| 
Charles
Campbell Calhoun, father of E.R. Calhoun
photo c. 1878 |
Sunday,
October 12, 1941
Recollections,
by Emmet R. Calhoun
My father was a
non-commissioned officer in Capt. Rice's company in a Tennessee regiment
of infantry, recruited at Memphis in 1861. Capt. Rice was grandfather
or granduncle of Grantland Rice, well-known current sports writer. While
the regiment was recruiting and drilling at Memphis, urgent call came
for a crew to take a steamboat on a trip to New Orleans and back. My father,
being a steamboat man, was solicited to make the trip, and reluctantly
got permission from the military authorities to do so; but his reluctance
was based on the belief "the war would be over before the boat could get
back." Many times I heard him say, later, he wished it had been over,
for he served four years and two months in the Confederate Army. Getting
back from his boat trip to New Orleans, he went with his company and regiment
into the Battle of Shiloh (the Yankees call it the Battle of Pittsburg
Landing) on the Tennessee River. Capt. Rice's company had no arms, because
no muskets had been given to them, though through misunderstanding or
lack of knowledge the company had been ordered into the line of battle.
It happened, however, in the battle the first day the Federal troops had
been driven back so fast a battery of 12 guns was deserted and was "captured"
by Capt. Rice's unarmed infantry company.
*
* *
By this "capture"
Capt. Rice's infantry company became "Rice's Battery." Only a few of his
men understood serving cannon, but within a short time, under instruction
of an artillery officer, the company personnel became expert artillerymen
and Rice's Battery made an outstanding record in many battles of the war
as history shows. It was in this Battle of Shiloh that an unusual circumstance
transpired. My father's brother, Alexander Campbell Calhoun, was a marine
(technical) engineer. While studying in Philadelphia he designed a marine
engine which seemed to outclass all others for medium craft. The engines
were manufactured at Pittsburgh, Pa., under his inspection, and many of
the Yankee gunboats sent into the South were equipped with these engines.
They were new and not thoroughly tested, and so Alexander Calhoun was
"impressed" into Federal Service and was with the Yankee gunboat fleet
at the Battle of Shiloh (Pittburg Landing). At close of the first day's
fighting my father, knowing that his brother was in the gunboat fleet,
sought to see him, and was given safe conduct through the Yankee lines
and visited him. His brother, like himself, was a strong Southern sympathizer,
and he only accompanied the gunboat fleet on compulsion as a technician
for his engines.
*
* *
This historic Battle
of Shiloh reminds me of old Indian Tom, whom this column has mentioned
before. In my early boyhood Indian Tom was a well-known character in Columbus,
Miss. He was a Choctaw full-blood Indian with one leg and walked with
two crutches. He wore his hair long on his shoulders and sold blow-guns
to the boys. He was an expert with the blow-gun and in season would bring
into town and sell wild turkeys, ducks, squirrels and even 'possums that
he had killed or taken--always investing the proceeds of his sales of
these specimens of his prowess with the blow-gun in whisky, with which
he would get "gloriously" drunk and be taken to the calaboose to sober
up. Very many unenlisted Choctaw indians, it is said, engaged in the Battle
of Shiloh on the Confederate side. The scene of the battle was in their
ancient hunting grounds, which had been sacred to them for centuries.
Old Indian Tom, whenever asked about how he lost his leg, always said,
"Shot off by damnyankee--same as Absin John" (Gen. Albert Sydney Johnston,
who wounded at the Battle of Shiloh in the leg, bled to death before realizing
he was desperately wounded).
*
* *
Alexander
Campbell Calhoun not only designed the marine engine with which many Yankee
gunboats were equipped, and for which engine he received only a nominal
sum from the government, but he invented the multiple plow that bore his
name. After the war he established a foundry and machine shop at Columbus,
Miss. and designed and manufactured some of the most ornate and intricate
wrought iron grills, railings and draperies produced in this country.
His work was in great demand (he died in 1871) and can be identified in
many Southern cities by the letters D or A C C .
*
* *
--"Recollections,"
by Emmet R. Calhoun, The Birmingham
News-Age-Herald.
|
Sunday,
December 7, 1941
Recollections,
by Emmet R. Calhoun
When my family removed
to St. Louis, Mo., from Columbus, Miss., in the early 1870's, we took
along with us two Negro servants, Joe and Ella. Joe had been our yardman
and general factotum and Ella our maid, cook, and general house servant.
I do not recall their surnames, as they were only known to me by "Uncle"
Joe and "Aunt" Ella. Joe had daily shaved my father and cut
his hair when needed for several years, and he came to be an expert in
barbering. When the family arrived in St. Louis we stayed for a week at
the Southern Hotel awaiting the arrival of our household furniture and
the procuring of a home. There was difficulty in finding lodgings for
Joe and Ella, but finally this was cared for satisfactorily.
