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Camp Nelson
August 11, 1863
Perhaps the longest chapter of our journey has come to a close. Certainly, it has been the most dramatic and terrifying.
I recollect that with tears down my face and Cousin Mary's letter in hand, her pleas had become very intense for us to come to Catletsburg, I had been to the mill that day, and what was left looked more like Roman ruins, far from the functioning place it had once been.
Decidedly, we packed our bags, intent on taking a train north. The next bit is all so upsetting and frantic that any idea of a train did not come into being.
Birdie, my beloved sister in law, has trekked clear across two states with me, never wavering, never complaining, fearless, and ready for the next part.
At the last town, I penned a quick letter to my uncle Isaac, we were indeed on our way. Here, we crossed paths with other travelers, their destination, a place in Nicholasville, massive in nature, and very important in supplying the troops. This knowledge left me downtrodden and homesick. It seemed impossible to miss a place that certainly would not miss me. However, our husbands had been diligent in sending to the front. This thought carried me far away, home.
Now the time had come for our party of 15 to find a soft spot on the grass for the evening. We ambled down hill, and across a bridge, the space opened into the most beautiful grove I've ever seen. A slight hillside, a full-on running spring, and soft grass beckoned us to spread our bedrolls and nestle in there for the night.
The air slowly became cool, shoes one by one removed, coiffures cascading and braids hung lose over shoulders, and a hearty sip of Mrs. Debord's port, our rest could begin.
We met a recently emancipated lady, whom had been traveling when she learned of the good news of August 8, she produced for us some hearty pork pies from her tin, of which we were glad to receive. Between all of us, we mustered up enough for a hearty picnic, passing amongst ourselves, tomatoes, bread, cheese, and bits of dried beef.
Candles glowing softly, and conversations quietly mingled with the summer symphony of the crickets, katydids, and bullfrogs, and we were lulled to sleep.
One gentleman of our party took it upon himself to act as guardian. He tended the fire and watched over us with such care. Any time I would wake, to find Mrs. Hadley had stirred, he would be already providing her assistance, willing to meet any necessary task. I found comfort in this and sank further into the grass, wrapped in coverlet, Birdie sleeping soundly beside me. Tomorrow, we would beg sanctuary.
August 12, 1863
As the morning broke from darkness, we seemingly rose, all of us at the same time. Attempting to break our fast and attempting to tidy slept on hair, we finally readied ourselves for a final walk. Gathering our bedrolls, baskets, and bravery, we would climb to the main road, follow along the rock wall, and enter the gates leading to that great white house. Our men folk traded themselves from the back to the front of our line, ready to speak on our behalf.
The officers in their wool coats were propped upon the porch posts in a leisurely fashion when we approached them. I could not hear them speak but caught enough of the conversation to understand they had questions of any Confederates we had encountered, and were curious of our loyalties and whence we had come. I wanted to cry out that we were unionists, same as they. I kept stoic, unsure of the next move, and took a step closer to Birdie.
We were being led in, sanctuary was possible, they would lodge us here and offer some assistance. Canvas at least had walls and a roof and would suffice as an almost proper dwelling. Mrs. Gulley and the free woman, Miss Rose, had taken to grinding coffee beans, a gift from the commissary. A proper table had been presented to us and we could prepare for lunch. Being quite at home in the kitchen and having a love of these domestic duties myself, I gladly took the chore.
With these goods of flour, coffee, yeast, and salt pork delivered to us just that morning, our humble (new) home was almost inviting. The gentlemen at the commissary became fast friends of ours and in return for the use of their bread oven, I traded biscuits for bacon grease, the fruits of my labor as a small thank you, sparing 3 or 4 biscuits for their kindness.
At some commotion and jangling, a fife and drum lured us from our hearth and to the edge of the camp. A most glorious sight was there to behold!
Troops marched in, friendly nods and smiles exchanged, I expect they had not seen much other than themselves in quite some time. The scene was emotional, and I was silently overcome with it.
Once again, I questioned at what point my Hollingsworth kin would come for us or if that were even still possible. Shoving that down, and enjoying the moment, the fifers were spirited, and I found a smile upon my lips.
Laura Edwards Poole, Tennessee Unionist refugee 1863 at Camp Nelson.