MY RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EARLY DAYS OF
BOLIVAR COUNTY
From the time of our removal from the "Wood Yard"
(Old Pride's Point), dates my earliest recollection. In 1850 we removed to the
place I now live and what was then and is now known as "Egypt Ridge."
In 1844 there occurred an unprecedented overflow and no corn was made here except
by Llewellyn Lobdell and Hiram Eyrick on Egypt Ridge, which was the only
cultivated land not inundated and most of the settlers bought from these men
corn for their needs, hence the name-"Egypt Ridge."
At this time most of the houses were built of hewn logs with
stick and dirt chimneys. A few of the planters built their own cabins of
whipsawed lumber. One of my earliest recollections is that of going to our saw
pit and watching Big Henry and Arthur, giant Negro slaves, stripped to the
waist, their ebon bodies shiny with sweat, as with rhythmic motion they drew
the long saw through the big cypress logs. Near the river where they could
procure lumber and brick, some had more pretentious residences.
Our first courthouse was at Bolivar Landing, a small room
built of lumber brought by contract on flatboats, and there was a question as
to whether or not this lumber should be delivered on top of the bank; this was
settled by suit in favor of the county. The next courthouse was a single room
built near the residence of Judge McGuire, opposite Napoleon, Arkansas. Judge
McGuire furnished food and sleeping quarters for those who attended court. I
remember being in this miniature courthouse on one occasion. My father, who, I
think, was at the time a member of the Board of Police, now called Supervisors,
owing to my importunity took me behind him. The road, such as it was, followed
the river around what is known as Indian Point, a distance of eighteen miles. I
remember yet how tired my little legs were. The benches in the courthouse were
cypress puncheons, or slabs with holes bored and wooden pegs for legs; The next
courthouse was erected at a place one half mile north of this on the river I
think in 1856) and a thriving village immediately grew up, which was called
Prentiss, and here the first regular jail was built. Prentiss was burned during
the war and court was held at. Beulah until 1872, when a courthouse was erected
at the place it now stands, in the town of Rosedale (first called Floreyville
for a carpetbagger official). All county business was transacted there until
the establishment of two judicial districts.
We had no roads
except one wagon track cut through the towering cane along the bank of the
Mississippi River; and others cut from the cultivated pi aces to the river
landings where we received our annual supplies by steamers or purchased them
from flatboats-notably Marlatt's trading boats and Henry Clore's implement and
blacksmith boats. Henry Clore was the originator of the Calhoun plow which at
one time was almost universally used by the farmers and planters along the
Mississippi River. One of the Clore family lived in Concordia, Bolivar County,
after the Civil War.
I suppose that it would be proper here to mention the names of
those whom I knew as residents of our county between the years 1852 and 1857.
Beginning with the name of Judge McGuire and going down the river were Colonel
Moore, Mr. Angchram, Colonel Frank Montgomery, Dr. Neblett, Judge Cook, James
Brown, Colonel Vick, Tom Manley, Christopher Field, Dr. Ross, Messrs. Perkins,
Chatars, Thompson, Singer, Newman, Hines, Miller, Kirk, Easton, Christmas,
Lyons and Jeff Wilkinson; on Lake Bolivar were General Peter B. Starke, Rhodes
Estill, and my uncle Archibald McGehee; on Egypt Ridge were Hiram and Harmon Eyrick,
Judge J. C. Burrus, Aaron Noble, A. V. Pearcefield, Llewellyn and Jonathan
Lobdell, William Sillers, and Colonel Lucas Barritt, father of the girl I
married. Later I knew the names of the Coffees, Clarks, Sillerses, Gaydens,
Shelbys, Joneses, Hannahs, Purnells, Ramseys, Hughses, Peakeses, Irwins,
Eblings, Torreys, Blanchards, Arnolds, Wrights, and others.
