Who Is She...: The Very Real Life of Lucy Pickens

By Phyllis Phillips

South Carolina first knew Lucy Petway Holcombe of Texas in 1857 when she chose money and power to become the bride of the long time politician, Francis Pickens of Edgefield. Twenty- five years her seniorricharrogantmalicioustypically and perfectly Southern manneredFrancis had and would do anything necessary to satisfy his unrelenting ambition. Until his death after the Confederate War, Lucy played her role, perfectly.

Lucy was thrilled by the elaborate words of her would be governor husband when he endorsed Secession: I would appeal to the god of battles if need be, cover the state with ruin, conflagration and blood rather than submit. Then, as First Lady she embraced the Cause and the War that led to the destruction of slaverythe state and the planter class. Loved by the people, and some said the Confederate Treasurer Menninger as well, her portrait was placed on one hundred and one dollar Confederate bonds while a unit of soldiers bore her worshipped name: The Holcombe Legion.

In defeat Lucy and Francis returned to Edgefield. For ten years the entire state was ruled by Carpetbaggers and Scalawags and unleashed slaves. White people lived in terror. Rebellion came in the blood letting election to name the Governor when the Confederate/Hero/General/One Time Aristocrat Wade Hampton -- now a widower fulfilled his destiny by rescuing the state from Reconstruction Government. Long admired by Lucy even as he was her husbands enemy Lucy and her daughter were part of the revolt and Hamptons victorious campaign.

Lucy lived the entire Confederate sagathe joythe defeatthe terrible fearthe gaining of personal strength. This is the story of what made the South the South as we know it today the story of what became of that lovingly remembered and longed for world, and a very beautiful woman who was a vital part of that world.

It can only be a Southern story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449073572

Phyllis Phillips

We left the University of Maryland and the heady world of being the number-one football team in the nation (my husband a coach) as well as the world of theater that I knew. Following my last role as Emily in the Arena Stage (Washington DC) production of Our Town, we moved to the South of the sixties. At the time I thought we had come to the edge of the earth. To try to understand and appreciate this new and strange world, it was necessary to know the past. What happened to make the South the way it was? I had to know the stories! The Southerner saw me as an outsider, and it was hard for them to share their secrets. However, a background in Literature/Theatre(MA)…professional theater…producer/hostess for SCETV evening programming…raising four children in a politically active family…ultimately gave me insight and learned courage to write my own conclusions about South Carolina’s intriguing past. In what can only be a Southern story, Memories is the South as I see it.

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© 2011 Phyllis Phillips. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/22/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4490-7357-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1457-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1456-7 (sc)

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Lucy Pickens, the young widow

WHO IS SHE ARRIVING LIKE THE DAWN,

FAIR AS THE MOON,

RESPLENDENT AS THE SUN,

TERRIBLE AS AN ARMY WITH BANNERS?

THE SONG OF SOLOMON

6:10

The very real life of Lucy Pickens

Contents

History/Legend

Prologue

Remembering: Mrs. Pickens

Remembering: Russia Of The Romanovs

Remembering:

Governor Pickens And Lady Lucy

Remembering:

Charleston, War, And Wade Hampton

Remembering: Soldiers

Remembering: Columbia

Remembering: The Return

Reality: War

Realty: Edgefield After The War

Reality: Edgewood

Reality: Revolution Prelude

Reality: Revolution:

Reality: Doushka

The Covenant

End Piece

Bibliography

History/Legend

History is merely gossip. —Oscar Wilde

History is lies agreed upon. —Napoleon Bonaparte

The extraordinary woman, Lucy Pickens, was the object of gossip in her own time, as she is still seen in today’s extravagant, legendary stories. And surely, her life story is evidence of lies agreed upon, as she is portrayed in Southern chronicles. She lived in the lovingly remembered time of the South that glorified the Confederate War. She was—and remains—a vital part of that lost world where women were lovely and perfect—and strong.

