The South As It Is: 1865–1866

Chapter 23

XXIII COLUMBIA, S. c., December 11, 1865 THE town of Newberry, north-west of Columbia and forty-five miles distant, I have recently visited, rather because it is comparatively easy of access than for any other reason. The journey may be made by way of Hope Station in about twenty-five hours, and in returning, if one chooses to forego sleep, he may go by rail as far as to Alston, and, then taking a hack and riding and walking all night, reach Columbia in fifteen hours after leaving Newberry. The railroads are very slow to recover from Sherman's visitation, and, as yet, none of them enter the city, so that the traveller in whatever direction must at first take passage by one of the many stage-lines to some distant way-station or ruined bridge. Into this service are pressed carriages of every kind-coaches, buggies, carryalls, ambulances -and the teams and equipments are as various as the vehicles . From the price of a ticket at the hour of starting to the delivery of luggage or the price of a lodging at the end of the trip, all the accessories and arrangements of this stage travel are excessively and needlessly bad. But, for the time being, the passenger forgets his discomfort in his danger. The loss of sleep is submitted to, and he is willing to go hungry and thirsty and to creep along in the dark at the rate of two miles an hour when he knows that the driver has no lantern and that only a fortnight before, for lack of a lantern, the coach was upset and three passengers killed in one of the enormous gullies by the roadside. It was in the middle of a cloudy forenoon that we at last got away from the city and set out for Hope Station. The inside passen231 John Richard Dennett gers were five in number, and an old Negro sat swinging his legs over the edge of the roof. "That cousin thar's got to be car'd somehow," the driver said, when I asked for a box seat, "and there's too much load on top a'ready." But at last I so far prevailed on him as to be allowed an outside place on condition of getting down when the road began to be dangerous. By the time we were ferried across Broad River and were fairly on our way the privileged iII-humor of a coachman compelIed to make a late start had given place to a better frame of mind, and he was not indisposed to conversation. "Dog me, now, but this is cussed mean coachin'. A kind of a drat, no-account team, anyhow. That hoss Dutch, he's a hoss, but the other three a'n't nothin'. Never did believe in puttin' one good hoss with a lot 0' poor ones. Git 'em nigh about one thing and let 'em work together. I've coached in Alabamy and in Massissippi, and I druv a hack in Texas when I've had to git off and spade the mud out 0' the wheels. Every few rod, sometimes, we'd have to prize out with rails. But, you understand, we had hosses. Look at them leaders, hey? Git up, dum ye! Thar, ye're like a piny woods pond-aIl over creation." "How did you like Texas?" "First-rate. That's the country for a poor man, sir. A year from now and I'll be back thar, too. What do you think 0' greenbacks? Good? I mean, will they keep good?" "Yes, they'lI be good as long as the United States is." "No; I don't believe it. Won't be worth a copper in two years. You never see any war-scrip that was. The Yankees'lI call it all in, you see. This 'com-fed,' as we used to calI it, I never had no confidence in it. Some was very confidential, but I warn't. I'm as big a fool as anybody, but I never had no confidence in that, nor in the Southern government nuther. MyoId uncle in Greenville told 'em just how 'twould come out, and durned if it ha'n't. They wanted to hang him. The first time ever I see our scrip was in Vicksburg, and I told the boys the very first I see: 'Boys,' says I, 'this yer stuff right now it a'n't worth one copper...