Diary of Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle: April 2, 1863

The Texan and I left the Immortality in her cutter, at 10 A.M., and crossed the bar in fine style. The cutter was steered by Mr Johnston, the master, and having a fair wind, we passed in like a flash of lightning, and landed at the miserable village of Bagdad, on the Mexican bank of the Rio Grande.

The bar was luckily in capital order — 3½ feet of water, and smooth. It is often impassable for ten or twelve days together: the depth of water varying from 2 to 5 feet. It is very dangerous, from the heavy surf and under-current; sharks also abound. Boats are frequently capsized in crossing it, and the Orlando lost a man on it about a month ago.

Seventy vessels are constantly at anchor outside the bar; their cotton cargoes being brought to them, with very great delays, by two small steamers from Bagdad. These steamers draw only 3 feet of water, and realise an enormous profit.

Bagdad consists of a few miserable wooden shanties, which have sprung into existence since the war began. For an immense distance endless bales of cotton are to be seen.

Immediately we landed, M’Carthy was greeted by his brother merchants. He introduced me to Mr Ituria, a Mexican, who promised to take me in his buggy to Brownsville, on the Texan bank of the river opposite Matamoros. M'Carthy was to follow in the evening to Matamoros.

The Rio Grande is very tortuous and shallow; the distance by river to Matamoros is sixty-five miles, and it is navigated by steamers, which sometimes perform the trip in twelve hours, but more often take twenty-four, so constantly do they get aground .

The distance from Bagdad to Matamoros by land is thirty-five miles; on the Texan side to Brownsville, twenty-six miles.

I crossed the river from Bagdad with Mr Ituria, at 11 o'clock; and as I had no pass, I was taken before half-a-dozen Confederate officers, who were seated round a fire contemplating a tin of potatoes. These officers belonged to Duff's cavalry (Duff being my Texan's partner). Their dress consisted simply of flannel shirts, very ancient trousers, jack-boots with enormous spurs, and black felt hats, ornamented with the “lone star of Texas.” They looked rough and dirty, but were extremely civil to me.

The captain was rather a boaster, and kept on remarking, “We've given ’em h-ll on the Mississippi, h-ll on the Sabine” (pronounced Sabeen), “and h-ll in various other places.”

He explained to me that he couldn't cross the river to see M’Carthy, as he with some of his men had made a raid over there three weeks ago, and carried away some “renegadoes,” one of whom, named Mongomery, they had left on the road to Brownsville; by the smiles of the other officers I could easily guess that something very disagreeable must have happened to Mongomery. He introduced me to a skipper who had just run his schooner, laden with cotton, from Galveston, and who was much elated in consequence. The cotton had cost 6 cents a pound in Galveston, and is worth 36 here.

Mr Ituria and I left for Brownsville at noon. A buggy is a light gig on four high wheels.

The road is a natural one — the country quite flat, and much covered with mosquite trees, very like pepper trees. Every person we met carried a six-shooter, although it is very seldom necessary to use them.

After we had proceeded about nine miles we met General Bee, who commands the troops at Brownsville. He was travelling to Boca del Rio in an ambulance,* with his Quartermaster-General, Major Russell. I gave him my letter of introduction to General Magruder, and told him who I was.

He thereupon descended from his ambulance and regaled me with beef and beer in the open. He is brother to the General Bee who was killed at Manassas. We talked politics and fraternised very amicably for more than an hour. He said the Mongomery affair was against his sanction, and he was sorry for it. He said that Davis, another renegado, would also have been put to death, had it not been for the intercession of his wife. General Bee had restored Davis to the Mexicans.

Half an hour after parting company with General Bee, we came to the spot where Mongomery had been left; and sure enough, about two hundred yards to the left of the road, we found him.

He had been slightly buried, but his head and arms were above the ground, his arms tied together, the rope still round his neck, but part of it still dangling from quite a small mosquite tree. Dogs or wolves had probably scraped the earth from the body, and there was no flesh on the bones. I obtained this my first experience of Lynch law within three hours of landing in America.

