Showing posts with label John Bowyer Brockenbrough. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Bowyer Brockenbrough. Show all posts

Friday, February 5, 2016

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: Tuesday Morning, May 17, 1864

For some days the cannon has been resounding in our ears, from the south side of James River. Colonel Garnett has come in to tell us that for the first two days there was only heavy skirmishing, but that on yesterday there was a terrific fight all along the lines. Yesterday evening a brigadier, his staff, and 840 men, were lodged in the Libby Prison. Nothing definite has been heard since that time. The impression is, that we have been generally successful. Very brilliant reports are afloat on the streets, but whether they are reliable is the question. My nephew, Major B., has just called to tell me that his brother W. is reported “missing.” His battery suffered dreadfully, and he has not been seen. God grant that he may be only a prisoner! We suppose that it would have been known to the fragment, of his battery which is left, if he had fallen.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 268

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: April 9, 1863

On Monday saw B. removed from the bed of suffering, on which he had been lying four months, put on a stretcher, and carried to the canal-boat. His countenance was full of joyful anticipations of home. His arm, which should have been amputated on the field, hangs lifeless by his side; and yet he expects to return to his post, that of Major of artillery, as soon as he is strong enough. Poor fellow, it is well for him to amuse himself with the idea, but he will never again be fit for any duty but that at a post. He has been the recipient of kindnesses from Mr. and Mrs. P. and others, which could only be experienced in this dear, warm-hearted Southern country of ours, and which he can never forget to his dying day. That night I spent with my kind friend Mrs. R, and next morning made such purchases as were absolutely necessary for our comfort. I gave for bleached cotton, which used to be sold for 12½ cents, $3.50 per yard; towelling $1.25 per yard; cotton 50 cents a spool, etc. Nothing reconciled me to this extravagance but that I had sold my soap for $1 per pound!!

The enemy has retired from Vicksburg, their canal having proved a failure. Where they will reappear nobody knows. Another ineffectual attempt upon Charleston on the 7th and 8th.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 204-5

Monday, July 27, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 26, 1863

In the city again yesterday. B. improving. The morning papers report firing upon Vicksburg. Several steamers have arrived lately, laden for the Confederacy. Blockade-running seems to be attended with less danger than it was, though we have lately lost a most valuable cargo by the capture of the “Princess Royal.” The “Alabama” continues to perform the most miraculous feats, and the “Florida” seems disposed to rival her in brilliant exploits. They “walk the water,” capturing every thing in their way, and know no fear, though many vessels are in pursuit. I am grieved to hear that my dear little J. P. has been ordered to Charleston. While he was on James River, I felt that I could be with him if he were wounded; but he is in God's hands:

“Be still, my heart; these anxious cares
To thee are burdens, thorns, and snares.”

The papers full of the probable, or rather hoped for, intervention of France. The proposition of the Emperor, contained in a letter from the Minister to Seward, and his artful, wily, Seward-like reply, are in a late paper. We pause to see what will be the next step of the Emperor. Oh that he would recognize us, and let fanatical England pursue her own cold, selfish course!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 194-5

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 13, 1863

Still in Richmond, nursing B. He was wounded this day two months ago; but such fluctuations I have never witnessed in any case. We have more hope now, because his appetite has returned. I sent over to market this morning for partridges and eggs for him, and gave 75 cents apiece for the one, and $1.50 per dozen for the other. I am afraid that our currency is rapidly depreciating, and the time is approaching when, as in the old Revolution, a man had to give $300 for a breakfast. Mrs. P. came in to scold me for my breach of good manners in buying any thing in her house. I confessed myself ashamed of it, but that I would be more ashamed to disturb her whenever B's capricious appetite required indulgence. I have never seen more overflowing hospitality than that of this household. Many sick men are constantly refreshed from the bounties of the table; and supplies from the larder seem to be at the command of every soldier. One of the elegant parlours is still in the occupancy of the wounded soldier brought here with B.; his wound was considered slight, but he suffers excessively from nervous debility, and is still unfit for service. I did feel uncomfortable that we should give Mrs. P. so much trouble, until she told me that, having no sons old enough for service, and her husband being unable to serve the country personally, except as a member of the “Ambulance Committee,” they had determined that their house should be at the service of the soldiers. Last summer, during the campaigns around Richmond, they took in seven wounded men, some of whom had to be nursed for months.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 191

