Sheridan's raid through the country is perfectly awful, and
he has joined Grant, without being caught. Oh, how we listened to hear that he
had been arrested in his direful career! It was, I suppose, the most cruel and
desolating raid upon record — more lawless, if possible, than Hunter's. He had
an overwhelming force, spreading ruin through the Upper Valley, the Piedmont
country, the tide-water country, until he reached Grant. His soldiers were
allowed to commit any cruelty on non-combatants that suited their rapacious
tempers — stealing every thing they could find; ear-rings, breastpins, and
finger-rings were taken from the first ladies of the land; nothing escaped them
which was worth carrying off from the already desolated country. And can we
feel patient at the idea of such soldiers coming to Richmond, the target at
which their whole nation, from their President to the meanest soldier upon
their army-rolls, has been aiming for four years? Oh, I would that I could see
Richmond burnt to the ground by its own people, with not one brick left upon
another, before its defenceless inhabitants should be subjected to such
degradation!
Fighting is still going on; so near the city, that the sound
of cannon is ever in our ears. Farmers are sending in produce which they cannot
spare, but which they give with a spirit of self-denial rarely equalled. Ladies
are offering their jewelry, their plate, any thing which can be converted into
money, for the country. I have heard some of them declare, that, if necessary,
they will cut off their long suits of hair, and send them to Paris to be sold
for bread for the soldiers; and there is not a woman, worthy of the name of
Southerner, who would not do it, if we could get it out of the country, and
bread or meat in return. Some gentlemen are giving up their watches, when every
thing else has been given. A colonel of our army was seen the other night,
after a stirring appeal had been made for food for the soldiers, to approach
the speaker's stand with his watch in his hand, saying: “I have no money, nor
provisions; my property was ruined by Hunter's raid last summer; my watch is
very dear to me from association, but it must be sold for bread.” Remembering,
as he put it down, that it had been long worn by his wife, now dead, though not
a man who liked or approved of scenes, he obeyed the affectionate
impulse of his heart, took it up quickly, kissed it, and replaced it on the
table.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee,
During the War, p. 340-1
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