I understand that this Mongomery was a man of very bad character, and that, confiding in the neutrality of the Mexican soil, he was in the habit of calling the Confederates all sorts of insulting epithets from the Bagdad bank of the river; and a party of his “renegades” had also crossed over and killed some unarmed cotton teamsters, which had roused the fury of the Confederates.

About three miles beyond this we came to Colonel Duff's encampment. He is a fine-looking, handsome Scotchman, and received me with much hospitality. His regiment consisted of newly-raised volunteers— a very fine body of young men, who were drilling in squads. They were dressed in every variety of costume, many of them without coats, but all wore the high black felt hat. Notwithstanding the peculiarity of their attire, there was nothing ridiculous or contemptible in the appearance of these men, who all looked thoroughly like “business.” Colonel Duff told me that many of the privates owned vast tracts of country, with above a hundred slaves, and were extremely well off. They were all most civil to me.

Their horses were rather rawboned animals, but hardy and fast. The saddles they used were nearly like the Mexican.

Colonel Duff confessed that the Mongomery affair was wrong, but he added that his boys “meant well”

We reached Brownsville at 5.30 P.M., and Mr Ituria kindly insisted on my sleeping at his house, instead of going to the crowded hotel.

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* An ambulance is a light waggon, and generally has two springs behind, and one transverse one in front. The seats can be so arranged that two or even three persons may lie at full length.

SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 2-7

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: December 14, 1864

And now the young ones are in bed and I am wide awake. It is an odd thing; in all my life how many persons have I seen in love? Not a half-dozen. And I am a tolerably close observer, a faithful watcher have I been from my youth upward of men and manners. Society has been for me only an enlarged field for character study.

Flirtation is the business of society; that is, playing at love-making. It begins in vanity, it ends in vanity. It is spurred on by idleness and a want of any other excitement. Flattery, battledore and shuttlecock, how in this game flattery is dashed backward and forward. It is so soothing to self-conceit. If it begins and ends in vanity, vexation of spirit supervenes sometimes. They do occasionally burn their fingers awfully, playing with fire, but there are no hearts broken. Each party in a flirtation has secured a sympathetic listener, to whom he or she can talk of himself or herself—somebody who, for the time, admires one exclusively, and, as the French say, excessivement. It is a pleasant, but very foolish game, and so to bed.

Hood and Thomas have had a fearful fight, with carnage and loss of generals excessive in proportion to numbers. That means they were leading and urging their men up to the enemy. I know how Bartow and Barnard Bee were killed bringing up their men. One of Mr. Chesnut's sins thrown in his teeth by the Legislature of South Carolina was that he procured the promotion of Gist, “State Rights” Gist, by his influence in Richmond. What have these comfortable, stay-at-home patriots to say of General Gist now? “And how could man die better than facing fearful odds,” etc.

So Fort McAlister has fallen! Good-by, Savannah! Our Governor announces himself a follower of Joe Brown, of Georgia. Another famous Joe.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 338-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: June 10, 1862

This morning while I was attending to my flowers . . . several soldiers stopped in front of me, and holding on the fence, commenced to talk about some brave Colonel, and a shooting affair last night. When all had gone except one who was watching me attentively, as he seemed to wish to tell me, I let him go ahead. The story was that Colonel McMillan was shot through the shoulder, breast, and liver, by three guerrillas while four miles from town last night, on a scout. He was a quarter of a mile from his own men at the time, killed one who shot him, took the other two prisoners, and fell from his horse himself, when he got within the lines. The soldier said these two guerrillas would probably be hanged, while the six we saw pass captives, Sunday, would probably be sent to Fort Jackson for life. I think the guerrilla affair mere murder, I confess; but what a dreadful fate for these young men! One who passed Sunday was Jimmy's schoolmate, a boy of sixteen; another, Willie Garig, the pet of a whole family of good, honest country people. . . .