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 12, 1863

We have lately had a little fight on the Blackwater. The Yankees intended to take General Pryor by surprise, but he was wide awake, and ready to receive and repulse them handsomely. The late democratic majorities at the North seem to have given the people courage; denunciations are heard against the despotism of the Government. Gold has gone up to 160, causing a ferment. Oh that they would “bite and devour one another!” Since I have been so occupied in nursing B. I have not had as much time for the hospital, but go when I can. A few days ago, on going there in the morning, I found Miss T. deeply interested about a soldier who had been brought in the evening before. The gentleman who accompanied him had found him in the pouring rain, wandering about the streets, shivering with cold, and utterly unable to tell his own story. The attendants quickly replaced his wet clothes by dry ones, and put him into a warm bed; rubbing and warm applications were resorted to, and a surgeon administered restoratives. Physical reaction took place, but no clearing of the mind. When soothingly asked about his name, his home, and his regiment, he would look up and speak incoherently, but no light was thrown on the questions. He was watched and nursed during the night. His pulse gradually weakened, and by the break of day he was no more. That morning I found the nameless, homeless boy on the couch which I had so often seen similarly occupied. The wind had raised one corner of the sheet, and as I approached to replace it a face was revealed which riveted me to the spot. It was young, almost boyish, and though disease and death had made sad ravages, they could not conceal delicately-carved features, a high, fair forehead, and light hair, which had been well cared for. He looked like one of gentle blood. All seemed so mysterious, my heart yearned over him, and my tears fell fast. Father, mother, sisters, brothers — where are they? The morning papers represented the case, and called for information. He may have escaped in delirium from one of the hospitals! That evening, kind, gentle hands placed him in his soldier's coffin, and he had Christian burial at “Hollywood,” with the lonely word “Stranger” carved upon the headboard. We trust that the sad story in the papers may meet some eye of which he had once been the light, for he was surely “Somebody's Darling.” Sweet lines have been written, of which this sad case reminds me:—

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
      Where the dead and dying lay—
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls—
      Somebody's darling was borne one day:—
Somebody's darling I so young and brave,
      Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face—
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave—
      The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
      Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould—
      Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from the beautiful, blue-veined brow,
      Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hand on his bosom now—
      Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake;
      Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,—
      They were somebody's pride, you know
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
      Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair
      Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! He has somebody's love .
      Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
      Night and morn, on wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
      Looking so handsome, brave, and grand
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay;
      Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
      Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
      And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
      Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on a wooden slab o'er his head—
      “Somebody's darling slumbers here!”

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 188-91

Monday, July 20, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 11, 1863

For ten days past I have been at the bedside of my patient in Richmond. The physicians for the third time despaired of his life; by the goodness of God he is again convalescent. Our wounded are suffering excessively for tonics, and I believe that many valuable lives are lost for the want of a few bottles of porter. One day a surgeon standing by B's bedside said to me, “He must sink in a day or two; he retains neither brandy nor milk, and his life is passing away for want of nourishment.” In a state bordering on despair, I went out to houses and stores, to beg or buy porter; not a bottle was in town. At last a lady told me that a blockade-runner, it was said, had brought ale, and it was at the medical purveyor's. I went back to Mr. P's instantly, and told my brother (B's father) of the rumour. To get a surgeon's requisition and go off to the purveyor's was the work of a moment. In a short time he returned, with a dozen bottles of India ale. It was administered cautiously at first, and when I found that he retained it, and feebly asked for more, tears of joy and thankfulness ran down my cheeks. “Give him as much as he will take during the night,” was the order of the physician. The order was obeyed, and life seemed to return to his system; in twenty-four hours he had drank four bottles; he began then to take milk, and I never witnessed any thing like the reanimation of the whole man, physical and mental. The hospitals are now supplied with this life-giving beverage, and all have it who “absolutely require it,” though great care is taken of it, for the supply is limited. Oh, how cruel it is that the Northern Government should have made medicines, and the necessaries of life to the sick and wounded, contraband articles!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 187-8

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: January 23, 1863

The gentlemen had their friend, General Lovell, to spend last night with them. I was sorry not to be able to see more of him, as I was too sick to remain in the parlour, having been occupied night and day with my dear B., who has been again very dangerously ill, with erysipelas in his wound. We are troubled about our son J., who has just been ordered to North Carolina; but we have no right to complain, as his health is good, and his position has hitherto been very pleasant.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 186-7

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: January 16, 1863

Just returned from Richmond. B's situation still precarious, and I am obliged to stay with him a great deal. I see a number of officers and other gentlemen in his room; they seem to be in fine spirits about the country. Our President's Message has been enthusiastically received. It is a noble production, worthy of its great author. I think the European public must contrast it with the Northern “Message” most favourably to us.

