Again and again in the remaining days he reiterated his wish. Fears were spreading of the approach of Sherman’s devastating army, and the destruction of “Redcliffe,” conspicuous as it was to all the surrounding country, seemed inevitable. Marvellous to relate, however, when at last the spoiler came, his legions marched in a straight line to the sea, some fourteen miles away from the Hammond plantation, leaving it untouched by shell or the irreverent hand of the invader.
The funeral of Mr. Hammond was solemn and made especially impressive by the procession of two hundred of the older slaves, who marched, two by two, into the baronial parlors, to look for the last time upon their master’s face. Save for this retinue, “Redcliffe” was now practically without a defender, Mr. Paul Hammond being absent much of the time, detailed upon home guard duty. In his absence, my maid, Emily, and I kept the armory of the household, now grown more and more fearful of invasion with its train of insult and the destruction of property. There were many nights when, all the rest in slumber and a dead hush without, I waited, breathless, until I caught the sound of Paul Hammond’s returning steps.
Just before the close of my refugee days on Beach Island, a young kinsman, George Tunstall, who filled the sublime post of corporal in Wheeler’s Brigade in camp a few hundred miles away, learning of my presence there, obtained leave of absence and made his way, accompanied by another youth, to Mrs. Hammond’s to see me. The two soldiers were full of tales of thrilling interest, of hairbreadth escapes and camp happenings, both grave and gay; and, rumours of Sherman’s advance being rife, our young heroes urged my cousin to take time by the forelock and bury the family silver. “Redcliffe” being almost in direct line of the Yankee general’s march, the advice seemed good, and preparations at once began to put it into operation. Though there was little doubt of the loyalty of the majority of the Hammond slaves, yet it seemed but prudent to surround our operations with all possible secrecy. We therefore collected the silver, piece by piece, secreting it in “crocus” bags, which, when all was ready, we deposited in a capacious carryall, into which we crowded. It was at early dusk when lurking figures easily might be descried in corn-field or behind a wayside tree by our alert eyes. Declaring to those of the servants who stood about as we entered the carriage, that we were taking some provisions to Mrs. Redd, much to Lot’s[39] surprise, we dispensed with a coachman, and drove off. We had many a laugh as we proceeded through the woods, at our absurdity in concealing our errand from the family servants and in confiding our precious secret to two of Wheeler’s men. They had a terrible reputation for chicken stealing.[40]