These soldiers will get in the habit of talking to me after a while, through my own fault. Yesterday I could not resist the temptation to ask the fate of the six guerrillas, and stopped two volunteers who were going by, to ask them. They discussed the fate of the country, told me Fort Pillow and Vicksburg were evacuated, the Mississippi opened from source to mouth; I told them of Banks's and McClellan's defeat; they assured me it would all be over in a month, — which I fervently pray may be so; told me they were from Michigan (one was Mr. Bee, he said, cousin of our General); and they would probably have talked all day if I had not bowed myself away with thanks for their information. It made me ashamed to contrast the quiet, gentlemanly, liberal way these volunteers spoke of us and our cause, with the rabid, fanatical, abusive violence of our own female Secession declaimers. Thank Heaven, I have never yet made my appearance as a Billingsgate orator on these occasions. All my violent feelings, which in moments of intense excitement were really violent, I have recorded in this book; I am happy to say only the reasonable dislike to seeing my country subjugated has been confided to the public ear, when necessary; and that even now, I confess that nothing but the reign of terror and gross prejudice by which I was surrounded at that time could justify many expressions I have here applied to them. Fact is, these people have disarmed me by their kindness. I expected to be in a crowd of ruffian soldiers, who would think nothing of cutting your throat or doing anything they felt like; and I find, among all these thousands, not one who offers the slightest annoyance or disrespect. The former is the thing as it is believed by the whole country, the latter the true state of affairs. I admire foes who show so much consideration for our feelings.

Contrast these with our volunteers from New Orleans — all gentlemen — who came to take the Garrison from Major Haskins. Several of them passing our gate where we were standing with the Brunots, one exclaimed, “What pretty girls!” It was a stage aside that we were supposed not to hear. “Yes,” said another; “beautiful! but they look as though they could be fast.” Fast! and we were not even speaking! not even looking at them! Sophie and I were walking presently, and met half a dozen. We had to stop to let them pass the crossing; they did not think of making way for us; No. I sighed — such a sigh! No. 2 followed, and so on, when they all sighed in chorus for our edification, while we dared not raise our eyes from the ground. That is the time I would have made use of a dagger. Two passed in a buggy, and trusting to our not recognizing them from the rapidity of their vehicle, kissed their hands to us until they were out of sight! All went back to New Orleans vowing Baton Rouge had the prettiest girls in the world. These were our own people, the elite of New Orleans, loyal Southerners and gentlemen. These Northerners pass us satisfied with a simple glance; some take off their hats, for all these officers know our name, though we may not know theirs; how, I can't say.

When I heard of Colonel McMillan's misfortune, mother conspired with me to send over some bandages, and something Tiche manufactured of flour under the name of “nourishment,” for he is across the street at Heroman's. Miriam objected on account of what “our people” will say, and what we will suffer for it if the guerrillas reach town, but we persuaded her we were right. . . . You can imagine our condition at present, many years hence, Sarah, when you reflect that it is the brave, noble-hearted, generous Miriam who is afraid to do that deed on account of "public opinion,” which indeed is “down” on us. At Greenwell they are frantic about our returning to town, and call us traitors, Yankees, and vow vengeance.  . . . A lady said to me, “The guerrillas have a black list containing the names of those remaining in town. All the men are to be hanged, their houses burned, and all the women are to be tarred and feathered.” I said, “Madam, if I believed them capable of such a vile threat, even, much less the execution, I would see them cut down without a feeling of compassion” (which is not true), “and swear I was a Yankee rather than claim being a native of the same country with such brutes.” She has a long tongue; when I next hear of it, it will be that I told the story, and called them brutes and hoped they would be shot, etc. And so goes the world. No one will think of saying that I did not believe them guilty of the thought, even. Our three brothers may be sick or wounded at this minute; what I do for this man, God will send some one to do for them, and with that belief I do it. . . .