Several friends have just arrived from Yankeedom in a vessel fitted out by the Northern Government to receive the exchanged prisoners. About six hundred women and children were allowed to come in it from Washington. They submitted to the most humiliating search, before they left the wharf, from men and women. The former searched their trunks, the latter their persons. Mrs. Hale, of California, and the wife of Senator Harlan, of Iowa, presided at the search. Dignified and lady-like! One young friend of mine was bringing five pairs of shoes to her sisters; they were taken as contraband. A friend brought me one pound of tea; this she was allowed to do; but woe betide the bundle of more than one pound! Some trunks were sadly pillaged if they happened to contain more clothes than the Northern Government thought proper for a rebel to possess. No material was allowed to come which was not made into garments. My friend brought me some pocket- handkerchiefs and stockings, scattered in various parts of the trunk, so as not to seem to have too many. She brought her son, who is in our service, a suit of clothes made into a cloak which she wore. Many a gray cloth travelling-dress and petticoat which was on that boat is now in camp, decking the person of a Confederate soldier; having undergone a transformation into jackets and pants. The searchers found it a troublesome business; not the least assistance did they get from the searched. The ladies would take their seats, and put out first one foot and then the other to the Yankee woman, who would pull off the shoes and stockings — not a pin would they remove, not a String untie. The fare of the boat was miserable, served in tin plates and cups; but, as it was served gratis, the “Rebs” had no right to complain, and they reached Dixie in safety, bringing many a contraband article, notwithstanding the search.

The hated vessel “Harriet Lane,” which, like the Pawnee, seemed to be ubiquitous, has been captured near Galveston by General Magruder. Its commander, Captain Wainwright, and others were killed. Captain W. was most intimately connected with our relatives in the “Valley,” having married in Clarke County. He wrote to them in the beginning of the war, to give them warning of their danger. He spoke of the power of the North and the impotency of the South. He thought that we would be subjugated in a few months — little did he anticipate his own fate, or that of his devoted fleet.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 183-5

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: January 8, 1863

On the 16th of December, the day after the last entry in my diary, I went to Richmond, and found Bowyer Brockenbrough at the house of Mr. Payne, on Grace Street, surrounded by luxury, and the recipient of unnumbered kindnesses; but so desperately ill! The surgeons had been up all night in the various hospitals, and, as numerous as they were, they were sadly deficient in numbers that night. The benevolent Dr. Bolton had taken his wife and her sister, who had learned the art of binding up wounds, to his hospital, and all night long they had been engaged most efficiently in their labour of love. Other ladies were engaged in offices of mercy. Women who had been brought up surrounded by the delicacies and refinements of the most polished society, and who would have paled at the sight of blood under other circumstances, were bathing the most frightful gashes, while others were placing the bandages. I found B. suffering the most intense agony, and Mrs. P. agitated and anxious. No surgeon could be obtained for private houses. I sent for one, who was not an army surgeon, to come at once. He sent me word that he had been up all night, and had just retired. Again I sent to implore him to come; in five minutes he was there. He told me at once that his situation was critical in the extreme; the Minié ball had not been extracted; he must die, if not soon relieved. He wanted assistance — another surgeon. To send in pursuit of Dr. Gibson for my brother, then stationed at Camp Winder, and to telegraph for his father, occupied but a few moments; but the surgeons could not come. Hour after hour I sat by him. To cut off his bloody clothes, and replace them by fresh ones, and to administer the immense doses of morphine, was all that Mrs. P. and myself could do. At dark, Surgeons G. and B., accompanied by my brother, arrived. They did what they could, but considered the case hopeless. His uncle, General R. E. Colston, arrived, to our great relief. He joined us in nursing him during the night. The cars were constantly coming in. Shouts of victory and wails for the dead were strangely blended. I was glad that I did not hear during that dreadful night that the body of that bright, beautiful boy, that young Christian hero, Randolph Fairfax, had been brought to town. The father, mother, sisters! — can they bear the blighting stroke? The hope, the pride, almost the idol of the family, thus suddenly cut down! We, too, mourn him dead, as we had loved and admired him living. We had watched his boyhood and youth, the gradual development of that brilliant mind and lofty character. His Christian parents are bowed down, but not crushed; their future on earth is clouded; but by faith they see his abundant entrance into the kingdom of heaven, his glorious future, and are comforted. Another young Christian soldier of the same battery was shot down about the same moment — our young friend David Barton, of Winchester. Three months ago his parents buried their oldest son, who fell nobly defending his native town, and now their second has passed into heaven. The Church mourns him as one who was about to devote his life to her sacred cause, but who felt it his duty to defend her against the hosts who are desecrating her hallowed precincts. How many, oh, how many of the young soldiers of the Cross are obliged to take up carnal weapons, to “save from spoil that sacred place!” Poor fellows! their life's blood oozes out in a great cause. But our church!

