A Southern Missive

There’s something intriguing about the saints. One movie that really made me think about the way saints attract and influence us is the movie, The Saint, with Val Kilmer. Anyway, I wanted to make this post about the patron saint of my three favorite countries: Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.  I intend to visit them all some day.

Wales

The patron saint of wales is St. David. He was born around Pembrokeshire and died about A.D. 601. March 1 is St. David’s Day and the Welsh traditionally wear a leek or a daffodil. (Shakespeare alludes to this practice in Henry V). St. David was abbot-bishop at Mynyw (St. David’s). He was known for his opposition to heretics and founded over a dozen monasteries known for their extreme asceticism. His shrine at St. David’s was an important pilgrammage destination.

Scotland

St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland. He was the brother of Peter, a fisherman. His symbol is the saltire. (St. Andrew’s Cross was the origin of the state flag of Alabama and of the Confederate Battle Flag. St. Andrews (the city and famous golfing site) became a destination for pilgrims. His day is Nov. 30.

Ireland

The patron saint of Ireland is of course, St. Patrick. (A.D. 389-461) There is more to say about him than I can post, but here are the lyrics to a popular song about him, written by Henry Bennet. The song is said to date back to the 1820s.

Saint Patrick was a gentleman, he came from decent people
He built a church in Dublin town and on it put a steeple
His father was a Gallagher, his mother was a Grady
His aunt was an O’Shaughnessy and his uncle was a Brady

The Wicklow hills are very high and so’s the hill of Howth, sir
But there’s a hill much higher still, much higher than them both, sir
From the top of this high hill Saint Patrick preached a sermon
Drove the frogs into the bogs and banished all the vermin

There’s not a mile in Eireann’s isle where dirty vermin muster
But there he put his dear forefoot and murdered them in clusters
The frogs went plop, the toads went flop, slapdash into the water
The snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue he charmed with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloe in soups and second courses
Blind worms crawling on the grass disgusted all the nation
Down to hell with a holy spell he changed the situation

No wonder that them Irish lads should be so gay and frisky
Sure Saint Patrick taught them that as well as making whisky
No wonder that the saint himself should understand distilling
His mother had a shebeen shop in the town of Enniskillen

O was I but so fortunate as to be back in Munster
I’d rebound unto that ground and nevermore should want, sir
There Saint Patrick planted corn, cabbages and praties
He had pigs galore, a gra a stor, altar boys and ladies

Something You May Not Know About Lincoln:

One of the first targets of Lincoln and his administration as the Civil War was getting underway was the state of Maryland. He arrested legislators, citizens, the mayor and police chiefs of Baltimore, censored newspapers and arrested editors, abolished habeas corpus,  suppressed all political opposition, suppressed free elections, occupied Baltimore and other areas of the state with the military, and placed Baltimore under marshal law. (He did this other places too. In fact, DiLorenzo says in his fine book, The Real Lincoln, that Lincoln arrested over 13,000 political prisoners in the North!)

Ironically, Maryland’s present state song, “Maryland, My Maryland,” commemorates Lincoln’s invasion, purge of pro-South leaders, and his takeover of the state. Though formerly allied with the Union against the South, there were many regiments from the state who fought with the South. It should also be added that Maryland remained a slave state in the war.

This site says this about the background of the song (the same site is also the source of the lyrics):

“Maryland, My Maryland” was adopted as the State song in 1939 (Chapter 451, Acts of 1939; Code State Government Article, sec. 13-307).
The nine-stanza poem, “Maryland, My Maryland,” was written by James Ryder Randall in April 1861. A native of Maryland, Randall was teaching in Louisiana in the early days of the Civil War, and he was outraged at the news of Union troops being marched through Baltimore. The poem articulated Randall’s Confederate sympathies. Set to the traditional tune of “Lauriger Horatius” (”O, Tannenbaum”), the song achieved wide popularity in Maryland and throughout the South.

Here are the lyrics:

The despot’s heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle queen of yore,
Maryland! My Maryland!
II
Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,
Maryland!
My mother State! to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird they beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! My Maryland!
III
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,-
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! My Maryland!
IV
Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland! My Maryland!
V
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own anointed throng,
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chaunt thy dauntless slogan song,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VI
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain-
“Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back again,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VII
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek-
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VIII
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!
IX
I hear the distant thunder-hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line’s bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb-
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes! she burns! she’ll come! she’ll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!

Scots Whae Hae (Confederate Version)

I transcribed the lyrics from the 12th Louisiana String Band, a fine group of Confederate musicians. In my Scots-Irish program, I often do the original version written by Robert Burns that records the words of Robert the Bruce to his men at the battle of Bannockburn. As so many Southerners were of Scottish origin, a Confederate version of the song should come as no surprise.

Rally round our country’s flag
Rally, boys, haste, do not lag,
Come from every vale and crag,
Sons of liberty

Northern vandals tread our soil,
Forth they come for blood and spoil,
To the homes we’ve made with toil,
Shouting slavery

Traitorous Lincoln’s bloody band
Now invades the freeman’s land
Armed with sword and firebrand,
Against the brave and free

Arm ye then for fray and fight
March ye forth by day and night
stop not till the foe’s in sight
sons of chivalry

In your veins the blood still flows
Of brave men who once arose
Burst the shackles of their foes,
Honest men and free

Rise then in your power and might
See the spoiler, brave the fight,
Strike for God, for truth for right.
Strike for liberty.