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 71-5

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: July 22, 1861

Mrs. Davis came in so softly that I did not know she was here until she leaned over me and said: “A great battle has been fought.¹ Joe Johnston led the right wing, and Beauregard the left wing of the army. Your husband is all right. Wade Hampton is wounded. Colonel Johnston of the Legion killed; so are Colonel Bee and Colonel Bartow. Kirby Smith² is wounded or killed."

I had no breath to speak; she went on in that desperate, calm way, to which people betake themselves under the greatest excitement: “Bartow, rallying his men, leading them into the hottest of the fight, died gallantly at the head of his regiment. The President telegraphs me only that ‘it is a great victory.’ General Cooper has all the other telegrams.”

Still I said nothing; I was stunned; then I was so grateful. Those nearest and dearest to me were safe still. She then began, in the same concentrated voice, to read from a paper she held in her hand: “Dead and dying cover the field. Sherman's battery taken. Lynchburg regiment cut to pieces. Three hundred of the Legion wounded.”

That got me up. Times were too wild with excitement to stay in bed. We went into Mrs. Preston's room, and she made me lie down on her bed. Men, women, and children streamed in. Every living soul had a story to tell. “Complete victory,” you heard everywhere. We had been such anxious wretches. The revulsion of feeling was almost too much to bear.

To-day I met my friend, Mr. Hunter. I was on my way to Mrs. Bartow's room and begged him to call at some other time. I was too tearful just then for a morning visit from even the most sympathetic person. A woman from Mrs. Bartow's country was in a fury because they had stopped her as she rushed to be the first to tell Mrs. Bartow her husband was killed, it having been decided that Mrs. Davis should tell her. Poor thing! She was found lying on her bed when Mrs. Davis knocked. “Come in,” she said. When she saw it was Mrs. Davis, she sat up, ready to spring to her feet, but then there was something in Mrs. Davis's pale face that took the life out of her. She stared at Mrs. Davis, then sank back, and covered her face as she asked: “Is it bad news for me?” Mrs. Davis did not speak. “Is he killed?” Afterward Mrs. Bartow said to me: “As soon as I saw Mrs. Davis's face I could not say one word. I knew it all in an instant. I knew it before I wrapped the shawl about my head.”

Maria, Mrs. Preston's maid, furiously patriotic, came into my room. “These colored people say it is printed in the papers here that the Virginia people done it all. Now Mars Wade had so many of his men killed and he wounded, it stands to reason that South Carolina was no ways backward. If there was ever anything plain, that's plain.”

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¹ The first battle of Bull Run, or Manassas, fought on July 21, 1861, the Confederates being commanded by General Beauregard, and the Federals by General McDowell. Bull Run is a small stream tributary to the Potomac.

² Edmund Kirby Smith, a native of Florida, who had graduated from West Point, served in the Mexican War, and been Professor of Mathematics at West Point. He resigned his commission in the United States Army after the secession of Florida.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 86-8

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: July 29, 1861

MOUNTAIN VIEW, Mr. ––– and myself came over here on Friday, to spend a few days with the Bishop and his family. He delivered a delightful address yesterday in the church, on the thankfulness and praise due to Almighty God, for (considering the circumstances) our unprecedented victory at Manassas. Our President and Congress requested that thanks should be returned in all of our churches. All rejoice for the country, though there are many bleeding hearts in our land. Among our acquaintances, Mr. Charles Powell, of Winchester, Col. Edmund Fontaine, of Hanover, and Mr. W. N. Page, of Lexington, each lost a son; and our friend, Mr. Clay Ward, of Alexandria, also fell. The gallant Generals Bee and Bartow were not of our State, but of our cause, and we all mourn their loss. Each mail adds to the list of casualties. The enemy admit their terrible disaster, and are busy inquiring into causes.

