My Old Confederate Home (11 page)

Holloway had spent the years since Fort Delaware working at a variety of state bookkeeping and auditing jobs. A widower, he left Frankfort to return to farming in Scott County when Fayette Hewitt resigned as state auditor, and his friendship with Hewitt earned him early acceptance to the Kentucky Confederate Home. Holloway arrived in Pewee Valley before the formal opening to help Superintendent Ford prepare the building for occupancy. He and Ford had been detailed to the depot to meet the governor.

Holloway's first impression of Governor Beckham was likely the same as all who saw him for the first time: he was so
young.
The governor was well barbered, beardless, with oiled hair parted down the middle in the current style for young men. Beckham was hatless; he dressed carefully and well without looking dandified.

But Beckham was no fragile youngster who had to be handled with sugar tongs. Despite his youth, Governor Beckham betrayed no lack of confidence as he worked his way down the receiving line, every move graceful and practiced without seeming so. He gave the impression of being someone who knew how the world turned and was willing to keep it spinning in the right direction. Maybe he was up to the job.

Within a few moments, Beckham had made his way down the receiving line. He, his mother, Senator J. C. S. Blackburn, and the other out-of-town dignitaries stepped into decorated carriages for a quarter mile parade to the grounds of the Kentucky Confederate Home, escorted by an honor guard of Kentucky Military Institute cadets.

Seventy-eight-year-old Lorenzo Holloway and Superintendent Ford walked back to the Home behind the parade of open carriages.

Thirty minutes later the special train from Louisville arrived, six cars carrying 100 boisterous state UCV reunion delegates and their own brass band. The band struck up “Dixie,” and the ex-Confederates formed into ranks. Flag-bearers flanked the procession—Stars and Stripes in the place of honor at the head of the right-hand column, Stars and Bars on the left—as they marched in column (mostly in step) up the crushed-rock carriageway to the grand building they would later dedicate for the use of Kentucky's invalid and indigent Confederate veterans. Wild cheers from the crowd greeted the flags, the sound of “Dixie,” and the waving veterans.
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Some of the arriving dignitaries joined Governor Beckham and Senator Blackburn to inspect the building. Visitors marveled at the sheer luxury of the Home, surrounded on three sides by a wide, comfortable verandah. At a time when only city dwellers knew such amenities, the Home had gaslight in every room, steam heat throughout, and roof cisterns that allowed for indoor bathrooms on the first and second floors. There were seventy-two guest bedrooms already furnished, two oak-paneled parlors, and a dining room that could seat 125 comfortably. The former lobby had been converted to a library, and more than a thousand volumes lined the shelves. Just the week before, movers had delivered a pipe organ and an upright piano, along with box after box of sheet music.

Governor Beckham pronounced the home “beautiful,” a splendid place where noble old veterans could weather the storms of winter while receiving the necessities of life.

Bath County stockman A. W. Bascom and his wife, Mary, were among those who bypassed the tour. “Do you remember the band coming in from Louisville about one o'clock and the veterans marching behind?” Mary Bascom asked a friend later. “A. W. and I fell in just behind the standard bearers and wove on through the crowd and out to the tables for dinner. We then came back and stood twenty feet left from the speakers stand.”
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Having been fed and entertained, the crowd was ready for the speechifying to begin.

At two o'clock, to the strains of “My Old Kentucky Home,” the governor, the chairmen of the various dedication committees, and the invited orators filed onto a temporary platform erected on the driveway in front of the Home. Bennett Young, John Leathers, Leland Hathaway, and other officers of the state veterans' organization wore their gray UCV uniforms. (Major General J. M. Poyntz, commander of the Kentucky division, the man who had presided over the statewide meeting that sparked creation of the Home and who appointed the Committee of Twenty-Five, was absent. His only son had been shot and killed in a duel several days earlier, and Poyntz couldn't bear to leave his family.)

Six feet tall, ramrod straight, his hair and mustache shining white in the bright sunshine, Bennett Young stepped to the podium to begin a ceremony that would celebrate the ex-Confederates and honor their gift, while hitting all the notes of the Lost Cause ritual.