I knew, also, some of our soldiers of the Mexican War. Among
these were Leroy Martin, Doctor Fields, and General A. B. Bradford, who practiced
law in Bolivar County subsequent to, and perhaps before, the Civil War. In one
of the battles of Mexico the Mississippi troops wavered; whereupon General
Bradford rushed out in front waving his sword and yelling like a demon,
"Shoot me! Shoot me! The Mississippi soldiers are running." This
rallied them and with an elan which carried all before them they rushed forward
and won the battle.
In 1857 Bolivar County was
almost a complete wilderness from the settlement on the west to the Sunflower
River. I wish I could give an adequate pen picture of our primeval forests. In
summer time they were a wall of living green, towering up into the heavens; in
autumn they displayed all the colors that nature provides to delight the eye of
man; and sometimes in winter each bare limb covered with ice and millions of
prismatic gems, glistened in the sunlight. Our woods were then filled with
every variety of game native to the country-black bear, some of which weighed
more than 600 pounds; deer, turkey, otter, beaver; and great timber wolves,
some grey and some black, which at times made night hideous with their howling
near our premises.
I remember on
one occasion when I was a small boy my father went to visit my uncle on Lake
Bolivar and had to ride along a cane trail. At nightfall he had not returned;
and soon after, in the direction from which he had come, the wolves commenced
their noise. I thought there were hundreds of them. My Aunt Mary, father's
sister, who lived with us, rushed out on the gallery screaming, "My God!
The wolves have got John!" Naturally, we children were terribly
frightened; but my mother, who was of calm temperament and fearless, soon had
us all quiet; when my father arrived all safe and sound, he was amused at the
excitement.
There were also cougar and some spotted panther. I saw one of
these which Jack Ward, my father's overseer, killed, measuring more than ten
feet from nose to tip of tail. Often when we children, including some of the
little Negroes, were getting wild fruit in the woods near the house, we would
hear some noise which we did not understand, and one would call out,
"That's a panther," and we would all scamper for home.
I remember another occasion when my father and several others,
accompanied by the plantation hunters, Gabe and Arthur, took John Ross
(afterwards one of the most famous marksmen and sharpshooters of Johnson's
Southern army) and me with them on a camp hunt on the narrows of Bogue Phalia.
With pack mules to carry the tent and other equipment, we followed the Choctaw
trail and arrived late in the evening at a place near the bank of the Bogue
where we encamped. About sundown two dead deer were brought into camp and hung
up near the tent. Along in the night I was awakened by an awful scream. Very
much frightened, I cuddled up near my father who took me in his arms and said,
"Don't be afraid; that is only a panther." A short time after, there
was another scream on our side of the tent answered by one from the other side
and apparently not more than fifty yards off. My father called to Gabe and
Arthur, who were sleeping outside, "Boys, stir up that fire and come into
the tent; those animals seem to be meditating mischief." I wondered what
"meditating" meant. It was impressed on my mind and many times has
recurred to my memory when I have been meditating on some wrong or wicked
action.
Our lakes and bayous, which were nearly all clear running
streams at this time, were teeming with fish. In winter wild fowl, swan, sand
hill crane, wild geese, and a variety of ducks were here in vast numbers; while
the wild pigeons in countless millions, when the mast was plentiful, passed
overhead. The swan and sand hill crane deserted this country years ago; and
there is not a wild pigeon now left in the United States nor, perhaps, in the
world. Their sudden extinction is a mystery, the last flight being in 1870.
There is a theory that in attempting to emigrate they perished in the Pacific
Ocean. There were alligators in our lakes and numerous poisonous snakes; rattlesnakes and moccasins made
it dangerous to walk about at night without a torch. We had no flashlights in
those days; our only lights were tallow, sperm, and wax candles. Mosquitoes and
gnats were in swarms in summer and early fall, making it impossible for us to
sit on our porches in comfort, without burning smudges or smoke fires.
Bilious and malarial fever and congestive chills were the
prevalent diseases. The first family physician I remember was Dr. Mitchell, the
next, Dr. Ross. In 1856 or 1857, I think Dr. Mitchell located at old Bolivar,
where there had been at an earlier time a Methodist church, and where old Sol
Storm erected the first general store in this part of the country. Dr. Mitchell
was killed in a personal affair some years before the war; and Sol Storm was
blown up on the steamer Kentucky, and his body never found.
