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Eliza Ripley
During that visit I went to the cemetery Decoration Day. Mind you,
I have seen about forty Decoration days, North—but this one in my
own Southland, among my own beloved dead, has been the only
Decoration Day I have ever seen in a cemetery. (I wish my feelings
were not quite so strong.) Phine and I stood beside the tomb that
contains the dust of Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston, a man I had
known well, a contemporary and valued friend of my father’s, a man
whose children and grandchildren were dear to me. We saw the
solemn procession file in, and halt a little beyond us. The band
played “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” and hundreds of voices joined in
the musical prayer. I could not sing, I never could, but I could weep,
and my eyes were not the only moist ones in the assembly. Such a
throng of sober, sad people there was, such a lot of veterans, many
in shabby, weather-stained gray, that bore evidence of hard
service....
Phine had kept track of the people from whom I had been so long
separated that age had obliterated means by which I could recognize
them. As a veteran, in the shabby old gray (I felt like taking everyone
such by the hand), approached, Phine caught my arm and
whispered “Douglas West,” and at the same moment his eye met
mine with a flash of recognition. I had not seen Douglas for over
thirty years. And weren’t we glad to meet? on that ground, too, so
sacred to both of us. And didn’t we meet and meet and talk and talk,
many times thereafter, in Phine’s dear little parlor on Carondelet
Street? Indeed, we did.
Later on, Phine whispered, “You knew that man, I’ll tell you who he
is after he passes us.” A quite tottering, wrinkled, old man passed. I
gave him a good stare, shook my head. I did not know, nor think I
ever had known him. It was A. B. Cammack—who would have
believed it? He was a bachelor in 1850, the time when I thought a
man of thirty was an old man. We happened to be fellow passengers
on that fashionable A No. 1 steamboat, Belle Key. I was a frisky
young miss, and Mr. Cammack was, as I say, an old bachelor. He did
not know, nor want to know anybody on the boat, but it happened he
was introduced to our small party, at the moment of sailing, so we
had a reluctant sort of bowing acquaintance for the first day or so.
Broderie Anglaise was all the rage. Any woman who had time for
frivolité, as the Creoles called tatting, was busy working eyelets on
linen. Of course I had Broderie, too. Mr. Cammack gradually thawed,
and brought a book to read to me while my fingers flew over the
fascinating eyelets. The book, I distinctly remember, was “Aunt
Patsy’s Scrap Bag,” a medley of silly nonsensical stuff, written by a
woman so long dead and so stupid while she lived that nobody even
hears of her now, but Mr. Cammack was immensely entertaining and
witty, and we roared over that volume, and his comments thereon. I
have often dwelt on that steamboat episode, but I doubt if it ever
gave him a moment’s thought. I really think if it had been like my
meeting with Douglas West we might have had quite a bit of fun,
living again that week on the Belle Key. A hearty laugh, such as we
had together, so many years before, might have smoothed some of
the wrinkles from his careworn face, and a few crow’s feet out of
mine. But he never knew, possibly would not have cared if he had
known, that we almost touched hands in the crowd on that
Decoration Day.
On and on we strolled, past a grand monument to the memory of
Dr. Choppin, whom I knew so well, and loved too, girl fashion, when
he was twenty, and who sailed away, boy fashion, to complete his
medical education in Paris. Maybe if we had met, in the flesh, on that
Decoration Day, it might have been a la Cammack. We never did
meet, after that memorable sailing away, but he has a tender niche
in my heart even yet, and I was pleased to see some loving hand
had decorated that sacred spot....
Phine and I strolled about after the ceremonies were completed.
She had a toy broom and a toy watering pot in the keeper’s cottage,
and was reluctant to leave before she had straightened and
freshened the bouquets we had placed on the tombs of the dead she
loved, and swept away the dust, and watered the little grass border
again.
A year ago she herself fell asleep and was laid to rest in the lovely
cemetery, and with her death the last close tie was broken that
bound me to New Orleans.
Eliza Moore, tenth of the twelve children of Richard Henry and
Betsey Holmes Chinn, was born in Lexington, Kentucky, on the first
day of February, 1832.
Three years later Judge Chinn moved his family to New Orleans,
where he continued the practice of law until his death in ’47.
On August 24, 1852, Eliza Chinn and James Alexander McHatton
were married in Lexington, and for ten years thereafter they lived at
Arlington plantation on the Mississippi, a few miles below Baton
Rouge, leaving hastily in ’62, upon the appearance of Federal
gunboats at their levee.
During the remainder of the war they lived almost continuously in
army ambulances, convoying cotton from Louisiana across Texas to
Mexico.
In February, 1865, they went to Cuba, and lived there until the
death of Mr. McHatton, owning and operating, with mixed negro and
coolie labor, a large sugar plantation—“Desengaño.”
After her return to the United States Mrs. McHatton was married to
Dwight Ripley, July 9, 1873, and the remainder of her life was
passed in the North. In 1887 Mrs. Ripley published “From Flag to
Flag”—a narrative of her war-time and Cuban experiences, now out
of print.
The reminiscences which make up the present volume have been
written at intervals during the last three or four years. The final
arrangements for their publication were sanctioned by her the day
before she passed away—on July 13, 1912, in the eighty-first year of
her age.
E. R. N.
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