I have just been conversing with some young soldiers, who
joined in the dangers and glories of the battle-field. They corroborate what I
had before heard of the presence of Northern females. I would not mention it
before in my diary, because I did not wish to record any thing which I did not know
to be true. But when I receive the account from eye-witnesses whose
veracity cannot be doubted, I can only say, that I feel mortified that such was
the case. They came, not as Florence Nightingales to alleviate human suffering,
but to witness and exult over it. With the full assurance of the success of
their army they meant to pass over the mutilated limbs and mangled corpses of
ours, and to go on their way rejoicing to scenes of festivity in the halls of
the vanquished, and to revel over the blood of the slain, the groans of the
dying, the wails of the widow and the fatherless. But “Linden saw another
sight,” and these very delicate, gentle, womanly ladies, where were
they? Flying back to Washington, in confusion and terror, pell-mell, in the
wildest excitement. And where were their brave and honourable escorts? Flying,
too; not as protectors to their fair friends, but with self-preservation alone
in view. All went helter-skelter — coaches, cabriolets, barouches, buggies,
flying over the roads, as though all Fairfax were mad.
"Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see — I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy
haggard eye!
Like thee, I start; like thee,
disordered fly!
Each bush to their disordered imaginations contained a
savage Confederate. Cannon seemed thundering in the summer breeze, and in each
spark of the lightning-bug, glinted and gleamed the sword and Bowie-knife of
the blood-thirsty Southerner. Among the captured articles were ladies' dresses,
jewels, and other gew-gaws, on their way to Richmond to the grand ball promised
to them on their safe arrival. There were also fine wines, West India fruits,
and almost everything else rich, or sweet, or intoxicating, brought by the gay
party, for a right royal pic-nic on the field of blood. The wines and brandies
came in well for our wounded that night, and we thank God for the superfluities
of the wicked.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 46-7
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