A Year in the South (9 page)

The next day he had some work to do. He and his friend George Whillock, who had come up from Roane County with him, had to get the carriage fixed. It had broken down during their journey as they were climbing the steep bank of the Tennessee River, just after crossing on the ferry at Loudon. Had it not broken down there, it would undoubtedly have done so somewhere else along the Loudon-Knoxville road. In normal times this road was one of the most dependable in east Tennessee, but it had fallen into disrepair over the last few years, like so many other things in this war-ravaged region. It was washed out in some places and deeply rutted in others, a victim of the marching of armies and the disruption of local government. John and George managed to patch up the carriage sufficiently with leather straps to get to Uncle Thomas's, but they knew it would never make it back to Roane without repairs by a blacksmith.
5

The fact that the two young men had encountered no hazards on their journey other than ruts and mud was, John knew, a lucky thing. Most of east Tennessee's roads these days were not only dilapidated but dangerous. The Yankee army had wrested control of most of the region from the rebels in the fall of 1863—to the great joy of the unionist majority, who had waited impatiently while the Yankees conquered the other sections of the state—and there were now ten thousand federal occupation troops stationed in the region, distributed among the larger towns. But the Northern occupiers could exert only limited authority outside these garrisoned posts. Much of the countryside remained unpacified, crawling with secessionist guerrillas and frequently raided by Confederate cavalry. Unionist guerrillas were likewise on the prowl, terrorizing their secessionist neighbors. Bandits roamed around, too, preying on unionist and secessionist families alike. If John Robertson—a former Confederate soldier who had taken the oath of allegiance to the United States to get out of prison—should fall into the hands of any of these armed bands, he would be in extreme danger. He knew, however, that the Loudon-Knoxville road was considerably safer than most, for it was anchored at each end by a Yankee garrison and well patrolled. Nevertheless, he had made sure to pack his pistol along with his cigars.
6

There was a blacksmith's shop two miles from the Colliers' farm. John and George drove the carriage there on January 2 only to find that the blacksmith was not in. John, who had picked up a smattering of all sorts of skills while growing up in Greene County, was undeterred. He and George fired up the forge and then “went to work and fixed [the carriage] ourselves.”
7

George then took the carriage back to the Colliers' while John walked a bit farther to see some friends, the Browns. He had lived with this family on their little farm for a time in late 1863 and early 1864, while he was employed in supplying firewood to the Yankee troops in Knoxville. He remembered the Browns fondly, for they had been “kind and good” to him, and he did not want to leave the neighborhood without paying his respects.
8

As he approached their house he saw John Brown, the head of the family, on the porch. Brown spotted him and said, “
Well,
if there isn't John, and I was dreaming of him last night; [I dreamed] he was here.” The whole family greeted him warmly and asked many questions; they were especially curious to know if he “was still a seeker of religion.” When he assured them he was, they told him there was a revival in progress at a nearby schoolhouse. John Brown, who was a minister as well as a farmer, was leading the revival. The Browns begged John Robertson to stay with them while the good work continued.
9

“Their commencing on me so sud[d]enly, gave me a great sho[c]k,” John later wrote. “I knew nothing of the [revival] till I got to Brown's.” He was stunned, too, by John Brown's prescient dream. Surely there was something more at work here than mere coincidence. “It seemed that by Providence I had been thrown here.”
10

He accepted the Browns' invitation to stay and that night went to the schoolhouse. When the call came for “mourners” to come forward to the anxious seat, Parson Brown approached him. “John,” he said, “no doubt you have a good Mother now at home praying for you.” These words struck John with great force. His mother, whom he revered, had long worried about his soul and “had sent up to the throne of God many petitions for me.” Now, as her image appeared in his mind, “I felt my sins more … than ever.” He stood and walked forward to take his place.
11

At this stage of his spiritual life, John was, as he and other evangelicals expressed it, “deeply convicted.” He had searched his heart and seen himself for what he really was: a sinner, repugnant in the eyes of God and unworthy of salvation. He was sick with guilt and remorse. His only hope was that God would see fit to forgive his sins, change his heart, and grant the gift of eternal life.
12

The catalogue of John's sins was not a long one, but it was sufficient to damn him if God's grace was not forthcoming. By his own reckoning, the “wickedest day” he had ever known was one in 1863 when he stole a horse from a unionist neighbor in Greene County and later got drunk and threw up. He had robbed unionists on other occasions, too, when he was in the home guard, and he had played cards. While in the Confederate army he had gotten in the habit of swearing; and he had once stolen a rifle from a fellow soldier. He had obeyed all the other commandments, however, except that he might have killed some Yankees in combat. He did not know: there was so much smoke and confusion on the battlefield that only God could tell if any of the bullets he fired had found their mark.
13

His sinfulness now oppressed him like an enormous weight on his back. Seated prayerfully on the anxious seat, he awaited the advent of the divine hand that would lift the burden. But it did not come. “I struggled hard, but to my grief I could find no relief.”
14

He returned to the Browns' home that night disappointed but undaunted. He was certain that a sign had been given him when he arrived at the Browns', and he would not throw away this opportunity. “For several days I struggled in this way. I could neither eat nor sleep.” Each morning and evening he made his way to the schoolhouse. All around him “a mighty work was being done.” Many of those present were seized by the spirit and transformed on the spot. At times John would leave the crowded schoolhouse for “secret prayer,” hoping to find in private what eluded him in public. But this, too, availed him nothing. “[S]till I would cling to the world with one hand and reach for mercy with the other.… Thus I suffered under the load of guilt and sin for sever[a]l days.”
15

On the morning of January 10 he rose, ate breakfast with the Browns, and then retired to pray until time for the meeting. More fervently than ever he offered himself. “I made a bold struggle to give myself whol[l]y up to God. I vowed to spend the remainder of my days in his cause if he would only give me evidence of my pardon.”
16

