During the last ten days we have been visiting among our
friends, near Berryville, and in Winchester. The wheat harvest is giving the
most abundant yield, and the fields are thick with corn. Berryville is a little
village surrounded by the most beautiful country and delightful society.
Patriotism burns brightly there, and every one is busy for the country in his
or her own way. It is cheering to be among such people; the ladies work, and
the gentlemen — the old ones — no young man is at home — give them every
facility. But Winchester, what shall I say for Winchester that will do it
justice? It is now a hospital. The soldiers from the far South have never had
measles, and most unfortunately it has broken out among them, and many of them
have died of it, notwithstanding the attention of surgeons and nurses. No one
can imagine the degree of self-sacrificing attention the ladies pay them; they
attend to their comfort in every respect; their nourishment is prepared at
private houses; every lady seems to remember that her son, brother, or husband
may be placed in the same situation among strangers, and to be determined to do
unto others as she would have others to do unto her.
War still rages. Winchester is fortified, and General
Johnston has been reinforced. He now awaits General Patterson, who seems slowly
approaching.
While in Winchester, I heard of the death of one who has
been for many years as a sister to me — Mrs. L. A. P., of S. H., Hanover
County. My heart is sorely stricken by it, particularly when I think of her
only child, and the many who seemed dependent on her for happiness. She died on
Saturday last. With perfect resignation to the will of God, she yielded up her
redeemed spirit, without a doubt of its acceptance. In cœlo quies. There is
none for us here.
We have been dreadfully shocked by the defeat at Rich
Mountain and the death of General Garnett! It is the first repulse we have had,
and we should not complain, as we were overpowered by superior numbers; but we
have so much to dread from superior numbers — they are like the sand upon the
sea-shore for multitude. Our men say that one Southern man is equal to three
Yankees. Poor fellows! I wish that their strength may be equal to their valour.
It is hard to give up such a man as General Garnett. He was son of the late
Hon. Robert S. Garnett, of Essex County; educated at West Point; accomplished
and gallant. His military knowledge and energy will be sadly missed. It was an
unfortunate stroke, the whole affair; but we must hope on, and allow nothing to
depress us.
I have just returned from a small hospital which has
recently been established in a meeting-house near us. The convalescent are sent
down to recruit for service, and to recover their strength in the country, and
also to relieve the Winchester hospitals. The ladies of the neighbourhood are
doing all they can to make them comfortable. They are full of enthusiasm, and
seem to be very cheerful, except when they speak of home. They are hundreds of
miles from wife, children, and friends. Will they ever see them again? I have
been particularly interested in one who is just recovering from typhoid fever.
I said to him as I sat fanning him: “Are you married?” His eyes filled with
tears as he replied, “Not now; I have been, and my little children, away in
Alabama, are always in my mind. At first I thought I could not leave the little
motherless things, but then our boys were all coming, and mother said, ‘Go,
Jack, the country must have men, and you must bear your part, and I will take
care of the children;’ and then I went and ‘listed, and when I went back home
for my things, and saw my children, I 'most died like. ‘Mother,’ says I, ‘I am
going, and father must take my corn, my hogs, and every thing else he likes,
and keep my children; but if I never get back, I know it will be a mighty
burden in your old age; but I know you will do your best.’ ‘Jack,’ says she, ‘I
will do a mother's part by them; but you must not talk that way. Why should you
get killed more than another? You will get back, and then we shall be so happy.
God will take care of you, I know He will.’” He then took a wallet from under
his pillow, and took two locks of hair: “This is Peter's, he is three years
old; and this is Mary's, she is a little more than one, and named after her
mother, and was just stepping about when I left home.” At that recollection,
tears poured down his bronzed cheeks, and I could not restrain my own. I looked
at the warm-hearted soldier, and felt that he was not the less brave for
shedding tears at the recollection of his dead wife, his motherless children,
and his brave old mother. I find that the best way to nurse them, when they are
not too sick to bear it, is to talk to them of home. They then cease to feel to
you as a stranger, and finding that you take interest in their “short and
simple annals,” their natural reserve gives way, and they at once feel
themselves among friends.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 37-40
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