A letter this morning from Sister M., who has returned to
her home on the Potomac. She gives me an account of many “excitements” to which
they are exposed from the landing of Yankees, and the pleasure they take in
receiving and entertaining Marylanders coming over to join us, and others who
go to their house to “bide their time” for running the blockade to Maryland. “Among
others,” she says, “we have lately been honoured by two sprigs of English
nobility, the Marquis of Hastings and Colonel Leslie of the British army. The
Marquis is the future Duke of Devonshire. They only spent the evening, as they
hoped to cross the river last night. They are gentlemanly men, having no airs
about them; but ‘my lord’ is excessively awkward. They don't compare at all in
ease or elegance of manner or appearance with our educated men of the South.
They wore travelling suits of very coarse cloth — a kind of pea-jacket, such as
sailors wear. As it was raining, the boots of the Colonel were worn over his
pantaloons. They were extremely tall, and might have passed very well at first
sight for Western wagoners! We have also had the Rev. Dr. Joseph Wilmer with us
for some days. He is going to Europe, and came down with a party, the
Englishmen included, to cross the river. The Doctor is too High Church for my
views, but exceedingly agreeable, and an elegant gentleman. They crossed safely
last night, and are now en route for New York, where they hope to take
the steamer on Wednesday next.” She does not finish her letter until the 17th,
and gives an account of a pillaging raid through her neighbourhood. She writes
on the 14th: “There had been rumours of Yankees for some days, and this morning
they came in good earnest. They took our carriage horses, and two others, in
spite of our remonstrances; demanded the key of the meat-house, and took as
many of our sugar-cured hams as they wanted; to-night they broke open our barn,
and fed their horses, and are even now prowling around the servants’ houses in
search of eggs, poultry, etc. They have taken many prisoners, and all the
horses they could find in the neighbourhood. We have a rumour that an infantry
force is coming up from Heathsville, where they landed yesterday. We now see
many camp-fires, and what we suppose to be a picket-fire, between this and the
Rectory. My daughters, children and myself are here alone; not a man in the
house. Our trust is in God. We pray not only that we may be delivered from our
enemies, but from the fear of them. It requires much firmness to face the
creatures, and to talk with them. The Eighth New York is the regiment with
which we are cursed. The officers are polite enough, but are determined
to steal every thing they fancy.” On the 15th she says: “This morning our
enemies took their departure, promising to return in a few days. They visited
our stable again, and took our little mare ‘Virginia.’ The servants behaved
remarkably well, though they were told again and again that they were free.” Again,
on the 17th, she writes: “I saw many of the neighbours yesterday, and compared
losses. We are all pretty severely pillaged. The infantry regiment from
Heathsville took their departure on Sunday morning, in the ‘Alice Price,’ stopped
at Bushfield, and about twelve took breakfast there. Mr. B. says the vessel was
loaded with plunder, and many negroes. They took off all the negroes from the
Mantua estate; broke up the beautiful furniture at Summerfield, and committed
depredations everywhere. A company of them came up as far as Cary's on Saturday
evening, and met the cavalry. They stole horses enough on their way to be
pretty well mounted. They will blazon forth this invasion of a country of
women, children, and old men, as a brilliant feat! Now that they are gone, we
breathe more freely, but for how long a time?” We feel very anxious
about our friends between the Rappahannock and Potomac, both rivers filled with
belligerent vessels; but they have not yet suffered at all, when compared with
the lower Valley, the Piedmont country, poor old Fairfax, the country around
Richmond, the Peninsula; and, indeed, wherever the Yankee army has been, it has
left desolation behind it, and there is utter terror and dismay during its
presence.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 192-4
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