So who was she … what do we really know of the beautiful Lucy Pickens? What part of her history is gossip … what part lies?

Was her first love Lt. Crittendon of Kentucky? And was he killed in an ill-timed invasion of Cuba?

When her husband (twenty-five years older than Lucy) was the American Ambassador to St. Petersburg, did Tsar Alexander II—ruler of all Russia—seduce Lucy, and was her only child, Doushka, really his?

Did the Emperor/Tsar send Lucy a jewel a year to sustain her after the Confederate War?

In Charleston, did Lucy watch her husband — the ambitious and merciless politician and Secession Governor of South Carolina, Francis Pickens — hold their toddler Doushka who in turn held the flame to ignite the canon that shelled Fort Sumter, and therefore the beginning of the terrible War between the States?

Was the intelligent and smart Lucy her husband’s greatest asset during his tenure as Governor of South Carolina?

Did Lucy despise her husband while she pretended devotion?

Did Lucy—like the fictional Scarlet O’Hara—know the ways to please men? Raised in the South at a time when deceit and coquetry were finely polished arts and a female’s life was determined by a profitable marriage, was Lucy one of the most accomplished flirts?

Did she share her last years with the Southern giant (General/Governor/Senator) Wade Hampton?

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Five years after Lucy’s death, her granddaughter’s husband—a son of the Edgefield Sheppard family—marked Lucy’s resting place with a flat, full grave slab like that on her dead daughter Doushka’s grave. He would have us believe Lucy was the epitome of the perfect Southern woman.

THIS STONE IS ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A

BEAUTIFUL AND GRACIOUS LADY OF THE

OLD SOUTH. SHE WAS THE WIFE OF FRANCIS

WILKERSON (should be WilkINson) PICKENS, WAR GOVERNOR OF

SOUTH CAROLINA FROM 1860 to 1863

BEAUTIFUL IN PERSON, CULTIVATED IN MIND,

PATRIOTIC IN SPIRIT, SHE WAS LOVED BY ALL

WHO KNEW HER.

Or was Lucy Pickens one of the first liberated women whose freedom came with suffering, just as today’s emancipation from a woman’s prescribed role is painful?

Or was she a selfish, keenly calculating woman, rejecting her femininity and beauty while she paraded it to her own advantage as seen in today’s beauty queens?

Or was she an intelligent, sensitive woman caught in a world of tragedies and really capable of great love?

Or did she die a lonely woman, as the centennial edition of the Edgefield Advertiser wrote from another time: She—who like the exiled Empress of France—robbed of her loved ones—robbed of her wealth—is now left alone in the desolate home that is fast crumbling to ruin, a wreck of a glorious past.

Who was she? Was Lucy Petway Holcombe Pickens all these things … and more?

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Lucy Pickens, courtesy of Caroliniana Library, University of South Carolina

Prologue

Lucy Pickens despised Edgefield. Absolutely! And could she have escaped her gentle mother’s pious teachings, she would have screamed, Hate! Hate! God … God …I hate Edgefield, South Carolina! Instead, she muttered in quiet anger, How did this happen? How did I allow this return to living hell?

Mss Petty, you need to take some tea, Lucy’s maid/companion who knew her Missy’s every mood, tried to soothe. A nice Porter bring it to our compartment. He say he honored to have such a great lady on his train.

Lucy answered weakly, No, Cinda. No tea, realizing she no longer tried to teach the slave to speak correctly. It was just another useless effort since their return to America. No, dear Cinda, I must face what is before me. There is no way out of this misery. I am lost in the dark dread of returning to Edgefield.

Oh, Missy … things seem bad ’cause the war goin’ on. You still young … just thirty-two … still beautiful … still married to a rich man. The war goin’ to be over one day. We had happy times. They’s comin’ again.