Rose O’Neal Greenhow is one of the most interesting women of the Civil War. I encourage you to read more about her. She was a spy for the Confederate Government. Here is a short story I wrote about her and her daughter. I’ve included a photo of Rose and Little Rose. Let me know what you think of the story.

Little Rose and the Confederate Cipher

Sacred Hearts Convent, England, 1871

The nuns here taught me that a “cipher” is a dark secret. My life’s been filled with dark secrets, and most of them the world will never know, and some of them I’ll never understand.

My father died not long after I was born, and I’ve no memory of him. I was only nine years old when my mother drowned in 1864. She had left England on a blockade runner, but the ship grounded on a sandbar off the coast of Virginia. Fearing capture by the Yankees, she tried to escape, but her rowboat overturned and the Confederate gold she carried dragged her to the ocean’s bottom. I still miss Mama, but I don’t cry for her like I did. I know I’m not the only child who lost her mama in the war of the South’s secession, but it doesn’t make losing mine any easier.

Sometimes I dream of the day Mama and I were arrested and sent to Old Capitol Prison. I had just looked out the window. “Lincoln’s Pinkerton man is back, Mama,” I said.

My mother, also named Rose, had been writing on a small piece of paper. The handwriting was strange to me. Confederate cipher she called it. She set down her reading glasses and dropped the pen into the inkwell. “Tell me what you see, Little Rose.”

“He’s outside talking with two Yankee soldiers. You want me to open the door?” I heard the man knocking.

“You know they’ve come to take me to prison.”

I nodded.

“My friends warned me.” She blew the blotting sand off the paper and rolled it into a tiny cylinder. “So, I want you to take this. Put in your stocking, and promise me no one will ever see it. Tell me, Little Rose.”

“I will never show it to a living soul.”

When I opened the door, the Pinkerton man strode past me and said, “Rose Greenhow, you and your daughter are under arrest for treason.” He nodded to the soldiers with him. “Search the house.”

“You’re going to arrest Little Rose too?” mother asked.

“Those are my orders.” He grinned cruelly. “As General Sherman said, ‘There is a class of people—men, women, and children—who must be killed or banished before we can hope for peace and order. To the secessionist . . .’

“Death is mercy,” my mother said. “I know what General Sherman thinks. I’ve entertained him in this very house. What are you looking for?”

“Information you’re intending to pass to the enemy,” he replied.

My mother glanced at me and smiled. “You’ll find no evidence of that here, sir.” I wanted to spit on this man and his guards who had come to arrest my mama. My ill will must have shown on my face because my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Rosey. Shhh.”

Old Capitol Prison was a terrible, dilapidated place. Once it had been a grand boardinghouse where she had been courted by men like Congressman John C. Calhoun. It wasn’t grand when I saw it. I still recall the gallows I could see through the iron bars of our window and the others there with us—blockade runners, spies, and Confederate general. There were even newspaper editors from the North who had dared to criticize Lincoln or Stanton or Seward.

We weren’t given much food in the five months we were there. Without the help of some of the other prisoners and people on the street who would slip us food, we would surely have starved to death. At times I was so hungry and cold that I would cry myself to sleep on that hard prison bed. I knew my mother was hungry too, but she never complained. She would just pat my back and sing softly to me until I fell asleep. She had a toughness that most mothers don’t have.

One day, that Yankee photographer, Matthew Brady, came to Old Capitol Prison and photographed us. I’m told he did it because we were the most notorious Confederate prisoners there, and I guess it means something to be famous like that. Brady’s photograph is the only one I have of my mother. The photograph will tell you some things about us, but it won’t tell you of the hardships we endured there—the abusive guards, the bugs, the hunger, the cold, nor will it tell you about the cipher in my gray stocking.

Mother never told me what the cipher meant, nor if that little piece of paper was what the Yankees were looking for. I had always meant to ask her about it.

Years later, I stand outside the convent my sister had placed me in when Mama drowned and whispered my goodbye. I sighed and wondered what parts of me had been left in its cold stone walls, my home now for over six years. The nuns had been good to me, tutored me, cared for me, but they couldn’t take the place of my mama, the “Wild Rebel Rose.” Nor could they take away the anger and pain in my heart. My mama’s war had cheated me of my childhood and taken away my mother and sisters. I couldn’t decipher why it all had happened to me.

At my sister’s house, I retired early and found myself missing Mama. I removed my scuffed shoes and carefully peeled the gray stocking off my foot, waiting for the faded cipher to fall out and float to the floor like it had every night. It didn’t. I panicked and quickly turned the stocking inside-out. I realized that the little piece of paper was gone.

The cipher I never understood was lost. Just like my mother. Like my childhood. Just like the lost cause of the Confederacy. But I had kept my promise to my mama. I have never shown that piece of paper to a living soul.

Rickey Pittman
rickeyp@bayou.com
1105 N. 8th St.
Monroe, LA 71201
318-547-2906
995 words