In the first days of our county the planters protected their
lands from overflow, as far as possible, by private levees thrown up with
plows, spades, and shovels. As more land was brought into cultivation, the
planters of different localities united in throwing up small levees along their
inundated river front, with their slave labor. Lake Bolivar was then an open
channel to where it intersected the Mississippi on the north. During high water,
through this was poured an immense volume, which inundated all our land except
that which was relatively high. The head of Lake Bolivar was then known as the
"Roaring Water." This was a problem for our people, as the means at
hand were inadequate for its closure. Sometime in the fifties the levee board
was formed, despite the opposition of some who advocated the opening up of all
riparian streams to pass the water off more rapidly. These parties quoted in
argument the dictum of Cowden, an opponent of the plan of trying to levee the
Mississippi River, "If the outflow is equal to the inflow, there can be no
overflow."
The first levees constructed -under the auspices of the old board
were by individual contractors, who used Irish laborers, with spades, shovels,
wheelbarrows, and run plank. These were superseded by mules with slush and
wheel scrapers; now we have the drag machines, and I think when the plan of
sub-levees is adopted all along the line, the levee problem will be solved, at
least for some years in the future.
Our first ministers of the
Gospel were the itinerant Methodist preachers called at that time circuit
riders. These grand and fearless men of God rode the cane trails from
settlement to settlement and from house to house, often swimming bayous,
sometimes camping alone, braving all dangers and trials incident to such
experiences. They would sometimes preach in primitive churches, at other times
in private homes or anywhere they could assemble even a few to hear; they had
Bible readings and prayer in every home where they spent the night. They visited the
sick; they comforted those who mourned; they were the salt of the earth. I particularly remember
Mr. Love, Mr. Wadsworth, and Elder Hines, in the order named; especially do I
recollect the deep, resonant, reverential voice of Mr. Love, when after Bible
reading he said, as did the old patriarch portrayed in Burns' "The Cotter's
Saturday Night," "Let us worship God with prayer."
From 1855 to 1860 the development and progress of Bolivar
County was phenomenal. New settlers poured in, many of them slaveholders, and
large and numerous tracts of land were cleared and cultivated, as if by magic.
In every part of the county, roads were laid out and worked by the slaves of
those planters who were assigned this duty by the Board of Police. Commodious
dwellings and palatial homes took the place of the log cabin. Steam sawmills
and gins superseded the whipsaw and mule power. Blooded stock of every
description was imported; buggies and carriages were introduced; magnificent
steamers plied the Mississippi River, furnishing a commodious and delightful
mode of travel to St. Louis and New Orleans and intermediate points; the sun
shone on a prosperous and contented people.
In 1860 the tocsin of war sounded. During the next four years
our county passed through the conditions common to our loved Southland which
has been more ably described by others than I can do. I will say only that our
people, particularly our devoted women, realized to the full, Sherman's true
statement: "War is hell."
Our county furnished her full quota of men to the Confederate
Army, which was every effective man between the ages of sixteen and sixty years
except for a few who went North. The first company formed was a cavalry company
known as the "Bolivar Troop," numbering more than a hundred men and
commanded by Captain Frank Montgomery. This company formed a part of the First
Mississippi Cavalry regiment, commanded at first by Colonel Pinston. After he
was killed, Colonel Frank Montgomery, formerly captain of the Bolivar Troop,
was placed in command and led it until the battle of Selma, Alabama, the last
battle of the Civil War. After the promotion of Captain Montgomery, Captain
Herron assumed command of the Bolivar Troop until he was killed. The company
was then, I think, commanded by Captain Mack Montgomery. The next company
formed was the McGehee Rifles, an infantry company, equipped by Miles McGehee.
This company numbered more than -eighty men. The name of the first captain I
have forgotten; Captain Jim McGehee commanded it at the close of the war. It
was in active service from the first to the close of the war, and the company
had many casualties.