*
* *
Our family went to
St. Louis with a modest fortune, accumulated in government contracts for
provisioning Yankee garrisons of soldiers at Columbus and other nearby
places. My father opened a provisions depot, dealing in fresh and cured
meats, fruits and vegetables. It was one of the largest placed of its
kind in the city--taking up nearly a quarter of a block. Sometimes there
were as many as 100 barrels of apples, 100 crates of cabbages, 100 crates
of oranges, lemons, lettuce, celery, turnips, grapes, carrots and such
things in proportion. He did a jobbing as well as retail business and
was prospering. He did not like the business, personally, wishing to go
back to steamboating, but had yielded to mother's aversion to his going
back to the river, as it would take him away from home weeks at a time.
There was really nothing amiss in our lives, everything going fine and
profits from the business accumulating reasonably fast. The family in
its new home had found congenial neighbors and friends and mother seemed
happy.
*
* *
One
day Joe, our Negro man servant, came to my father and told him he wanted
to branch out in business and open a barber shop. At that time there were
only a few white barbers, and practically none in St. Louis, and Joe had
found a three-chair barber shop that he could purchase for $600. Father
endeavored to dissuade him, told him he could scarcely read and write,
and that he could not make a success of the venture, even if he had the
money for the investment. But the outcome was my father gave Joe the money
after he had himself looked into the deal. Time went on and Joe's business
grew. He eventually moved his shop to the Southern Hotel and increased
it to 16 chairs. He opened other barber shops and in a few years was rated
as one of the richest Negroes in St. Louis. Financial reverses came to
my father from some wildcat investments and he was almost broke financially.
Joe learned of it and came to see him, saying if father had not brought
him to St. Louis, he himself would have had nothing-- and he left an envelope
with a large sum of money.
*
* *
When
my mother learned that Joe had given father this money, she was furious,
and demanded that it be returned to him at once. "The idea,"
she said, "a white man being under financial obligations to a Negro--it
is repulsive, and it must not be." My father also had scruples against
accepting the money from Joe, but he reasoned with mother that it would
smooth matters out for a time and when he was on his feet again he could
make return. Mother was unconvinced--her scruples came from the idea of
a white man receiving aid from a former Negro slave. It seemed to her
disgraceful. Nevertheless, the money was used to recoup the business that
had been surrendered--and shortly my father's provisioning depot was again
going full blast, with an increased business.
*
* *
One
evening father came home with a bag over his shoulder, saying he had a
pet for the three children and that whoever guessed what it was could
claim it. We guessed puppies, kittens, etc., but we were wrong. Then he
opened the bag--and it was a tiny brown bear cub, not larger than a puppy,
but bulkier and more clumsy-looking. Mother was aghast, wanting to know
what in the world we would do with a cub bear, and said it could not remain
with us. Father explained that a certain Missouri River boat had come
in and a friend of his aboard had brought the cub to him, saying he brought
it as a pet for the children. Ha had got it from an Indian high up the
Missouri River, giving the Indian a bottle of whisky for it, after the
Indian had refused a silver dollar. The Indian said he shot the mother
bear, not knowing she had cubs, that the mother bear had crushed one cub
when [text here is missing]
*
* *
That
story was enough for mother. Instantly her sympathies were aroused and
she went and got a bowl of milk, and in a few moments the milk was gone,
and then another bowl and another until the little fellow was so bulged
out in the sides he looked as though he had swallowed bowl and all. We
named him Don and fixed him a nice box with excelsior bedding to sleep
in. It was judged from his size that he was only six or seven weeks old.
We children were elated and for many days children for blocks around came
to see and admire our pet. He would follow like a dog and always wanted
to tumble and roll over like a puppy. When we would wool him too much
he would lope off and get into his box and make as though he was asleep.
We kept him in the house, but at night he would prowl about, and sometimes
climb in our beds. In two or three months he had grown so large that he
was put into the backyard, but he would climb up the porch pillars and
rattle at the windows to be let in.
*
* *
We had
a farmer to bring us a tree and this was sunk into the ground and the
limbs trimmed so they projected two or three feet. The top was sawed off
and a small platform nailed on. Hardly had this been completed before
Don was up to the very top and standing erect upon his hind feet. Mother
was fearful he would fall and get hurt, so she had the little platform
knocked off. But this didn't faze Don. He would climb up and awkwardly
get his feet on the tree stump, about eight or 10 inches in diameter,
and stand there erect minutes at a time, and then scamper down like a
cat. He was getting so large and rough that we children were told to stay
away from him. A high board fence was built around his climbing tree.
I would open the gate and go in frequently to play with Don, but one day
at play he was so rough he literally tore my clothes off and scratched
me severely in several places. After that incident, I was forbidden to
go into the enclosure.
*
* *
Don
eventually became so large that my father took him to his provisions depot
and kept him chained to one of the iron posts in the building, with a
wire netting enclosure so that curious persons would be out of possible
danger. One night Don broke his chain and roamed over the depot, leaving
a chaos of barrels and boxes of fruits turned over, broken open and scattered.