“Will she ever lift her head
From dust, and darkness, and the dead?”

Yes, the time is at hand when she, our Southern Church, shall

“Put all her beauteous garments on,
And let her excellence be known.
Decked in the robes of righteousness,
The world her glory shall confess.

“No more shall foes unclean invade
And fill her hallowed walls with dread;
No more shall hell's insulting host
Their victory and thy sorrows boast.”

The churches of Fredericksburg suffered dreadfully during the bombardment. Some were torn to pieces. Our dear old St. George's suffered very little; but a shell burst through her revered walls, and her steeple was broken by a passing shot. She stands a monument of Vandalism, though still a Christian chapel, from which the Gospel will, I trust, be poured forth for many years, when we shall no longer be surrounded by those who cry, “Raze it, raze it, even to the foundations thereof.”

But to return to my patient. After days and nights of watching, I left him improving, and in the hands of his parents. The physicians seem still doubtful of the result, but I am full of hope. The ball, after much difficulty, was extracted, since which time he has gradually improved; but his sufferings have been indescribable, W. B. C. is also slowly convalescing. One night while sitting up with B., together with a surgeon and General C., when we had not been able to raise him up for two days, we were startled by his springing from the bed in agony, and running to the fire; the surgeon (his uncle) gently put his arm around him and laid him on the couch. I hastened to the bed to make it comfortable; but it was so large that I could not raise it up; at last I called out, “General, help me to make up this bed; come quickly!" In an instant the large feather bed was grasped by him with strength and skill, turned over and beaten thoroughly, the mattrass replaced; then to help me to spread the sheets, smooth the pillows, etc., was the work of a moment. The patient was replaced in bed and soothed to sleep. Not till then did I remember that my companion in making the bed was one who but a short time before had led his brigade in the hottest of the fight, and would, perhaps, do it again and again. I complimented him on his versatility of talent, and a pleasant laugh ensued. During the Christmas holidays, while most anxious about our wounded, a letter from Kentucky reached us, announcing the death of my lovely niece, Mrs. Keene. As soon as her home on the Mississippi became surrounded by the enemy, she was obliged to leave it. She then joined her husband, who is on General Breckinridge's staff, and stationed near Knoxville. As her health was very delicate, she determined, as soon as General B. was ordered off, to attempt to get to her mother in Kentucky; her husband placed her in the care of an elderly physician and friend, who accompanied her in a carriage across the mountains, as the public conveyances between those hostile regions are, of course, discontinued. Before she had travelled many days she was compelled to stop at a small house on the roadside, and there, with much kindness from the hostess, and from her travelling companion, but none of the comforts to which she had been accustomed, she suffered intensely for many days, and then attempted to go on. She reached Georgetown, Kentucky, which was her summer home; her mother was telegraphed for, and reached her just three days before she breathed her last. Dear H.! another victim of the war; as much so as was her brother, who received his mortal wound at Dranesville, or her brother-in-law, who was shot through the heart at Pea Ridge. Her poor mother deemed it a blessed privilege to be able to be with her in her dying hour; a comfort which she did not experience after her long trip to see her son. I fear she will sink under accumulated misfortunes; cut off as she is from all that makes life bearable under such circumstances. During the campaign of last summer around Richmond, she describes her feelings as being anxious and nervous beyond expression. She heard nothing but threats against us, and braggadocio, until she believed that we must be crushed; the many Southerners around her could not express their feelings except in subdued whispers. The Cincinnati and Covington papers expressed their confidence of success. Each day she would go to Cincinnati to hear the news, and come back depressed; but on the sixth day after the battles commenced, as she took her usual morning walk, she observed that the crowd around the telegraph office was more quiet than usual. As she approached, “curses, not loud, but deep,” reached her ear. Hope dawned upon her subdued spirit. “Is there any thing the matter?” she asked, meekly, of the first gentlemanly-looking man she saw. “The matter!” he exclaimed. “Oh! madam, we are defeated. McClellan is retreating down the river towards Harrison's Landing. I don't know where that is, but we are shamefully beaten.” She did not allow herself to speak, but rapidly wended her way home, her face bathed in tears of thankfulness, and singing the Gloria in Excelsis.