No, Cinda, no. Not in Edgefield. Hope has abandoned Edgefield, Lucy spoke numbly as she looked blankly from the train windows. My life is like this bleak country we pass. Look. Look at the hunched over forms of trees the leafless, winter, Kudsu vines have climbed and overpowered and bent to the dull earth. That’s what Edgefield is to me. Those envious, treacherous vines have strangled life from me just as they have broken the wills of the straight, proud, struggling trees. Terrifying …

Terrifyin’ The slave had a habit of repeating words, as though Lucy’s feelings were her own.

Those grotesque … ugly … trees and vines are as legions of old, gray men. They come for me. Come across the drab, winter landscape of fields and pastures. They search for me, Cinda. There is no escape. Reaching out their long, entangled arms, they try to strangle life from me, just as they have the trees.

Now, Mss Petty, Cinda said, using the family’s affectionate name for Lucy, taken from her middle name, Petway. You know that ain’t so. You makin’ things up again.

"Is not so," Lucy’s educated mind rallied enough to correct Cinda.

Yes, Missy, Cinda said, not repeating the correction. Let’s me and you talk about happy times. Talk about Texas and your daddy, who love you too much … and your sweet mama … and your sister, Anna. That make you feel good. Make us both feel good.

Yes … Cinda. Texas, Lucy responded a little to the thought. Home to you too, Cinda. Yes, Texas. My loving … irresponsible … father … my precious mother, she said, murmuring the words, lovingly. And Anna. My dear sister, Anna—, her voice trailed in sweet memory.

Cinda was only ten when she first went to the big house with her father, Uncle Ned Hood—the Holcombe’s butler—to help raise Missy Petty. And the slave woman stayed with her charge, still, because she had been given to Lucy as a wedding gift from the concerned family. The dark, dark black woman left the secluded world she had known to travel strange lands in the company of her white child. In the course of their long travels, Cinda had learned that thoughts of Mama, Anna, and home meant comfort and pleasure, but she also knew that in the darkest times, those thoughts could bring unwanted memories of Lieutenant Crittenden. In fear, she watched her Petty form his name on her lips—the name Cinda never dared to say aloud.

John … John… Lucy whispered the words. New Orleans is where life changed for me and sent me on this God forsaken route to Edgefield. Cinda could see her Missy returning in memory to the Creole city—lost in that lovely time when she first knew John Crittenden.

Lucy’s mind again pictured her lover’s handsomely chiseled, Kentucky-angular face, his virile and muscular body. She saw again the sun on rich, thick black/brown hair he would not let curl. She knew again his deep, dark blue eyes that proclaimed his love for her. She heard again, the lieutenant’s sparkling wit, saw the wide, easy, white smile that accompanied it—accompanied all things in his charmed life.

Lucy spoke quietly, deep in pleasant memory. It was that sweet spring when Anna and I returned home from the Moravian school in Pennsylvania—the LaGrange Female Academy. We could not afford to be sent abroad, as we should have been, so Mama and Daddy surprised us by taking us to visit New Orleans. You remember… you went, too, Cinda.

Cinda murmured that she did, careful to not break the spell of Lucy’s pleasant memories.

"Oh, Anna and I were so educated, Cinda. We thought we knew everything that was worth knowing. She looked directly at Cinda and spoke assuredly, Unlike so many schools for girls, the Moravions taught their daughters to think, you know? Very different from the ‘fluff’ of French schools."

Thinkin’ that gets you in trouble, Cinda murmured inaudibly.

The world waited for us—Anna and I. Waited for us to sample everything wonderful in it. And Lucy’s mind escaped again.

Ever’thin’ wonderful, the servant echoed quietly.

Shortly after we arrived in that beautifully wicked city—and it really was wicked, you know, with men’s Quadroon lovers right out in public, while patient wives pretended not to notice the exquisite women and their riches—Daddy’s friends learned we were there.

Lots of friends …

Lucy remembered the pride she felt for her father and his courtesan ways. At such times, she could forgive his inability to manage money. Bred of Virginia’s gentlemen, Beverly LaFayette Holcombe knew an easy, self-assured grace.

And wasn’t your daddy handsome…?