Policemen heard the racket when Don broke a window with iron bars across
it and was trying to get out. They kept him back with their night sticks
and a messenger was sent for father. When he arrived he had no trouble
in leading Don back to his place and chaining him. Father offered to give
the bear to the St. Louis Zoo, but it had more bears than it wanted, so
Don eventually was doomed to be killed and butchered; and this was done.
He weighed nearly 400 pounds when dressed. His skin was tanned and a taxidermist
arranged the skull with glass eyes and outstretched paws and hind legs
with the claws, and a fine floor rug was produced. But mother for sentimental
reasons would not hear to it being placed in the home and it was given
to a friend.
--"Recollections,"
by Emmet R. Calhoun, The Birmingham
News-Age-Herald. |
Annie
Missouri Rodwell Calhoun
photo c. 1878 |
The
following column speaks of the death of E.R. Calhoun's mother, Annie Missouri
Rodwell Calhoun, due to tuberculosis. The "large city in the Northwest"
of which he speaks, is St. Louis, Missouri; the home to which they remove
in the South is Columbus, Mississippi. The author was a child of nine
years old, when Annie Missouri died.--KP, 11/02
Sunday, March
22,1942
Recollections,
by Emmet R. Calhoun
Once upon a time
there was a family, reared in the South, that removed to a large city
in the Northwest to establish a new home. After a residence there of seven
years the mother took ill. Doctors did what they could, but finally advised
that she return to the milder climate of the South, as the rigorous Winters
of snow and ice in the Northwest were too severe to admit of improvement
in her condition. So, in March, when the thaw began, she was sent back
to her girlhood home. The eldest boy was less than nine years old, but
his mother had always called him "little man," and so he thought
much responsibility devolved on him on the trip South. He was very solicitous
of his mother's comfort, and she would "make-believe" how comforting
"little man's" attentions were. Shortly, the mother and children
were domiciled in the home of the maternal grandparents back in the girlhood
home town of the mother.
*
* *
There was an immediate
improvement in the condition of the sick mother. With warm sunshine, the
grass greening, fruit trees blooming and shrubs blossoming, there was
hope that the mother would get well. The father has been left back in
the city to conduct his business. The sick mother would be placed in a
big rocking chair out in the sunshine each day, and she and the little
boy would play rolling croquet ball back and forth, the mother stopping
the rolling ball with her feet. Evry so often the little boy's aim was
not good and the mother would miss the ball. The little boy would run
up quickly , recover the ball and go back to roll it again. A few minutes
of this sport so exhausted the mother, however, that she had to be helped
into the house and lie down. Neverthelees she would tell the little boy
it was a great game and that she would play with him again next day. This
was in April and May, but in June and July the mother could not play with
the little boy--she had to spend most of the time in bed.
*
* *
The
doctor was coming to see the sick mother about twice a week, but the little
boy thought that if he came oftener his mother would get well the quicker.
One day he hid behind a large cape jasmine bush near the front gate and
when the doctor came from the house he accosted him. "Mr. Doctor,"
he said, "if you are making mother well, couldn't you make her well
faster if you came and doctored her every day?" "Well, sonny,"
said the doctor, "maybe so, I guess I'll have to come oftener."
But notwithstanding the doctor's more frequent visits, there was a steady
decline. One day, after the mother had been bedridden several weeks, the
little boy was in her room and she asked him to have "Aunt"
Leah," Negro servant, to draw a bucket of cool water as she was very
thirsty. "Aunt" Leah was busy in her washtubs, but when the
little boy told her his mother wanted some cool water, she dropped everything
and went to the well, saying she would get a bucket of the coldest water
in the well. Coming back she told the little boy she would give his mother
the drink, but he insisted that he wanted to give it to her himself--so
"Aunt" Leah raised the weary head from the pillow and the little
boy held the glass of water to his mother's lips.
*
* *
Next
morning the mother motioned to the little boy to come to her bedside.
He leaned over on the bed and the mother tried to place her hand on his
head, but because of weakness it fell off. The little boy took his mother's
hand and held it on his head. "Little man," said the mother,
"I am going to leave you soon, and you are going to grow to be a
big man. Everybody will love you because you will be kind and good."
But where are you going, mother? Can't I go, too?" asked the little
boy. "No, little man, you must stay and look after your little brothers
and sister, until we all get together again." The little boy was
bewildered, he did not understand; but he loved his mother dearly and
wanted to do as she said. In afternoon of next day he was called into
his mother's room and witnessed her passing-- peaceful release from a
long illness. The little boy was inconsolable and wept through the night
without sleeping. Next day was the funeral and interment, and great banks
of flowers everywhere with the cape jasmine predominating, and ever after
the little boy has been reminded of his greated grief whenever he scents
the odor of cape jasmine. Many years have passed and the little boy is
now an old man, but every now and then he is wrenched with anguish and
the hot tears flow whe he remembers his boyhood and his loving mother.
My mother passed to the Great Beyond Sept. 1, 1879, nearly 63 years ago.
Just 32 years old.
*
* *
--"Recollections,"
by Emmet R. Calhoun, The Birmingham
News-Age-Herald. |