Several days ago General Bragg reported a victory at Murfreesboro', Tennessee. There was certainly a victory on the first day, as 4,000 prisoners were secured, with thirty-one pieces of cannon, and sent to Chattanooga. On the third day the enemy were reinforced, and our army was obliged to fall back. A friend remarked that the Bragg victories never seem to do us much good. The truth is, the Western Yankees fight much better than the Eastern, and outnumber us fearfully. They claim the victory, but acknowledge the loss of 30,000 men. It must have been a most severe conflict. At Vicksburg they have made another attack, and been repulsed; and yet another misfortune for them was the sinking of their brag gun-boat Monitor. It went down off Cape Hatteras. In Philadelphia the negroes and Abolitionists celebrated the 1st of January with mad demonstrations of delight, as the day on which Lincoln's proclamation to abolish slavery would take effect. In Norfolk the negroes were deluded by the Abolitionists into great excitement. Speeches were made, encouraging them to take up arms against their masters! Hale has offered a resolution in the Northern Congress to raise two hundred regiments of negroes! The valiant knight, I hope, will be generalissimo of the corps. He is worthy of the position!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 178-83

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: December 15, 1862

An exciting day. Trains have been constantly passing with the wounded for the Richmond hospitals. Every lady, every child, every servant in the village, has been engaged preparing and carrying food to the wounded as the cars stopped at the depot — coffee, tea, soup, milk, and every thing we could obtain. With eager eyes and beating hearts we watched for those most dear to us. Sometimes they were so slightly injured as to sit at the windows and answer our questions, which they were eager to do. They exult in the victory. I saw several poor fellows shot through the mouth—they only wanted milk; it was soothing and cooling to their lacerated flesh. One, whom I did not see, had both eyes shot out. But I cannot write of the horrors of this day. Nothing but an undying effort to administer to their comfort could have kept us up. The Bishop was with us all day, and the few gentlemen who remained in the village. When our gentlemen came home at five o'clock they joined us, and were enabled to do what we could not — walk through each car, giving comfort as they went. The gratitude of those who were able to express it was so touching! They said that the ladies were at every depot with refreshments. As the cars would move off, those who were able would shout their blessings on the ladies of Virginia: “We will fight, we will protect the ladies of Virginia.” Ah, poor fellows, what can the ladies of Virginia ever do to compensate them for all they have done and suffered for us? As a train approached late this evening, we saw comparatively very few sitting up. It was immediately surmised that it contained the desperately wounded — perhaps many of the dead. With eager eyes we watched, and before it stopped I saw Surgeon J. P. Smith (my connection) spring from the platform, and come towards me; my heart stood still. “What is it, Doctor? Tell me at once.” "Your nephews, Major B. and Captain C., are both on the train, dangerously wounded.” “Mortally?” “We hope not. You will not be allowed to enter the car; come to Richmond to-morrow morning; B. will be there for you to nurse. I shall carry W. C. on the morning cars to his mother at the University. We will do our best for both.” In a moment he was gone. Of course I shall go down in the early cars, and devote my life to B. until his parents arrive. I am writing now because I can't sleep, and must be occupied. The cars passed on, and we filled our pitchers, bowls and baskets, to be ready for others. We cannot yield to private feelings now; they may surge up and rush through our hearts until they almost burst them, but they must not overwhelm us. We must do our duty to our country, and it can't be done by nursing our own sorrows.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 176-7