I do not know
the name of the next company formed; it was assigned to the 28th Mississippi
Cavalry regiment, generally known as Starke's regiment and commanded by Colonel
Peter B. Starke from this county, who afterwards was promoted to the rank of
brigadier-general. When I commenced writing these memoirs, three days since,
Dave Reinach was, I think, the only surviving member -of the Bolivar Troop.
Yesterday he answered his last roll call. J. W. Mason of Benoit is the only
living member of his company of the 28th Mississippi Cavalry. Shepherd of
Gunnison is the sole survivor of the McGehee Rifles, and I too, am the last
living representative of Company I, 9th Texas Cavalry, Ross Brigade. During the
war, there was formed a body of cavalry in Bolivar County which was unattached,
numbering about 150' and known as Montgomery's Battalion. It was commanded by
Major Eugene Montgomery, a brave and efficient officer. This battalion was
formed largely of men of extreme youth and advanced age, and others who were
unfit for active army service because of previous wounds. It did valiant
service in restricting raids of the enemy and affording protection to our homes
from any possible uprising among the vicious class of Negroes. This completes
the roster of the Confederate troops of Bolivar County.
Between 1862 and the close of the war a number of pilots and
other Federals were killed on the boats of the Mississippi River by
sharpshooters. Pre-eminent among the latter was Judge McGuire, a fine rifle
shot, and also a cool, fearless man; he possessed a very accurate rifle, which
for those days had a long range. The activities of the judge became so renowned
that the Federals offered a reward for his capture, but without success. On one
occasion when he was a guest of my father, my mother was joking him about this
individual war which he was then carrying on. The old judge in his quiet manner
replied: "Mrs. Burrus, I never miss."
Dr. Blanton, of Washington County, was then possessor of a very
fine rifle made by Westly Richards of England, I suppose for elephant hunting,
as it carried a two-ounce ball. This gun had tremendous carrying power and was
eagerly sought after by the best marksmen among the scouts of that time. I used
this gun on two occasions and found that its merit was not exaggerated.
In the summer
of 1862 there was an engagement in Bolivar County two and one-half miles above
Bolivar Landing, between the 28th Mississippi Cavalry regiment and Sanderdon Field
Battery, on the Confederate side, and a Federal field battery supported by
infantry and federal gunboats. In defiance of my father's command I joined in
with the 28th and was in their first engagement. I suppose we could claim the
victory as the enemy retired to their boats. We had one man killed and three
wounded. Dr. Robert Maury was the surgeon of the regiment, and afterwards a very prominent
physician and surgeon of Memphis.
In the fall of 1863, six of my company, detached, commanded by
Bob Lee, captured Island 76 opposite Bolivar, where a soldier deserter and
renegade from Bolivar County, who had lived for some years prior to the war, on
Egypt Ridge as overseer for Johnathan Lobdell, had established himself with a
company of Negroes and two white men of his class as lieutenants; whence he
made raids on the Southern plantations of Bolivar County. I wrote a full
account of this desperate but successful exploit, which was published in a
Greenville paper, and by request was placed in the historical archives of
Washington County.
Two men of our county obtained the rank of brigadier-general,
Charles Clark and Peter B. Starke. General Clark was desperately wounded in one
of the fierce battles below Vicksburg, and was unfit for further active
service. He then became governor of our state and was known as our "Great
War Governor." General Starke had four children: William, Major Sam,
adjutant of the 28th Mississippi, and Molly and Fanny, both beautiful young
ladies. They all died within a short while of each other just after the war.
After General Starke left the sheriff's office, he moved to Virginia where he
lived to a very advanced age.
Immediately after the general surrender the experiences of all
the counties in the South were similar. Military posts were established and
martial law prevailed. All the white men were notified to come in and take the
oath, and every man in my neighborhood did so, including my father and brother
Charles, who were very insistent in their advice to me to comply with this
order. Dr. Wingfield S. Gibson, a near neighbor and friend, who was local
physician of the post, learning of my attitude in the matter, came to see me
and urged compliance with the order. I replied to Dr. Gibson: "Please say
for me to Major Ewing (the commandant), that I was paroled in Richmond last
April, and if unmolested, I will keep my oath not to take up arms until
exchanged; that I spent some months in the penitentiary at Alton, Illinois,
rather than take the ironclad oath of allegiance to the United States
Government as' it now is; and I'll die before I take it now when I am free.