"Mr. Maddox, the publisher of the New Orleans Crescent, invited us to a party at his sumptuous mansion in the American section of New Orleans. The ball was to honor Governor Quitman of Mississippi and his part in the Cuban invasion." The tone of Lucy’s voice was gay and expectant, inviting Cinda into her enchanted memories.

That was some grand place, wasn’t it Missy? Cinda spoke happily. And Mr. Maddox say such nice things about your daddy.

Yes, he was a friend to Daddy’s family in Virginia when the Holcombe’s knew wealth and refinement. Lucy’s voice took on a cutting edge. Refinement without money is a curse, Cinda!

Yes, honey, Cinda said weakly, as though she had heard that truth spoken many times and would talk of something else. I remember ever’body talkin’ ’bout Cuba. ‘Cuba … Cuba … Cuba … ’ Never heard of Cuba before.

That was why Governor Quitman was in New Orleans—a general, you remember, and a hero of the Mexican War. Daddy knew him in Texas when he fought for our independence. The governor was into acquiring land, too. He owned twenty thousand acres near us in Marshall, Texas—land he bought for fifteen cents an acre. But land acquisition was only a small part of his life.

I’s sorry we ever knew him, Cinda murmured.

Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the Mississippi Governor was a man consumed with ambition and happy only when he had a war to fight and power to gain. Quitman was supporting his friend, General Narcisco Lopez, who wanted to free Cuba from the horrible cruelties of Spain.

And the stories people told! Cinda shuddered.

I know. The one about the American who was killed by an iron figure of the Virgin Mary was the worst. That woman of love and safe-keeping had arms that wrapped around a man like he would be saved. But hidden in those arms were sharp blades that cut him to pieces!

Lord … Lord … think of that!

"The captured man had ‘loved the ladies,’ the Spaniards said, and this was his just reward."

Terrible … terrible…

Yes, Cinda, Spain was cruel beyond anything we could imagine. And all the town was talking about the Cubans and their suffering … and Lopez as their savior. General Lopez was Governor of Trinidad and had been forced to leave.

General Lopez already tried to take Cuba two times.

In the madness of the times, that didn’t seem important, did it? The third, planned filibuster had become the ‘cause celebre.’ People saw in Cuba another Texas. New Orleans had been the planning ground for our independence, too. There was a passion for Cuba’s freedom as planned by Lopez and Quitman and Maddox. An overwhelming passion! And Anna and I were absolutely thrilled by everything!

Lucy’s memory went to the Quitman party…remembering how she and her sister’s excitement grew as the Holcombes approached the Maddox mansion. They walked under groves of Oak and Palm, to enter an ornate, iron, gate to the candlelit gallery Suddenly, they stepped into a delicately and masterfully designed, palatial hall. Golden candlelight played through the perforated cornices that trimmed the length and breadth of the rich room. And when Mr. Maddox greeted the family in the reception hall of his opulent, Greek revival mansion—a home built specifically for magnificent parties—Lucy and Anna actually trembled with delight.

Even in such grandeur, people paused to look at the Holcombe sisters. In the company of their tall father and delicate, gracious mother, they held an imperial ease—an ease made beautiful by the girls’ joy and innocent enthusiasm.

The Holcombe sisters knew genuine beauty. Lucy’s extravagantly rich, gold–auburn hair and her very large, dark blue, almond-shaped eyes made one unaware at first glance that her body was perfectly formed with a tiny, coveted waist.

Anna’s beauty was much like Lucy’s, though not so perfectly balanced or so extraordinary. Her blonde–brown hair contained none of the deep, burnished gold seen and admired in Lucy’s.

Only the discerning eye would have realized that the girl’s dresses were less than fine, though cleverly made over. And no one knew that each wore her only pair of silk stockings.

Oh, Lucy … Lucy … we are in the famous ‘Gold Room,’ Anna breathed, looking at the ninety-foot long gilded ballroom and the gold and silver mirrors that lined the walls and ceilings.