Young first introduced the state UCV chaplain, the Reverend E. M. Green, who invoked God's blessing on the veterans, the Home, the Commonwealth of Kentucky, and the United States of America.

Next, Young called H. M. Woodruff, mayor of Pewee Valley, to the podium. Obsequious as a hotel desk clerk, Woodruff began with a clumsy apology for the town's earlier opposition to the Kentucky Confederate Home. “We feel somewhat like the old folks did when the daughter ran off and married the man of her choice: after the knot was tied, the best thing was to receive the young couple back into the bosom of the family.” After a few more halfhearted words of welcome, the perspiring mayor returned to his seat on the platform.

But these were just the warm-up acts. As the band struck up “Dixie” once again, Colonel Leland Hathaway, vice president of the Home's board, strode to the podium.

“It is my duty and pleasure to introduce to you … a man who needs no introduction to Confederate soldiers,” Hathaway began, “and a man who in days gone by needed none to our friends, the enemy.”

Cheers broke out before Hathaway could finish. “I have the honor of presenting to you General Joseph H. Lewis of the Confederate army.”

Whoops and yawps and Rebel yells exploded from the crowd, a thunderous ovation lasting a minute or more as Lewis rose from his seat on the platform and made his way to the podium.

Lewis needed no introduction. Every Confederate infantryman in Kentucky knew him.

Forty years earlier, Joseph H. Lewis had shuttered his law practice to recruit an armed regiment when Kentucky's rump convention seceded from the Union. Lewis's regiment joined with others to become the First Kentucky Brigade, under the command of Brigadier General John C. Breckinridge, former vice-president of the United States. This Kentucky brigade, organized and trained outside its home state, fought across the South, but would never return to fight in Kentucky. By the end of the war—following the deaths of Roger Hanson and Ben Hardin Helm—Kentucky's Orphan Brigade was under the command of General Joseph Lewis.
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Most of the ex-infantrymen in Pewee Valley that day were veterans of the Orphan Brigade, Kentuckians who were never able to return as a unit during wartime to their home state. For those years they were “orphans,” their only home the Confederate army.

General Lewis was brief in his remarks, and in less than five minutes touched all the Lost Cause bases. He praised the valor of his Confederate veterans (“the fight we made was a manly and upright one”), the constancy of their beliefs (“steadfast and true to our convictions”), ultimate reconciliation (“our ill will against the Union of States ceased”), and unremitting patriotism (“despite political ostracism attempted by mad men and bad men”).

These men of the Lost Cause had proven themselves worthy, the general pronounced.

“The foundation [of the Home] teaches a lesson which should not be lost on our young men,” the old warhorse concluded to more cheering. “It shows that men who do their duty honestly and fearlessly are not forgotten in their old age.”

Bennett Young wanted to be sure the financial needs of the Home weren't forgotten, either. When applause for General Lewis subsided, Young stepped to the podium to receive a donation of $110 in gold from two Union veterans. In a few words, Young expressed his appreciation for the gift and the spirit of brotherly love in which it was rendered.

Veteran J. L. Haines, backed by the Confederate Quartet, brought the crowd to its feet once again with “Tenting on the Old Camp Ground” and a medley of old camp songs before Young returned to the podium to introduce Captain William T. Ellis.

Like Young, Ellis was one of those Civil War boy wonders whose fuse was lit by the war and whose career rose like a rocket. He enlisted in the First Kentucky Confederate Cavalry at age sixteen, returned home to Daviess County relatively unscathed after four years, then graduated from Harvard Law School by the time he was twenty-five. Ellis opened a law practice in Owensboro in 1870, and the same year won election as county attorney. In 1886 he mounted a campaign for U.S. Congress and served two terms in Washington. He was an active organizer of Confederate veteran camps in western Kentucky and a powerhouse in Democratic politics.
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An experienced stump speaker, Ellis knew how to grab an audience, even one made drowsy by a warm day and a heavy lunch. Grinning down from the podium at the hundreds of gray-clad veterans in his audience, Ellis broke the elegiac spell cast by earlier speakers.

