Friday, June 2, 2023

Dr. Spencer G. Welch to Cordelia Strother Welch, May 2, 1865

 Newberry, S. C.        ,
May 2, 1865.

It was well you left Petersburg when you did, for the very next day (April 2) our extreme right was attacked, and, as our line was very thin, it was easily broken. Billie was digging a rifle pit when some Yankees charged it and captured all who were at work on it, and he is now a prisoner.

During the day a few prisoners were brought back, and among them was a smoke-begrimed captain with gray hair. I invited him into my tent and gave him something to eat. He had been in some of the hardest fighting of the war, and he said to me: "You see these white hairs. When I came into the army they were all coal black." As night came on many wounded were brought back to some huts lately occupied by soldiers, but now used by us as a hospital. Among them was Mose Cappocks, and I amputated his thumb. General Hill was killed.

The next day we began to leave, and there was continuous fighting. Our march soon developed into a disastrous retreat, and we were pushed to the extreme every hour of it for eight days. At Sailors Creek we were compelled to abandon our wagons, and they were burned. In one of them I had a new case of the finest surgical instruments. They had recently run the blockade and I hated to see them destroyed. General Kershaw and his young son were captured here. I saw some Yankee spies in gray uniforms marched along with us under guard. They had been captured in our lines, but the surrender occurring so soon afterwards saved them from being hung.

Our retreat was most trying, and when we reached Appomattox on the morning of the 9th General Gordon had a fight and captured a battery. Appomattox is in a basin with high hills on all sides. The Yankees seemed to have surrounded us, and their blue lines, with white flags here and there, came moving in slowly and silently. There was a report in the early morning that we had surrendered, and this made us think it might be true.

I heard some of our men yelling, and saw General Lee and his staff riding towards us, and as he stopped to dismount the men crowded around him to shake his hand and every man was shedding tears. Sad as was the sight, everyone felt relieved that it was all over.

The Yankees camped on the hills, and men from both armies went back and forth on apparently friendly terms. Their wagons, mules, harness and entire equipment was the very best and everything was in perfect condition throughout. All of their wagon covers were white and new. Ours made a sorry spectacle in comparison. I unhitched a little mule from an ambulance, and that afternoon Colonel Hunt, Lieutenant-Colonel Lester, Captain Copeland and I started together for South Carolina.

We had one little fly tent under which we slept at night. Bill Byers, who was mounted on a tall, gaunt horse, joined us before we reached the Catawba River. Copeland's horse gave out and he continued with us on foot. The river was swift and deep at Island Ford, and in crossing only the face and ears of my little mule remained above the surface. We found a farm house near by, where we stood before a blazing fire to dry. The people were very kind to us and gave us the best they had to eat, but our clothes were too dirty and vermin-infested for us to sleep in their houses, so we slept in the barns.

At one house where we stopped and asked for something to eat the man's wife was in a pitiful condition with cancer, but was without medicine to alleviate her suffering. I happened to have a bottle of morphine in my haversack, which I gave her and which was enough to last her for the short time she could live.

We were three weeks on the way, and when I reached my father's home nobody was expecting me. I was completely exhausted, but after getting on some clean, whole clothes and sleeping in a bed once more I felt greatly refreshed. Father has given me a good horse in exchange for my little mule, and I hope to be rested enough to leave here day after to-morrow and go through the county in a buggy for you.

SOURCE: Dr. Spencer G. Welch, A Confederate Surgeon's Letters to His Wife, p. 117-20

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