Lush sounds of violins and cellos swelled softly from the adjacent room for musicians, and graceful dancers swirled by the stunned girls. Flickering candle flames from the Baccarat crystal chandeliers wove fascinating patterns of soft light into the vibrant colors of the fashionable dresses worn by sophisticated women—women very much accustomed to this gay party world.

Oh, Lucy … Lucy…, Anna breathed again.

Lucy’s laugh was low and mischievous. Anna, we must not act like ‘country come to town,’ though Marshall Texas does seem awfully far away. But Anna was too distracted to hear.

Lucy! Who is that lieutenant looking at you from across the room? Anna gasped. The one in the white summer uniform with Governor Quitman. He must be a Quitman follower, for they talk so confidentially. Look, Lucy! Lucy! He is still looking at you! No! Don’t look! Quickly … turn this way. Look toward me and talk like you don’t know he sees you. Lucy! Lucy … they are coming over here!

Anna turned to her beautiful sister to see that she stood very still, held captive by the young lieutenant’s eyes. Lucy had not heard Anna’s warning, and she waited for the two men to approach. The governor greeted the girl’s parents, presented the lieutenant to them, and abruptly turned to Lucy.

Miss Holcombe, the Governor of Mississippi spoke. This impatient, young man begs me to present him to you. He is Lieutenant John Crittenden of the Kentucky Crittendens. Your father may know his famous family.

Yes, lieutenant. I had the pleasure of meeting your father when he was Kentucky’s Governor, Mr. Holcombe spoke. And now he has returned to the U.S. Senate. A courageous man, we approve of his efforts to find a compromise in the constant North/South controversy.

Yes, sir. That ‘controversy’ rages at home, as well. One of my brothers would be a Union general, and the other, a general for the Confederacy. I agree with my father, who says we have a right to secede, but it is not wise to do so.

How difficult for your mother, Mrs. Holcombe sympathized.

I have also met your brothers, Mr. Holcombe still talked. You are a West Point graduate, too, I assume?

Yes, sir, the fine, young man said. Recently graduated. My brothers left me little choice. I have also promised my family to return home and read law in my father’s office, as my brothers do.

The lieutenant is in New Orleans to offer his services to the upcoming Cuban filibuster, Governor Quitman said.

Oh, dear … Mrs. Holcombe breathed.

No, dear lady. Do not fear, Quitman said quickly. This time we are assured success! The miserable Cubans are ready to rise up and overthrow their government. They need only encouragement and leadership. I, too, shall join this glorious cause later in June and am unhappy that I cannot go in this first attack. Quitman commanded respect, even though many people thought the portly, soft-skinned man with dark, receding hair no longer looked like a fighter. But as a friend to the Crittenden family, he continued, I have recommended John to Narcisco Lopez. As you may know, many of our finest families give sons to this glorious cause. And in General Lopez, we are fortunate to have a leader capable of putting a government in place. In the true American spirit, we have new lands to free and settle!

Lost in his own eloquent discourse and famous enthusiasm, the governor suddenly realized Lucy had not heard him. But young lady, he said, speaking directly to Lucy, John tells me emphatically that he will talk no more of Cuba until he has been presented to you. I must honor that request, as we are privileged to have the lieutenant’s pledge to help us invade the beleaguered island.

Beautiful, educated, intelligent Lucy Petway Holcombe could not speak as the shining lieutenant took her hand and moved toward the dance floor. Still looking into his captivating eyes, Lucy could feel the strength of him as her trembling hand touched his broad shoulder for the waltz.

I have never known such joy, Lucy told Anna late that night. He stayed with me all the rest of the time, even going to supper with us. Everything I have ever dreamed of in a man is in John Crittenden. He is the product of a family that knows how to make a difference in this world—adventurers, thinkers, movers! I love his easy assurance… his sweetness… his happiness. He is perfect, Anna. Perfect!