Tell him also if he will let me alone, I will be a good citizen." Dr.
Gibson said to Major Ewing: "Major, you must remember that this boy was
recently in a Northern prison where they were retaliating for the treatment of
the Northern prisoners at Andersonville. He endured much suffering, had to
submit to many indignities, saw many of his comrades die and, of course, these
things are not yet forgotten. I know him well; and if you will let him alone, I
will guarantee that he will be a good citizen; if you try to arrest him, you
will find it very difficult, as he is determined, knows every cane trail from
here to Vicksburg and half way to Memphis, and is possessed of a good horse and
arms. Let him alone, Major!" Thanks to Dr. Gibson, I was not molested; and
under this agreement I was in Major Ewing's camp several times, became
acquainted with him, and he treated me with courtesy. I did not take the oath
until many years after this, when I was elected a member of the Board of
Supervisors of Bolivar County.
In the years following the war, dark days for the South were
ushered in, when carpetbagger rule and Negro domination prevailed. Then was the
bitter chalice-the most humiliating, degrading draught ever pressed to the lips
of a brave and self-respecting people -and Bolivar County drank to the dregs.
During these times our county was under the absolute control of these
scoundrels and adventurers, who were kept in power by the votes of the Negro,
aided by the Scalawags, Southern renegades who worshipped the dollar more than
they regarded the honor of their country or the welfare of the white people.
During this dark period in the history of our country, our taxes became
confiscatory; and some of the fertile acres of our country are now held under
tax titles, which time limit of common law and statutory enactment have
perfected.
Our people of Bolivar County with the people of the entire
South endured these conditions for several years. Our county offices were
filled by alien thieves, Negroes, and Southern Scalawags; our legislative
assemblies, by the same base horde; our lands were confiscated by taxation,
which in a large measure was used to fill the pockets of this corrupt gang. In
short, it was hell! Our people, in their agony of poverty, humiliation, and
degradation, cried out in their hearts, "Who shall deliver us from the
body of this death?"
Then a great and inspired man caught the vision of an
invisible empire, which was realized in a surprisingly short time by the
organization of the Ku Klux Klan, to which every true Confederate soldier and
every white man of the South, loyal to his race, belonged. Thomas Dixon in The
Klansman gives a somewhat exaggerated history of this order. To the work of
this famous association, supported by the favorable sentiment of many of the
best people of the North, who misunderstood and condemned conditions as they
were in the South, we owe the integrity of the white race and perhaps the existence
of our government.
I cannot close these, I fear
desultory, recollections without mentioning the name of our great deceased
citizen, Charles Scott. I first knew him during the Civil War. He came to
Bolivar County, a very young, brief less lawyer in 1868 and 1869. We were
intimately associated, and I loved him. Together we organized in 1869 the first
social club, I think, formed in the county, known as the "Bachelor's
Mutual Aid Association," of which he was "dean" and I, secretary
and
treasurer. We married about the same time, in 1870, and a party was given in
our honor by ex-Governor Clark. Charles Scott, by his transcendent ability,
soon placed himself at the head of the bar of Bolivar County; and as long as he
lived was a dominant factor in civic affairs. He was a great man.
When I reflect on the marvelous
changes that have taken place since I was a boy; how our cane trails have been
superseded by broad gravel and concrete roads; our primitive conveyances, by
Pullman cars and automobiles; our vast cane brakes, by cultivated plantations;
our messenger on horseback, by telephone; our candles, by electric lights; in
fact the impossible of the past, by the possible of the present; I realize that
progress is the eternal law of Nature.
Mr. Burrus, a
former member of the Mississippi Senate, lived in Benoit. This article is a
condensation of
one he
contributed to the Bolivar County Democrat, February 23, 1923.
Mr. Burrus died
November 28, 1928.