This house has been a kind of hospital for the last month. Several sick soldiers are here now, men of whom they know nothing except that they are soldiers of the Confederacy. They have had measles, and are now recruiting for service. One who left here two weeks ago, after having been carefully nursed, was killed at Manassas. The family seem to lament him as an old friend, though they never saw him until he came here from the Winchester hospital. Two sons of this house were in the fight; and the Bishop had several other grandchildren engaged, one of whom, R. M., lost his right arm. His grandfather has been to Winchester to see him, and is much gratified by the fortitude with which he bears his suffering. He says, “R. is a brave boy, and has done his duty to his country, and I will try to do my duty to him, and make up the loss of his arm to him, as far as possible.” It is delightful to be with Bishop Meade. There is so much genuine hospitality and kindness in his manner of entertaining, which we perhaps appreciate more highly now than we ever did before. His simple, self-denying habits are more conspicuous at home than anywhere else. We sit a great deal in his study, where he loves to entertain his friends. Nothing can be more simple than its furniture and arrangements, but he gives you so cordial a welcome to it, and is so agreeable, that you forget that the chair on which you sit is not cushioned. He delights in walking over the grounds with his friends, and as you stop to admire a beautiful tree or shrub, he will give you the history of it. Many of them he brought with him from Europe; but whether native or foreign, each has its association. This he brought in his trunk when a mere scion, from the tide-water section of Virginia; that from the "Eastern Shore;" another from the Alleghany mountains; another still, from the Cattskill mountains. Here is the oak of old England; there the cedar of Lebanon; there the willow from St. Helena, raised from a slip which had absolutely waved over the grave of Napoleon. Here is another, and prettier willow, native of our own Virginia soil. Then he points out his eight varieties of Arbor Vitse, and the splendid yews, hemlocks, spruces, and firs of every kind, which have attained an immense size. Our own forest trees are by no means forgotten, and we find oaks, poplars, elms, etc., without number. He tells me that he has more than a hundred varieties of trees in his yard. His flowers, too, are objects of great interest to him, particularly the old-fashioned damask rose. But his grape-vines are now his pets. He understands the cultivation of them perfectly, and I never saw them so luxuriant. It has been somewhat the fashion to call him stern, but I wish that those who call him so could see him among his children, grandchildren, and servants. Here he is indeed a patriarch. All are affectionately respectful, but none of them seem at all afraid of him. The grandchildren are never so happy as when in “grandpapa's room;” and the little coloured children frequently come to the porch, where he spends a great deal of his time, to inquire after “old master's health,” and to receive bread and butter or fruit from his hands.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 44-6

Since the breaking out of the rebellion . . .

. . . the southern confederacy have lost the following named rebel Generals:

Major Gen. David E. Twiggs, resigned.
Brigadier Gen. Henry B. Jackson, resigned.
Brigadier Gen. Robert S. Garnett, killed.
Brigadier Gen. W. H. T. Walker, resigned.
Brigadier Gen. Bernard E. Bee, killed.
Brigadier Gen. Gideon J. Pillow, resigned.
Brigadier Gen. Thomas T. Fauntleroy, resigned.
Brigadier Gen. John B. Crayson, died.
Brigadier Gen. Felix K. Zollicoffer, killed.
Brigadier Gen. Philip St. George Cocke, committed suicide.

– Published in The Davenport Daily Gazette, Davenport, Iowa, Monday Morning, February 10, 1862, p. 2

The Difference

The rebels have lost the following Generals during the war:

Garnett was killed at Carrick’s Ford; Burton and Bee at Manassas; Zollicoffer at Mill Springs; McCulloch, McIntosh and Slack at Pea Ridge; A. Sidney Johnston and Bushrod Johnson at Pittsburg Landing. Then we have captured Tilghman, Buckner, McCall, Galt, and Walker.

On the other hand, so far Generals Lyon and Wallace are the only Generals killed in battle, although Lander died from effects of a wound. Gen. Prentiss is the only prisoner of the same rank in possession of the rebels.

We hope all of the rebel officers will not be disposed of by bullets. There ought to be some left to taste the virtue of hemp.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 3, 1862, p. 1