I am sorry to record a defeat near Moorfield, in Hardy
County. These disasters are very distressing to us all, except to the croakers,
who find in them so much food for their gloom, that I am afraid they are rather
pleased than otherwise. They always, on such occasions, elongate their mournful
countenances, prophesy evil, and chew the cud of discontent with a better show
of reason than they can generally produce. The signal failure of Grant's mine
to blow up our army, and its recoil upon his own devoted troops, amply repay us
for our failure in Hardy. God's hand was in it, and to Him be the praise.
One of my friends in the office is a victim of Millroy's
reign in Winchester. She wrote to a friend of hers at the North, expressing her
feelings rather imprudently. The letter was intercepted, and she was
immediately arrested, and brought in an ambulance through the enemy's lines to
our picket-post, where she was deposited by the roadside. She says that she was
terribly distressed at leaving her mother and sisters, but when she got into
Confederate lines the air seemed wonderfully fresh, pure and free, and she soon
found friends. She came to Richmond and entered our office. About the same time
a mother and daughters who lived perhaps in the handsomest house in the town,
were arrested, for some alleged imprudence of one of the daughters. An ambulance
was driven to the door, and the mother was taken from her sick-bed and put into
it, together with the daughters. Time was not allowed them to prepare a lunch for
the journey. Before Mrs. ––– was taken from her house Mrs. Millroy had entered
it, the General having taken it for his head-quarters; and before the ambulance
had been driven off, one of their own officers was heard to say to Mrs. M.,
seeing her so entirely at home in the house, “For goodness’ sake, madam, wait
until the poor woman gets off.” Is it wonderful, then, that the
Winchester ladies welcome our troops with gladness? that they rush out and join
the band, singing “The bonnie blue flag” and “Dixie,” as the troops enter the
streets, until their enthusiasm and melody melt all hearts? Was it strange that
even the great and glorious, though grave and thoughtful, Stonewall Jackson
should, when pursuing Banks through its streets, have been excited until he
waved his cap with tears of enthusiasm, as they broke forth in harmonious songs
of welcome? Or that the ladies, not being satisfied by saluting them with their
voices, waving their handkerchiefs, and shouting for joy, should follow them
with more substantial offerings, filling their haversacks with all that their
depleted pantries could afford? Or is it wonderful that our soldiers should
love Winchester so dearly and fight for it so valiantly? No, it is beautiful to
contemplate the long-suffering, the firmness under oppression, the patience,
the generosity, the patriotism of Winchester. Other towns, I dare say, have
borne their tyranny as well, and when their history is known they will call
forth our admiration as much; but we know of no such instance. The “Valley”
throughout shows the same devotion to our cause, and the sufferings of the country
people are even greater than those in town.
Some amusing incidents sometimes occur, showing the
eagerness of the ladies to serve our troops after a long separation. A lady
living near Berryville, but a little remote from the main road, says, that when
our troops are passing through the country, she sometimes feels sick with
anxiety to do something for them. She, one morning, stood in her porch, and
could see them turn in crowds to neighbouring houses which happened to be on
the road, but no one turned out of the way far enough to come to her house. At
last one man came along, and finding that he was passing her gate, she ran out
with the greatest alacrity to invite him to come in to get his breakfast. He
turned to her with an amused expression and replied: “I am much obliged to you,
madam; I wish I could breakfast with you, but as I have already eaten four breakfasts
to please the ladies, I must beg you to excuse me.”
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 285-7
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