Mr. ––– and myself have just returned from a neighbouring
house where we heard the dread particulars of the battle. We saw a gentleman
just from the battlefield, who brought off his wounded son. It is said to have
been one of the most remarkable victories on record, when we consider the
disparity in numbers, equipments, etc. Our loss, when compared with that of the
enemy, was small, very small; but such men as have fallen! How can I record the
death of our young friends, the Conrads of Martinsburg, the only sons of their
father, and such sons! Never can we cease to regret Tucker Conrad, the bright,
joyous youth of the “High School,” and the devoted divinity student of our
Theological Seminary! Noble in mind and spirit, with the most genial temper and
kindest manners I have ever known. Mr. ––– saw him on Thursday evening on his
way to the battle-field, and remarked afterwards on his enthusiasm and zeal in
the cause. Holmes, his brother, was not one of us, as Tucker was, but he was in
no respect inferior to him — loved and admired by all. They were near the same
age, and there was not fifteen minutes between their deaths. Lovely and
pleasant in their lives, in their deaths they were not divided. But my thoughts
constantly revert to that desolated home — to the parents and sisters who
perhaps are now listening and waiting for letters from the battle-field. Before
this night is over, loving friends will bear their dead sons home. An express
has gone from Winchester to tell them all. They might with truth exclaim, with
one of old, whose son was thus slain, “I would not give my dead son for any
living son in Christendom.” But that devoted father, and fond mother, have
better and higher sources of comfort than any which earthly praise can give!
Their sons were Christians, and their ransomed spirits were wafted from the
clash and storm of the battlefield to those peaceful joys, “of which it has not
entered into the heart of man to conceive.” I have not heard which was there to
welcome his brother to his home in the skies; but both were there to receive
the spirit of another, who was to them as a brother. I allude to Mr. Peyton
Harrison, a gifted young lawyer of the same village. He was lieutenant of their
company, and their mother's nephew, and fell a few moments after the last
brother. He left a young wife and little children to grieve, to faint, and
almost to die, for the loss of a husband and father, so devoted, so
accomplished, so brave. Like his young cousins, he was a Christian; and is now
with them rejoicing in his rest. Martinsburg has lost one other of her brave
sons; and yet another is fearfully wounded. I thank God, those of my own
household and family, as far as I can hear, have escaped, except that one has a
slight wound.
We certainly routed the enemy, and already wonderful stories
are told of the pursuit. We shall hear all from time to time. It is enough for
us now to know that their great expectations are disappointed, and that we have
gloriously gained our point. Oh, that they would now consent to leave our soil,
and return to their own homes! If I know my own heart, I do not desire
vengeance upon them, but only that they would leave us in peace, to be forever
and forever a separate people. It is true that we have slaughtered them, and
whipped them, and driven them from our land, but they are people of such
indomitable perseverance, that I am afraid that they will come again, perhaps
in greater force. The final result I do not fear; but I do dread the butchery
of our young men.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 42-4
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