It was rainy that day, and the path to the schoolhouse was muddy. John went “with a sad and weary heart.” His earnest quest had so far gained him nothing but a heavier burden of guilt. He entered the building and took his seat with the mourners. As the service got under way, he prayed.
17

It happened about noon:

I felt that a beam of light had entered my sad and aching heart, that my weight of guilt was removed.… I ventured to rise. Uncle T[homas] Collier was there; the first man I noticed was him drawing his overcoat; he sprang forward and gathered me. This was a time of rejoicing. I was perfectly calm, no ways excited. I was greatly rejoiced, but kept it to myself. I was not of that disposition to make a noise, though it was a bright day to me. This joy did not come in the way expected. “The fire, wind and earthquake passed but the Lord was not in them; then came a Still Small Voice.”
18

He stayed with the Browns for another two weeks and went to the schoolhouse every day and night, “not feeling willing to leave the happiest place I had ever seen.” No longer chained to the mourners' bench, he joined the chorus. “All the singers was worn out by the almost constant singing. I done the best I could for one week; then I was worn out too.” The revival ended twenty-two days after it began. Sixty-four conversions was the final tally, sixty-four men, women, boys, and girls who, in John's words, “had been made to rejoice by the goodness of God.”
19

In the days and weeks following his conversion, John felt nearly overwhelmed by the sense of transformation. “It was now to me, as begin[n]ing to live again. I was now entering on a new life.” He knew it would not necessarily be a comfortable life: “my cross would at times be hard to bear.” There was always the danger that he might “backslide.” So he continued to pray hard, “asking for strength and aid to bear me on through life and to enable me to resist the many temptations I knew would beset me.”
20

Almost forgotten in the euphoria of his conversion was the errand that had brought him to Knox County: selling his cigars. George Whillock had long since returned to Roane County with the carriage; and so, after bidding the Browns farewell, John gathered up his wares and made his way alone the few miles to Knoxville. He was disappointed to find that there was a cigar-making establishment in town and all the stores were well stocked with that particular commodity. “I could not sell cigars in K[noxville] for any price.” As it happened, however, Uncle Thomas maintained a little grocery store in town and was looking for someone to clerk there. John, who had no urgent need to return to Roane right away, agreed to work in the store for a while.
21

He had spent time in Knoxville before, first as a Confederate soldier and later, after the town fell to the Yankees, as a prisoner of war and as a supplier for the garrison troops. The grim ugliness of the place was therefore no surprise to him. The town, which sat on the north bank of the Tennessee River and in normal times could boast a certain charm, had suffered badly since the war began, thanks mainly to military occupation by one side and then the other. “[A] mass of dismal, dilapidated, weather-beaten buildings,” is how one visitor described Knoxville in early 1865, “… with narrow, muddy, filthy streets.”
22

Surrounding the town was a ring of defensive works consisting of deep trenches and stout breastworks punctuated by hilltop redoubts with cannons. In the area between the edge of town and the circle of fortifications, virtually every blade of grass and every stalk of wheat and corn had been trampled into the mud. Beyond the fortifications, for hundreds of yards, every tree had been cut down and hauled away to provide a clear field of fire. In these barren stretches could be seen the shallow graves of Confederate soldiers who had died during the rebel army's abortive attempt to recapture the town in late 1863. Even in the summer there was little greenery visible in or around Knoxville. It was a hideously scarred landscape painted in shades of gray and dull brown, and now the bleak winter weather made the scene even drearier.
23

The town was a depressing sight, but at the same time it was bustling. The population, about 5,300 before the war, was close to 8,000 now, not counting the troops. There were thousands of blue-clad soldiers, some billeted in town, others camped around the perimeter, and their presence was pervasive. Many of the town's buildings had been seized for army use and new ones had been constructed. The Lamar House on Gay Street, once Knoxville's best hotel, was now quartering troops. The Deaf and Dumb Asylum had been turned into an army hospital. There were two military prisons and a number of warehouses and repair shops. The commander of the District of East Tennessee, Brigadier General Davis Tillson, had his headquarters in Knoxville. And the U.S. Sanitary Commission, a Northern benevolent association dedicated to the welfare of Union soldiers, had an office in town.
24

The wartime population boom and the Yankees' appropriation of buildings conspired to create a serious shortage of living accommodations. “Every house, stable, kitchen and shanty in the town is occupied,” the local newspaper reported. John Robertson was fortunate to be able to room in the store where he worked, for lodging in Knoxville was very expensive. In fact, everything in town was expensive. Because so little food or other provisions could be drawn from the ravaged country around Knoxville, the bulk of the town's supplies had to come from the North by way of Nashville and Chattanooga—a long, costly trip by rail and water. High prices were at least partly responsible for the rash of thefts in Knoxville. As the newspaper noted, thieves were “digging under smoke-houses, robbing corn-cribs, breaking into stores, and stealing clothes off of lines and fences.”
25

No one broke into John's store while he was there, but he had other annoyances to contend with. The cold, for one thing. The temperature remained unusually low and the store was poorly heated. “I suffered no little, at night,” he recalled. The late hours kept by some of the townsfolk interrupted his slumber, too: “The City way of sleeping did not suit me.” He was particularly disturbed by the goings-on at Reed & Riley's opera house, which was right next to the store and featured musical shows or plays every night. Not only did the place generate a lot of noise and violate the sanctity of the Sabbath, but it also put temptation in John's path. He was admittedly “fond of places of amusement,” but he believed them to be, like novels, a worldly indulgence that distracted one from the course of righteousness. The opera house beckoned seductively, but John remained strong: “I found it very hard to resist it, but did.”
26