr. Crawford, an old man with a large family of children, was
a southern sympathizer, but had never taken up arms against the government.
He went to mill one day with a sack of corn to have it ground to make bread
for his wife and children. He left home early in the morning—was to be back
by noon. Noon came, the wife had prepared dinner as best she could, but was
waiting for her husband’s return so she could have bread for their dinner. Two
o’clock came and the husband was still absent. The children were hungry,
crying for something to eat. The mother would say, "Papa will soon be here,
then my darlings shall have something to eat." Three o’clock came, and the
mother saw a company of soldiers approaching. They rode up to the door; the
mother looked out and saw her husband a prisoner in their midst. He was told
to dismount. Then they shot him down before the eyes of his wife and
children—shot down like a wild beast. The mother was told to get out of the
house with her children, as they were going to burn the house. She asked them
to let her give her little children something to eat as they had had nothing to
eat since early morning. In answer to her appeal one of them snatched a brand
from the fire and stuck it in the straw bed. Everything was soon up in flames.
The mother hastened from the house, snatching up a few things as she went.
Her husband killed, her house burned, she and her little children turned out in
the cold world homeless and destitute. Her only son, 14 years old, went to
Quantrill—he had no other place to go. Such acts as this is what made
Bushwhackers. O, how strange that men, made in the image of God, could be
so cruel and heartless.

Frances Fristoe Twyman; Reminiscences of the Women of Missouri During the Sixties;
Missouri Division, United Daughters of the Confederacy