“It is evident that all the young Kentuckians who, some forty years ago, served in the Confederate Army are not yet dead,” he began, gaining an appreciative chuckle. “And if we're to judge from present indications, they have no intentions of voluntarily capitulating as long as their rations hold out.”

From his years in politics, Ellis could deliver a respectable stemwinder. He quoted the Bible, cited scholars, and recited poetry, all in oratorical service to the Lost Cause touchstones of valor, constancy, reconciliation, and patriotism.

The crowd interrupted Ellis time after time with thunderous applause during his hour-long oration, but he earned the greatest roars of approval when he spoke of the debt his audience owed the men of the Confederate generation:

“The young men Kentucky gave to the Confederate army rendered their state some service,” he bellowed from the podium, “and are, as they and their friends believe, entitled to a respectable place in its history.”

As the congressman concluded his speech and the audience cheered, Bennett Young led a schoolgirl with a large box of flowers to the podium. She presented the flowers to Ellis, and Young introduced Miss Laura Talbot Galt to the audience, who recognized her name immediately. Little Laura had been turned out of her Louisville public school for refusing to sing “Marching through Georgia” in a school assembly. Indignant newspaper editorials throughout the South brought about Laura's reinstatement and the removal of the despicable Yankee song from schools throughout the Southland.
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For a full two minutes Laura stood at the front of the platform with Ellis's arm on her shoulder, the Lost Cause heroine and the Lost Cause orator enveloped by adoring cheers from the crowd.

To be a first-rate orator at the beginning of the twentieth century required lungs like leather saddlebags, a diaphragm as solid as a manhole cover, and vocal cords more resilient than piano wire. In those days before electronic amplification, a man—there were few top-tier women orators—had to address a group of people large enough to fill a minor league ballpark and make his every word heard and understood. Moreover, he had to modulate his voice sufficiently to convey emotion and maintain interest. And, to make things even more difficult, he often had to do this in an outdoor setting, his voice competing with crying babies, the natural rustle of a crowd, a whistling breeze, or even passing trains.
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Captain Ellis was an excellent stump speaker; but, by all accounts, Bennett H. Young was an inspired orator.

His eulogy for Winnie Davis in 1899 and his high-spirited invitation to Louisville for the 1900 UCV reunion earned Bennett Young a seat (literally) on the national Confederate veterans' stage. He had learned all the movements of the Lost Cause symphony, and it was a tune he could play by heart. Behind a lectern Young was scholar, storyteller, teacher, and poet. When he chose to turn on the charm, it flowed in irresistible waves; when he intended pathos, women sobbed and men reached for handkerchiefs. By 1902 there was hardly a monument ceremony, battlefield dedication, or Confederate reunion where Bennett Young wasn't invited to be the featured speaker.

Shortly before three o'clock he returned to the podium before the 10,000 men, women, children, and babies awaiting formal dedication of the Kentucky Confederate Home.

“Comrades, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “[Today] witnesses the speedy consummation of the most important enterprise ever inaugurated by the Confederate soldiers of this Commonwealth.”

Young went into a brief (and prideful) recap of the founding of the Home. “It is less than a year since the state reunion of the UCV … declared its purpose and formulated plans to establish on a liberal scale and secure foundation a Kentucky Confederate Home.”

Kentucky's Confederates have, in this and other ventures, Young reminded his audience, “reflected on the state nothing but credit and renown.”

Turning to look at the building behind him, he mused on the nature of the men who would come to live there.

“There will be men here in this Home who, with their comrades, marched with unblanched cheeks into the fires which belched from Federal guns up and down the slopes of Chickamauga's hills.”

A cheer arose from the veterans who remembered Chickamauga all too well.

“There will be men here to pass the closing years of their lives who charged down along the valley of Stones River on that dreadful afternoon of January 2, 1863.”

More cheers from the men who survived that bloodbath.

“The men who will come here will be those who walked without fear amid the awful carnage of Shiloh.”

Rebel yells now, and more cheers from a crowd that had been primed to respond to these legendary names.

“There will be men here to live out the closing days of their lives who rode with … the valiant Forrest.”