For a month, in that enchanted spring of 1851, until the Cuban invasion in May and the Holcombe’s return to Marshall, the lovers were inseparable.

Look at what I found! the loving lieutenant said, placing bunches of wild honeysuckle he had gathered in Lucy’s outstretched arms. Tears of love were in her eyes as she held the vines close to her.

This flowering vine grows in Kentucky in the summer. We have lots of it on our plantation, bordering fields and rambling alongside roads. It means summer nights … and sweetness … and love. We shall let it grow on our land—yours and mine. At evening when the sun sets and a Kentucky moon—brilliant like no other—rises, expectantly and silently, the odor of honeysuckle will gently fill the air around us. Its aroma will be a reminder of my eternal love for you. We shall sit on our piazza, and I shall hold you and all our children and wonder why God has been so good to us.

Or the lovers strolled the Vieux Croix and Jefferson Square in that famous city of desire, and the lieutenant would surprise Lucy and say, Come with me. Quickly!

And Lucy’s lover would whisk her away to a secluded spot long enough for a quick kiss and the promise of eternal love. Lucy would laugh and respond to him with a pure passion she had reserved for just such a man.

The magnificent lieutenant did not see the tears of fear for his departure—the painful joy—in Lucy’s beautiful eyes. The Cuban threat added a melancholy sweetness and urgency to everything the lovers said and did, each moment of their love … precious.

I love you! John would say repeatedly. How could I have found you? I have dreamed of you … formed you in my perfect world. And now you are real! You are real! He would almost shout as his hard body engulfed Lucy, pressing against her eager embrace.

Still lost in the memory of his muscular arms holding her, still feeling his wonderful body’s hardness and rhythm and strength, Lucy murmured to Cinda as they continued their ride on the train, You remember Cinda, Mama and Daddy gave us their blessings and we were to marry in Marshall as soon as John returned from Cuba. Oh Cinda, I was so happy … so sure … so … I loved him… she barely whispered.

I know, honey, Cinda answered, feeling her white child’s pain. I know. Ain’t never been such love.

Not really hearing Cinda, Lucy went on, But the wedding day I planned so lovingly never came, did it? Never came…

Oh, my baby—

I still remember the horror of receiving word that John had been taken prisoner. Still feel the sinking in my body as I saw the sun glint silver from the black carriage bearing John’s friends, who came with the dreadful news that he was dead. Saw them turning into the long drive at Wylucing, where Anna and I sat on the piazza. Knowing … knowing …

Don’t, baby. Don’t. I never should say ‘Cuba.’

Still, Lucy talked, Lopez and Quitman were wrong about Cuba’s desire for freedom. The reports that there were massive uprisings in central Cuba were not true, and the invasion force was spotted by the enemy even before they disembarked—most all killed or taken prisoner.

No, Petty. No.

Thousands of angry Cubans who had once honored Lopez stood by and watched while he died in a garrote, slowly and painfully choking to death. Our soldiers who were not executed still serve years of hard labor in the quicksilver mines in a penal colony on Spanish Morocco.

You musn’t carry on like this, honey. Such memories do nothin’ but hurt.

I have relived John’s capture and execution in front of that firing squad over and over. What did he suffer? Was death a blessing?

No, Missy…no…

I knew—even before his friends told me—his last words were of love for me. And he has come to me in my dreams so many times to repeat those words of love. Still, when I need him, he is with me. I feel him unexpectedly in the soft wind that brushes my face—his touch. And I am surprised that he is there. I know him in the darkness of night when he comes to my bed to hold me. So many times … So many times…

Please don’t, baby—

And remember, Cinda, she continued with anger in her voice, "how I wrote, how fiercely I wrote the Romance, Free Flag over Cuba, and the story of the invasion. I tried to appease John’s death. I wanted to prove their cause was noble and my lover’s death had purpose. And the critics said, ‘There was a union of grace and vigor in the language.’"

Yes, honey, but don’t forget the critics also say that Lopez should not be praised.

"I shall never believe